Drowned Vanilla (Cafe La Femme Book 2) (9 page)

‘I like vanilla,’ Bishop reminded me. It was a patient voice, and yet somehow it also silently added that he also likes using the word ‘girlfriend’ about women he sleeps with and takes out to dinner and all those other things we did together.

‘Oh, that’s right, I forgot.’

‘Also, you are changing the subject.’

‘The primary subject was ice cream, you’re the one who changed it by bringing in police procedures and missing persons and…’

‘Tabitha,’ Bishop said quietly. ‘Do you think Xanthippe is getting too personally invested in this Annabeth French case?’

What I thought was that it was a little late for him to be playing the concerned big brother, seeing as he and Xanthippe had ignored each other for most of their adult lives, but that would be possibly less than supportive.

I was never going to make the world’s best girlfriend, which was a big part of why I avoided the label. But I could at least be a supportive friend-with-seriously-hot-benefits.

‘You should talk to her. Find out for yourself why she’s getting so attached to this particular crime scene.’

Bishop laughed. ‘From your deep and extensive history with us both, what makes you think my sister and I are capable of a conversation like that?’

‘Well,’ I said with my best smile as the sister in question approached him stealthily from behind. ‘The good news is, now’s your chance to find out.’

‘Here you are,’ Xanthippe announced, throwing herself down on the grass beside the picnic basket and helping herself to a handful of cherries. ‘Mmm, well catered, Tish. I’ve been looking for you all over.’ She leaned back on her elbows, looking at Bishop upside down. ‘Leo.’

‘Xanthippe,’ he replied, just as polite.

Those two were impossible. Half siblings, raised in different households, five years apart in age — that was no excuse for being unable to properly tease and beat each other up like real siblings. I don’t even have siblings, and I could give them lessons on advanced squabbling.

‘So,’ Xanthippe said, eyes hard on me. ‘Ceege says the French kid came to see you. And you didn’t tell me. Spill.’

‘Don’t mind me,’ Bishop said, rolling his eyes.

She waved a hand. ‘Don’t interrupt official business.’

Like I needed more reasons to want to strangle Xanthippe. To his credit (or something), Bishop just raised his eyebrows and said nothing. Hmm. I find it suspicious when people do not rise to the obvious bait.

I looked from Bishop to Xanthippe, and sighed. ‘Shay French, that little charmer who tried to chat you up when we visited Flynn. He’s all messed up about what happened to his sister, and he wanted to find out why we were looking for her that day.’

‘So you told him we were looking for a different girl and sent him on his way?’ Xanthippe asked, batting her eyelashes.

‘In a manner of speaking.’ Bishop and Xanthippe both gave me an identical expression of impatience, and it struck me for the first time how similar they were. Oh bloody hell, I was sleeping with the male version of Xanthippe. I really did not need to have had that particular train of thought. ‘What? The kid needed someone to talk to.’

‘I don’t know how she does it,’ Xanthippe sighed. ‘This is why I could never be a private detective. I do all the legwork for days, and people tell me nothing. Tabitha opens her kitchen door and suspects fall over themselves to tell her every secret they ever had.’

‘Tell me about it,’ agreed Bishop. He frowned. ‘You don’t actually want to be a private detective, do you?’

‘I might have looked into the relevant paperwork.’ Xanthippe smiled sweetly. ‘Don’t you think I’d be good at it?’

‘Alarmingly so. That doesn’t mean I like the idea.’

‘You’re just scared people will tease you about having Humphrey Bogart as a sister.’ Xanthippe pinched the last cheese scone just as Bishop was reaching for it.

‘Yes,’ Bishop said dryly. ‘That is exactly my fear. Thanks for hitting the nail on the head.’

Xanthippe bit into the scone without buttering it. ‘This is kind of doughy.’

‘They’re perfect,’ I said, offended.

‘Crumbly, too.’

‘It’s a scone. Crumbly is desirable.’

‘Have you considered making these with Romano instead of Parmesan, maybe adding a little tomato paste to give them some colour?’

‘You are so not making recipe suggestions to me…’

‘I can’t have an opinion?’ she asked innocently.

I snatched the rest of the scone from her and put it back in the basket. ‘No more treats for you. Go away. We’re having a romantic moment.’

Xanthippe looked from me to Bishop. ‘No you’re not. Your hair isn’t even mussed, and all your buttons are done up.’

‘We were getting there,’ I said between gritted teeth.

