Brewed Awakening

Praise for Brewed Awakening by Cleo Coyle

“Told from multiple points of view, this sometimes poignant page-turner satisfies with plot twists, humor, and nicely rounded characters.”—Booklist 
 
“Engrossing…Amid the delightfully twisty mystery, Coyle (the husband-and-wife team of Alice Alfonsi and Marc Cerasini) poses an intriguing question: if you lost all memory of your beloved, would you fall for him all over again?” —Publishers Weekly
 
Praise for the Coffeehouse Mysteries 

"A gripping and entertaining mystery"—*Library Journal (Starred Review)

• "Sure to delight"—Publishers Weekly   

  “Clare and company are some of the most vibrant characters I’ve ever read.”—*Mystery Scene

•  “Fun and gripping.”—The Huffington Post  

  “A delicious mystery!”—Woman’s World 

  “Cleo Coyle is by far one of the best…” –*Fresh Fiction

• “Mix[es] clever and intricate plots with a regular cast of characters who become more enjoyable with every episode.”—Booklist 

Autorentext

Cleo Coyle

Klappentext

From Cleo Coyle, the New York Times bestselling author of Dead Cold Brew, comes a delicious new entry in the "fun and gripping" (The Huffington Post) Coffeehouse Mysteries.

When coffeehouse manager Clare Cosi awakens on a bench in Washington Square Park, she has no idea she has been missing for the past week, or that her friends and family have been frantic with worry. Now that she is back, everyone is overjoyed, including a handsome NYPD detective who claims to be her fiancé. But to Mike Quinn's crushing distress, Clare does not remember him-or much of anything about the last decade of her life.

Clare's missing memory is tied to a crime she witnessed. An acquaintance of Clare's elegant employer-and fellow member of an exclusive Gotham circle known as "The Ladies Who Brunch"-invited Clare to her posh hotel to sample gourmet wedding cakes. The pair took a stroll after their indulgent tasting and, according to security camera footage, a masked figure snatched the hotel heiress at gunpoint with Clare looking on. Did the kidnapper take Clare, too? The camera went dark, just like Clare's memory. Soon authorities grow suspicious. Is Clare really a victim? Or merely acting like one? Evidence is mounting that she set up the woman.

To clear her name, Clare must find a way to reclaim her memories and rescue the heiress before this high-stakes crime ends in tragedy. Otherwise, instead of walking down the aisle, Clare may find herself perp-walking to prison as an accomplice to kidnapping and murder.

Series Overview: Coffeehouse manager and master roaster Clare Cosi brews the perfect cup of joe and sniffs out criminals from her New York coffeehouse, the Village Blend, in this long-running New York Times bestselling series.

Zusammenfassung
From Cleo Coyle, the New York Times bestselling author of Dead Cold Brew, comes a delicious new entry in the “fun and gripping” (Huffington Post) Coffeehouse Mysteries.

When coffeehouse manager Clare Cosi awakens on a bench in Washington Square Park, she has no idea she's been missing for the past week, or that her friends and family have been frantic with worry. Now that she's back, everyone is overjoyed, including a handsome NYPD detective who claims to be her fiancé. But to Mike Quinn's crushing distress, Clare doesn't remember him, or much of anything about the last decade of her life.

Clare's missing memory is tied to a crime she witnessed. An acquaintance of Clare's elegant employer—and fellow member of an exclusive Gotham circle known as “The Ladies Who Brunch”—invited Clare to her posh hotel to sample gourmet wedding cakes. The pair took a stroll after their indulgent tasting and, according to security camera footage, a masked figure snatched the hotel heiress at gunpoint with Clare looking on. Did the kidnapper take Clare, too? The camera went dark, just like Clare's memory. Soon authorities grow suspicious. Is Clare really a victim? Or merely acting like one? Evidence is mounting that she set the woman up.

To clear her name, Clare must find a way to reclaim her memories and rescue the heiress before this high-stakes crime ends in tragedy. Otherwise, instead of walking down the aisle, Clare may find herself perp-walking to prison as an accomplice to kidnapping and murder.

Leseprobe
One
I like coffee because it gives me the illusion that I might be awake.

-Lewis Black

Two months later

I awoke in darkness, curled in a shivering ball. I'd been a restless sleeper since my divorce, and I assumed I'd kicked off the blankets. So why was something still covering my face? Heavy and stiff, it was definitely not my well-worn J.C. Penney comfort quilt.

A blaring horn and a string of angry expletives sat me up fast. A coat fell away from my face, and I blinked against a misty-morning sun peeking through naked branches.

Feeling dizzy, I rubbed my eyes before deciding-

This is no dream. This is real.

I tried to rise but my joints were stiff. My right arm was so numb that I had to shake it out. More troubling was the fact that somehow-and I could not for the life of me remember how-I wasn't in my nice warm bed in my cozy little bedroom in New Jersey. I was sprawled across a hard, cold bench in a public park, close enough to the street for me to hear a cabby cursing out the driver in front of him, which sounded an awful lot like Manhattan.

My suspicion was confirmed when I spied the towering arch of white marble that marked the start of Fifth Avenue.

I'm in Washington Square Park.

The triumphal arch gave me a triumphant rush of relief. I knew where I was-Greenwich Village, but . . .

"How in heaven's name did I get here?"

My baffled whisper emerged as a cloud of vapor.

Still shivering, I donned the coat that covered me. It fit perfectly, though it wasn't mine. I went through its pockets for a clue to its owner but found no ID or personal items, beyond a single right-hand glove. Its mate was missing.

The tan leather had a red-brown stain on the palm, about the size of a shot glass rim. Blood. I knew because I'd seen enough of it dried on clothing from scuffed knees and elbows after Joy's soccer matches.

I was tempted to start spit-scrubbing the stain but instead tucked the glove back in the pocket.

Rising to my feet, I felt wobbly and blamed the unsteadiness on my footwear. There was a theme here, because the high-end, high-heeled boots weren't mine, either-ditto for the cashmere sweater set and tailored slacks. If I hadn't been in public, I would have checked to see if I recognized my underwear!

Did I go on some wild shopping spree with my Jersey friends? If I did, where are they now? And why is it I don't remember? Cupping my hands, I blew warm breath into them and took a sniff. I detected no scent of alcohol. Okay, so I didn't get tipsy and have a blackout.

I sat back down on the cold bench to orient myself. While I retied my deconstructing ponytail, I realized my purse was nowhere in sight. I dug through every pocket, pants first and coat again. No wallet. No house keys. No car keys. All were gone.

I felt panic rising.

Okay, Clare, pull it together. You'll figure out what happened, but right now you've got to get home to your little girl.

With no watch on my wrist, I called out to a young man who was cutting through the park.

"Could you tell me the time, please?"

"Sure." He pulled an odd device from the pocket of his NYU hoodie. "It's six fifty-five, ma'…