When the Village Blend caters a glittering rooftop party, their creative coffee concoctions are eclipsed by a shocking murder in this compelling new Coffeehouse Mystery from New York Times bestselling author Cleo Coyle.
Years ago, when master roaster Clare Cosi was a newly divorced mom raising her daughter, Joy, Ava Welsh became Joy's best friend. Now the painfully shy girl next door has grown into a successful New York businesswoman, and Clare is delighted to be catering Ava’s coffee-themed party, especially when her boyfriend, Ryan, confides his plan to propose that very night.
Then a scream shatters the celebration. A woman is thrown off the balcony to her death, and Ryan—who abruptly flees the party—is accused of murder. Clare vows to help Ava clear his name.
Her digging uncovers suspicious connections to a deadly event from which a teenaged Joy and Ava barely escaped with their lives. The stakes rise ever higher as a ruthless killer attempts to keep the ugly truth buried—even if it means sending Clare and her caffeinated crew six feet under.
Includes a menu of party-ready recipes!
Release date:
September 22, 2026
Publisher:
Berkley
Print pages:
400
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The way I see it, trouble is to be avoided-unless it involves a friend.
That's how I got into this mess, trying to help a friend, which I think is forgivable. Judgments are subjective and choices aren't simple. At least they never were for me because doing the right thing is not always the safe thing, or the smart thing, but that doesn't stop it from being right. I know Ryan thought so, which is how he got into trouble in the first place-
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I need to start this story where the whole mess began, on the night before the big birthday party that my coffeehouse had been hired to cater.
This was the night of the so-called accident. Nobody but me believed it was attempted murder. Not even the victim. The hour was late, and we'd already closed the Village Blend to customers . . .
"Heads up, Boss Lady," my barista Esther shouted from the far end of the shop. She was leaning on her broom handle, peering through the spotlessly polished glass of our French doors.
"What's the problem?" I called from behind the counter.
"Your Boss Lady just arrived by taxi."
I blew out air. At the end of the day, my priority was a clean coffeehouse, which left me anything but. My skin was sweaty, my apron stained, and my general aroma less than fragrant.
"Are you sure it's her?" The owner of this century-old business dropped by often, but rarely after hours.
Esther Best (shortened from Bestovasky by her grandfather) slapped one hand on her ample hip and pushed up her black-framed glasses with the other. "How many octogenarians do you know who crave a midnight espresso dressed to the nines?"
With all speed, I scraped my sloppy chestnut ponytail into a neater, tighter version, grabbed the shop keys, and moved to unlock the front door.
A gust of March wind followed Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois across the threshold, but the warm smile she offered made up for the blasting chill.
My esteemed mentor hadn't run this landmark shop for years, but she was still a legend in the trade-and our Village community. Everyone knew Blanche's history as the "caffeinating caretaker" of countless struggling artists, writers, and musicians who had gotten their start in this iconic neighborhood. And because so many had come to know (and love) the woman by her French title, we continued the tradition. Even I addressed her as-
"Madame! I'm surprised to see you. Didn't you have a date with Captain Siebold tonight?"
"I did indeed." Shedding her cream-colored cashmere coat, she revealed a royal blue pantsuit, custom-fitted to her slender form. "It was our farewell dinner."
"Farewell? Why? You're not breaking up?"
"Richard is off to consult on a NASA weather project. He'll be in Australia for the next six months."
"I'm surprised he didn't ask you to go with him."
"Oh, he did. But can you imagine me living Down Under for half a year? The charm of spotting a koala or kangaroo would quickly wear thin. Meanwhile, my gallant former astronaut would be consumed by his research, and I would have precious little to do. Even worse, what if I couldn't find a decent cup of coffee?" With a toss of her silver pageboy, she playacted a shudder. "The horror."
"You know very well there are plenty of world-class coffeehouses in Australia. They invented the flat white!"
"A debatable point, my dear, since New Zealanders also claim the origin. Nevertheless, Richard won't be based in Sydney or Melbourne. He's headed for the rustic outback, and I doubt the Crocodile Dundees with whom he'll be camping will be fresh-roasting specialty beans in their bivy sacks."
"Come on now. You're not up for a little adventure?"
"Not when my coffee comes with a can opener."
"Well, I don't believe that's the only reason you turned down the trip, given your history, and your own son's penchant for perilous globetrotting . . ."
I was, of course, referring to my ex-husband, Matteo Allegro, one of the most intrepid and respected coffee hunters in the trade. There wasn't a region in the coffee belt that Matt hadn't explored, from the small farms of East Java to the highlands of New Guinea to the shade-grown gold in the Andean cloud forest.
