Cleo Coyle - Latte Trouble (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 3)

Praise for

On w hat g rou nds

A great beginning to a new series... Clare and Matteo make a great team... On What Grounds will convert even the most fervent tea drinker into a coffee lover in the time it takes to draw an espresso.

The Mystery Reader

The first book in Coyles new series is a definite winner!

The mystery is first rate, and the characters leap from the page and are compelling, vivid, and endearing. The aroma of this story made this noncoffee drinker want to visit the nearest coffee bar.

Romantic Times

A fun, light mystery. Recommended.

Kliatt

[A] clever, witty, and lighthearted cozy. Cleo Coyle is a bright new light in the mystery horizon. The Best ReviewsPraise for

T hroug h t he G ri nde r

Coffee lovers and mystery buffs will savor the latest addition to this mystery series... and for those who like both, its a guaranteed Red Eye. Fast-paced action, coffee lore, and incredible culinary recipes, brewed together with some dark robust mystery, establish beyond a doubt that this one certainly isnt decaf. All hail the goddess Caffina!

The Best Reviews

Through the Grinder is full of action and murder with a little romance thrown in on the side. The ending is exceptional and completely unexpected.

The Romance Readers Connection

A fascinating mystery... a brave, quirky heroine.

Books n Bytes

There were ample red herrings in Through the Grinders story to lead the reader astray. I did not guess the outcome until I had finished the book. This is a great mystery in the Coffeehouse Mystery series.

Roundtable Reviews

Lat te Trou ble

c

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors 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.

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author Copyright 2005 by The Berkley Publishing Group. Cover design by Rita Frangie.

Cover art by Cathy Gendron.

Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario. All rights reserved.

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BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc. This book is dedicated to

Julie and Kerry Milliron

cherished friends

steadfast supporters

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Village people

original thinkers

what E.B. White had in mind

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A c k n o w l e d g m e n t s

Special thanks to Martha Bushko, an editor of buoyant brilliance, and John Talbot, a literary agent of the highest caliber, for their valued support.

Behind every successful woman...

is a substantial amount of coffee.

Stephanie Piro, Comic Artist

P ro lo g u e

xyxyxyxyxyxyxyxyxyxyxyxy

H ow do you like your poison? whispered the voice inthe dark. Light or black?

Hearing the voice, the body in bed twisted back andforth, choking pillows, strangling bedcovers, sleeping,dreaming, considering... Light or black?...

Tomorrow youll make it happen, continued the voice.

So many egos will be there, watching themselves walk,hearing themselves talk, none will notice that bit of venomin the cup...

A splash of cream... a dash of sugar...

Then it will be over. And, after the deed is done, onlyone person in the room will know the reason.

Me. Only me. Only I will know.

It wont even be murder. It will simply be

Justice...

O ne

xyxyxyxyxyxyxyxyxyxyxyxy

M en are pigs. They should die!

Tucker Burtons words were audible over the steam wands hiss, the buzz of conversation, even the throbbing electronic dance music pulsing out of the Village Blends speakers. To punctuate his declaration, my best barista butted the bottom of the stainless steel pitcher against the steam wands spout. The result was a tooth-grinding clang of metal on metal. Then Tucker, who should have known better, pulled the pitcher away too quickly. A geyser of milk froth flowed over the brim, scalding his hand. He cursed, dumped the excess into the sink, and doused his reddening fingers in a rush of cold tap water. It wasnt that I disagreed with Tucker about men. When they acted like pigs, I wanted blood tooso to speak. But Tuckers lethal tone, like the pounding Euro synth-pop, which was temporarily replacing our typical mix of new age, jazz, and classical, was disquietingly out of place. Not five minutes before, my buoyant barista was pulling espressos and chatting amicably to anyone within earshot. Obviously someone or something had thrown the nasty L a t t e T ro u b l e

switch on the lanky, floppy-haired actor-playwright, who was now slamming around behind the coffeehouse counter like a jealous yenta.

And, believe me, it takes one to know one.

Twenty years ago, Id been a nave bride destined to discover that my handsome husbands extramarital romps were as commonplace as his rock climbing, mountain biking, and cliff diving expeditions during his buying trips to third-world coffee plantations. Matteos defensethat his sex-capades were no more meaningful than any other extreme sportwas supposed to have assured me of his emotional fidelity. Id responded by pouring a latte over his head. At least, I think it had been a latte. It may have been a cappuccino. In any event, I vividly remember white foam dripping down his bewildered features, so froth most definitely had been involved. Behind the low-slung silver espresso machine (out of which a properly trained barista can pull 240 aromatic shots of ebony an hour) Tuckers platonic gal pal Moira McNeely paused to reassure him with a friendly touch to his shoulder. A young Bostonian now studying at the Parsons School of Design, shed taken an interest in the art of coffee preparation (and, I suspected, my thespian-cumbarista) and had volunteered her services for this Fall Fashion Week after dinner coffee and dessert soiree, now well underway. And I was thankful because, at the moment, the Blend was severely understaffed. So what, might you ask, is Fall Fashion Week? Well, for concrete-loving, highly caffeinated New Yorkers, who seldom take their cues from nature, the magical appearance of the white canvas runway tents amid the tall London plane trees of midtowns Bryant Park is the quintessential sign of autumns arrival.