Fresh Pick - Fresh Fiction  Top Pick - RT Book Reviews A Best Books of the Year Pick - Kings River Life Magazine From Cleo Coyle, the  New York Times  bestselling author of  Billionaire Blend , comes an enchanting new entry in the "satisfyingly rich"* Coffeehouse Mystery series. (*Kirkus)   Includes wicked good recipes.  When coffeehouse manager turned amateur sleuth Clare Cosi serves "magic" beans for a Fairy Tale Fall event, she brews up a vision that leads to a sleeping beauty in Central Park; a big, bad wolf of Wall Street; and an East Side enclave with storybook secrets... Fairy tale fever has descended on New York City. Broadway fans are flocking to  Red Riding Hood: The Musical ; museums are exhibiting art inspired by the Brothers Grimm; and Clare Cosi and her merry band of baristas give their coffee truck a "Jack and the Beanstalk" makeover for a Central Park festival. Clare's coffee hunter ex-husband contributes a bag of African beans with alleged magical properties. His octogenarian mother entertains customers with readings of the grinds, but Clare remains skeptical--until she receives a vision that helps her find a young model's body in the park's woods. The police dismiss "sleeping beauty" as the victim of a drug overdose. Then Clare uncovers evidence that points to a list of suspects--from a New York Giant to quite a few wicked witches--and a cold case murder that reaches back to the Cold War. Now Clare is really in the woods with a dangerous predator on her heels and an investigation that leads from a secret Prince Charming Club right back to her own NYPD detective boyfriend. If she doesn't solve this mystery, those magic beans predict an unhappy ending. “[An] amusing combination of caffeine and chaos.”— Publishers Weekly “This series continues to mix clever and intricate plots with a regular cast of characters who become more enjoyable with every episode.”— Booklist 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 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS —Cleo Coyle, New York City PROLOGUE Turn back, turn back, young maiden fair. Linger not in the murderers’ lair . . . —THE BROTHERS GRIMM, THE ROBBER BRIDEGROOM IN the fading light of the dying day, the Princess glided along the tree-lined path, gossamer gown sparkling as if sprinkled with fairy dust. When she reached the Oak Bridge, she stopped. “This way . . .” the Predator called. The Princess studied the shadows. Little white teeth gnawed at pink fingernails. Finally, she stepped off the path, onto uncertain ground. She had agreed to this meeting in the Ramble, the oldest section of Central Park. There were towering trees here and menacing boulders; cloudy streams and historic bridges. Most of all, there were thirty-eight acres of landscape magic—rustic paths that made an entire city disappear. “Did you . . . did you make decision?” the Princess asked, her sweet voice betraying her Russian accent. Forcing a smile, the Predator began a practiced speech, telling the girl everything she hoped to hear. “Thank you,” the Princess replied, eyes filling with grateful tears. With a hard yank, she broke the valuable chain around her neck. A golden key dangled at the end of it. She held it out to the Predator. “Now that deal is off, please take back.” The Predator frowned. “I can’t take your key, Anya.” “But you said I was free.” “From me,” the Predator lied. “The rest is not my business.” Anya hesitated. Then she nodded and turned to go, content in the belief that at least the deal between them was dead. Not exactly, the Predator thought. “Anya, stop! Don’t move.” The Princess froze. “What is problem?” “Your gown is caught on a branch. Another step will ruin it.” “Gown is special,” the Princess wailed. “I was told to take care!” “Don’t worry. I’ll free it.” Squatting in the dirt, the Predator pretended to fuss with the expensive fabric. “Princess Pink” is what they called it—more like bubble-headed bubble gum, the Predator thought, for it wasn’t the dress that was caught, but the girl who wore it. “You are so kind to help,” the Princess said. “Almost done,” the Predator promised, getting the needle ready. Leaning closer, the Predator whiffed the girl’s scent. She even smelled like all the others, the cloying perfume of eager sheep . . . “Ouch!”