A Trifle Dead: Cafe La Femme, Book 1

by Livia Day

  It’s probably a tax dodge of some kind—but what can I say? Darrow came to the uni café for years after he graduated, because he liked my gateaux. He claims that he stole me because I was going to make his fortune, but I don’t buy it for a second. There’s not much profit in cafés, too many staff to support. Wouldn’t surprise me if he moved me in here because it’s not far to travel for his daily slice of mocha hazelnut hummingbird cake.

  Not that I’m complaining.

  I missed Darrow since his latest disappearance. I was used to him hanging around with his stupid laptop, bugging my customers and having pointless, batshit weird conversations with me until I felt the need to bounce cookies off his beautifully-groomed hair.

  He’d be back, eventually. Unless Xanthippe was hunting him down to kill him, which was not one hundred percent unlikely. Theirs had been a bad break-up.

  Our building has two roomy flats above my café. The first floor is occupied by the Sandstone City mob, a gang of twenty-somethings who blog about weird stuff in Hobart, in the hope of making the place look cool. Bizarrely, it kind of works. Someday the government will stop giving them grant money, but this is not that day.

  Then there’s the top floor, and Crash Velvet.

  A tiny purple-headed rock chick answered the door. Her eyes slid straight past the two police officers to focus on my basket of bright-blue muffins. ‘Oh, excellent. Just what I wanted. Any chance you can repeat the order every morning for … oh, the next three months or so?’

  ‘Well, I could,’ I said. ‘Why would you want me to?’ Don’t get me wrong, they were fabulous muffins—the savoury ones were parmesan and onion, with a hint of Tabasco, and the sweet ones were blue velvet with cream cheese frosting and silver sprinkles—but it wasn’t like they’d ordered them for the flavour. When they phoned down the order, all they said was blue. I did consider just using food colouring, but imported blue cornmeal is such a pretty ingredient and I can rarely justify using it. Since they were paying through the nose anyway…

  She had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘It’s a publicity thing. Our new PR manager has us ordering the weirdest food we can, all around town. We’re aiming for, when people google “weird” and “food”, our band is in the top ten hits. Do you have a Tumblr? Twitter? Facebook?’

  I think I was the last café in town not to have a Facebook presence. It was bad for my hipster image, but when you get up at 5am most days to bake, something has to give. My compromise is to hire trendy teen art students as waitresses who tweet their little socks off, sometimes while pouring cappuccinos. ‘Not officially, but we’ve got a few ways to boost the signal. You should come down and eat the muffins in the café sometimes. We have big windows.’

  Really, blue muffins? I’m pretty sure rock bands are supposed to be slightly edgier than that. Still, hard drugs and trashing hotel rooms is such a cliché these days. If they wanted to make their reputation through eccentric baked goods, who was I to judge?

  ‘Excellent idea. Every bit helps.’ She took the basket and smiled past me to Bishop, apparently unfazed by his uniform. ‘I’m kCeera. Small k, big C.’

  ‘Senior Constable Bishop,’ he said, trying not to look offended at how much muffin talk had taken precedence over his own business. ‘There was a burglary report from this address.’

  kCeera looked genuinely startled. ‘There was?’ She backed into the apartment, making room for us all to come inside. ‘Tabitha, I’ll write you a cheque for the first month. Hey Owen, did you call the police?’

  The place was a mess—it must have been a long time since Darrow sent his army of cleaning ladies to make an inspection. Towers of junk, CDs and musical instruments were stacked haphazardly against every wall. The only items of furniture were two unmatched Tip Shop couches, a kick-ass stereo system with enormous speakers, and a widescreen TV that probably cost more than my car. It was certainly about the same length as my car.

  The best thing about the room was a window with a clear view of the mountain, silver grey against a bright blue sky. Hobart sits squarely between the enormous Mount Wellington, and the mouth of the River Derwent. Water views are all very well, but I’d take our mountain any day. Just looking at the thing makes me feel all Zen and at one with the universe. Plus it helps with urban navigation. If you can see the mountain, you know pretty much where you are.

