‘What are you doing?’ she said.
‘Have to change the battery.’
Drifting, dreaming, falling, drowning, waking. Finally sleeping. Through the bubbles, she heard ‘Kiss You All Over’.
It was Cam on the phone, flustered: ‘Maree Carver didn’t turn up at the studio, and she’s not answering her mobile.’ It sounded like he was driving. ‘We have to film them for the next series of farmers’ market TVCs.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Her voice was croaky.
‘The cooking demos!’
She cleared her throat and rubbed her eyes.
‘You’re gunna have to do it.’
She glanced at the alarm clock: 6.45am. ‘No fucking way.’
‘Don’t worry. Maree must’ve got confused and thought I said to meet at the market. When she turns up, you can go home.’
‘No, Cam.’
‘Pick you up at the ferry shelter in Paynesville at 7.30.’
‘No …’
He’d already hung up.
7
The body of a woman has been found in McMillan Strait, near the Paynesville shoreline, the 3GR radio announcer said.
Fisherman Jim Woodward alerted emergency services just after 1.30 yesterday afternoon. Mr Woodward told 3GR he was walking along the wharf when he spotted something unusual in the water.
Mr Woodward said he called police after he saw the woman’s head, covered in long blonde hair, and shoulders floating near the Bateau House restaurant.
Homicide Squad detectives and local police have spoken to a number of witnesses at the scene, and launched an investigation into the woman’s death.
The woman is yet to be identified but is thought to have been aged in her thirties.
Detective Senior Sergeant Steven Williams of the Homicide Squad said no further details were available. He appealed to anyone with further information to call Crime Stoppers.
And now for some music: a little ditty ’bout Jack and Diane.
At any given time, on a commercial radio station somewhere, this song was always playing. Brigitte changed the car’s station. She sipped Gatorade and watched Cam erecting the One, Two, Three, Cook! marquee on the wet grass. It was bright red, heavy-duty — more professional than the surrounding striped jobs from Bunnings. She could see Cam’s mouth moving, so she turned down the radio and opened the door to hear what he was saying. A breath of cold air swirled into the vehicle. Cam dropped one of the poles on his foot and swore.
‘I said, “can you come and help me get this bloody thing up?”’ He pushed his hair off his face.
She stepped out of the car, woozy, and walked across to help.
‘Thought girls couldn’t help with your erections.’
‘True. And it’s been a long time since you were a girl.’
‘If you’re going to be mean to me today, I’ll just go home.’
When the marquee was standing, Cam set up a trestle table and gas cooker. Brigitte went in search of coffee and looked at some of the other stalls on the way: Greg’s Native Plants, Island Honey, Mike’s Meats. She bought three bars of organic vanilla-bean soap. The stallholders were gossiping in hushed voices about the body found in the strait. They stopped talking when she approached.
‘What’s Aidan say about it?’ Cam asked as she placed two coffees on the trestle table next to a stack of Maree’s Family Cooking books.
‘Doesn’t know anything yet.’
‘Must have creeped him out.’
‘He was in the Homicide Squad, Cam.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Lot worse things then.’
‘Gross job.’ Cam struck a match, cupped a hand around it, and tested the two burners on the cooker — cold, blue flames — both working. ‘OK, we’re ready. Cooking with gas, baby.’
She shook her head and rolled her eyes. ‘I can’t believe you’re making me do this. Won’t people be disappointed Maree Carver’s not here?’
‘Some. And others will be happy you’re here.’
‘Who?’
‘Your fans.’
‘What fans?’
‘You’d be surprised how many calls we’ve had since your ad went to air.’
She twisted her mouth.
‘Creepy old men ringing the station, asking for your phone number. Here, put this on.’ He threw the One, Two, Three, Cook! apron at her. ‘I’ll get the ingredients out of the car.’
Sunny from Sunny’s Aromatherapy shop rushed in at 8.00am to set up her stall next to One, Two, Three, Cook!’s. She laid out poles on the ground and Brigitte helped assemble them.
The wind ballooned Sunny’s purple dress, and threatened to snatch the canopy from Brigitte’s hands as Sunny showed her how to attach it to the roof frame.
