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Given the level of society to which Madame’s late second husband (a French importer) had elevated her, not to mention her Fifth Avenue address, even I sometimes failed to remember that the doyenne of polite society was no cream-filled profiterole. The woman had come to this country as a motherless, penniless refugee. Not long after, she’d found herself alone, a widow in her prime, with a boy to raise and a coffeehouse to run—no mean feat in a city that challenged its shop owners with difficult regulations, sky-high overhead, and a demanding (and occasionally dangerous) customer base.

As always, I thank my husband, Marc, who is my partner in writing not only this Coffeehouse Mystery series but also our Haunted Bookshop Mystery series. ) Last but far from least, a heartfelt thank you to our friends and family for their support as well as to our literary agent John Talbot, a premium professional and a darn good joe. com Where coffee and crime are always brewing. Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell. —Joan Crawford PROLOGUE COLD here in the alley, but things will get hotter soon .

Tucker Burton, my lanky, floppy-haired assistant manager, had arrived on time for his shift and was just tying on his Village Blend apron. A part-time actor-playwright and occasional cabaret director, Tuck loved being a barista in the Italian tradition, which (like a good bartender) had as much to do with convivial customer interaction as it did with temperature and pressure. ” Tuck pointed to Esther. “And why can’t our resident slam poetess stay and work another hour until he shows? ” Esther’s wine-dark fingertips went to her Botticelli waist.