Bishop looked surprised. ‘Were we?’

‘Hush.’

‘Any more beer in there?’ Xanthippe asked, peering at the basket.

‘No,’ I said, taking the last bottle out and passing it to Bishop, who at least looked pleased as he opened it.

‘Mean!’ But then a wicked light came into Xanthippe’s eyes. Never a good thing. ‘So, what are you bringing to the Nikolaidis family Christmas? No pressure or anything, but Nonna Carmella is a bitch queen of the highest order, and significant others bearing dishes are in the main firing line. Last year she made Cousin Tony’s girlfriend cry over icing sugar.’

‘I’m a professional, I’ll have you know,’ I said haughtily. As if someone else’s evil ethnic grandparent could make me cry by criticising my food. I gave Bishop a look, though. Christmas was about a week away, and he had made no mention of any family gathering to which I might be welcome. Or indeed, unwelcome. ‘I wasn’t aware I was invited to the Nikolaidis family Christmas.’

‘I’m sure I mentioned it,’ Bishop said quickly.

Ha.

‘No, you really didn’t.’

‘Well, my work here is done,’ Xanthippe said brightly. She grabbed the last of the green bean salad and sauntered away. Wench.

I turned my gaze back on Bishop, a question in my eyes.

‘I thought you’d be going away to your Mum’s,’ he said weakly.

‘Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.’ It shouldn’t be bugging me this much. I hadn’t even thought about Christmas, beyond a plan to make plum pudding gelato balls for the café next week, and juggling the holiday schedule with two student waitresses who wanted the maximum amount of skive time.

But of course, being invited to the other person’s family Christmas was a girlfriend thing, not a friends-with-benefits thing. Was this Xanthippe’s way of telling us it was time to acknowledge we were in a relationship?

My history was full of fun flings that never got very serious. Bishop’s history was a long series of sensible girlfriendy girlfriends who did everything in the proper order, and then eventually gave up on him when they realised he really did genuinely love his job more than anything else in the universe.

‘Did Helen go to Christmas?’

Bishop blinked. ‘I dated Helen two years ago.’

‘Did she go to Christmas?’

He frowned. ‘Yeah, I think so.’

‘You can’t remember?’

‘Yes, she did,’ he sighed. ‘She brought moussaka. It was a colossal mistake, because Aunt Sophia always brings moussaka, so Aunt Sophia spent most of Christmas Day announcing loudly how she hoped we didn’t have too much. Every five minutes. As if too much moussaka is not the very definition of a first world problem.’

I folded my arms. ‘You’d better not have failed to invite me because you think I’m not up to the culinary challenge.’

Bishop winced. ‘Actually I’m more worried that one of my elderly relatives will goad you into bitchslapping her. And, you know.’

‘The not-a-girlfriend thing.’

‘It was your idea.’

‘I’m not complaining. I am acknowledging that it is sometimes awkward.’

‘Yes,’ said Bishop with a sigh, taking a long draw of the beer. ‘Thank you.’

I thought about him trying to protect me from his elderly relatives. I smiled at him. ‘That’s okay, then. Want to make out?’

Bishop blinked. ‘Sure?’

‘I don’t want to rush you and kill the romance or whatever, but I only have another ten minutes before Nin hunts me down with a rolling pin.’ My girls take extended lunch breaks very, very seriously.

Bishop put down his beer, and tugged me into his lap. ‘I can work to a deadline.’

You have to appreciate that in a man.

10

random_scotsman
posts on Sandstone City…

FRENCH VANILLA STILL FLAVOUR OF THE MONTH

As police continue to investigate the mysterious death of Annabeth French in Flynn a fortnight ago, what of the woman at the centre of the mystery, who impersonated the victim for ten months and then disappeared only hours before her violent death?

We’ve had enthusiastic response to our
Find French Vanilla
campaign. Thanks to all Sandstone readers who sent in photos and reports on the missing webcam star. Our grand prize: a voucher for free ice cream from Sublime Sundaes goes to Noah Patterson (Glenorchy) for spotting French Vanilla snacking on hot chips while wearing a tutu and angel wings at a local soccer match. Best faked picture we’ve had submitted to us in months, mate. Good one.

There are ground rules for sneaking up on Stewart McTavish. You are not allowed to enter the Sandstone City office before 10am. He figured out a long time ago that his boss and co-workers don’t drift in until after then, so he arrives early to write his daily 1500 words of whatever steamy romance novel he is working on at the moment.

