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
MURDER BY MOCHA
A BREW TO A KILL
HOLIDAY BUZZ
BILLIONAIRE BLEND
ONCE UPON A GRIND
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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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-13738-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Coyle, Cleo.
Once upon a grind / Cleo Coyle.—First edition.
pages ; cm.—(A coffeehouse mystery ; 14)
ISBN 978-0-425-27085-1 (hardcover)
1. Cosi, Clare (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women detectives—Fiction. 3. Coffeehouses—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3603.O94O53 2014
813'.6—dc23
2014032525
FIRST EDITION: December 2014
Cover illustration by Cathy Gendron.
Cover design and logo by Rita Frangie.
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.
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 reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
Version_1
There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats.
—Albert Schweitzer
This book is dedicated to the memory of Turtle, a little New York stray who brought joy to our lives for nineteen years. She sat on my lap through the writing of every tale in that time, including this one.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once Upon a Grind marks the fourteenth entry in our Coffeehouse Mysteries, and Marc and I thought it fitting that a fairy-tale mystery set in New York City should begin in Central Park, a storybook world unto itself. From the towers of Belvedere Castle to the Ramble’s shadowy woodland, the Park’s eight-hundred-plus acres operate under the care of the Central Park Conservancy, and we thank them for answering our questions, and more importantly for the work they do in preserving our nation’s first major landscaped public park. To learn more, visit them at centralparknyc.org.
Our interaction with New York’s Finest has been nothing but the finest, and we thank them for providing answers to our questions, especially about the NYPD’s Mounted Unit. As to the Ps and Qs of police procedure, this is a light work of amateur sleuth fiction. In the Coffeehouse Mysteries, the rules occasionally get bent.
The rest of the research behind Once Upon a Grind emerged from our decades of living and working in New York City. Although the Queen Catherine Café is fictional, you can visit two places that inspired it: Seher (aka Old Bridge/Stari Most) in Astoria, Queens; and Bosna Express in Ridgewood, Queens. You can also visit the Papaya King’s original hot dog shop on Manhattan’s Upper East Side (papayaking.com); go to a poetry slam at the Nuyorican Poets Café on the Lower East Side (nuyorican.org); and even try Gardner’s favorite chicken and waffles plate at Amy Ruth’s in Harlem (amyruthsharlem.com).
The staff at Penguin’s Berkley Prime Crime is among the best in the business, and we sincerely thank them for shepherding this tale into publication.
We send special thanks to Wendy McCurdy, our longtime editor, whose ongoing encouragement and trust in us has kept us writing. Thanks also to her assistant editor, Katherine Pelz, for all her help.
A beautiful shout-out goes to Cathy Gendron for her magical cover art; and the brilliant Berkley Prime Crime team who helped craft this book: art director Rita Frangie; interior designer Kristin del Rosario; production editor Stacy Edwards; and copyeditor Joan Matthews.
We salute our agent, John Talbot, for his thoughtfulness, professionalism, and unflagging support.
Last but far from least, we tip our hats to Nancy Prior Phillips, whose courage and optimism has been an inspiration to us.
To everyone else whom we could not mention here by name, including friends, family, and so many of you who read our books and send us notes via e-mail, our website’s message board, and the social networking sites, your kind encouragement keeps us going as writers, and we cannot thank you enough for that.
Our virtual coffeehouse is always open. You are welcome to join us at coffeehousemystery.com.
—Cleo Coyle,
New York City
CONTENTS
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Cleo Coyle
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THI
RTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
CHAPTER NINETY
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
Recipes & Tips from the Village Blend
If you ever find yourself in the wrong story, leave.
—Mo Willems, Goldilocks and the Three Dinosaurs
PROLOGUE
Turn back, turn back, young maiden fair.
Linger not in the murderers’ lair . . .
—THE BROTHERS GRIMM, THE ROBBER BRIDEGROOM
IN the fading light of the dying day, the Princess glided along the tree-lined path, gossamer gown sparkling as if sprinkled with fairy dust. When she reached the Oak Bridge, she stopped.
“This way . . .” the Predator called.
She had agreed to this meeting in the Ramble, the oldest section of Central Park. There were towering trees here and menacing boulders; cloudy streams and historic bridges. Most of all, there were thirty-eight acres of landscape magic—rustic paths that made an entire city disappear.
“Did you . . . did you make decision?” the Princess asked, her sweet voice betraying her Russian accent.
Forcing a smile, the Predator began a practiced speech, telling the girl everything she hoped to hear.
“Thank you,” the Princess replied, eyes filling with grateful tears. With a hard yank, she broke the valuable chain around her neck. A golden key dangled at the end of it. She held it out to the Predator.
“Now that deal is off, please take back.”
The Predator frowned. “I can’t take your key, Anya.”
“But you said I was free.”
“From me,” the Predator lied. “The rest is not my business.”
Anya hesitated. Then she nodded and turned to go, content in the belief that at least the deal between them was dead.
Not exactly, the Predator thought. “Anya, stop! Don’t move.”
The Princess froze. “What is problem?”
“Your gown is caught on a branch. Another step will ruin it.”
