A Trifle Dead: Cafe La Femme, Book 1 (7 page)

I gave Kinky Boots his dinner, and lay on the couch with my eyes closed. What I should do was climb up the stairs to my room and commune with my doona for a good ten hours or so. What I wanted to do instead was put on a cute frock, spray something colourful in my ponytail and run down to the Salamanca courtyard to spend hours and hours around people and music and vodka shots.

As if I could work up the energy. Geez, I really must be getting old.

I wasn’t feeling up to the usual gossip and dancing. Not because my feet hurt like four kinds of hell—they always did on a Friday night, and that had never stopped me before. I’d known Stewart McTavish for two days, and I’d left him in my café with a door key and a drawer full of pencils. It niggled at me.

Ceege’s computer loomed from the corner. The benefits of having a gamer for a housemate is that he pays the broadband bill. It was rare to see the computer without my pet engineering student attached to it like a limpet.

And Google
is
a girl’s best friend.

I hated myself for giving in to Bishop’s paranoia, but hey. Who doesn’t screen new friends these days?

I swung myself out of the comfy couch, swatted a stack of
Doctor Who
novels out of Ceege’s office chair, and got online.

Two hours later, I was still reading.

T
he absolute suckiest
thing about running a café is working on a Saturday. I can’t avoid it. Sundays, the town centre is legitimately dead, and that’s the one thing that makes me glad Darrow didn’t set me up in Salamanca, or the espresso strip of North Hobart. My weekly sleep-in is sacred.

But everyone shops in the centre of town on Saturdays, and they need their foamy Fair Trade vanilla mugaccinos, oh yes they do.

So every Saturday, from
5am
when I get up,
6am
when I start the day’s prep to
8am
when I open the doors, I hate everybody. I think that’s legitimate.

Today I hated everybody slightly less than usual—I had spent a ridiculous number of hours in Ceege’s precarious office chair before crawling to bed with Kinky Boots and a trashy novel, but at least I hadn’t been downing over-priced cocktails until after midnight. I hadn’t had to rinse purple glitter spray out of my hair, and I was able to do that complicated braid that kept my hair out of the side salads on the very first try.

I got to the café fifteen minutes early, and Nin had still managed to beat me to the kitchen. ‘How do you do that?’ I complained.

She shrugged and smiled a little, her hands busy with what could only be her chocolate scone recipe.

There is no universe in which chocolate scones should work, but—well, Nin has her own universe, and sometimes she lets others visit. ‘Mm,’ I said happily. ‘Chocolate scone days are always good days.’

‘You gave your Scotsman a key, then,’ said Nin, breaking her cardinal rule by speaking before ten in the morning.

‘How did you know about that? Did he steal the furniture?’

Nin had a definite smirk on her face. ‘Go look at your wall.’

I went out to the café, switching on the lights as I went. It wasn’t the brightest of days outside—it looked like we were in for winter a month or two early this year. Climate change has a particularly menacing sense of humour when it comes to Hobart.

I’d seen some of Stewart’s artwork as part of my Friday night Googlefest. There was a mural at a high school in a Melbourne suburb, and a couple of graffiti-style pieces in Dundee and Glasgow from his teen years. There was a web-comic from a couple of years ago that cracked me up with its surreal characters and offbeat sense of humour—displaying much better writing skills than his
Sandstone City
‘journalism’.

But then, there was this.

It’s a total cliché to have a café mural that depicts people in a café. You know the sort of thing—cartoony umbrellas and stick-thin girls sipping coffees in Paris haircuts. Blank, static faces.

This wasn’t anything like that.

This was a glorious, giant sketch of overturned tables and damned cheek. My favourite poster girls and boys were squabbling for room at the central table, the only one still on its feet. Wonder Woman was arm-wrestling with Holly Golightly. Sean Connery as James Bond was slipping something into Ursula Andress’s drink, while making eyes at Barbara Windsor. Doris Day rolled her eyes at them all as she texted a friend. Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra flipped through an authentic 1965 issue of
Vogue
. Steed and Mrs Peel snogged in the corner.

Hobart was there too, in the background. The bright water, cloudy skies, the looming mountain, the little patchwork suburbs and winding streets. The shiny metal office buildings jammed up against colonial architecture.

‘It’s like he can see right inside your shallow but stylish soul,’ remarked Nin, as she came through the kitchen doors to join me.

‘Ssh, don’t talk. I’m bonding with my wall.’ The artwork was all still in outline, though there was a promising splash of candy pink across Cleopatra’s frock. I couldn’t wait to see what it would look like when fully painted. ‘This wall,’ I said finally, ‘is made of pure awesome.’

‘Also, he locked up properly,’ said Nin. ‘The boy’s a keeper.’

