Honey Roasted

Informationen zum Autor Cleo Coyle Klappentext Clare Cosi is as busy as a bee planning her honeymoon when murder buzzes into the Village Blend in this all-new mystery in the beloved New York Times bestselling Coffeehouse series by Cleo Coyle. While struggling to find a romantic (and affordable) destination for her upcoming honeymoon, coffeehouse manager Clare Cosi whips up a delicious nectar made from honey-processed coffee. Clare plans to serve the brand-new Honey-Cinnamon Latte at her spring wedding to her longtime honey, NYPD detective Mike Quinn. The culinary world is also abuzz about the amazing honey that Clare was lucky enough to source for her shop's new latte. Produced by Madame's old friend "Queen" Bea Hastings, the rare, prize-winning nectar from Bea's rooftop hives commands a premium price, and top chefs compete for a chance to use it in their signature seasonal dishes. One night, a swarm of escaped bees blanket the Village Blend's chimney, and Clare discovers Bea's unconscious body after she seemingly fell from her high-rise rooftop-hive setup. The police want to rule it a tragic accident or possible attempted suicide, but Clare does not believe either theory. Like Madame, she knows this Queen would never abandon her hive. To solve the mystery, Clare investigates a world of cutthroat chefs, culinary start-ups, and competitive urban beekeepers. But can she uncover the truth without getting stung? Leseprobe One "Well, what do we have here?" Matt Allegro spied the colorful brochures I'd been frowning over. Before I could stop my ex-husband, he snatched the bundle off the café table. "Honeymoon destinations?" He flipped through the glossy pile. "So, you and the flatfoot have finally agreed on a getaway? It looks like more than the birds and bees will be busy next spring." "Very funny, Allegro. Now give them back." Instead, Matt shook his shaggy dark head and grinned, white teeth gleaming behind his bush of a beard, crow's-feet crinkling in his deeply tanned skin-a rugged shade acquired not in a Manhattan tanning booth but under the tropical sun of a Costa Rican finca, where he'd also obtained an outstanding microlot of honey-processed arabica beans. For that alone, I should have forgiven him, but I wasn't in the mood. With a quick swipe, I tried to reclaim my happy-honeymoon dream, but Matt pulled the pamphlets out of reach and skidded away, ducking behind one of the overstuffed easy chairs in our second-floor lounge. Straightening my Village Blend apron, I strode across the room, and stuck my hand out. Matt viewed my open palm with amusement. "What will you trade for them?" "How about three insults and an elbow to the ribs?" He tapped his foot. "I'm waiting." "Hmm . . ." Pretending to think it over, I studied the embossed design in our antique tin ceiling. Then I made my move. With a sudden lunge, I attempted to reach around his hard body, but his annoyingly muscular arm easily blocked me, and he was off again. Okay, it's on! As I chased my ex-husband and lunatic business partner around café tables, standing lamps, and intentionally mismatched bohemian living room furniture, my baristas scattered. So much for our after-hours staff meeting. For a moment, a rush of nostalgia swept me back two decades: Matt and me in our twenties, happily racing our toddler daughter around this same Village Blend lounge. But Joy was all grown-up now and (allegedly) so was Matt. I attempted a second grab, my chestnut ponytail bobbing, but once again my slippery ex slipped out of reach. He made a show of flipping through the brochures. "Aruba, Bermuda, Bahamas. What is this, a Beach Boys song?" "It's none of your business, that's what it is." Abandoning pursuit, I placed my hands on my hips and produced my sternest stare. I should have known better. Not even Joy fell for...

Auteur

Cleo Coyle is a pseudonym for Alice Alfonsi, writing in collaboration with her husband, Marc Cerasini. Both are New York Times bestselling authors of the Coffeehouse Mysteries. Alice and Marc are also bestselling media tie-in writers who have penned properties for Lucasfilm, NBC, Fox, Disney, Imagine, and MGM.

Texte du rabat

Clare Cosi is as busy as a bee planning her honeymoon when murder buzzes into the Village Blend in this all-new mystery in the beloved New York Times bestselling Coffeehouse series by Cleo Coyle.

While struggling to find a romantic (and affordable) destination for her upcoming honeymoon, coffeehouse manager Clare Cosi whips up a delicious nectar made from honey-processed coffee. Clare plans to serve the brand-new Honey-Cinnamon Latte at her spring wedding to her longtime honey, NYPD detective Mike Quinn. The culinary world is also abuzz about the amazing honey that Clare was lucky enough to source for her shop's new latte. Produced by Madame's old friend "Queen" Bea Hastings, the rare, prize-winning nectar from Bea's rooftop hives commands a premium price, and top chefs compete for a chance to use it in their signature seasonal dishes.

One night, a swarm of escaped bees blanket the Village Blend's chimney, and Clare discovers Bea's unconscious body after she seemingly fell from her high-rise rooftop-hive setup. The police want to rule it a tragic accident or possible attempted suicide, but Clare does not believe either theory. Like Madame, she knows this Queen would never abandon her hive. To solve the mystery, Clare investigates a world of cutthroat chefs, culinary start-ups, and competitive urban beekeepers. But can she uncover the truth without getting stung?

Échantillon de lecture

One

"Well, what do we have here?"

 Matt Allegro spied the colorful brochures I'd been frowning over. Before I could stop my ex-husband, he snatched the bundle off the café table.

"Honeymoon destinations?" He flipped through the glossy pile. "So, you and the flatfoot have finally agreed on a getaway? It looks like more than the birds and bees will be busy next spring."

"Very funny, Allegro. Now give them back."

Instead, Matt shook his shaggy dark head and grinned, white teeth gleaming behind his bush of a beard, crow's-feet crinkling in his deeply tanned skin-a rugged shade acquired not in a Manhattan tanning booth but under the tropical sun of a Costa Rican finca, where he'd also obtained an outstanding microlot of honey-processed arabica beans. For that alone, I should have forgiven him, but I wasn't in the mood.

With a quick swipe, I tried to reclaim my happy-honeymoon dream, but Matt pulled the pamphlets out of reach and skidded away, ducking behind one of the overstuffed easy chairs in our second-floor lounge.

Straightening my Village Blend apron, I strode across the room, and stuck my hand out.

Matt viewed my open palm with amusement. "What will you trade for them?"

"How about three insults and an elbow to the ribs?"

He tapped his foot. "I'm waiting."

"Hmm . . ." Pretending to think it over, I studied the embossed design in our antique tin ceiling. Then I made my move. With a sudden lunge, I attempted to reach around his hard body, but his annoyingly muscular arm easily blocked me, and he was off again.

Okay, it's on!

As I chased my ex-husband and lunatic business partner around café tables, standing lamps, and intentionally mismatched bohemian living room furniture, my baristas scattered. So much for our after-hours staff meeting.

For a moment, a rush of nostalgia swept me back two decades: Matt and me in our twenties, happily racing our toddler daughter around this same Village Blend lounge.

But Joy was all grown-up now and (allegedly) so was Matt.

I attempted a second grab, my chestnut ponytail bobbing, but once again my slippery ex slipped out of reach. He made a show of flipping through the brochures.

"Aruba, Bermuda, Bahamas. What is this, a Beach Boys song?"

"It's none of your business, that's what it is." Abandoning pursuit, I placed my …