by Stella Quinn
The local school could pin up its fete notices, and maybe there was an amateur dramatic society who put on plays, sang Christmas carols in December, that sort of thing? The ski season on the upper slopes had come to an early end with the snowmelt a few weeks ago, but there’d be more events on the town’s calendar. If she was still a free woman at the end of October, Halloween would be fun.
Pumpkin scones, she thought, as she taped the vet’s flyer to the glass, would lure the Queensland tourists inside. Was that straight? She eyeballed the square edge against the windowsill. Nope. She peeled off the tape, adjusted the paper, tried again. The local kids might enjoy cupcakes decorated as little monsters, perhaps some olive and egg spiders.
She caught herself smiling at the thought of whipping up a batch of mulled wine, with dry ice and scary ping-pong eyeballs floating about in it. Maybe this café caper really was beginning to soothe her ragged nerves.
She jumped as a face popped up on the other side of the window and eyeballs, real ones, smiled at her from beneath an old-fashioned cloth cap.
‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered. Beside the elderly man towered a handsome woman wearing the largest and pinkest and dangliest—was that a word?—earrings she’d ever seen.
‘Incoming customers, Graeme,’ she called over her shoulder as she tucked the sticky tape into her apron pocket and made her way to the doorway. ‘Look welcoming.’ Like he had to be told. She plastered her happy café-owner face on and took a breath.
‘Hello,’ she said to the pair.
‘You must be Vera. Let’s take a look at you,’ said the woman, reaching out and taking both of her hands. ‘Isn’t she a peach, Kev?’
‘Ah, hello. Yes, I’m Vera. Welcome to The Billy Button Café.’
‘Marigold Jones. I expect you’ve heard of me.’
The woman disconcerted her by batting eyelashes which might have been fake. It was hard to tell, what with all the green eyeshadow and the arthouse earrings and the acres and acres and acres of flowing leopard-print frock. The name did sound familiar though. Where on earth could she hav—
‘Call me Marigold. We are going to be such friends, Vera. I knew it as soon as I saw your lovely sign. Wildflowers are my favourites, especially yellow billy buttons and pink triggers. You, my love, have taste. This is my husband, Kev.’
‘Pleased to meet you. Are you … er … needing a table?’
The steamroller’s attention had been claimed by the interior of the café, and she swooped from table to table, inspecting the cut-glass vases, pinching the white linen tablecloths, for all the world as though she was at an estate sale and wondering what to buy.
‘I’ll be taking a seat, Vera,’ said Kev. ‘Where do you want me?’
The café was empty, the last lunch-goers having left their empty plates and generous tips behind just moments ago. ‘Take your pick, sir.’
‘Now don’t go calling me sir, you’ll have Marigold thinking I’m getting old. Kev will do fine. Don’t mind my wife, she’s as nosy as she is good-hearted, and when she’s finished deciding which of those fine-looking desserts she’s going to let me buy her, she’ll be right over.’
‘Vera, my dear,’ called his wife, ‘what are you doing with this other room through the archway?’
Vera hurried from Kev’s side, bemused. Small-town living took some getting used to, that was for sure. ‘I haven’t decided. The big table was already there when I took over the lease, but the area is a bit dark, even with the fresh paint. Maybe a private dining room eventually for groups of twelve or so? I thought I’d settle in to coffee and cake, breakfast and lunch, until I get a feel for how many people in Hanrahan are dropping in. Start simple, maybe build up a little when I know what I’m doing.’
‘That’s a good plan.’
‘Thank you, I—’
‘But it’s not a great one. Now, you go and cut me and my Kev a slice of that fancy cake—the one with the layers and the toasted coconut—and bring us over a cuppa. I’ve got a new plan for you, and mine is a great one.’
Vera headed over to the counter and found pretty plates, a teapot. What was it about this town? ‘Look out,’ she muttered to Graeme. ‘This new customer’s even bossier than you.’
‘Hush your mouth. That can’t be true.’ He looked over her shoulder and grinned. ‘Ah, yes. I see you’ve met our prophet. Excellent.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Marigold Jones. She was the one who told me I should apply for the job here. She’s got the personality of a wind turbine, but she’s a gem, Vera.’
‘She’s certainly talkative. I can see why you didn’t say no when she suggested you get a job; you wouldn’t have had a chance to.’
‘Coffee? Tea? Milkshake? What’s their poison today? I can make it for you while you get acquainted.’
She gave him a quelling look, which he waved away. ‘Tea, Graeme, thank you. Two teacups. And would you mind making me an espresso? Something tells me I’m going to need it. Marigold’s invited me to take afternoon tea with them … and when I say invited, it was more like a commandment from the First Testament. She says she has a plan.’
‘Go you, girl,’ said Graeme, tamping down a dose of ground arabica beans, then sliding the portafilter into the machine. ‘Mingling with the locals. You’ll get the hang of this café business yet.’
‘Mmm,’ she muttered, and slid two slices of hummingbird cake onto the gold-rimmed plates. She debated for a mini-moment then shrugged. What were a few hundred calories here or there anyway? She cut a third slice, set them all out neatly on a tray. Worrying about her waistline was way, way down on her current list of worries.
