by Livia Day
‘No,’ I said.
There was a pause, while we both waited for the other to say something snarky.
‘Gary, wait outside, will you?’ Bishop said.
I made Gary wait a moment while I hacked off a large piece of the apple pie to take with him. He went, cradling it in his hands like it was something precious. I love a man who knows how to appreciate my food.
‘I’m sorry about this morning,’ I said very fast, the second Gary was out of the door.
Bishop’s reflexes were poor, for a police officer. He only got as far as ‘I’m so—’ in the same time. Which was cute, but I still totally won. ‘I am taking this stalker threat of yours seriously,’ he said, after we concluded our apology sprint. ‘Just because I don’t think it’s related to the Trapper case…’
‘I know. I should trust you to do your job.’ And I mostly did. I was feeling guilty now, about keeping Claudina’s evidence secret from him, but what could I do? She had to be the one to change her statement again. I couldn’t do it for her.
‘I—’ Bishop ran his fingers through his hair. When it was longer, he would have tugged at the curls, but it was too short for that right now. A shame—I rather liked those curls of his. ‘I don’t know if Clayton is right,’ he admitted. ‘But I don’t have the clout to go against him, not without any more evidence.’
I shouldn’t have said what I did to him earlier. What did I know about solving crimes? I didn’t have any evidence to help, not yet. I’d keep my mouth shut until I did. ‘I’ve been horrible to you,’ I admitted. ‘Without Dad around—’
‘You don’t have him to push against any more,’ Bishop said. ‘It feels like—you’ve been trying to push against me, instead.’
I was horrified. ‘I’m not looking for a replacement Dad.’
‘Good! Because that would be—’
Unsettling, to say the least. ‘Icky, and wrong. It explains all the shouting, though.’
‘I used to wonder why he shouted at you all the time,’ Bishop said, sounding depressed. ‘I thought maybe he didn’t understand you…’
‘He understood me.’
‘But you’ve been acting like such a brat, and he wasn’t here to do the job—’
‘Hush, I get it.’ I stepped a little closer, and tilted my head to one side. ‘That explains the shouting, Senior Constable Bishop. It doesn’t explain the snogging.’
He looked embarrassed. ‘I wanted to remind you that I’m not … your dad. Or your big brother, or anyone remotely related to you—this is all pretty twisted, isn’t it?’
‘Hell yes,’ I said, and leaned forward to take his lower lip between my teeth. He went very still, and I nibbled my way around to the side of his mouth. Then, just as he tried to kiss me properly, I slid away to press my teeth lightly against the side of his neck.
Bishop made a small noise, and stroked the base of my spine, his fingers creeping under the hem of my top.
I concentrated on his neck for a little while. Such a nice neck. I mapped it, all the way up to his ear.
‘Tabitha?’ he said, sounding a long way away.
‘Mmm?’
‘Will you have dinner with me, tomorrow night? Actual “eating and talking” dinner?’
I was a fraction away from nipping his earlobe when the question sank in. ‘You mean, like a date?’
‘Yes.’
I leaned back to look at him. His eyes were darker than I had ever seen them before, and he was still stroking my back. This was so much more pleasant than screaming at each other, but terrifying at the same time. ‘That’s crazy talk.’
‘I know.’
‘Okay, then.’ I was about to go back for his ear when reality crashed back. Darrow was in the other room, and he had something important to tell me about my ping pong ball stalker. ‘You’d better go now,’ I said quickly. ‘Um. Because otherwise I will have to ravish you on the kitchen table, and I’m far too busy for that sort of thing.’
Bishop laughed, and tugged my ponytail. ‘Do you have someone to stay with you tonight?’
For a minute, I thought he was propositioning me, but then I remembered. Stalker. Right. ‘Yep. Ceege. All good. Tomorrow, then?’
Bishop laughed again, and oh that was a gorgeous sound. As he left, I resisted the urge to lick the back of his neck.
I locked the door behind Bishop, and ran into the café to finish the conversation with Darrow. He, of course, had skipped out the front door with Kevin while I was distracted.
One of Kevin’s exercise books still lay on the table where he had been working, with the words LATER scrawled across the cover.
