A Trifle Dead: Cafe La Femme, Book 1

by Livia Day

  Ceege handed me a bright pink frosty drink, and Stewart a blue one. ‘Cool suit, mate. Very swish. You kidding, babe? A chance to frock up and eat his weight in Tabitha snacks? He’ll be here in a shot.’

  Stewart gave me a curious look, but I didn’t explain. He could wonder just a bit longer.

  * * *

  It was my favourite Oscars party ever. Lara and Yui turned up in outfits they’d made themselves, all green netting and black leather. Ceege’s girlfriend Katie surprised him by wearing an actual vintage frock she had bought cheap on eBay. She normally lives in Sportsgirl, so he was delighted she had made the effort. Nin took over the kitchen the minute she arrived, leaving me free to provide snarky commentary on the Red Carpet frocks. Quinn, one of our ex-housemate Kelly’s brother’s ex-boyfriends, let the side down slightly by arriving in ordinary jeans and a t-shirt, but made up for it with chandelier earrings, scarlet nail polish, and being almost as much of a bitch as I was when it came to slagging off celebrities.

  Nin brought in a tray of my famous anchovy puffs, and smiled at Stewart. She smiled at him again when he refilled her champagne glass.

  I dragged him aside at the earliest opportunity. ‘What’s going on? Nin never smiles at anyone.’

  ‘We bonded over our mutual appreciation for her coffee machine.’

  I patted him on the arm. ‘Make sure you invite me to the wedding.’

  Huh. The two things I could usually count on about introducing new male friends to my life was that Bishop would hate them, and Nin would think they were useless. She tolerates Ceege because they’re the same shoe size and he doesn’t mind sharing.

  A good thing that Bishop didn’t like Stewart too, or my world would be officially upside down.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Quinn was yelling at the screen. ‘What’s with the tasteful black frocks?’

  ‘It’s practically cheating,’ I agreed, squeezing up next to him on the couch. ‘And was there a “no bras” policy this year? Magic tape is not a good alternative to cleavage, ladies.’

  Ceege and Katie were arguing in the corner about Angelina Jolie, and whose lips she was wearing. Ceege won by putting a piece of ice down Katie’s back, and she hit him with a cushion.

  Twice, I fended off my cat, who had developed an obsession with Stewart. ‘Back, Kinky Boots, don’t you dare get hair on that pretty suit,’ I scolded.

  Stewart laughed. ‘Some people shouldnae be allowed to name pets. I hope yer not planning on children.’

  ‘So,’ I said, putting my head on Quinn’s shoulder as the scuffles broke out around us. ‘How’s training going? Solved any crimes from stray hairs and fingerprints yet?’ I met Stewart’s eyes as he dropped into a chair beside us. ‘Quinn’s in police forensics.’

  ‘Really?’ said Stewart. His mouth twitched a little, as if he was trying not to grin. ‘Must be interesting.’

  ‘They don’t let me do much yet,’ Quinn said. ‘I’ve only just started. It’s great, though. I’m learning heaps.’

  ‘So you don’t actually—do stuff with bodies yet,’ I said, shuddering a bit at the thought. ‘Like that man the other day, the junkie hanging in the net.’

  Quinn chuckled. ‘They don’t let me near the autopsies. I’m lucky if they let me observe. But I know the case you mean. Strange bloke.’

  ‘Strange how?’ I couldn’t help asking. This wasn’t messing with a police investigation, honestly. It was chit chat.

  ‘Okay, my supervisor Meg spent ages on his hands, right? He had short nails, pretty good condition—that makes sense, because he played violin. But his fingers were all messed up, scratched and stuff, like he’d been doing manual labour. Carpentry. Ropes.’

  ‘Building the net they found him in?’ I couldn’t help wondering aloud.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Quinn. ‘But then there was the nail polish. Not on his nails, right, but on his fingers. Like he painted someone’s fingernails, doing a pretty lousy job of it, and then went off to build something.’ He shrugged. ‘Glad I’m not the detective who’s got to make sense of it. Hey—check out that jacket on Clooney, what do we think, is he trying too hard or what?’

  We all stared at the screen for a long time. You just don’t see Hollywood’s ruggedest in purple velvet every day. ‘Do you think it was a bet?’ I said finally.