When I'd first married into his family's business, I'd learned the coffee-hunting gene had come from Matt's father. Now sadly gone, Antonio Allegro had introduced his young son to the world of coffee sourcing; and before she became a mother, Madame had joined her husband on many of his adventures abroad, which was why I didn't buy her reason for ditching a trip to the outback.
"You know me too well, Clare," she finally admitted. "In all honesty, six months overseas with the same man feels too much like a commitment."
"No more Mr. Rights for you?"
"Let's just say I prefer to keep my options open. I'm too young to be tied down."
Her wink implied she was joking, but I wasn't going to argue. Though well into her twilight years, the woman possessed more energy than a certain battery-operated bunny, and like her son, a new romance was never off the table.
Of course, I knew one of the reasons Madame's violet eyes still burned with youthful mischief and her razor wit hadn't dulled.
"You mentioned a good cup of coffee. Would you like one?" I asked. "No can openers involved."
Two
Madame grabbed a stool at our marble-topped coffee bar, Esther joined us, and we caught up on shop gossip as I loaded the French press with freshly ground beans, poured the hot water, timed the steeping, and finally depressed the plunger.
"You're about to try the new El Salvadoran single-origin that Matt sourced," I said and held my breath as she took her first sip. I'd fired the cherries with care in our basement roasting room.
Madame closed her eyes. "Beautifully creamy mouthfeel with a crisp kick. Excellent work preserving the natural honey sweetness and bright fruity acidity." After another long sip, she sighed. "You and my son may no longer be joined in marriage, but your partnership in this business continues to astound me."
"Thank you," I said. "And speaking of something astounding, your granddaughter is coming to town tomorrow."
Her face immediately brightened. "How long is Joy staying?"
"Through the weekend. She's coming for Ava's party."
"Ava Welsh?" Madame's silver eyebrows rose. "I remember her. She was such a sweet girl."
"Still is," I said.
"My goodness. I haven't seen Ava since she and Joy attended culinary school together." She laughed. "And do you remember what they did for their high school graduation?"
"Of course. The cupcakes!"
"What cupcakes?" Esther asked.
"My daughter and her best friend glued mini cupcakes in their school colors to their graduation caps. During the ceremony's long speeches, they passed them out to their classmates."
Madame nodded. "That was after they learned their cooking skills from you, Clare. I'll never forget the day I came to visit you in New Jersey and found Joy and Ava in your kitchen, covered in white powder."
I smiled at the memory. "The girls learned two valuable lessons that day. When making cake frosting, never fill the entire bowl with confectioners' sugar, and make sure the mixer isn't set on high before you plug it in."
"I'm glad to know the 'white powder' wasn't the kind you snort," Esther cracked.
"The poor dears resembled a pair of startled ghosts," Madame said, and Esther laughed.
"More like New Jersey Devils."
Madame blinked. "Is Ava still living in New Jersey?"
"Not anymore," I said. "She's got an apartment in Hudson Yards."
Esther's eyes widened. "Nice address."
"Ava can afford it. She works at MH and E now."
Madame looked impressed. "MacGill Hospitality and Entertainment, really? Ava's moved up in the world."
"Tell me about it. She said her boss and the co-owner of the company, no less, will be coming to the party tomorrow. So, the pressure is on."
"Is she a chef at one of their hotel restaurants?"
"No. After Ava graduated from culinary school, she earned a business degree and began moving up in the hospitality industry. She's an event manager now. Corporate events. The big leagues."
"Yeah," Esther said. "So big she can afford to throw a birthday bash for her boyfriend that costs more than I earn in three months."
"You just got your raise," I reminded her. "If you want more hours, say the word."
Esther smirked. "I'll let you know."
Madame, meanwhile, was shaking her head at the swift passing of time. "I can't believe little Ava has a boyfriend."
"Little Ava is the same age as Joy, and your granddaughter has been dating the same guy for-"
Madame waved her hand. "I know Joy's boyfriend well enough. Sergeant Franco is a fine young man. He'd make a fine young grandson-in-law if he and Joy would simply make the leap."
"I don't disagree," I said, "although your son certainly would."
"Don't remind me," Madame said with a sigh. "Anyway, what can you tell me about Ava's young man-"
"Looks like you're about to find out," Esther cut in.
I followed her pointing finger to our shop's front window and saw a familiar figure in a maroon stadium jacket heading toward our shop. His walk was unique, slow and deliberate, favoring one leg. Not a bad limp, but slightly off.
"This is a happy coincidence," I told Madame. "Ava's boyfriend is about to knock on our door."
