Read Roast Mortem Online

Authors: Cleo Coyle

Roast Mortem

Table of Contents
 
 
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Cleo Coyle
 
Coffeehouse Mysteries
ON WHAT GROUNDS
THROUGH THE GRINDER
LATTE TROUBLE
MURDER MOST FROTHY
DECAFFEINATED CORPSE
FRENCH PRESSED
ESPRESSO SHOT
HOLIDAY GRIND
ROAST MORTEM
 
Haunted Bookshop Mysteries writing as Alice Kimberly
THE GHOST AND MRS. MCCLURE
THE GHOST AND THE DEAD DEB
THE GHOST AND THE DEAD MAN'S LIBRARY
THE GHOST AND THE FEMME FATALE
THE GHOST AND THE HAUNTED MANSION
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
 
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
 
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reaction to the recipes contained in this book.
 
Copyright © 2010 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
 
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No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
 
 
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
 
Coyle, Cleo.
eISBN : 978-1-101-18894-1
1. Cosi, Clare (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Arson investigation—Fiction. 3. Coffeehouses—Fiction. 4. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3603.O94R63 2010
813'.6—dc22 2010014028
 
 

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Hero
is not a word one hears in the course of a typical workweek. When it's used at all these days, it generally involves magic wands and superpowers. But if you're a New Yorker who witnessed the events on September 11, 2001, then you know what a hero is. As the FDNY writes in its official description of its symbol, the Maltese Cross: Every firefighter works in courage, a ladder rung away from death, willing to lay down his life for you. This book is dedicated to the firefighters, paramedics, and police officers who lost their lives on 9/11. We will never forget you.
 
 
The Terry Farrell Firefighters Fund was formed in honor of Terry Farrell, a decorated firefighter who perished on September 11, 2001. To find out more, visit the fund's Web site at
www.terryfarrellfund.org
.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While the characters and events of this book are complete fiction, part of the plotline was initially inspired by a real incident. (More on this in the afterword.) For now, I would like to thank several members of the FDNY who answered my questions (off the record) for background. I would also like to thank author Tom Downey for his excellent insider's look at the New York City Fire Department—
The Last Men Out: Life on the Edge at Rescue 2 Firehouse,
a work I highly recommend to anyone whose interest in New York's Bravest is sparked by this tale. Please note, however, that because this is a light work of amateur sleuth fiction, liberties are sometimes taken with procedure. In the Coffeehouse Mysteries the rules occasionally get bent.
Once again, I thank the excellent Joe the Art of Coffee of New York City (
www.JoetheArtofCoffee.com
), including its co-owners, Jonathan Rubinstein and his sister Gabrielle Rubinstein. I also owe a big thank-you to their manager and coffee director Amanda Byron, who shared insights into the world behind her espresso machine, including her recommendation of a true barista bible,
Espresso Coffee
by David C. Schomer.
My second java shout-out goes to the amazing Gimme! Coffee (
www.GimmeCoffee.com
) as well as its founder and CEO, Kenneth Cuddeback, for taking the time to speak with me about our favorite subject. I must also thank Gimme! for its inspiring handling of the Ethiopian Amaro Gayo, a unique and exotic coffee that also happens to be sold by Asnakech Thomas, the only female coffee miller and exporter in all of Ethiopia. Additional caffeinated hugs to Mary Tracy, a dedicated Coffeehouse Mystery reader, who recommended Gimme! to me.
With epic gratitude, I would like to recognize the intrepid posse of publishing professionals at Berkley Prime Crime who shepherded this book from manuscript to printed page. Enormous thanks especially to executive editor Wendy McCurdy for her great goodwill as well as her ingenuity and insight. Props and snaps must also be given to Katherine Pelz for her hard work and gusto.
As always, I thank my husband, Marc, who is my partner in writing not only this Coffeehouse Mystery series but also our Haunted Bookshop Mystery series. (A better partner a girl couldn't ask for.)
Last but far from least, a heartfelt thank you to our friends and family for their support as well as to our literary agent John Talbot, a premium professional and a darn good joe.
Yours sincerely,
Cleo Coyle
 
 
www.CoffeehouseMystery.com
Where coffee and crime are always brewing.
Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.
—Joan Crawford
PROLOGUE
COLD
here in the alley, but things will get hotter soon . . .
The Arsonist moved deeper into the shadows, orange shopping bag in hand. Back on the busy Queens sidewalk, the day felt bright and balmy. Just a few steps away from humanity, all warmth fled and nearly all light.
Weak shafts of sun barely penetrated the crisscrossing maze of phone wires and fire escapes, coaxial cables and clothing lines. With certain strides, the Arsonist bypassed iron grates and grimy windows, broken crates and dented trash cans. Finally the destination—one particular back door.
Down went the glossy tangerine sack, squatting on the cold concrete. Cloying scents of soy and garlic still haunted its boxy interior, ghosts of last night's Korean takeout. The reinforced bottom and laminated sides made it sturdy enough to carry the necessary items.
Feeling sweaty despite the chill, the Arsonist bent over the shopping bag, grasped two wires from the battery, and fixed them to circuits on the bleach bottle with no bleach inside.
Now it's ready . . .
The Arsonist rose, lifting the bag's handles of nylon rope.
Heavier now, or my imagination?
Nervous fingers tested the shiny brass knob. Unlocked, as promised, the back door swung open on a small utility room. A sink, shelves, supplies neatly stacked.
Male laughter seeped through the brocade curtain. The Arsonist crossed the tight space, teased apart the muffling fabric. An archway framed the caffè's main room. Up front, the elderly owner gabbed with a customer about the rush hour pedestrian parade, mostly about the women.
Stepping back, the Arsonist quickly searched out a spot for the bag. Under the shelf, behind the cleaning products . . .
Perfect.
A stifled sneeze, a few more steps, and the Arsonist was back on the sidewalk. Warmth, pedestrians, unobstructed light. It felt as if nothing had happened—or more like something good had happened.
At 9:25 PM, the caffè would be closed, the old Italian off playing bocce in the park. No one would be in the building. No one would be hurt.
Unless something goes wrong . . .
That prick of a thought had vexed the Arsonist multiple times. This would be the last.
After all,
thought the Arsonist,
it's out of my hands now. The schedule was set for me, and I held up my end. Tonight Caffè Lucia will burn. If people get in the way, it's their own stupid fault.
ONE
“BOSS,
I hate to leave you like this, but I have
got
to go.”
“Go,” I told Esther. “We'll be okay . . .”
At least I hoped we would. I was standing behind my espresso machine, facing a line out my door. The usual Village Blend regulars were here along with a swell of caffeine-deprived commuters grabbing a java hit before heading home. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, and in most respects the day felt like any other. Except it wasn't. This was the day the fires began. When the smoke finally cleared, the fatalities would number two, and they would not be accidents. The deaths would turn out to be murders and I, Clare Cosi, would be the one to prove it.
At this particular moment, however, I wasn't thinking about killers or arsonists, lovesick Italian women or blustery FDNY captains, and I certainly wasn't thinking about a bomb. Mostly what I was thinking about was traffic.

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