* * *
‘He knows something,’ I howled at Stewart. ‘Darrow knows, and he couldn’t wait five minutes—’ while I pashed a police officer in my kitchen ‘—to tell me about it.’
‘Tabitha, I’m working,’ Stewart protested, barely looking up from his computer.
I paused. ‘Excuse me, what now?’
‘Simon didnae care I was running around with ye as long as I brought in the stories, but I havenae written a single post since the coffee fair, and now there’s a list o’ people I need to call and make appointments with—’
‘Oh. Actual work.’
‘Ye didnae even bring me coffee,’ he said sullenly.
‘Fine. Make it all about you.’
Stewart leaned back in his chair. ‘Ye cannae do anything about Darrow until he turns up again, right?’
‘Right.’
He waved a hand airily at me. ‘So cook something. It will make ye feel better. I’m going to be stuck here most of the afternoon. If Darrow wants to tell ye anything, at least he’ll be able to find ye.’
Wow. He was actually telling me to go back to the kitchen. ‘If you’re going to be sensible, I don’t think we can be friends any more.’
‘Do ye want me tae stay over tonight?’ he asked, when I was almost at the door. ‘I mean—will Ceege be home?’
For a second I thought I had just received my second proposition of the day, then I remembered. Stalker. Funny how I kept forgetting that part. Apparently denial is the only way to get things done. ‘He might be, but I’m never sure. I’d like it if you could stay. If it’s not a bother…’
‘S’fine, but I’ll have to go by me place to pick up clothes first. Around six?’
‘Okay.’ I waved a finger at him. ‘There won’t be nearly as many snuggles on the couch, though. I don’t want to make Bishop jealous.’
‘You always want to make Bishop jealous.’
He did have a point. Sadly. ‘That was before we were dating,’ I said with a nod.
Stewart looked sceptical. ‘Ye stopped bitching at each other long enough for Bishop to ask ye out?’
‘For dinner,’ I said, trying not to sound like I was still in high school.
‘You’ve known him for how long?’
‘Ten years.’
‘And you started flirting with him how long ago?’
‘Pretty much straight away.’
‘With actual intent?’
‘Six years.’
Stewart shook his head. ‘And he still wants to buy ye dinner first. Man’s a fucking saint.’
‘You are simply jealous because you don’t have a date with a hot policeman.’
‘Oh, aye. Green with envy. Run away, Tabitha. Leave me be.’
He was hiding his extreme heartbreak suspiciously well, what with those shooing motions and everything.
* * *
I spent the afternoon catching up with my regular suppliers by phone, and cooking up a storm for tomorrow’s reopening. I was in a Bavarian mood, and happily made herb soup, marinated vegetables for a salad, and constructed an epic pork and cabbage casserole.
The kitchen smelled amazing by the time I packed all the food away in the fridge, and I found myself thinking fondly of Bavarian Bruno, the third worst boyfriend in the world, and his gorgeous mother Hélène, who let me work at her restaurant and taught me everything I ever n
eeded to know about sauerkraut.
I wondered about Bishop’s mother Elena, and how many Greek recipes she had shared with me over the years. Damn it, he might not have anything but an Aussie accent, but he still fit the pattern. That thought was more depressing than it should have been.
By 6 pm, I had scrubbed the café spotless, and finished all the prep work for a nice, easy day tomorrow. I had checked that Nin, Lara and Yui were all clear on who was taking what shift for the rest of the week, and was feeling pretty cheerful by the time I closed up and headed over to pick up Stewart from his manky flat. I took Kevin Darrow’s exercise book with me, in case Darrow and his kid sidekick turned up again.
Stewart’s door was unlocked. ‘Are you in?’ I called as I let myself through. ‘Also, did you not get the memo about stalkers? Your security’s worse than mine.’
‘Entertain yerself for a minute, can ye?’ Stewart yelled through the bedroom door. ‘I cannae find my shoe.’
‘That’s what they all say.’ I stole a banana from his kitchen and peeked into a few of the more intriguing boxes still littered around the living room while I ate it.
‘Anything exciting happen today?’ Stewart asked finally, strolling out of his bedroom with shoes on both feet.