‘You’ll have to let me know what you think of the cake,’ she said, as she set the tray down on the table in the inner room where Marigold had settled herself like a CEO at a board table. ‘It’s my aunt’s recipe.’
‘Your aunt?’ said Marigold. ‘Now this is just the sort of detail I like to know about my new friends. Tell me more.’
Vera could feel frown lines dragging her eyebrows together and cast about for a way to deflect this line of questioning. She had no interest in filling in her life details for some random woman.
‘Er …’ Poop. Where was a change of topic when she needed one?
Kev stepped in. ‘Mags, my love, eat your cake and stop being nosy.’
She threw him a smile and relented. She could share a little, couldn’t she, without the sky falling down? ‘My aunt was quite a cook in her day, but she’s elderly, and doesn’t bake anymore. Using her recipes is a way for me to connect with her.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Marigold, from around a mouthful of cake and cream. ‘This is wonderful.’
Vera felt her throat backing up and took a scalding sip of the espresso Graeme had slipped in front of her. ‘You may know the aged care home she’s just moved into,’ she said when she could trust her voice. ‘Connolly House, on the outskirts of Cooma.’
‘A hospice.’ Marigold reached across the table. ‘My dear, I’m sorry. It’s a lovely home for the terminally ill. Kev and I pop out there quite frequently, don’t we?’
Kev gave her a wink. ‘Mags is sizing me up for a room, I expect.’
Vera choked on a mouthful of toasted coconut shreds.
‘Now look what you’ve done, Kev.’ Marigold passed her a glass of water. ‘Have a sip of that while we tell you our plan.’
‘Hold your horses, love. Let her finish her cake.’
Vera took stock of her two eccentric guests. Kev was clearly older by a good margin; his skin had creased into leather the shade of aged pine floorboards. Close-cut grey hair curled tightly beneath his dark green corduroy cap. The clothes he wore hadn’t been in fashion for thirty years—a wide-legged brown suit, a cream shirt ironed to perfection, a tie that a seventies hippy would have been proud to wear to a revolution.
Marigold was only slightly less dramatic looking when seated. Her massive updo had streaks of grey through it, but the streaks were theatrical
, as though an artist had painted them in with a flourish. Vera couldn’t remember meeting a woman oozing more personality than Marigold Jones.
‘So,’ she said. ‘What’s this grand plan?’
Kev puffed his chest out. ‘It was my idea.’
She smiled. ‘Okay, and it involves …?’
Marigold reached across to his plate and spooned up the last inch of his cake. ‘It’s true. Kev pretends he’s the quiet one, but there’s a lot of action going on beneath that old cap.’
For a second Vera wished she was a teenager again, so she could roll her eyes. ‘And yet, here I sit, still clueless.’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Marigold.
‘Give her the short version,’ said Kev. ‘Girl’s got a business to run.’
His wife nodded. ‘You’re right. Okay, here’s the thing. Kev and I are on the committee of the Hanrahan and District Community Association. We have a hall down at the southern end of the Esplanade; it’s one of the oldest buildings in town and dates back to 1870. It’s in the parkland beside the historic town cemetery, and council leases the building to us on the condition we keep it restored. The community hall was the courthouse back when this district was a gold rush town, and we’ve all put in a lot of work refurbishing it back to its glory days. The cemetery, too … it has some treasures we look after: notable headstones, a few pioneers, even a woman who legend says was hanged for bushranging.’
Kev cleared his throat. ‘Even more exciting than the bushranger … there’s the roses.’
His wife patted his hand. ‘Yes, Kev does the roses. Problem with historic buildings, though, is they don’t keep pace with change. We’ve just had to close the hall to functions while we get some emergency repair work done. Turned the lights on yesterday and you’d have thought Lucifer himself was tap dancing in the wiring.’
Kev nodded. ‘Sparked like diesel chucked into a bonfire.’
‘The electrician says we can’t use it until we’ve had the ceiling down and the lights rewired.’
Vera nodded. ‘Okay. You can’t use your hall.’
‘Mrs Juggins is the problem.’
She pursed her lips. She should so have let Graeme handle this. ‘Mrs who?’
‘Hold your horses, Marigold. The girl’s not a local; she doesn’t know about the Jugginses.’
The woman gave her husband’s hand a pat.
‘Mrs Juggins is tucked up in her coffin at the funeral home waiting for us to send her off. She was one of ours, a community hall regular who ran our craft stall for, golly, I don’t know how long. Ever since I sold up the florist shop, and that’s been a goodly number of years now.’
‘Umpteen, shouldn’t wonder,’ said Kev.
‘Is umpteen a number, love?’
Kev scratched his head. ‘More than ten, at any rate.’
Vera coughed, just gently, and forced herself not to look at her watch. The lamb shanks in her kitchen crockpot must be calling her name by now, begging to be rescued. ‘Mrs Juggins in her coffin,’ she prompted.