‘Yesterday, the …’ Sunny couldn’t even say it, ‘in the water.’ She connected the poles to the corners of the marquee and stood it up. ‘My friend was late home from work and the whole time I was worrying, what if it was her?’
Sunny secured the marquee with sandbags while Brigitte started a display of bath salts.
‘Smell this,’ Sunny said, holding out an opened amber bottle of some lotion or potion. ‘Mandarin, patchouli, ylang ylang, and flax. Very sensual.’
Brigitte sniffed. ‘Mmm. What’s flax?’
‘Linseed oil. Good for dry skin. Take a bottle. And some yellow clay mask. It’s a new recipe.’
‘Thanks.’ Brigitte took the goodies to her stall and placed them under the table.
It started to rain as Cam struggled from the car with a big cardboard box, fresh herbs waving over the sides. He dumped the box on the table and swiped his hands together.
‘Lotta stuff in there,’ Brigitte said.
‘Lotta cooking demos to do.’
‘You do know I can’t cook?’
‘Culinary-challenged.’ He started unpacking the box. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve left a message with Gary from the Bateau House to come down and help you, in case Maree doesn’t turn up. You’ll just have to stand next to him and look pretty.’
The line of market-goers ambling from the car park was thickening. The smell from the chaplaincy sausage sizzle made Brigitte’s stomach growl. People came over and asked when Maree Carver would be there. Cam told them Maree was running late but they’d been lucky enough to get Brigitte Serra, and an award-winning chef from the Bateau House to help. Some people smiled and nodded; others walked away. One man thought Brigitte was Maree Carver and asked her to sign a book.
At ten o’clock, Cam said they should get started without Maree or Gary.
‘Give them five more minutes?’
‘No. The first demo’s easy. Harissa. No cooking involved.’ He looked up the recipe in the book, and lined up ingredients and a mortar and pestle. Then he walked away.
She yelled after him, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Won’t be a sec.’
A guy in his late twenties — blond hair and pouty lips — came over with a big smile and a tub of a yellow-lidded honey.
‘Gary?’
‘No. Tate Evans, new production assistant.’ He swapped the honey to his left hand and held out his right to shake with Brigitte’s. He looked at her for too long, as though he knew her from somewhere.
Cam came back with two bottles of olive oil. ‘Hey, Tate. You and Brigitte’ve met? Good.’ He started finely chopping a bunch of parsley. ‘All you have to do,’ he said to Brigitte, ‘is grind up the dry ingredients, then mix them with the parsley in the big bowl. A splash of olive oil, pepper, salt — that’s it. Give it out to people in these.’ He placed a stack of disposable bowls next to the mortar and pestle. ‘With a bit of pita bread.’
She was staring at him, rabbit-like. He clicked his fingers. ‘Come on. You’ll be fine. Tate and I’ll just be out the front, filming you.’
She pasted a
smile on her face, pushed up her sleeves, and smoothed her apron. ‘How much of the dry ingredients?’
‘Couple of tablespoons each. We’ll do a few batches,’ Cam said as he set up the camera with Tate holding an umbrella to protect it from the rain.
She followed Cam’s instructions, concentration creasing her brow. It wasn’t hard, really.
‘Hey, Brig,’ Cam called from behind the camera. ‘Don’t forget to smile.’
She scowled at him.
The rain eased to a drizzle, but the clouds were grey and lumpy — mashed potato left too long.
When they ran out of harissa ingredients, Cam helped Brigitte move onto fried haloumi with rocket leaves. She wondered what kind of family Maree Carver had in mind with these recipes. The twins and Ella would never eat anything green, and Aidan thought coriander was exotic.
Still no Maree Carver or Chef Gary. Cam rang them both, without success.
‘How friendly were they at the Bateau House on Thursday night?’ Brigitte said.
‘Are you suggesting they might be marinating something else?’
‘Cam!’
‘You have a dirty mind, Brigitte Serra.’
She didn’t laugh. ‘Cam, you don’t think …’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t be silly. She’s just fashionably late, like she was for dinner. She’s a prima donna.’ He adjusted the neck strap of her apron, smoothed it, and went back behind the camera with Tate.