‘Apart from the lust of my life finally getting off his arse and propositioning me?’
‘Aye, apart from tha’. If ye want tae brag, get girl friends.’
‘Also Darrow finally turning up and annoying the hell out of me as only he can?’
‘I know that, too. Has nothing happened since?’
‘It was a slow day. Mostly, I cooked.’ I swallowed the last bite of banana. ‘Stewart, you’re not a fan of romance novels, are you?’
He gave me a shifty look. ‘Why would ye ask?’
‘It’s an obvious assumption. You made something of an online pest of yourself when you went after Diana Glass. You slagged off the whole genre in Vogue.’
‘Aye,’ he said suspiciously. ‘So?’
‘I can’t help wondering why someone who hates romance novels so very, very much, has a whole stack of them stashed behind his couch.’
‘Tabitha!’ he yelped. ‘A man’s couch is his castle. Keep the hell off me turrets.’
‘I only peeked a bit. One turret.’
‘Yer a menace tae society.’
‘You say the sweetest things.’ I checked the books off on my fingers. ‘Heart Aflame, by Diana Glass. Five copies. Bodyguard’s Choice, by Diana Glass. Five copies. Portrait of Desire, by Diana Glass. Four copies. Multiple copies of the same book, all by the same author. Do you know what that says to me?’
Stewart crossed his arms defensively. ‘Stalker?’
‘Author copies,’ I said with great relish. ‘You’re Diana Glass.’
‘That’s insane.’
‘Actually, I think it’s hilarious. Still doesn’t explain who the woman on the phone was.’ I grabbed at his portfolio and flipped it to the page of the gorgeous brunette woman. ‘Or who this is, for that matter. Unless you’re way better at drag than Ceege, and I don’t think that’s possible.’
Stewart pulled the portfolio away from me, looking mad as hell. Possibly I had overestimated how amusing this situation was. ‘Have ye been listening in on me phone calls?’
‘Not intentionally! My bathroom has mystical eavesdropping superpowers. How many super-sized long blacks will it take before you tell me who the woman in your author photo is?’
My mobile rang, saving Stewart from having to answer. It was a new number. ‘Hello?’
‘Not easy to have a conversation with you when you keep entertaining the police,’ said Darrow in that warm and melty voice of his.
I switched the phone to speaker, and waggled my eyebrows at Stewart to indicate how open and sharing I was. ‘You could have stayed. I got rid of Bishop as fast as I could.’
Darrow gave a throaty laugh. ‘Yeah, I heard how hard you were trying to get rid of him.’
Okay, I was blushing. That was embarrassing. Regretting the speaker phone. Moving on. ‘Anyway…’
‘Did you get my present?’
I frowned. ‘All you left me was some exercise book.’ I wiggled my hand expectantly at Stewart, and he pulled it out of my handbag, thumbing through the pages.
‘Thought a clever lady like you would have figured it out by now,’ drawled Darrow.
Stewart held the book open to a page full of sketches. Line drawings of poles and traps and nets, and the inner workings of electrified ping pong balls, surrounded by scientific notations in a neat, childlike handwriting. ‘What. The. Fuck,’ I said aloud.
I could practically hear Darrow smirking, that beautifully dressed rat bastard. ‘Thought this conversation might go better at a distance. I know what you’re thinking now, and you’re so very wrong.’
‘Your baby cousin Kevin is the Trapper.’
‘See, I said you were wrong. Kev came up with the designs, sure. I asked him to.’
Stewart pushed a chair at me, and I sat down in a hurry. ‘You’re the Trapper?’
‘Not even that, Darling. Keep up. I told ye: I’m writing a novel.’
‘A lot of that going around,’ I couldn’t help snarking. Stewart rolled his eyes at me.
‘I’m serious,’ Darrow went on. ‘A fabulous detective novel. It’s going to revolutionise the genre. That’s why I went AWOL, I was on a writing retreat.’
‘To write a novel.’ The universe kept making less sense.
‘Sure, Darling. I got little Kev to come up with those traps months ago, to use in my book. He’s a smart cookie, that one. But someone else has been using his traps for real.’