E
ven Senior Constable Bishop
couldn’t spoil my mood on a day like this. Not that he didn’t try.

Before the late morning shopping crowd reached fever pitch, I took a basket of chocolate scones up to Crash Velvet, along with their regular order. kCeera was so happy to see a baked good that wasn’t blue, she dragged me in to drink a wheatgrass concoction with her.

‘
Sandstone City
is
fantastic
,’ kCeera said through her second scone. ‘We’ve been trying for years to get the newspapers to give us some publicity, but can they be bothered? They didn’t even get the name of the band right when they reported the murder. Bloggers care about the details.’

‘I thought the police weren’t calling it a murder,’ I said carefully.

‘Well, they say suspicious death,’ she admitted. ‘But, you know what I mean. Hey—guess what? That blue muffin thing is totally paying off.’

I blinked. ‘You are kidding me.’

‘I’m not. Since Stewart’s post went up, our YouTube hits went through the roof. Facebook too. Someone even set up a Tumblr for fans to speculate about recipes. Check it out.’ kCeera opened one of her kitchen cupboards to reveal two shelves stacked deep with watermelons. ‘I’ve been sending Owen out to get one of these from the local grocer’s every morning. Do you reckon Stewart would do another post about our eating habits?’

‘Depends how desperate he is. You can try.’ I eyed the watermelons. Mmmm, watermelon slushies. ‘I could take some of these off your hands for the café? Smuggle them out secretly. Not that I want to deprive you…’

‘Oh, please. Take, have.’

I picked a couple out happily. ‘I’ll give you a discount on your next month of muffins. Watermelon is a valid currency around here. Heard about your stolen gear?’

kCeera looked a little uncomfortable at that. ‘Nah. The police can’t be stuffed with that, they’re all distracted with the dead bloke business. Owen and the others are off with our PR manager today, going through the op shops to see if any of it turned up. We’re playing a glam party tomorrow night, and we’re going to look pretty stupid without our costumes.’

‘Maybe it’s time for a new look.’

‘Yeah,’ kCeera said, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘Hey.’ She pulled a stack of folded papers from her back pocket. ‘Do you want one? It’s a flyer listing all the missing items. If you come across any of them, we’ve got a reward posted.’

I eyed the list. ‘Well, if anyone is likely to happen across a lace crinoline or a set of hand-forged handcuff accessories with foot-long spikes in their day-to-day life, it probably would be me.’

I was going to ask more about their PR manager, and maybe get in a question or two about whether any of the band had been acquainted with Julian Morris, but there was an official-sounding knock on the door of the flat, and I guessed before kCeera opened it that it was Bishop. I have a sixth sense that is entirely devoted to cranky police officers.

‘I’d like to ask you some more questions,’ he said in a tight voice. ‘But if you don’t mind, I’ll have a few words with Ms Darling first.
Outside
!’

T
he second that
the door closed behind us, Bishop was yelling at me. ‘Are you interfering in my investigation again?’

‘Not again, not ever. No!’ I headed down the stairs with my arms full of watermelons, making him damn well follow me if he wanted to rant face to face.

He did, stomping with those long legs of his. ‘So what were you doing up there?’

‘Being neighbourly. Delivering scones. Drinking tea. Being normal. Shit!’ The heel of my cute vintage boot snapped off, and I fell two steps before I hit the
Sandstone City
landing.

Bishop grabbed my arm to steady me. ‘You okay?’

‘No! These boots were a bargain. That’s
worse
than if I’d spent serious money on them.’ I breathed hard, staring at him. ‘I’ll report you for police harassment.’

‘Bully,’ he said.

‘Brat,’ I shot back, and we both laughed at ourselves in the same moment, breaking the tension.

Bishop still hadn’t taken his hand from my arm. ‘Why do I put up with this shit from you, Tish?’

The old nickname made me feel warm this time around, which was ridiculous. I resorted to flirting in order to make him go away. (We’re so messed up.) ‘Because you love me, of course.’

‘In what universe?’

‘All the universes. Look—I’m not trying to screw with your investigation, really. If anything, it’s screwing with me. I hear gossip all the time, and Stewart’s working on the story, and then Claudina asked for my help, well, our help…’

‘Who’s Claudina?’

I glared at him. ‘Remember taking two cute redheads to identify the body? His sister and his flatmate?’

‘Contrary to your belief, I don’t do every piece of police work in this state, or even on this case…’

‘I knew him,’ I blurted out. ‘Julian Morris. We were at college together.’

Bishop stared at me. ‘I didn’t know that. You said you didn’t recognise him—’

‘I didn’t. I only found out who he was afterwards. How is anyone supposed to recognise anyone when they’re dead and hanging in a net? It’s worse than a passport photo.’