  ‘How do ye know it was actually nail polish?’ Stewart asked a little while later. ‘Could it have been paint or something else?’

  Everyone in the room—well, all the girls, and Ceege—looked at him as if he was unhinged.

  Stewart blinked. ‘I’m the only one in the room who knows nothing about nail polish, then.’

  ‘Actually, you’ve got a point,’ said Quinn securing a handful of miniature chocolate croissants from the plate in front of him. ‘Meg thought it was paint too. But I recognised the line. It was Poison Flesh.’

  ‘Oh, the new matte range from Gee Bee, with glitter?’ Ceege jumped in. ‘Sweet.’

  ‘Yeah, mate—the purple with little bronzey flecks. I mean, the stuff’s shit—if you take the gloss out of nail polish, it just scratches to buggery, you have to keep repairing it every few hours.’ Quinn looked proud of himself. ‘So I told Meg what it was, and she was really impressed. Said she’d never have known it was nail polish, if I hadn’t been around.’

  ‘Doesn’t hurt to impress the boss,’ I said lightly. ‘More drinks, anyone?’

  * * *

  Stewart joined me in the kitchen, and I handed him the rolling pin to smash some more ice. ‘Matte nail polish?’ I complained. ‘If that’s the kind of clue they’re having to deal with, I don’t envy the police.’

  ‘Not that yer interfering with a police investigation at all,’ he said.

  ‘Well, no. I’ve got enough problems trying to find Darrow.’ I frowned at him. ‘Had any more cosy chats with Xanthippe lately? I noticed you didn’t blog about the glam party, or the stunt with the knife.’

  ‘Got distracted by all the redheads.’

  ‘I can see how that happens.’

  ‘Plus…’ Stewart hesitated. ‘It felt like putting the boot in. Exposing them.’

  ‘Some reporter you’re going to make, with ethics getting in the way. Unless the problem is that you’re sympathetic to what they were trying to do?’

  He seemed unbothered by the concept. ‘Nothing wrong with trying to generate a bit of publicity.’

  ‘Mm. Like you did for Diana Glass?’

  Stewart looked startled. ‘What are ye on about? Have ye been stalking me on the internet?’

  ‘Obviously. But at least I wasn’t trashing some poor debut writer about her books being shallow and pointless! Some of my best friends are romance novelists, you know.’

  Stewart narrowed his eyes. ‘Mine too.’

  ‘Hah!’ I pointed a swizzle stick at him. ‘I knew it was a set up. That article and all the follow up stuff—it was just to promote her books, wasn’t it? You played the villain, and let her be all innocent and under attack so everyone would rally around her and spread the word about her books.’

  ‘Maybe I honestly thought she was crap.’

  ‘You’re too much of a gentleman, it’s a dead giveaway.’ I fetched the tequila and lemonade out of the fridge. ‘What I don’t understand is why you used your real name for it. I mean—Bishop took one look at your internet presence and decided you were some kind of troll.’

  Stewart took the bottles from me, and started assembling the drinks. ‘Bishop would think tha’ about any man who spent any time with ye.’

  I filed that away to think about later, though I was pretty sure I knew Bishop’s reasons for snogging me, and it had nothing to do with fancying me. ‘Real trolls at least manage to stay anonymous. That’s the point of them.’ I shook my head. ‘She must be special, this romance novelist of yours. For you to be willing to make yourself look like an internet nutcase, just to help her career.’

  ‘I dinnae want tae talk about this,’ Stewart warned.

  ‘Tab-beee!’ Cee
ge hollered from the living room. ‘Cher’s dressed like a grown up, and Miss Piggy turned up in the best frock yet! I’m losing the will to live!’

  ‘I’ll bring you some marshmallows to throw at the screen!’ I yelled back, and left Stewart to finish making the drinks.

  14

  Bright and early the next morning, I knocked on Stewart’s front door. He lived in a seedy little flat over a shop in Liverpool Street, only a block or two from the café. Ten out of ten for convenient location, but the stairwell was a scary concrete bunker with a very suspicious smell to it. After the longest time, I heard a few shambling footsteps, and jumped back as a bleary-eyed Stewart answered the door. ‘Tabitha?’