‘Why should I believe you?’ I demanded.
‘Darling, it’s me. Do you really believe I’d swan around building dodgy man-traps and stuffing ping pong balls in your handbag? Don’t I have a bit more class than that? What would I even wear for such an enterprise?’
‘Fine,’ I muttered. ‘But who built the traps, if not you?’
‘My laptop was stolen a few months back—your nice cop friends got it back for me, which I never expected. But whoever took it had access to my manuscript and scans of Kev’s notes from that book you’re holding.’
I pressed my lips together. ‘A laptop thief happened across your sketches and got inspired? Or someone knew about your work in progress and used it deliberately?’
‘The latter’s not unlikely,’ Darrow admitted. ‘Possibly I talked about my manuscript to a few people. Customers of your café, mostly. I’m very proud of it.’
‘Possibly,’ I repeated. ‘Not helpful. Remember any specific people you told?’
‘I talk to a lot of people. I’m friendly.’ There was a long pause. ‘I can think of one person I told about it,’ Darrow said finally. ‘Mocked me thoroughly, the wench. And she’s had access to my house, where the contents of my laptop are backed up on my desktop computer. She didn’t even need to steal the laptop, unless she did that to steer suspicion away from herself.’
‘Xanthippe,’ I said quietly. Zee, whose life I hardly knew anything about these days. Who was working for a band that needed serious publicity. Whom I had left in charge of Claudina, the only witness who might help the police learn the truth about the death of Julian Morris. ‘I’ve got to go.’ I ended the call, but made sure to save the number.
‘Do ye really think—’ said Stewart. He didn’t finish the question, but I knew what he was worried about. He liked Xanthippe. Hell, I liked Xanthippe. I wanted us to get back something of the friendship we’d let slip through our fingers. I still didn’t trust her as far as I could throw that waterlogged Lotus of hers.
‘Let’s find out,’ I said.
Stewart handed me my overstuffed handbag. ‘Saw ye put those Diana Glass novels in yer handbag.’
‘I have some reading to do.’
‘Really wish ye wouldnae.’
‘Tell me everything about the woman in the author photo on the way to Claudina’s, and I might ch
ange my mind about reading all the juicy bits in your novels. Aloud. To Ceege. And all of our friends.’
‘This would be why I write under a pen name,’ Stewart groaned.
20
‘It’s not exactly a long drive,’ I pointed out when we had driven three blocks, with Stewart yet to spill his guts even a little bit.
He gave me a weary look. ‘I’m still working on the part where it’s any of yer business.’
‘Stewart,’ I gasped. ‘How can we have secrets? You know all about my love life.’
‘Not by choice as I recall.’
I waved him off. ‘Not important. I want to know who the “Di” on the phone is, if you’re Diana Glass.’
‘Dinah Leiber,’ he said reluctantly. ‘She was—is one of my best friends. We shared a flat for a while, in Melbourne.’
‘Not a girlfriend?’
Stewart looked embarrassed. ‘I wouldnae have minded, but she had other ideas. She got married a couple of years ago. Went off to be a theatre designer in San Francisco.’
‘And she didn’t mind you plastering her face all over the internet as the author of romance novels?’
‘I didnae put her face on the internet,’ he protested. ‘Well, not exactly. I needed a female author photo for the press release of the first book, year before last, and she let me use one I’d taken of her. She figured it wouldnae affect her, since she was in another country.’
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘I hear they have bookshops in America.’
‘The internet thing was an accident,’ Stewart confessed. ‘I did the Vogue article a couple of months back tae drum up some publicity for book sales, and then … it went viral, and so did the bloody photo of her. Di only found out about it recently, when friends from Melbourne started emailing her tae ask about her secret life as a romance novelist…’
‘You won’t come out of the closet to let her off the hook?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ he said fervently. ‘I have a reputation as a cynical reporter now. Fluffy bodice-rippers dinnae fit with tha’. Simon would think I was a complete wanker—I might lose the Sandstone City gig, and I like this job.’
‘But you’re happy for people to think you’re an internet troll,’ I sighed. ‘Honestly, boys.’