Table of Contents
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
Haunted Bookshop Mysteries by Cleo Coyle
writing as Alice Kimberly
THE GHOST AND MRS. McCLURE
THE GHOST AND THE DEAD DEB
THE GHOST AND THE DEAD MANS LIBRARY
THE GHOST AND THE FEMME FATALE
THREE
THE door swung fully open, banging like a gunshot against the back wall (and barely missing the framed photos of Dylan Thomass gravesite and writing shed). The sudden noise quieted the men, and they turned their heads to find Breanne Summour fuming in the doorway.
Regally blond, the statuesque beauty was clad in a form-fitting business suit of pearl gray pinstripes. Her honey-colored hair was coiled in a tight bun, and even though the taverns lighting was dim and her eyes and much of her face were hidden behind the large rose-tinted sunglasses, there was no mistaking the sharp chin and pouting lips, glossed with her favorite Beaujolais Red lipstick. Sheer black stockings, four-inch pointy-toed heels, and a matching leather attach completed the sleek trademark look.
Matt winced. Oh, jeez...
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, like a silent wave, the men parted, allowing Breanne to cut a swath through the room. The ominous bonging of the walls pendulum clock and the tap-tap-tapping of Fifth Avenue heels across worn hardwood planks were the only sounds in the dead quiet.
Breanne slammed her attach onto a stout table and popped the leather lid. A moment later, music flowed out of the case, a rhythmic throbbing. As a throaty saxophone began its song, Breanne stepped close to Matt.
Without a word spoken, his broad shoulders sagged, as if in relief. And his tense expressionno doubt braced for a tongue-lashingnow visibly relaxed.
It took me another moment to realize what was really happening. Breanne ripped away her tinted lenses, and I finally saw that this was not Matts bride, just a dead ringer for heror, rather, a dead ringer for a much younger Breanne. Sans rose-colored glasses, the young woman was obviously half Breannes age. Unfortunately, she was also the bachelor partys featured entertainer, so I could guess what was coming next.
Using a chair for a step, the woman climbed onto a table, where she definitely had everyones attention. With her lips pursed in a seductive pout, she swayed her hips to the primal music and began to unbutton her fitted pinstriped jacket. She released her coiled hair next, letting it fall like a honey-colored curtain; then the dancer slid her hands down her thighs and lifted the hem of the skirt to reveal stocking tops and lacy black garters.
Embarrassed, I looked away, searching the crowd for Koa. He shot me a knowingly amused thumbs-up, and I knew he was the one to arrange this frat-boy prank.
So much for discretion.
The younger guys were going crazy nowbuck wild, actually. And I started going crazy, too, frantically pushing my way through the howling, testosterone-fueled mob to the rooms windows. I maneuvered the high blinds down to a closed position just in case Knoxs Gotham Gossip photographer was lurking out there in the night.
Whistles and catcalls erupted around me, and I turned to find Koa at my side, grinning like a Pacific shark. We really had Matt going there, didnt we?! I thought he was going to drop a rock!
Ha-ha, yes, very funny, I said, and was about to add more, but Koas attention had already shifted back to the dancer, which didnt surprise me. (Men typically preferred staring at a woman rather than actually listening to one.)
Above my head, cloth fluttered down like autumn leaves. The audience hooted, whistled, and howled. I spied Roger Mbele shaking his head, a bemused expression on his face, and thats when I realized the door to the bars public front room was still wide open.
I moved to shut it and found half a dozen male customers from the bar standing there gawking, eager to get an eyeful of the stripper. When one of the college kids whipped out a cell phone and held it uppresumably to start snapping pictures for the Internet, I shoved the group back.
Sorry, private party! I told them and began to close the door in their faces.
But I couldnt shut it all the way. I looked down to find a heavy black boot blocking my efforts. The boot was scuffed and dirty, attached to a guy in his late twenties: too old to be an undergrad, I thought, too skeevy to be a grad student (probably). He was close to six feet and wiry, with a studded leather motorcycle jacket and a black shirt decorated with creepy Day of the Dead skeletons. His skin was pale but flushed, as if hed been drinking (big surprise). He had a few days scruff on his jaw, his stringy brown hair was disheveled, and a stud earring of a white skull was snickering at me from one earlobe.
Who do you have to know to get invited to this party? the guy said, his breath violating my nose with a reeking mix of bad dental hygiene and a great deal of tequila. Whos the guest of honor?
Nobody special, I assured him. Its just a party. Now, please let me close the door.
The mans unblinking stare remained fixed. Lemme in, lady. I wont drink your booze. He pointed to the Breanne look-alike. Its the ho I wanna meet.
Forget it. I pushed harder on the door. His heavy boot remained planted.
And what if I dont, bitch ?
My eyes narrowed. Like most suburban girls, Id grown up with the usual be nice lessons. Good manners were a sign of good character; and the last thing a modest girl would ever want to do was be the cause of an awkward scene. After years working a service counter in this town, however, Id learned other lessons. To guys like this, for instance, courtesy was a rope to strangle women with.
Stop giving me trouble, scumbag! I shouted at the top of my lungs. Or Ill call our bouncer!
People in the bars front room frowned in my direction, but Koa heard my yell (a miracle over the raucous noise) and immediately moved behind me.
Trouble, Clare? the big Hawaiian asked, crossing his massive arms.
Not if this guy steps away from the door! I yelled, this time with close to three hundred pounds of heavily muscled backing.
Eyes shifting to Koas ham-sized biceps, the jerks scowl deepened. Finally, he turned around. Heavy boots clomping, he walked back to the front rooms mahogany bar. The bartender approached the man as he plopped down and poured him another shot.
I shut the back room door and sagged against it. As the Breanne look-alike finished her act, I studied the vintage tin ceiling. Then I heard a burst of exuberant applause, and a moment later, the statuesque young dancer slipped away. Clothes bundled under her arm, pumps and attach case in hand, she ducked through the rooms back archway, bolting by the taverns kitchen and disappearing into an alcove that led to the ladies room.
Roger Mbele walked by me a moment later, his jacket draped over his arm.
Youre not going to the gentlemens club? I asked, not entirely surprised.
Roger smiled. In Kenya, I go to bed when the sun sets, and get up before it rises. Im too old for late nights. Then he laughed. Or maybe its simply a case of jet lag.
He gave me a hug, pecked me on the cheek. Ill see you at the luncheon, Clare. And Madame, as well.
Rogers departure was followed by some of the other older partygoers, who also bade me good night. There were empty beer pitchers and glasses everywhere. The party banner had fluttered to the floor, and I found Matt speaking with Dexter Beatty, a Jamaican who sold Caribbean coffees out of three Brooklyn locations. Forty-something, tall, and scarecrow-thin, Dexter almost always displayed a wide grin under his wild Rasta dreadlocks.
