Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 7

To begin with, an old joke…

“Excuse me, sir?” the tourist asked. “How do I get to Carnegie Hall?”

The cabbie shrugged. “Practice.”

Since 2003, the Coffeehouse Mysteries have been published in a quiet fashion, building buzz via independent mystery bookstores, online reviewers, chain store staff recommendations, and even the barista community. While I can’t see Carnegie Hall in my future, I offer my sincerest thanks to those of you who have given me the opportunity to practice. Your support of my series has kept it going and kept me going. No kidding, from the bottom of my heart, I thank you for reading.

My second shout-out goes to my publisher, Berkley Prime Crime. In particular, I’d like to salute executive editor Wendy McCurdy for her steadfast professionalism. Wendy’s calming character is nothing short of saintly in a profession that comes with ungodly pressures. Major props also go to Allison Brandau, for all of her hard work, as well as former Berkley editors Katie Day and Martha Bushko for their crucial support along the way.

If you’ve read even one previous Coffeehouse Mystery, then you know how important coffee is to Clare Cosi. Regarding the java she serves up in this volume, I’d like to thank New York City’s excellent Café Grumpy, not only for introducing me to the “champagne” of the coffee world, Esmeralda Especial, but for hosting the tasting event at which I had the thrill of shaking the hand of Daniel Peterson, the man who rediscovered the heirloom geisha tree that grows it. I’d also like to thank Joe the Art of Coffee in Greenwich Village, New York, for their expert advice and outstanding espressos, and Counter Culture Coffee of Durham, North Carolina, for their superior beans. If a superb cuppa joe is what you’re after, these fine folks are among the best in the business.

With the greatest respect, I tip my hat to the men and women of the Sixth Precinct, especially its former deputy inspector, who-until her recent promotion-also happened to be the only female precinct commanding officer in a city that employs well over thirty thousand cops. As to the p’s and q’s of by-the-book police procedure, this is a light work of amateur-sleuth fiction. In the Coffeehouse Mysteries, the rules occasionally get bent.

An additional shout-out goes to Dr. Grace Alfonsi. Not just because she’s an amazing physician and hardworking mom, but because she’s always helpful to me with thoughts and advice in matters medical. When literary license is taken in presenting elements in this area, I alone am culpable.

I thank the White Horse Tavern in Greenwich Village for their draft beer, out-of-this-world onion rings, and most of all for still being around after more than one hundred years. The incomparable Metropolitan Museum of Art must also be thanked, frankly, for simply existing. My sincerest thanks especially go to their kind employees who answered my questions and the security guards for not arresting my big, dangerous-looking husband when they noticed him taking photos of the employee entrance in his black leather jacket. (Note to aspiring writers: if you ever decide to take reference photos at the Met’s Eighty-fourth Street entrance, make sure you bring ID.)

And speaking of Marc…

As most of my readers are aware, I write this series, as well as my Alice Kimberly Haunted Bookshop Mystery series, in collaboration with my very talented spouse. Both of us owe a debt of gratitude to our friends and families for their support. We’d also like to thank our literary agent, John Talbot, to whom this book is dedicated. John’s sincere encouragement and steadfast professionalism over the years have meant the world to us-two writers who intend never to stop practicing.

Yours sincerely,

Cleo Coyle

SHE left her building at six for the health club up the street. She’d done this every morning for the last four days, only today something was different. A white sanitation truck had thundered up the block. Now it sat in the middle of the road like an enormous beached whale.

There was no room to maneuver now. No way to get clear, get away. From behind the wheel of the parked SUV, the stalker took a breath, remained steady, stayed calm. With the wedding next week, Breanne’s schedule was becoming unpredictable. Waiting any longer would pose problems.

It must be done today. This morning.

After her workout, Breanne returned to her apartment. She showered, dressed, and left for the office at seven fifteen. As her leggy strides ate up the sidewalk, the stalker’s gloved hands gripped the SUV’s wheel and twisted the key.

The glossy black rental looked like thousands of others on the city streets, but the stalker had taken no chances. The white New York plates had been splattered with mud. A fedora had been purchased, sunglasses worn, a collar turned up.

The location was perfect: Sutton Place, a picturesque nook of the Upper East Side. The area was quiet and exclusive. Best of all, it skirted the Queensboro Bridge, allowing swift and easy egress from a Manhattan crime scene.

At this hour, traffic was still light. The sanitation truck was long gone. Only two cars moved down the one-way street. The SUV rolled slowly, just behind the target. Breanne nattered as she moved, cell phone plastered to her fair head, unaware of the dark monster pacing her. She looked like a seagull, white and graceful, gliding with ease through the concrete canyons, wings spread, beak high…

The stalker’s eye twitched.

She was attractive. So? Even beautiful birds were made to die unfair deaths. This was something the stalker knew firsthand. Breanne’s fate was a necessary reckoning: A treasure had been taken. Now a price would be paid.

The stalker’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. Several times, this course had been run. An ideal stretch was coming up, where signs warned of active driveways. No cars were parked there. No curbs were blocked-nothing to come between the bride-to-be and certain death.

Everything was perfect. Now it was going to happen. Now-

The stalker cut the wheel. Tires bounced over the concrete curb. The engine roared, and the vehicle shot forward. Breanne half turned, blond hair flying, finally aware of the threat. But it was too late. In another second, Beauty would be broken beyond repair-

DIE! DIE!

But she didn’t.

Before three tons of metal could smash her slender form, Breanne’s body was struck by another; a lunging, muscular man slammed her off the sidewalk and into a recessed doorway.

The SUV hurtled past the pair, crushing the woman’s dropped cell phone, mangling her designer handbag. The stalker cut the wheel again, banged off the curb, clipped a parked car.

There was screaming, shouting, commotion. The stalker checked the rearview. A man in workout sweats helped Breanne to her feet; a flash of profile told the stalker who he was.