A Brew to a Kill Read Online Free PDF

Mostly Frosting cupcake gracing her sugarcoated menu. The paper tiara was (apparently) her cupcake queen crown. How did I know? It literally read
Kupcake Kween
.
     
    This indifferent act of Kaylie’s didn’t last, however. The saccharine monarch turned petulant, snapping her fingers at a member of her haughty staff.
     
    A wiry Asian kid with a pink paper hat and Chinese dragon tattoo snaking around his leanly muscled arm glared at me and threw a switch. The jingle ended, bringing down silence like a heavy curtain.
     
    “Can I help you?” Kaylie asked, her pistachio eyes gleaming with superiority. “Perhaps you’d like to sample our new espresso cupcake? We use the very
finest
coffee beans, roasted by Jerry Wang at the Gotham Beanery.”
     
    “This parking space is reserved. Move your truck.”
     
    Touching a plastic gloved finger to her dimpled chin, she playacted consideration of my demand. “
Nah
. I don’t think so. Not when I have
sooo
many customers. Next!” she called to the man behind me.
     
    “No.” I said, straight-arming him back. “It’s quitting time, Kaylie. I want you and your truck gone. Now.”
     
    Before she could answer, a familiar honk startled us all—and I was very glad to hear it.
     
    The Muffin Muse had rolled home. The Blend’s boxy food truck was trying to pull into its reserved parking place beside our sidewalk tables, the spot Kaylie had usurped.
     
    From behind the wheel of the diesel-fueled bus, Dante Silva frowned. The shaved-headed, tattooed-armed, fine-art painter was one of the nicest guys you could ever meet—and the
crema
on his espressos was just as sweet as his disposition (as every swooning college coed in the neighborhood could tell you).
     
    Next to Dante sat my Rubenesque goth girl Esther Best (shortened by her grandfather from Bestovasky). A locally renowned slam poetess, Esther was an NYU grad student whose latte art skills were close to national competitive level. I’d promoted her to second assistant manager (partly on the principle that she drew legions of fans to our shop), and she’d proven herself with hard work and bright ideas. More offbeat than Dante, she was far less sweet—a hitch in character that often proved an asset in New York retail.
     
    As horns blared on the wide lanes of Hudson Street, Esther shook a fist. “Get out of our spot!”
     
    Kaylie calmly examined her fingernails. “They’re blocking the intersection. That’s very dangerous. You’d better tell your people to move along.”
     
    Okay, I’m done.
     
    “Listen up, Crimini, unless you want a Three Little Piggiesthousand-dollar repeat-offender summons for playing your jingle while stationary, you’d better move along. Pronto!”
     
    “Don’t threaten me—”
     
    “I don’t have to threaten,” I said, leaning into the precious, rainbow-framed window. “I have a shop full of witnesses to your stupid, childish,
repeated
stunts…”
     
    As one of New York’s five thousand food-truck vendors, I had received the same consumer affairs paperwork that she had about EPA codes. “So be warned,” I said. “The next time I see you in front of my store, I’m not calling 311; I’m walking straight up to the officers of the Sixth Precinct and demanding they send a city tow to confiscate your sorry showboat for
multiple
noise violations.”
     
    “You tell her, boss!” Hands on her ample hips, Esther was now standing behind me, providing useful backup (mostly by herding sidewalk customers into our shop).
     
    “Stick it in your demitasse, Cosi,” Kaylie shot back. “If your stupid old coffeehouse can’t take the heat, then maybe
you’d
better get off the street.” The woman’s insufferable smirk returned. “See? Your chubby goth barista isn’t the only one who can rhyme. So why don’t you leave, before you make my customers heave?”
     
    I was about to answer back, but Esther stopped me.
     
    “I got this,” she said, stepping forward. (I almost felt