  Fabulous view aside, the most salient feature of Crash Velvet’s flat was that it smelled of feet. In the middle of the crappy chaos, two lean and long-haired blokes in paper-thin t-shirts stood playing laser hockey on a Wii system. A pair of boots attached to a fourth member of the band stuck out from one of the couches.

  kCeera cleared her throat loudly. ‘Guys? Police? Standing in front of me?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ One of the blokes paused the game, and elbowed the other. ‘Owen. Mate.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the one called Owen. ‘Burglary. All our stuff got stolen.’

  ‘Stuff, what stuff?’ kCeera demanded. Obviously she was the brains of the outfit. The other two didn’t have enough spare brain cells between them to brew a cup of tea. ‘Why didn’t you tell me when I got home?’

  ‘Mate, laser hockey,’ said the one not called Owen. ‘Priorities.’

  Constable Heather took out her notebook, looking all official. ‘Perhaps you could tell us exactly what was stolen?’

  ‘Everything, babe,’ said the not-Owen. ‘All of it, gone.’

  Bishop looked around at the expensive stereo system, big screen TV and CD collection. ‘All of what, exactly?’

  ‘The clothes, mate,’ said Owen. ‘The hats and belts, even.’

  ‘Shoes,’ not-Owen added.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ asked kCeera. ‘I packed the gear away in the spare room this morning.’

  ‘Not there now,’ said Owen with a shrug. ‘Some wanker nicked it all, didn’t they?’

  ‘Someone stole … your clothes?’ said Bishop.

  ‘Wearable Art Treasures,’ I explained in an undertone. ‘The name of their first album. They collected a stash of unusual costume items from museums, antique dealers, artists … the photos looked great. They still wear a lot of the collection at their gigs.’

  ‘Why are you still here?’ Bishop asked in a grouchy voice.

  ‘I’m waiting for my muffin cheque. Excuse me for being helpful.’

  ‘So is that all that was taken?’ Bishop asked the guys.

  Not-Owen looked at him mournfully. ‘All? Mate, isn’t that enough? What are we gonna wear to the next gig? Just turn up in plain tuxedos without leather gauntlets and vintage lace collars and spiky things around our legs? That’s not cool.’

  ‘Have you guys been smoking something?’ kCeera demanded. ‘I was gone for like two hours. You were here the whole time. How can someone have broken into our spare room and taken all the Wearable Art Treasures? Were there ladders involved? Is Rapunzel our prime suspect?’

  Owen shrugged. ‘See for yourself, mate.’

  kCeera marched across the room, flung open one of the doors, and stared through it. Then she turned around, and headed out of the flat.

  ‘Where are you going?’ not-Owen called after her.

  kCeera flung her head around. ‘I’m going to get the guys from Sandstone City. Because when they arrest you for wasting police time, I want to make sure someone bloody well blogs about it!’ She slammed the door behind her.

  ‘Okay, then,’ I said, in the silence.

  Bishop headed for the spare room. I followed him, because—oh, what the hell. It was none of my business, but when has that ever stopped me? If I never found out any gossip, my afternoon Coffee & Cake sales would halve overnight.

  Inside the room, Bishop swore under his breath. Very unprofessional—not like him at all. I skidded to a halt at his elbow.

  ‘Tish—no,’ he said, but it was too late.

  Mostly what I saw was net. It hung from the ceiling, supported by wooden beams, ropes and four upright poles, like a four-poster bed
. There was something in the net, weighing it awkwardly. I recognised an arm.

  What was it? A dummy?

  But the long mop of dark hair hanging down looked real enough, and if it was a dummy, why would Bishop be feeling for a pulse, sliding his hand along the neck, searching for signs of life?

  It began to sink in that I was in the presence of an actual dead body. I stepped back to let Constable Heather through, and my foot caught on the strap of a bright green sports bag. A violin case was leaning against it, and I only just stopped it from crashing to the floor.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said one of the blokes from the doorway. I’d lost track of whether he was the Owen or not. ‘Whoever nicked our stuff, they left that thing there. The net. And the body.’

  ‘The violin’s not ours,’ said the other maybe-Owen. ‘But, you know. If no one wants it…’

  3

  Bishop steered me out of the room. ‘Heather, call for Anderson’s team to get over here as a priority. Then call Clayton and tell him this is one for the Crime Management Unit. Suspicious death, probable drug overdose. Make sure no one goes into that room.’

  As Heather made the first call, Bishop kept moving me through the flat, and out on to the landing. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, when we were alone.