Yes, the boy writes steamy romance novels. Yes, I’ve read them.

People who enter the office before 10am get pencils thrown at them. After that it’s pretty safe, unless Stewart has that ‘writing’s not going well’ furrow between his eyebrows.

From the late morning onwards, he’s available for coffee, pestering, procrastination excuses, and mad ideas for the Sandstone City blog, a project devoted to making Hobart look more bohemian and interesting than it actually is.

This is how he earns a living. Some people totally suck, don’t they?

I wanted to talk to him, and sort out some of the stuff that had been running through my head since my Bishop picnic the day before. Stewart was always good for head clearing. Since I planned to use him shamelessly, I took him a mug of his favourite super strong black coffee from the machine of doom. I timed the thing carefully, dropping in at 9:45— I risked having a stapler thrown at my head, but at least he would be there, and his co-workers wouldn’t.

Well, he was pretty much there. He was actually heading out of the office with a guilty look on his face.

‘Where are you off to, this bright and sunny morning,’ I said, not suspicious at all.

Stewart looked at me, and I could see him trying to think up a cover story. I held out the cup, wafting it under his nose. ‘I am a genuinely nice person who brings you coffee. And I only accept the truth.’

‘I … hae an appointment with French Vanilla,’ he said helplessly.

Hell.

I stared at him. And then I started drinking the coffee. It was hot and stung my mouth, and I didn’t care. I didn’t want him to have it. He didn’t deserve it. ‘You weren’t going to tell me.’

‘Tabitha…’

I swallowed harder, gulping down the coffee so hard it hurt. ‘You have a lead and you are going to see her and you weren’t going to tell me.’

‘Tabitha, stop it!’ He disarmed me and held the coffee mug out at arm’s length, backing me against the wall of the stairwell. Oh, this was bad. I had a history of snogging inappropriate people in this stairwell. ‘She contacted me. Wha’ was I supposed tae do?’

I stared him down. Close. He was far too close. ‘You were supposed to share.’

Stewart looked uncomfortable, and for one fleeting moment I wondered if he was feeling the stairwell syndrome as strongly as I was right now.

Bishop Bishop Bishop
behave
, Tabitha.

‘Will ye please join me tae meet our missing person?’ he said finally.

‘Why yes,’ I said, breathing a little unevenly. From the stress. ‘I would like that very much, thank you for asking me.’

‘Should we include Xanthippe?’

‘Oh, no,’ I said quickly. ‘Really, she’s not that interested in the case.’

I don’t share well. Yes, I’m also a hypocrite.

We sat at a café table in Salamanca. ‘This makes no sense,’ I said, tapping my spoon against the edge of my cappuccino cup. Too much froth, stingy on the chocolate. ‘Why would she meet you here? This is Hobart. She’d bump into twelve people who knew her, walking down that street. So much for being missing.’

‘Maybe she doesnae want tae be missing any more,’ said Stewart, apparently unmoved by the fact that his long black was inferior to anything he could get at Café La Femme.

‘How did she get in touch?’

‘Email. She says she’s been followin’ the Sandstone City coverage of her story. She wants everyone tae know she’s fine and doesnae want tae be found. So she consented tae an interview.’

I didn’t want a three dollar shortbread cookie. I could eat biscuits by the handful when I got back to work. Not that I would. Damn it, I wanted a cookie now! ‘You don’t think I’d scare her off?’

‘If anythin’, having a woman here might make her feel more comfortable.’ He looked dubious even as he said it.

My spoon tapped more frenetically against the cup. ‘She wants to stay hidden?’

‘Aye, that’s what she said. I dinnae believe it, though. Could ye stop that?’

‘Stop what?’ Stewart reached out, laid his hand over mine and took the spoon firmly away from me. ‘Hey, I need that spoon.’

‘Tabitha, if ye cannae sit at the big table with the grown ups…’

I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘Buy me a cookie.’

‘Fer four dollars? No way. I could get another coffee fer that.’

I pouted at the lack of chivalry, but could not deny his priorities. I checked my watch again. ‘She’s late.’

Stewart laughed softly. ‘Yer so bad at surveillance. Nae patience at all.’

‘No patience? Have you ever tried my choux pastry? Or my eight hour goulash?’ I didn’t know what to think. French Vanilla. The real one. Or the fake one. The one that made no sense at all. She was coming here and I would get to meet her.