By Cleo Coyle
Company is booming at Clare Cosi's Village mix, till her lady buyers begin to die. Lieutenant Quinn is confident that somebody has an awl to grind, and, regrettably, his leading suspect is the recent guy in Clare's existence. Now Clare will hazard her heart--and her life--to stick to the killer's path to the sour finish.
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Extra info for Through the Grinder (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 2)
I’d set the antique Chippendale table with care, using the handmade lace cloth Madame had purchased in Florence and the candleholders of blown Venetian glass. Before Quinn arrived, I’d lit the candles and lowered the chandelier’s wattage, so the flickering glow of candlelight would reflect itself in the polished wood sideboard and bring a feeling of warmth to the room. Earlier in the day, Quinn had offered to take me out to a nearby restaurant, but I told him it was a better idea for me to cook dinner for him at my place.
And on other men. For a moment, the Genius had trouble breathing. “One push. Timed just right . ” Then the Slut continued her journey, hiking north and east, to Fourteenth and Broadway, where a wide public area of grass, tress, and benches formed Union Square Park. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays, the wide con- crete border to the west of the park was reserved for me- tered parking. On Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, however, cars were banned and an open-air farmer’s market appeared.
When did you know it was time to . . ” “Whoa . ” This was a little more than I’d expected to deal with tonight.