By Cleo Coyle
The nationwide bestselling writer brews up one other mystery-and this time, it truly is New York's Bravest that get burned After neighborhood firefighters pull Clare out of a blazing caf?, she fortunately involves their rescue by means of educating them the finer issues of working their newly donated coffee laptop. yet issues particularly warmth up whilst someone is torching cafes round the urban and firefighters start to die in suspicious ways... Believing the 2 occasions are comparable, Clare investigates, staking out a five-borough bake sale and sniffing out clues within the pizza ovens of Brooklyn. whilst her detective boyfriend, Mike Quinn, is pulled into the hearth of a fake accusation, Clare is desirous to placed out the flames. yet will she have the capacity to come to Mike's rescue ahead of somebody attempts to extinguish her?
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Additional resources for Roast Mortem (Coffee House Mystery)
Example text
A scowling man barreled toward us, gesturing wildly. ” I said. ” Stone black eyes under tight curls the color of Sicilian licorice; a slate gray leisure suit (sans tie) over incongruous white tube socks. I couldn’t place the guy’s accent, but that was no surprise. While this area used to be primarily Greek and Italian, more recent arrivals included Brazilians, Bosnians, and natives of Egypt, Yemen, and Morocco. The guy stopped right in front of us, hands outstretched to keep us from moving down the sidewalk.
At 9:25 PM, the caffè would be closed, the old Italian off playing bocce in the park. No one would be in the building. No one would be hurt. Unless something goes wrong . . That prick of a thought had vexed the Arsonist multiple times. This would be the last. After all, thought the Arsonist, it’s out of my hands now. The schedule was set for me, and I held up my end. Tonight Caffè Lucia will burn. If people get in the way, it’s their own stupid fault. ” “Go,” I told Esther. “We’ll be okay . ” At least I hoped we would.
Oat Crowley shrugged. “I’m going to Lake George in June, Cap. ” The man behind me chuckled and I finally glanced over my shoulder. One look at his face confirmed what I’d suspected: the captain and I had met before. In the reflected shadows of the nighttime inferno, his fair complexion had an almost burnt orange cast. Legs braced, one balled hand propped on a hip, Michael Quinn stood like a municipal tower, a full head taller than his lieutenant and most of the men under his command. His substantial chin sported a prominent cleft, and above his upper lip he wore a trimmed handlebar right out of nineteenth-century New York (or a Lonesome Dove casting call).