  ‘Gadzooks, you’re a horrible sight first thing in the morning,’ I said cheerfully. A total lie—his face and hair might have given a half-dead scarecrow a run for its money, but he’d pulled on a pair of jeans and nothing else on his way to the front door, which more than made up for it.

  Stewart peered at me. ‘Did ye say, “gadzooks”?’

  It’s important at times like this to speak the right language. I wafted a fresh cup of coffee at him. ‘Rise and shine, princess.’

  He grunted, took the cup from me and disappeared into the bedroom. A few minutes later, he yelled from within. ‘Tabitha, it’s no’ even 7am!’

  ‘Expedition, remember? I’m sure I told you we had to set off early.’ Was that between the second or third tequila cocktail?

  ‘Early is … ten. Possibly eleven,’ he said. ‘Is this café withdrawal? Ye secretly want to be scrubbing floors and toasting sourdough right now, an’ I’m the man who has to suffer along with ye.’

  ‘Wimp! Just because you’re a blogger doesn’t mean it’s okay to spend half the day in your pyjamas. It will be worth your while, I promise.’

  ‘I need a shower almost as much as I need this coffee.’

  ‘Be quick.’

  While the water ran in the little bathroom, I wandered around Stewart’s flat, poking around his stuff. Not much stuff, to be honest—it was mostly cameras, and many boxes. I had to move several of them to sit down on the couch.

  Mind you, who am I to criticise someone else’s mess?

  Eventually, Stewart came back out to the living room with damp hair, buttoning up a half-decent shirt over the same jeans and marginally clean socks. He threw the crumpled paper coffee cup in the direction of his kitchenette. ‘Going tae need more of those.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ I said, not looking up from a portfolio of photographs I had found on top of one of the boxes. ‘Are these pictures all yours?’

  ‘Uh huh. I put it together when I was applying to Sandstone City, but it turned out Simon really hates romance novels. Something tae do with his ex, don’t ask. The Vogue article and all that fallout meant he’d already decided tae give me the job. All I had tae do was turn up for the interview.’ He gave me a mock-stern look. ‘And tha’s not why I did it, incidentally. I lucked out, that’s all. Right place and right internet scuffle at the right time.’

  ‘This one’s pretty,’ I said, looking at a gorgeous, cheeky young woman with brown fluffy curls hanging in her eyes, hugging a terrier who looked disturbingly like her.

  ‘My sister Sophie. Too dog-obsessed tae hold a decent conversation with. If she could only get over trying tae pick up guys who own Dobermans.’

  The next page was a wedding photo—the groom pretending to bite the bride’s neck, and the bride giggling hysterically. ‘This one’s good.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Stewart. ‘Did ye not say we were in a hurry?’

  ‘A few minutes won’t hurt. You still need to put your shoes on.’ I looked closer at the bride. ‘That’s Diana Glass.’

  ‘I shouldnae think so.’

  ‘It bloody is. I saw her author photo online.’ I flipped a few more pages of the portfolio, and stopped. ‘That author photo, as it happens.’ There was Diana Glass, all serious and pouty, her long dark hair beautifully arranged, and a bookshelf in the background. ‘You took her author photo. And her bridal photos.’

  ‘Tha’ one shouldnae be in there,’ Stewart muttered. ‘Can we go, all right?’

  ‘Fine, don’t tell me.’ I closed the portfolio. ‘You do know each other. I thought as much.’

  ‘Coffee,’ Stewart said, pulling on his last shoe and not looking at me. ‘Ye promised coffee, and ye now owe me extra, because of being nosy.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ I took pity on him, and shut up about Diana Glass. For now. ‘Grab your cameras. You’re going to get some shots for the blog, and I’m going to find Darrow so I can get my café open again.’

  ‘As long as there’s coffee.’

  ‘Did I mention? Really not a problem.’

  * * *

  We walked along the grey concrete of Constitution Dock with an Antarctic breeze in our faces, and the smell of fish and chips warming the air. There were boats everywhere, jammed into berths in the harbour. A horde of seagulls were stalking us in the hopes that we had something tasty to offer them.

  All I had to offer them was Stewart.

  ‘When ye said expedition,’ he mocked. ‘I imagined something more than ten minute’s walk from my place. Did I really have to get up this early?’