He touched my cheek with the flat of his hand. ‘Breathe. It’s okay.’

‘He was my age, Leo. It’s not okay.’ I turned my face into his hand. ‘Claudina doesn’t think Morris was a drug addict.’

‘I think she’s wrong,’ he replied. ‘You’re going to have to trust me on this. I can’t tell you any more than that.’

‘But what if it was murder? What about the Trapper?’

Bishop pulled his hand away at that, face darkening. ‘That bloody stupid name. And that blog—the so-called Trapper was just an urban myth circulating the police station until Kilt Boy got his hands on it. The newspapers have got on to it now, and the TV cameras are circling. Are you still seeing him?’ That last bit came out as something of a bark, and it was a few seconds before I realised he was talking about Stewart.

‘Not exactly seeing…’ Not this morning, anyway. Though I did owe him a great big smooch for the beautiful thing he had done to my wall.

‘Good, stay away from him.’

‘I’m sorry, I saw your lips move just then, but I can’t have actually heard you forbid me to see him? What the hell business is it of yours who my friends are? Stewart’s a good bloke.’

‘Yeah, tell that to Diana Glass,’ Bishop growled. I didn’t manage to conceal my reaction fast enough, and he was on me. ‘You did google him, then.’

I hated him for making me admit it. ‘I happened to be bored.’ Plus, policeman’s daughter. Old habits die hard.

‘So you know what I’m talking about.’

‘I didn’t find anything that made me change my mind about him. He wrote a bitchy article about a stuck up romance novelist. So what?’

‘A series of articles and reviews, and blog entries, and forum comments. He had a vendetta against that woman, like he was out to destroy her. Is that the kind of man you want to spend time with?’

‘I don’t know that I want to be held accountable for everything a stranger could find out about me online. That footage of my top falling off at Becky Sumner’s party is still doing the rounds. There are animated gifs. I was a
meme
.’

He winced at that. ‘I’m just trying to protect you.’

‘Well, stop it. Stop it right now. Even my dad never pulled crap like this, and they don’t make dads more over-protective than him. You have to stop treating me like I’m sixteen and ridiculous.’

‘I don’t think you’re ridiculous.’

‘Well, I don’t need a big brother watching over me.’

‘So what the hell do you want?’ he asked.

‘Work it out,’ I hissed, and made for the second flight of stairs. My uneven heels made me unsteady, though, and Bishop grabbed for me, pulling me back towards him and into him and, oh shit, he was kissing me.

Didn’t see that coming.

So, right. Bishop and kissing. Can’t deny it’s one of those things that I’ve thought from time to time. Since pretty much the first time I dropped Dad’s sandwiches off to him at work, and found him lecturing one of his new recruits about correct evidence procedure. Ten years ago.

And now Bishop’s mouth was hot and wet, and for a moment I let him swallow me whole. I’d always imagined he was far too uptight to do interesting things with his tongue, but there was a hard sweep along my lower lip, and a graze of teeth that just about undid me altogether.

Possibly it was a good thing there were two large watermelons preventing his body from pressing too closely to mine, or I would have been ten seconds away from ravishing him right there on the staircase.

My brain shrieked in protest as I pulled away from the omigod-so-hot-I-could-die-right-now kiss. But what the hell else could I do? ‘Wrong answer,’ I said breathlessly, and limped away as fast as I could on my cute little busted-up boots, back down to my kitchen.

T
he nice thing
about kitchens is they tend not to have unexpectedly passionate police officers cluttering up the place. I took a few deep breaths, set down my melons and flung open my fridge. Where were the vodka mixers when you needed them? I drank half a litre of milk instead, and threw the carton away.

Cooking. Can’t go wrong with cooking. I stared at my oven for some minutes, trying to remember the menu I’d planned for the day.

Quiche. I can make quiche in my sleep, let alone during a major emotional trauma. There was smoked salmon and Virginia ham in the fridge, four kinds of cheese, spinach, olives. Quiche was a definite option.

Eggs.

I opened the back door to check if our usual free range basket had been delivered, and found Stewart talking to Xanthippe Carides.

When I say ‘talk’, I mean, ‘imagining having sex with’. Seriously. They weren’t close enough to touch, but he was smiling as she murmured to him, and they were mirroring each other’s body language.

She looked amazing too, the wench. All in black again, this time a leotard under jeans that showed off her sleek arm muscles. Was it fair for someone to have so little body fat and muscles? Her hair was all shiny, in dark waves. I could use three times the safety recommendation for hair conditioner and still not get my hair to look like that. ‘Morning,’ I called out, as I picked up the eggs.