"Coyle's Coffeehouse books are superb" ( Library Journal ), and now the New York Times bestselling author of MURDER BY MOCHA serves up a hot new Coffeehouse Mystery with A BREW TO A KILL.  Coffee. It can get a girl killed.   A shocking hit-and-run in front of her Village Blend coffeehouse spurs Clare Cosi into action. A divorced, single mom in her forties, Clare is also a dedicated sleuth, and she's determined to track down this ruthless driver who ran down an innocent friend and customer. In the meantime, her ex-husband Matt, the shop's globetrotting coffee buyer, sources some amazing new beans from Brazil. But he soon discovers that he's importing more than coffee, and Clare may have been the real target of that deadly driver. Can ex-husband and wife work together to solve this mystery--or will their newest brew lead to murder? Includes recipes. "Coyle is not sitting back with the 11th entry (after Murder by Mocha ) in her popular series.  She has taken the coffeehouse on the road, cleverly incorporating the food truck fad and introducing fresh new characters.  Newcomers to the series can easily pick up the storyline.  A collection of astonishingly varied and drool-inducing recipes is included." -- Library Journal "A foodie’s delight, packed with information on coffee and desserts, along with appended recipes and a satisfyingly rich mystery."— Kirkus Reviews "Fans of the Coffee House series will savor another serving of Clare’s pluck as she deals with her ex-husband, her imperious ex-mother-in-law, and her current beau, a police officer." -- Booklist "Coyle... lavishly details an ethnically diverse New York City in her lively 11th coffeehouse mystery featuring Clare Cosi."— Publishers Weekly “Coyle’s Coffeehouse books are superb.” --Library Journal (starred review)  "Clare and company are some of the most vibrant characters I've ever read." --Mystery Scene Magazine  "What a pleasure to read a book by this author." --Portland Book Review Cleo Coyle is a pseudonym for Alice Alfonsi, writing in collaboration with her husband, Marc Cerasini. With more than one million books sold, Alice and Marc are New York Times bestselling authors of the Coffeehouse Mysteries--now celebrating twenty years in print, three starred reviews, a Mystery Pick of the Month by Library Journal, and multiple Best of Year list honors by reviewers. They also write the nationally bestselling Haunted Bookshop Mysteries, originally released under the pen name Alice Kimberly. Alice and Marc write independently and together and are also bestselling media tie-in writers who have penned properties for Lucasfilm, NBC, Fox, Disney, Imagine, Toho, and MGM. They live and work in New York City. Connect with Cleo at CoffeehouseMystery.com Chapter 1 This seems to be the basic need of the human heart in nearly every great crisis—a good hot cup of coffee. —Alexander King, I Should Have Kissed Her More “In times like these, Clare, failing to take a risk is the biggest risk of all.” Across the café table’s cool marble surface, Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois pinned me with her near-violet eyes. “Don’t you agree?” Of course, I agree . I wanted to shout this, scream it. Risk and I were old friends, and if anyone knew that, my octogenarian employer did. “Investing in the new coffee truck was my idea,” I reminded her between robust hits of espresso. “I know it’s a smart idea.” “Good. Now all you must do is convince him.” Him was Mateo Allegro—due to arrive within the hour. An international coffee broker, Matt was the Village Blend’s coffee buyer, Madame’s only child, my ex-husband, and the father of my pride named Joy. “Like I told you, I tried to convince him . . .” (Half a dozen e-mails worth of “try” to be precise. When text didn’t work, I placed calls overseas. Lengthy calls. Enriching AT&T hadn’t helped, either.) “The man doesn’t listen, and he’s still in a state.” Beneath the mauve silk of her mandarin jacket, Madame’s narrow shoulders gave a little shrug. “What can I say? He’s his father’s son. All that passion, all that intensity, all that tenacity—” “Tenacity?” I knocked on the coral-colored tabletop. “Matt’s head could break this.” “I wouldn’t count on it, dear. For one thing, that’s Italian marble. Very old Italian marble. Old things tend to be stronger than you think.” Sitting back in my café chair, I ran my hands along the thighs of my blue jeans and attempted to fill my lungs with a healthy dose of equilibrium. It wasn’t easy. The sun may have set, but our coffeehouse commerce was far from winding down. A line of caffeine-deprived customers hugged the espresso bar; and beyond our wall of wide-open French doors, laughing latte lovers still packed our sidewalk tables. The city was enjoying one of those glorious stretches of early summer weather, before the high humidity hits, when afternoons are sunny and clear, and nights are pleasantly temperate. Madame and I were perched between the two—the warmth of