  I nodded, a bit too fast. I wasn’t okay. The most drama I see in one day is a fallen sticky date sponge, or a yard full of smashed free range eggs. ‘I’m good.’

  ‘Did you recognise him? Is he from around here? From the café?’

  I shook my head, not quite trusting myself to speak.

  Bishop gave me one of those ‘she’ll be right’ awkward bloke pats on the arm, and then ducked back into the flat to do his job.

  I stood alone on the landing, breathing in the musty air. After a minute or two, I pulled myself together and headed down the stairs.

  kCeera charged up past me, dragging one of the Sandstone City bloggers with her, and a large camera. ‘Have they been arrested yet?’ she asked breathlessly.

  ‘Well, not for wasting police time,’ I replied.

  About ten seconds after kCeera reached her front door, I heard a yell. ‘What the fuck?’ Which probably meant she had been informed it was a real dead body in her spare room.

  At that moment I could see nothing but that horrible image of the man hanging in the net. He was young—maybe my age. I gripped the banister. ‘Real girls don’t swoon, Tabitha.’

  That was good, because I was pretty sure I was going to throw up instead.

  I clattered down the stairs so fast that I didn’t see another person step out of the Sandstone City flat, and we collided. The world spun.

  ‘Whoa,’ said a male voice. A hand caught my elbow. ‘Are ye all right?’

  I stared at him, still not really seeing him, though I was dimly aware of a Scottish accent, and stubble. ‘Yes. Fine. Really very fine.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, which proved he was male and didn’t understand anything. ‘Did ye see which way our Simon went?’

  I pointed to the upper floor.

  ‘Thanks,’ the accent continued. It was soothing, actually. I could pretend we were in a gritty Glasgow crime drama on TV. People hardly ever throw up in those, unless they’re crack addicts. ‘And ye are all right, then?’

  It occurred to me that if I had to be asked this many times if I was all right, then maybe I wasn’t. ‘No,’ I said clearly. ‘Not.’ And I bolted down the last flight, scrabbling to open the back door.

  In the side yard, confronted with a burst of sunshine and fresh, crisp March air, I stumbled over the steps and sat down in a hurry. Probably, now I came to think of it, in a mess of congealed raw egg. I covered my face with my hands.

  ‘Are ye planning tae throw up?’ The Scottish accent had followed me. The last thing I needed was a nervous breakdown in front of someone who sounded a bit like Ewan McGregor. ‘Because I’m bad at holding hair. I often miss.’

  I looked up, peering through my fingers. He was an ordinary looking bloke, a bit on the skinny side, a lot on the scruffy side. ‘Um, no. Thanks for the offer.’

  He grinned at me, and his face lit up in a way that made him a lot more interesting. ‘I dinna believe I did offer.’

  ‘Well, thanks for caring.’

  ‘Pretty sure I dinna care.’

  I pointed a finger at him. ‘I’m going to stop thanking you in a minute, and then you’ll be sorry.’

  He sat on the steps beside me, stretching out long legs in old grey jeans. ‘Dae your worst, kid.’

  ‘I just saw my first dead body,’ I confessed.

  ‘Bummer.’ The Scotsman nodded seriously. ‘Dead bodies are never good. Except, ye know, in Raymond Chandler novels. Anyone ye knew?’

  ‘No. Just random deadness.’ Deadity. Was deadity a word?

  ‘Thank Christ for that. My crack about Raymond Chandler wadna been very sensitive, in that case.’ He held out a hand. ‘Stewart McTavish. Comforting in times o’ crisis. Only no’ very.’

  I shook it. ‘Tabitha Darling. Screams, runs away, hides head in sand.’

  ‘Ye look like ye need a cuppa,’ he announced. ‘Which is to say … any chance o’ a cuppa?’

  * * *

  Lara, one of my teen art students, had joined Nin for lunch prep, and there were only a few customers front of house, so I felt vaguely justified in sitting out in the yard with a steaming teapot, fresh lemon slices, my own neuroses and a Scotsman I was starting to think might be a bit cute. When the world sends you a morning like the one I had just had, you welcome all the distractions you can get.