Brigitte fried haloumi slices in a heavy-based frypan. She was getting the hang of this.
‘Careful not to let it get too hot,’ Cam called.
‘Yes, Cam.’ She turned the haloumi over with tongs: golden brown, perfect. She served it on beds of rocket.
Kumiko came past with a bag of organic apples. She rushed behind the stall, dumped the apples, and hugged Brigitte. ‘How are you? How’s Aidan?’
Brigitte’s breathing was constricted by Kumiko’s python-like squeeze. ‘We’re both fine.’
‘Really?’ Kumiko released her grip and studied Brigitte’s face as if examining a specimen under a microscope.
Brigitte proffered a bowl of haloumi and rocket, sticking a toothpick in it.
‘That’s good, Brig,’ Cam called. ‘How about a smile, Kumi? The food is so yummy.’
Tate wandered over to say hello to Kumiko. His wavy hair had curled in the rain. Brigitte could see why Cam had chosen him for the job.
‘You should have come yesterday,’ Kumiko said to Brigitte, between bites of haloumi. ‘Matt Elery.’
Her heart flipped in her chest.
‘That’s where I recognise you from,’ Tate said to Brigitte. ‘The bookshop.’
Brigitte ignored him, pretending to be busy arranging bowls.
‘He was so nice.’ Kumiko drooled. ‘Had these amazing blue eyes.’
Brigitte felt herself blush.
‘Get out of the way now, Kumi and Tate,’ Cam called. ‘You’re blocking my shot.’
Kumiko poked out her tongue.
‘Might use that for the next Gip TV promo.’
Brigitte started on the second batch of haloumi.
‘Hey, Barbie,’ Cam called to her, ‘here comes Ken.’
She looked up and saw Aidan walking across the oval. He was with a stocky man a head shorter. The shorter man was wearing a black suit. At the farmers’ market, for fuck’s sake. His arms arced at his sides like an ape’s. Mirrored sunglasses, strawberry-blond crew cut, chewing gum, a little too much swagger. The twins dragged their feet behind the men, eyes on their iPods. What the hell was Phoebe wearing? A tight denim skirt that barely covered her bum. They’d be having words about that later. Ella held Aidan’s hand, chattering away.
When he reached the One, Two, Three, Cook! stall, Aidan stooped to look under the canopy. ‘Here’s something you don’t see every day.’ He leaned on the trestle table and half-smiled, dark shadows etched beneath his eyes.
Brigitte thought about the flinch as she shook the pan, too vigorously, and a piece of haloumi jumped over the side.
‘Remind me again why you’re here,’ Aidan said.
‘All part of God’s plan, apparently.’ He didn’t look amused. Join the club. ‘Filling in for Maree Carver,’ she said.
‘The telly chef?’ Aidan frowned, and she went cold: he knew exactly where Maree Carver was, but couldn’t say. He turned to his offsider. ‘Brig, this is Detective Steve Williams from Homicide. In charge of the investigation.’
She recognised him — the wading guy.
He shook her hand and looked her up and down. She glanced sideways at Aidan; he rolled his eyes.
‘No relation to Constable Brandon. Or the ferryman — and don’t pay before he gets you to the other side.’ Williams laughed at his own joke. ‘Bit like Tasmania down here.’
‘Gotta go in to work for a bit,’ Aidan said. ‘Leave the kids with you?’
Brigitte looked around, at the stall, at Cam and Tate. ‘OK.’ She shrugged, couldn’t really say no. ‘Want to try some?’ She stabbed a toothpick into a serving of haloumi.
‘What is it?’
‘Haloumi.’
‘Yeah, but what is it?’
‘Fried cheese.’
‘I’m right, thanks.’
‘I’ll try some,’ Williams said, taking the chewy out of his mouth.
Aidan went behind the stall and bent to kiss her. ‘Be careful.’
Brigitte gestured a hand to the surrounding stalls. ‘Of what?’
He frowned again.
Cam watched the two detectives walk away towards the car park. Brigitte elbowed him.