“Gown is special,” the Princess wailed. “I was told to take care!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll free it.”
Squatting in the dirt, the Predator pretended to fuss with the expensive fabric. “Princess Pink” is what they called it—more like bubble-headed bubble gum, the Predator thought, for it wasn’t the dress that was caught, but the girl who wore it.
“You are so kind to help,” the Princess said.
“Almost done,” the Predator promised, getting the needle ready. Leaning closer, the Predator whiffed the girl’s scent. She even smelled like all the others, the cloying perfume of eager sheep . . .
“Ouch!”
“Did I prick you? I’m sorry . . .”
“Is okay,” Anya said. “I am free now, yes?”
The Predator didn’t answer, simply watched the sparkling shroud drift away, through the trees and whispering leaves. In mere minutes, shadows would lengthen; the late afternoon breeze would take on a corpselike chill. That’s when the drug would do its work, and this beauty—like the troublesome little pet she was—would be put to sleep.
The Predator smiled at a job well done, barely hearing the tinny speakers of the Delacorte Theater, quieting brats with an ancient phrase.
“Once upon a time . . .”
ONE
Control your own destiny or someone else will.
—JACK WELCH
Once upon that morning . . .
“WHAT’S the matter with you, Clare? Don’t you want a little magic in your life?”
My ex-husband thrummed his fingers on our coffee truck’s countertop.
I refilled the napkin holders, ignoring him.
“Come on,” he pressed, “nearly every member of our staff has visited our resident gypsy, everyone but you.”
“I’ve told you, Matt. I’ve sworn off fortune telling.”
“But today is special—”
“What will it take to get through to you? Maybe I should text you? Adopt our daughter’s favorite way of indicating emphasis by using periods after every word: I. Am. Not. Reading. Coffee. Grinds. Today.”
“And I’m not asking you to. I simply want Madame Tesla to read yours.”
I took a breath for patience. This morning had started out so perfectly. The brisk October dawn had painted the sky with a golden light, making Central Park’s dewy grass glisten like a fairy glen. Even the chill in the air was ideal for enjoying my freshly roasted coffee.
New York’s favorite waking potion was something I usually brewed downtown, among the picturesque lanes of the historic West Village. But today I’d joined a few of my baristas on our coffee truck. By 8 AM, we were stocked up and parked in our assigned spot with the other food vendors near Central Park’s Turtle Pond, a stone’s throw from the Delacorte Theater, home of Shakespeare in the Park.
The only real challenge facing me at this early hour was Matteo Allegro—my former partner in marriage and current partner in business.
“Look, Matt, I realize you’re trying to get some buzz going for these so-called ‘magic beans’ you’ve sourced from Ethiopia, but you’re the one handling the Seer’s tent. Why do I have to be involved?”
“Our gypsy knows you learned tasseography from your grandmother. If you don’t let her show off for you, she’ll be insulted, and—”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I did. That’s the reason!” One look at my expression and he threw up his hands. “Look, even if
it isn’t, what harm is there in humoring a nice old lady?” Matt’s big, brown bedroom eyes were now blinking at me. This was his “hurt little boy” look, the one designed to make me feel guilty.
Unfortunately, it did. But like a lot of things that preyed upon me lately, I ignored it.
“I’m too busy,” I said.
“You are not—” Matt tapped his watch. “The Kingdom doesn’t open for another hour . . .”
“The Kingdom” was New York’s inaugural Storybook Kingdom, a weekend festival celebrating the Brothers Grimm, Mother Goose, and classic literary characters beloved by children of all ages. In sixty minutes, families would be streaming into this Central Park compound for arts and crafts, costume contests, even a Fairy Tale Village with jugglers, puppeteers, and knights in shining armor. The whole production was dreamed up by the mayor’s office. And since Matt’s mother—our esteemed octogenarian employer—happened to sit on the Fairy Tale Fall events committee, we were roped into service.
“You’re done setting up, aren’t you?” Matt pressed.
“Yes, but the festival staff has kept us hopping since we parked. Here comes another wave . . .”
Matt stepped back as Esther and I filled coffee drink orders for two knights, a court jester, and a half-dressed dragon. When I looked up again, I saw that Matt’s focus on fortune telling had finally shifted—to a slinky princess in scarlet.
The young woman’s gown had a full, filmy skirt that sparkled in the morning sun. Its stunning red color was repeated in the bright streaks streaming through her soot black, chin-length hair.
“Has Pink Princess come by for coffee?” she asked Matt, her low voice hinting at a Russian accent.
“I don’t know. What does the Pink Princess look like?”
The Red Princess laughed. “If you saw her, you would not be asking! My friend is gorgeous. Long blond hair, nearly to waist, and she is very much taller than I.”
“Sorry, I haven’t seen her,” Matt replied.
“If you do, tell her to call Red.”
Matt smiled. “You have a phone in that getup?”
“Is strapped to my thigh,” the girl informed him with a playful wink. “And is set on vibrate. Want to see?”
I shook my head, hardly surprised by the flirtation. Well into his forties, my ex was old enough to be the young woman’s father, yet his muscular good looks and world-traveler ease made him the most attractive man in sight.