"After hours?"
"Ryan is a session musician at Electric Lady Studios. Very talented and always in high demand. He likes to drop in between recording sessions. I guess his work ran late tonight."
"The guy lives for our brew," Esther said. "Our lights are still on, clearly a beacon of caffeinated hope."
"Let's not disappoint the boy." I rose and touched my mentor's shoulder. "I'm glad you're going to meet him, because I've wrangled you an invitation to the birthday party that Ava is throwing him tomorrow. That way you and Joy can spend some time together, and you can see how well Ava is doing."
I rose to unlock the door and greet our latecomer.
Still ten yards away, Ryan Riggs flashed his adorable, dimpled grin and pretended to wipe his brow with relief when I stepped out into the chilly night.
"What luck! You're still open!" he called.
"Only for you!" I called back. And Madame, I silently added.
Just then a pair of headlights flashed in my face. I blinked against the glare as a car engine revved up. A vehicle racing along Hudson Street jumped the curb and swerved toward Ryan on the sidewalk. Suddenly he was just a dark silhouette in the blinding lights.
"Ryan! Move!" I shouted.
He reacted to my warning, but not fast enough. The car sideswiped him. With a sharp cry, Ryan tumbled to the pavement.
The vehicle screeched to a halt. For a split second I thought the driver-invisible behind darkly tinted windows-had stopped to help. Instead, I heard the gears shift as the car was thrown into reverse and flew backward toward the young musician, who was struggling to rise.
Ryan scrambled to get clear, but he didn't make it.
In shock and horror, I screamed as the bumper's impact tore Ryan's lower leg loose and tossed the limb into the street.
Three
The squeal of tires faded as the car veered off the sidewalk and raced up Hudson. I tried to read the license as I hurried to Ryan's side, but the plate numbers were obscured, covered by something dark.
Meanwhile, Ryan was attempting to stand again. When I saw the tattered, empty right leg of his black pants, my breath caught. It took me a second to realize there was no blood.
"Ryan, let me help-"
"I'm fine. Please, find my leg."
Hearing Ryan's plea from our shop's doorway, Esther raced into the street faster than I'd ever seen her move.
"I have it," she called.
"Is it broken?" Ryan asked with worry.
"I don't think so," Esther said, clutching the prosthetic leg close to her chest. "It's all in one piece, anyway."
Now that I knew Ryan was in no danger of bleeding to death, I helped him to his feet-or foot, to be accurate. Resting one arm on my shoulder, he hopped through the door and into the Village Blend.
Madame hurried to help, placing a café chair under him. Ryan settled in with a groan.
"Are you all right, dear?" she asked, her brow tense with concern.
"Honestly, ma'am, I won't know until I see my leg."
Esther handed him the prosthetic limb. He looked it over, anxiously jiggling a ball joint that served as an ankle. Finally, he nodded, visibly relieved.
"It's okay."
"But are you okay?" I asked.
"Thanks to you, Ms. Cosi, I'm fine, just a little banged up. I'm sure I'll have plenty of purple bruises in the morning, but nothing more serious. I didn't realize that car was coming until you warned me."
"The driver must have been drunk," Esther said.
"Or homicidal," I said, "because it looked to me like that driver was intentionally trying to hit Ryan." I took a breath because my heart was still hammering. "When I saw you out there on the ground, I thought . . ."
"You thought I lost my real leg?" Ryan finished for me. "Don't worry about it. I mean it's rare, but it's not unprecedented. The same thing happened last summer."
"Another car hit you?"
"No, nothing like that. I was an umpire at a Broadway Cares softball game in Central Park when a dancer from The Lion King tried to steal home. He slid right into me and bam! My leg got knocked off."
"Wow," Esther said. "Even on the Great Lawn, this city is a concrete jungle."
Ryan gave us a weak smile. "He didn't mean to do it, but it was plenty embarrassing. It turned out okay, though. My apparent injury shook up The Lion King players so much they threw the game to our Electric Lady Studios team."
He shrugged. "Anyway, my secret was out. From then on I was Bionic Boy. The Six Thousand Dollar Man."
"Six thousand?" Esther said. "I thought it was six million."
"I'm the bargain-basement version. That's what my prosthesis costs. And it's not like you can get one of these things fixed overnight. I'm really glad it didn't get run over."
"I'm glad you didn't get run over," I said. "That car was headed straight for you, as if the driver wanted to run you down. We need to report this to the police."
"The police? No!" Ryan shook his head. "Really, Ms. Cosi, that's not necessary. The driver probably had a few too many, that's all."
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