A Trifle Dead: Cafe La Femme, Book 1

by Livia Day

  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.’

  * * *

  Even 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!’

  * * *

  The 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.

  * * *

  The 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.

  Stewart threw me one of his warm smiles, not looking the least caught out, and Xanthippe waved. She said something in an undertone to Stewart, flexed her triceps at him, and left.

  ‘Morning,’ he said then, loping over in a grotesquely good mood. ‘I don’t suppose ye have any more Bev Darrows up yer sleeve? I could do with another quirky profile between all our buskers and murders.’

  I sighed, letting him follow me back inside the kitchen. ‘My old primary school teacher is setting up a Romantic Poets Wine Tasting in Battery Point. “Have your merlot poured by a theatre student pretending to be Byron or Shelley.” I’ll write down the address.’

  ‘Brilliant, thanks.’

  I scribbled it on a Post It. ‘Tell Suze I said hi.’

  Stewart hesitated as he took the note. ‘Xanthippe said something just now.’

  ‘Oh, were you two talking? I thought I caught a whiff of artificial fruit.’ Smooth, Tabitha. Didn’t sound jealous at all, there.

  He grinned at me as he stuck the note in his jeans. ‘I think she was trying to figure out if I knew if ye knew where that Darrow bloke was. Subtle woman.’

  ‘Her wardrobe does scream subtlety.’

  ‘She implied he might be in on this Trapper business, or know something about it.’

  That surprised me. What was Xanthippe up to, implicating her ex like that? ‘Interesting thought. Barking mad, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Stewart said, and hesitated again, by the door. ‘Have ye seen the wall yet? I mean, it’s nae finished, so ye probably cannae get the whole effect—’

  ‘Oh.’ I’d forgotten. How could I have forgotten? I crossed the two steps to him, put my arms around his neck and hugged hard, smelling coffee and wool jumper and man. ‘It’s the best thing ever,’ I said into his throat. ‘You must paint more, immediately. I’ll clear the place out, send everyone home with their food wrapped in foil swans.’

  ‘I can wait til tomorrow,’ Stewart laughed. ‘I still get Sunday, aye? Ye could come keep me company. I’ll need yer advice on what colour nail polish Ursula Andress would wear.’

  I leaned back, and beamed at him. ‘I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to ask me that question.’

  10

  Café La Femme closes an hour early on Saturdays, which is the least the universe owes me, quite frankly. Hobart falls asleep at about 4pm on a weekend, and I was looking forward to my precious Sunday off. I headed home with a box of leftovers and a happy glow. The half-finished mural had been cheering me up throughout the afternoon, and I had almost avoided thinking about Bishop all day.

  Two big questions: why did I let him kiss me, and why did I stop kissing him back? Pfah. Thinking—so overrated.

  I let myself in the front door, and remembered all over again that both of the Trapper’s first efforts had been within a couple of streets of my house. Bad, bad thoughts. Very unhelpful.

  What was Xanthippe on, to spread rumours that Darrow was the Trapper? Why was she out to get him? Sure, they were the world’s worst couple and when they broke up the earth basically trembled with the fallout, but that was years ago. I thought they were back to being friends.

  Zee and I had a difficult relationship. We hated each other at school, for the first two years. It was loathe at first sight. We tripped each other, bitched and snarked at every opportunity, and on one memorable occasion got a detention for a slapfight in the quadrangle. But then … gradually we figured out that the school was full of girls who were top-of-the-class smart and good at netball, and girls who were destined to be dumb and popular and still pretty good at netball. And there were the girls who tagged along with whatever crowd they could, sucking up like crazy. And then there were the really netbally ones.

  At the end of it all, there was Xanthippe Carides at one end of the classroom and me at the other, with absolutely nothing in common except that we kind of liked insulting each other, and other people, and we were the only ones who hated netball. Enforced group sports in track pants, no thank you. Then in Grade Nine, after the slapfight and a month of silence, Zee came over and sat next to me at lunch. The next day, I sat next to her.

  When the next athletics carnival rolled around (running in circles? I think not), we hid behind the gym together, reading martial arts magazines (her) and the
history of Coco Chanel (me). I made her watch classic movies, and she made me help her restore a vintage car.

  We went to the same college for Grades Eleven and Twelve, but there was a wider assortment of cool people available by then, and we needed each other less. She took off soon after, running full tilt for the mainland like everyone else, returning for occasional bursts only to vanish again. She seems to have a different job every year—she’s been a PR rep, bodyguard, karate instructor and barmaid, among other things.

  I didn’t even realise she and Darrow knew each other until that time I saw them arguing, snogging, breaking up and getting back together at a zombie theme night Darrow had set up in one of the more karaoke-friendly local bars, a few years back. It didn’t surprise me. Even if we didn’t live in a place dominated by those good old Mount Wellington ley lines, threads of connectivity binding us all together… Darrow is one of those people who knows everyone and if he doesn’t, he’ll strike up a conversation. They’ll be his new best friend within minutes.

  Possibly I’m that sort of person too, which is why we get along so well.

  I made myself a cup of tea and switched on my dad’s beloved old police radio. To most people, it’s just a heap of static and codes, but for me it’s about picking up on all the gossip.

  My housemate Ceege came home from his shift at the call centre, yawning in yesterday’s grey t-shirt. I waved at him, and he made a peanut butter sandwich before logging on to his computer, and World of Warcraft.

  I lay on the couch, and toyed with a knitted cupcake cushion. ‘Ceege?’

  He didn’t respond.

  I sighed loudly, to let him know it was serious. ‘Cee-eege…’

  ‘Hush, woman,’ he said, not looking up from his screen. ‘My guild’s about to meet at the tavern, and I’m figuring out what to wear.’

  ‘But I’m having a crisis,’ I wailed. ‘Can’t you leave your gay elves for a minute to come and talk to me?’