‘Allowed to look,’ he said.
She glanced at Tate, who was perusing a manila folder of notes.
‘He ever wear a uniform?’ Cam said.
‘How long do we have to stay here?’ Phoebe was whining, sitting cross-legged on the ground at the back of the marquee. ‘This is boring.’
‘Don’t sit like that,’ Brigitte said. ‘I can see your undies.’
Phoebe ignored her and went back to playing a game on her iPod.
‘Can I have some money?’ Finn said.
Brigitte sighed and found ten dollars in her purse for him. Phoebe jumped up and held out her hand, too.
‘Don’t go out of the market,’ Brigitte said as they walked away.
‘OK, Mum,’ Finn called over his shoulder. Phoebe didn’t look back.
‘Now for the fish,’ Cam said.
‘Fish!’
‘Warm flathead with spinach salad.’
She screwed up her nose as he took the flathead out of a plastic bag. ‘I’m not touching it. It stinks.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s fish.’ He sliced the flathead into bite-sized pieces, then wiped his fishy hands on a tea towel and threw it to her.
She recoiled and dropped it. Tate laughed; she glared at him as she picked it up with the very tips of her fingers.
She splashed a little olive oil into the pan, and floured and fried the fish.
‘You don’t need your notes anymore,’ Cam said to Tate, and he placed them on the table.
Joe and Sylvia came over.
‘Where’s Maree Carver?’ Joe asked.
Fashionably late. ‘Not here yet.’
He gave Brigitte a quick lesson on cooking flathead. He said Cam had sliced it incorrectly — hadn’t used a sharp enough knife. Sylvia rolled her eyes, and wandered off to look at Greg’s native plant stall.
Ella pulled at Brigitte’s apron.
‘Not now, Ella. Mummy’s busy.’
‘It’s OK,’ Cam said from behind the camera. ‘Let her help you. It looks cute. Pass Mummy the spinach, Ella.’
Detective Sergeant Ray Perry — Rough-As-Guts Ray — stopped to try some fish. ‘Terrible business yesterday.’ He h
ad a gravelly voice, like a pack-a-day radio shock jock.
‘Is that other man from your work coming today?’ Ella interrupted. ‘From the bookshop.’
Brigitte knocked over the oil, and mopped the spill with the tea towel.
‘Can I have an ice-cream?’ Ella tilted her head and smiled. ‘Two scoops?’
Brigitte narrowed her eyes. She gripped the frypan handle to take the fish off the heat; it was hot and burned her fingers. She swore under her breath and shook out her hand.
‘You right, love?’ Ray said.
‘Fine.’
‘Haven’t had a floater for yonks.’ He clicked his tongue and shook his head.
It couldn’t be … ‘Cam!’ she called as she wrapped the tea towel around the handle. ‘Try Maree Carver again.’ The tea-towel corner dangled in the flame; she dropped it on the table as it caught fire. The wind rustled through the trees and whipped around the marquee canopies.
Cam pointed and flapped his arms. Tate rushed towards them.
The burning tea towel caught on the tablecloth and Tate’s folder of notes; flames leaped up the side of the marquee and spread quickly across the signage at the top.
Cam screamed at Brigitte and Ella to get out of there; somebody call the fireys. Ray went to find a fire extinguisher as Greg’s native plants started to catch.
8
Brigitte put Kumiko on speaker while she looked for calendula ointment in the bathroom cabinet.
‘No weak, rapid pulse or cold, clammy skin?’ Kumiko said. The first-aider at the market had said to watch for signs and symptoms of shock, and given out fact sheets. ‘Rapid breathing, dizziness, nausea?’
‘No.’ She applied the ointment to the frypan-burn on her hand.
‘Pale face, fingernails, or lips?’
She looked in the mirror. ‘Just embarrassment.’ And dread of Cam’s jokes: Is it hot in here or did Brigitte Serra just walk in? Put away the matches … He’d get months of mileage from this.
She took her phone to the kitchen, stirred the noodles on the stove, and heard helicopters whupping as Finn flung open the door. ‘Something’s going on in Paynesville!’ he shouted.
Dead in the Water Page 4