  ‘Simon was saying I should talk to ye,’ Stewart said, inhaling a second long black while I sipped my tea and basked in the adorableness of his accent. ‘I’ve started at Sandstone City this week—the outsider’s view of Hobart—and he reckoned that wha’ Tabitha Darling doesnae know about this place isnae worth knowing.’

  I laughed. ‘Simon didn’t say that. He said something like, “If you can’t find anything, go pick Tabs’ brain. She’ll do your work for you, mate.”’

  ‘That daes sound more like him,’ Stewart said sheepishly. ‘Any ideas? I’m still finding me way around.’

  I finished the last of my tea. Distractions. Distractions were good. Anything to stop thinking about the dead body upstairs. ‘I have to drop in on an old friend after the lunch rush. I think you could benefit from meeting her. She’s an artist.’

  ‘Art is good,’ agreed Stewart. ‘Half the grant money comes in because we depict Hobart as a seething den of artistic talent.’ I could practically hear the sarcastic inverted commas around his words.

  ‘Her art is somewhat unconventional…’ I warned him.

  ‘Even better. Do ye think she’d let me take photos?’

  I smiled, feeling a little better about the world. Almost completely distracted. ‘I think she’d be offended if you didn’t.’

  4

  ‘Tabitha,’ said Beverly Darrow with a wide smile when she saw me and my new Scotsman on her doorstep. ‘Great timing, luv. The cats are just cooled from the oven.’

  The Great Australian Nanna is a dying breed. It’s seriously difficult to find yourself a lamington-baking, apron-wearing, CWA-registered grandmother, now that the recent crop of 50-plus women are keeping their power suits on and ordering takeaway pizza just like everyone else, while the 60-plus ladies invest all their cash in bungee jumping and life-drawing classes.

  Bev is a Nanna in the good old traditional sense of the word. More or less. She bakes, and knits, and dotes on her grandchildren. Luckily for me, she also dotes on her grandchildren’s friends. I was deprived of a real Nanna growing up, and I’m not letting go of this one now that I’ve found her.

  Besides, my customers love her wares. Why spend hours cranking out batches of biscuits when you can buy the best?

  ‘Cats?’ said Stewart, after I introduced him to Bev, and she cooed about how much his accent sounded like that actor on the TV. ‘In the oven? What kind of café are you running, Tabitha
?’

  I smacked him lightly on the arm. Did inappropriate touching mean that I fancied him? Answers on a postcard. ‘Meringue cats. What do you think I am, crazy?’

  ‘Oka-ay,’ he said. ‘And that would be because meringues shaped like cats sell faster than meringues no’ shaped like cats?’

  He was catching on. ‘That’s right. Do you know how many obsessed cat-lovers there are in this city? Cats always sell. Diabetics who love cats will buy these meringues.’

  We stepped into Bev’s breezy, bright yellow kitchen and I helped her pack the cute little sugar kittens into a wide cardboard box. Another box, laden with plate-sized cookies, platter-sized cheesecakes and a mighty slab of brownies, was already done.

  ‘Isnae that on the unethical side?’ Stewart suggested.

  I looked sternly at him. ‘You’re fretting that I brought you all the way out here to the suburbs to photograph cat cakes.’

  ‘I dae have that fear,’ he admitted.

  I bumped hips with Bev. ‘Stewart here needs to discover a wacky new artist for this blog he writes for.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bev, with a not-quite-cackle. ‘You’ll be after the erotica, then, my love.’

  Stewart blinked twice.

  ‘You’re in luck,’ Bev added. ‘I’ve just got a new display all ready for the CWA fundraiser.’

  ‘Are they going to make you put fig leaves on them this time?’ I asked.

  Bev winked. ‘I’ve whipped up a batch of very flimsy ones. The slightest breeze will send them flying.’ She beckoned to Stewart, and led him to her dining room. ‘My beauties,’ she said with great satisfaction.

  I peered around Stewart. Bev had outdone herself. An extravagant display of nude figures spilled over the tabletop, each crudely shaped out of meringue, and decorated with snippets of red fruit and generous blobs of whipped cream.

  Meringue’s a bitch to work with, and there was something very abstract about the figures until you looked closely, and then you really couldn’t look away. They were mostly curvy mother goddess types, but there were a few bulging blokes scattered around, putting Barbie’s Ken to shame with their anatomical correctness.