A Brew to a Kill (2 page)
Authors: Cleo Coyle
P
ROLOGUE
I feel… that I would like to wallow in crime this evening.
—“THE COMPANION,”
THE THIRTEEN PROBLEMS
BY AGATHA CHRISTIE
P
EERING
through the sooty windshield, the Driver surveyed the scene. Not a thing was moving below the halogen halos of city streetlamps. No cars. No pedestrians. No witnesses. Only the lone cyclist on his two wheels and these four wheels stalking him.
Perfect,
thought the Driver.
When the traffic signal slipped from red to green, the cyclist swung onto West Twentieth, his shiny red spandex vanishing in the predawn fog. The Driver counted to ten and rolled the battered van after him.
Not too close. Not yet…
With clueless passion, the cyclist pedaled, oblivious to the twin beams stabbing inexorably toward him. His destination was the Hudson River Greenway, thirty-two miles lapping the island of Manhattan. This personally prescribed route to the perfect body was a triweekly workout set in stone.
The Driver’s path was set, as well, the course conceived months ago, a map years in the making.
He’s moving faster. Don’t lose him…
With itchy anticipation, the Driver picked up speed. Out of the
shadows darted a perky young jogger, shapely legs pumping. The Driver cursed, hit the brakes.
The cyclist slowed to ogle the girl, but the Driver knew this man—and his rapacious gaze. He would see only the girl’s flaws: breasts too small, nose too long, first hint of muffin top. All quite fixable—for the right price.
When the pretty runner reached the corner, the street was clear again. Closing the distance, the Driver waited one last time—for the bastard to turn, to look, to see exactly what was coming.
The engine roared, the tires spun, and the van leapt forward. With a shuddering thump, two tons of hurtling steel crushed man and bicycle.
“Not enough. Not nearly enough!”
The Driver braked, shifted into reverse, hit the gas once more. Another thump, and the van rocked. After a pause, the vehicle shot forward again.
“There you go, Doc! How’s that for a three-in-one?”
As the van sped away, a trail of sparks followed, a fiery display that ended with the dangling muffler breaking free. The Driver barely noticed. All that mattered was the course ahead.
The next deadly outing would require an audience. A far riskier prospect, but the plan was in motion; the truth inevitable: On the road to a better place, you had two options when something got in your way—
Change lanes or run it down.
With concrete resolve, the Driver had made that choice. “And now there’s no turning back. No matter who has to die…”
NE
This seems to be the basic need of the human heart in nearly every great crisis—a good hot cup of coffee.
—I SHOULD
HAVE KISSED HER MORE
BY ALEXANDER KING
“I
N
times like these, Clare, failing to take a risk is the biggest risk of all.”
Across the café table’s cool marble surface, Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois pinned me with her near-violet eyes. “Don’t you agree?”
Of course, I agree.
I wanted to shout this, scream it. Risk and I were old friends, and if anyone knew that, my octogenarian employer did.
“Investing in the new coffee truck was my idea,” I reminded her between robust hits of espresso. “I know it’s a smart idea.”
“Good. Now all you must do is convince him.”
Him
was Mateo Allegro—due to arrive within the hour. An international coffee broker, Matt was the Village Blend’s coffee buyer, Madame’s only child, my ex-husband, and the father of my pride named Joy.
“Like I told you, I tried to convince him…” (Half a dozen e-mails worth of “try” to be precise. When text didn’t work, I placed calls overseas. Lengthy calls. Enriching AT&T hadn’t helped, either.) “The man doesn’t listen, and he’s still in a state.”
Beneath the mauve silk of her mandarin jacket, Madame’s narrow shoulders gave a little shrug. “What can I say? He’s his father’s son. All that passion, all that intensity, all that tenacity—”
“Tenacity?” I knocked on the coral-colored tabletop. “Matt’s head could break this.”
“I wouldn’t count on it, dear. For one thing, that’s Italian marble. Very
old
Italian marble. Old things tend to be stronger than you think.”
Sitting back in my café chair, I ran my hands along the thighs of my blue jeans and attempted to fill my lungs with a healthy dose of equilibrium. It wasn’t easy. The sun may have set, but our coffeehouse commerce was far from winding down. A line of caffeine-deprived customers hugged the espresso bar, and beyond our wall of wide-open French doors, laughing latte lovers still packed our sidewalk tables.
The city was enjoying one of those glorious stretches of early summer weather, before the high humidity hits, when afternoons are sunny and clear, and nights are pleasantly temperate. Madame and I were perched between the two—the warmth of midday and the chill of midnight, when the sun clocks out and a magical light seems to soften New York’s hard edges.
I tried my best to drink in that gentleness, that calm. All day long I’d been on my feet, dealing with bickering baristas, demanding customers, and low stock. With the arrival of my assistant manager, Tucker, I finally took a load off, along with my Village Blend apron, to welcome the coolness of early evening with warm sips of caramelized peaberries.
Unfortunately, a single shot of espresso would not be enough caffeine. Something blacker than nightfall was headed my way, and before I knew it, the business troubling me would be murder.
At the moment, however, the business on the table (literally and figuratively) was coffee—and the question of how best to keep this business selling and serving it through the next century.
So far, Madame had seen things my way. And why not? Despite appearing as starched and restrained as a Park Avenue blueblood, Madame was a bohemian at heart, embracing the odd and offbeat. To her, authenticity mattered more than money. Flouting convention was a virtue, taking risks an asset.
“When you’re a war refugee,” she once told me, “you learn to take chances, to cross boundaries. If you don’t dare, you don’t survive…”
The woman had done more than toil when she’d arrived on Manhattan Island. New York City ground up polite little girls like beans through a grinder, and Madame quickly understood that working hard was not enough.
After her Italian-born husband died young, she learned how to maneuver and strategize. In order to ensure the survival of herself, her son, and this landmark business, she outwitted the scoundrels who thought they could swindle or crush her. And she’d won. This century-old business was still thriving.
As for me, I was no war refugee. I’d come to New York from a little factory town in Western Pennsylvania. But I shared Madame’s admiration for the virtue of daring—and she well knew of my long-standing relationship with the “R” word.
At nineteen I risked my future by quitting art school to have my (surprise!) baby. At twenty-nine I risked my security by leaving my marriage to an incurably immature spouse. At thirty-nine I risked my sanity by returning to my old job of managing this coffeehouse, which required working with said spouse. Since I’d turned forty, I’d risked even more to ensure the safety of my friends, my family, and my staff (a redundant mention since I considered them family, anyway).