  ‘Do you never stop complaining?’ I shot back. ‘No wonder we call you lot whingeing Poms.’

  ‘Poms are English,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m a Scot. The English are our mutual oppressors.’

  ‘Please. Have you seen a cricket match lately? If anything, we oppress them.’

  ‘So where are we away to?’

  ‘Have patience. You’ll love it.’ I spotted a boy I knew working one of the boats, and waved while I tried to remember his name. Amos? Emmett? Adam.

  ‘Hey, Tabby,’ he called out.

  ‘Hey,’ I called back, hoping a smile would disguise the fact that I had forgotten his name. Couldn’t lose my Tabitha-knows-everyone reputation with Stewart now.

  ‘Going to the coffee fair?’ the nameless boy asked.

  Stewart sucked in a breath.

  Oh, Eammon. Now I remembered him. I waved and smiled again, and hustled Stewart onward.

  ‘Coffee fair?’ Stewart said delightedly. ‘Is it true? Tell me it’s true.’

  ‘It was supposed to be a surprise.’

  ‘They set it up just for me?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Yes, the city of Hobart conspired to make you happy. As if. You gave me the idea of coming here, you know.’

  ‘Oh, aye? That was bright of me.’

  ‘Your ridiculous caffeine addiction reminded me that when they ran the inaugural coffee fair last year, you couldn’t move Darrow out of the place with a gardening fork—trust me, I tried.’

  Stewart looked at me with wide eyes. ‘So if ye weren’t trying to find Darrow, ye might not have bothered tae mention this vital event tae me at all? Yer cruelty astounds me.’

  * * *

  Salamanca Place is one of the most beautiful streets in Hobart—a long stretch of old stone buildings crammed with cafés, art galleries, studios and shops. However high the rents get, it has never quite lost the aura of bohemian grunge. I love Café La Femme’s little city corner dearly, but I can never compete with this particular ambience.

  On the other hand, did I mention my Sunday sleep in? I’d never get another one if I worked here.

  The imposing stone buildings, stuck together with twisty arcades and all kinds of hidden nooks and courtyards, face an avenue of trees. On Saturdays, the whole street is blocked off for the local market, and it fills up with colourful stalls, food vans and abundant produce. During the week, though, the street is a normal thoroughfare for cars.

  Except for the Tuesday once a year when the coffee fair takes over, and all bets are off.

  Today, Salamanca was full of stalls and people. It was like a condensed version of the market, with one single important difference. It was all about the java.

  The mingling scents of a hundred different varieties of a certain beany product
wafted around on the cool air. The stalls were laden with sweets, cakes, gelato, crockery, and a variety of products for sale that should really not have coffee connected with them, but did. The soaps and perfumes were unusual. The fashion and the sex toys were downright terrifying, and the street theatre … okay, let’s just not talk about the street theatre.

  Tasting tables had been set up on the grass under the leafy trees, and people were already filling up the chairs, despite the fact that it was a work day, and barely eight in the morning. Even the seagulls were wired.

  ‘Your eyeballs are twitching,’ I said to Stewart.

  He looked stupidly pleased with the universe, in a dreamy kind of way. ‘Tabitha, this is the nicest thing ye have ever done for me. I’ve no idea even where tae start.’

  I kicked him in the shin. ‘Get it together, McTavish. We’re not here to sate your fiendish lusts. We’re here because Darrow is as much of a coffeeholic as you—though I am starting to suspect that you do have an actual problem—and he is not likely to miss this.’

  ‘Right,’ said Stewart, sounding halfway normal. ‘That makes sense. Absolutely. So I have no function in this scenario?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Order me a latté and find us somewhere to sit. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  It didn’t take me long to find Bev Darrow’s cake stall. Mocha gateaux, pale brown meringue kittens and all sorts of odd constructions from glued-together chocolate coffee beans were arranged on a trestle table. Most of it was non-smutty, as she saves the really hot stuff for private CWA functions. Kevin Darrow, the eleven-year-old grandson, was handling the money.

  ‘Hi, Bev,’ I said. ‘It all looks great.’

  ‘Hello, darl,’ said Bev.

  ‘Did you get my message about the café being closed? I won’t need the usual cake orders this week.’