Клео Коул - Murder by Mocha

This book is dedicated to the readers.

From the heart . . .

Thank you.

Murder by Mocha marks the tenth entry in the Coffeehouse Mysteries, and it’s long past time I acknowledge the reason the Village Blend is still open for business—the readers. I may live in New York City, but the World Wide Web has made it possible for me to converse with many of you throughout the country and the planet. I thank you for your kind support and (yes) love. I send that love back to you with this book.

In particular, I wish to thank a few CM readers by name for their creative contributions to this entry: First, Nancy Prior Phillips, whose signature phrase suggested an entire character. Of course, Clare’s new barista is a complete fiction with one exception. On down days, I think we can all use an “inner Nancy.” Thanks to pro-baker Paul Yates for lending me his good opinion on the dieci ; thanks to Alicia Farage for the chocolate cobbler recipe; and very special thanks to Peggy-Jo Schilger and her grandmother for sharing “Mama Bert’s” coffee cheese recipe.

For their supportive good cheer, I also thank J.J. and Marcia Pierce, Paul Mulligan, Chuck H., Bob L., Julie and Kerry M., Nurse Judy Mac, Victoria H., Pam F., Lura W., Laine B., Lesa H., Barbara H. (Babs), Lori G., Amy A., Deanna S., Tiffany B., Mason C., Dru Ann L., Nikki B., Nora-Adrienne, Juju, Hai, Geekette, Wendy W., Jung-Min, Kelly Jo B., Erin H., Rhonda, Nicole, Carol, Karen in Pennsylvania, and the awesome Three Lanes of Texas. Mary Tracy I thank for long-standing support, along with the amazing Red Hatter Shirley Jackson (eighty years young).

To everyone else, whom I could not mention here by name, please know that every one of your comments and kind messages has helped keep my spirits up and my pen pressed to paper. My virtual coffeehouse is always open. You are more than welcome to join us at www.CoffeehouseMystery.com.

For background on the culinary aspects of this book, I thank the accomplished chocolatiers of Mast Brothers Chocolate in Williamsburg, Brooklyn ( www.MastBrothersChocolate.com). Mocha cheers also to the incoming chair of the Barista Guild of America, Jason Dominy, for sharing his award-winning Mocha Diablo recipe with me. Jason works for one of the top coffee bars in the country, Dancing Goats Coffee ( www.DancingGoats.com), and the excellent Batdorf & Bronson Coffee Roasters, based in Atlanta, Georgia.

More java thanks must go to two award-winning coffee roasters: PT’s Coffee Roasting Co., based in Kansas ( www.PtsCoffee.com); Gimme Coffee, based in New York State ( www.GimmeCoffee.com); as well as another of the nation’s top coffee bars, Joe the Art of Coffee, based in Greenwich Village, New York ( www.JoetheArtofCoffee.com).

For foodie inspiration, I raise a glass to my fantastic fellow mystery writing cooks at Mystery Lovers’ Kitchen: Krista Davis, Avery Aames, Elizabeth S. Craig, Mary Jane Maffini, Sheila Connolly, and Wendy Lyn Watson. (Visit us at www.MysteryLoversKitchen.com.) For continually giving me food for thought, I thank Janet Rudolph of Dying for Chocolate ( www.DyingForChocolate.blogspot.com); Dave Scott of A Year on the Grill ( www.YearOnTheGrill.blogspot.com); and “the Bibliochef” of Cooking With Ideas ( www.CookingWithIdeas.typepad.com). A warm, sweet shout-out must also go to the incredibly kind staff of Cops & Doughnuts Bakery, owned by real police officers in Clare, Michigan ( www.CopsDoughnuts.com). Don’t glaze me, bro!

As many of you know, I write in collaboration with my very talented spouse, Marc—a better partner a girl couldn’t ask for. He and I both owe a debt of gratitude to our publisher, Berkley Prime Crime, as well as its dedicated staff, especially our amazingly talented editor, Wendy McCurdy; her hardworking assistant, Katherine Pelz; our excellent managing editor and production editor, Jennifer Eck and Patricia Callahan; and our fine copyeditor, Jude Grant.

With the utmost respect, we tip our hats to the NYPD in general and the Sixth Precinct in particular for kindly answering our questions. As to the p’s and q’s of police procedure, this is a light work of amateur sleuth fiction. In the Coffeehouse Mysteries, the rules occasionally get bent.

Finally, we send a very special thank-you to our literary agent, John Talbot, for his astonishing good nature and unflagging professionalism. Mocha kisses always to family and friends, including the hardest-working mom in the West, Dr. Grace Alfonsi, MD, whom we thank this time out for consultation on matters medical- and zombie-related. If there are errors in this book, they are entirely our own.

Five years ago . . .

From head to toe, the woman wore black. Black for mourning, she thought. Black for death.

All day she waited, checking her watch, preparing the props, counting down minutes till uncertain light. When the sun sank low and the sky’s blues deepened, she made her way to the railroad bridge.

With a quick unzipping, she exposed the belly of the large Pullman, specially outfitted for this evening’s performance. She removed the old pair of white satin pumps, set them beside the four-foot rail.

In the warm purple twilight, yellow bulbs flickered on. “Spots for my stage,” she whispered. “Kliegs for this Kabuki.” Far below the river flowed, dark and distant as a starless night.

“My Rubicon . . .”

A popular eatery sat on the river’s bank, a scenic patch near the country club stables of Bay Creek Village. She saw those diners, young and old, raising glasses, speaking civilly, adhering to dress codes.

Look at them, pretending to be decent, loyal, kind . . . Liars! Cheaters! Monsters! Hypocrites, every one . . .

Seven years before, her mother’s trial had been passing entertainment for all of them, a morsel of scandal to be relished with appetizers, forgotten completely by the second course.

“Hey! Down there! You wanted a look at me? Look at me now!”

Fading back into the shadows, she watched the round white faces moon her way. Seconds later, a brand-new shout echoed along the water, shattering the serenity of the eight o’clock seating. Customers leaped to their feet, knocked over cocktails, stained outfits with wine.

She knew what they were seeing, as they gawked upriver—a woman plummeting off the bridge. Down the body sailed, through violet sky, wedding gown ballooning like a favorite yacht spinnaker. The figure splashed and quickly sank, as if eager to reach the underworld.

“My world now,” whispered the woman in black. “Now I am Persephone, queen of shadows . . .”

With a hollow thud, her purse dropped—well beyond any pool of illumination. Inside that bag was an epic tale, scrawled in perfect longhand on neatly folded sheets. Here were the answers to the inevitable question, “Why did she do it?” along with enough IDs to satisfy every last dull, distracted authority on Long Island.

Hurrying toward a thicket of evergreens, she found a new path. At last, her plan was under way, blossoming like Aphrodite’s red anemone beneath the dying Adonis.

Sixty yards away, every diner would tell the police they had witnessed a suicide . . .