‘Funeral’s next week to allow for her daughter to get back here from London,’ said Marigold. ‘Thursday, half past ten. The tea-and-cake afters should have been in our hall an hour later, but the wiring’s thrown a spanner in that idea. We need a venue that can cater a function after the funeral. And all the functions coming up until our hall gets the devil stripped out of its wiring. Your back room is perfect. We move the table to the side and set up a buffet, bring a couple of chairs in for the folks who aren’t so steady on their pins, the rest can stand. We’ll fit thirty in here at a pinch.’
Vera nodded. Next Thursday gave her a chance to set up a menu, think through her supplies of milk and tea and heaven knew what else. And what an opportunity to bring some locals in to sample what The Billy Button Café had to offer! ‘I might need to borrow some of your hall’s cups and saucers—I’d struggle to keep thirty sets clean and have customers in the main room being served too.’
Kev gave a satisfied humph. ‘Knew this was a great idea.’
‘Now then, Kev. Save your bragging for when you’ve brought a load of crockery over here in the ute. Maybe the big urn, too. Some of our regulars can drink tea like it’s bingo juice.’
Vera needed a pen, paper, maybe a spreadsheet. She’d need to bring forward her plan to secure a waitperson, too. Perhaps a teenager? ‘Chicken ribbon sandwiches. Mini lamingtons, mini quiches, perhaps a fruit cake and a gluten-free slice. That sort of thing?’
‘Perfect. And don’t you be thinking we’ll be skimping on payment. A hardworking girl with a business to run needs cash as well as the next person. Kev can go rustle up some crockery while you and I crunch numbers.’
Vera smiled. ‘Marigold, I’m beginning to see why Graeme was so happy to see you drop in today. You were right. My plan was good, but your plan is way, way better.’
CHAPTER
6
‘The complaint says what?’ Josh looked into the cup of coffee he’d made for himself and wondered what was off: the milk, or his culinary skills. He’d worked ten-hour days for a week straight and been called out during the night a half-dozen times. His pantry was so bare, soon he’d be eating microwaved rice for breakfast. And lunch. And dinner.
‘Some by-law about farming chickens in urban areas within five metres of another dwelling.’
‘Farming chickens? Here at the vet clinic? Is this some sort of joke?’
The receptionist, Sandy, poked her head through the door of the back office, where he and Hannah had been holed up since what felt like dawn having a read-the-mail-and-make-decisions meeting. ‘Hannah? Your seven o’clock is here.’
‘Thanks, Sandy, I’ll be right there.’
His sister shoved the letter into his hand then plucked a stethoscope from the shelf and hung it around her neck. ‘Here, you read it. It’s from the local council, official letterhead and everything. I don’t know what they’re on about. The only chicken we’ve had here in months has come in a takeaway box from House of Fu, wrapped in a blanket of hoi sin sauce and nestled in a bed of steamed pak choi.’
‘Maybe it’s a mistake.’
‘Can you contact council? I’ve got a full surgical list from now until the funeral.’
He frowned. ‘What funeral?’
His sister made a snort-like noise that sounded remarkably like a pug sneezing. ‘Josh! It’s on the calendar. Today, ten-thirty, Mrs Juggins. You better be free.’
He raised his hands. ‘I’m free.’ He’d been hoping to catch up on some much needed sleep, or at least get a head start on the drafting plans for the building renovation, but Hannah was giving him the look that suggested he better be free or else.
He followed her into the main treatment room. ‘This complaint, is it a one-off? Any other trouble with council I need to know about?’
‘No. We’re model citizens … although, better check the date on our business licence, Josh, before you call. It’s in a frame behind Sandy’s desk. I think it’s current, but we don’t want to send you in to council to shoot the lights out only to end up with egg on your face.’
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That’s about five clichés in one sentence, Han.’
She chuckled. ‘That’s why I studied science at uni, big brother. Words are so not my thing.’
‘I’ll go see them. Don’t worry, I’ve got this.’
‘I knew I hired a junior partner for a reason.’
He pulled her ponytail and left her to it. Visit to the council office, power nap, funeral. Looked like his day off was filling up.
Vera twisted the posy of daisies so their yellow heads nodded towards the sun streaming in through the window, then looked up as the bell on the door jangled.
Ah. Marigold. The whirlwind herself.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘We don’t usually see you this early.’
‘Rushed through my yoga class, my love,’ said Marigold. ‘Busy day, lots to do; thought I’d pop in and check all was in order for our little fu
nction later.’
Jeepers. Marigold looked like she was about to whip out a clipboard and start doing a food and safety inspection. She’d triple-checked everything, hadn’t she? Food handling certificate on display, bathrooms pristine and ventilated, premises thoroughly clean. Sure there was a cat who occasionally rested his paws on the step to the back alley, but she’d never let it in the kitchen.
She couldn’t afford a fine. Or notoriety. Or another brush with the law. She felt her heart rate skip into overdrive. ‘I’m pretty sure we have everything ready. Come through to the back room, Marigold. We’re just about set up and we have all the appropriate licences, I assure you. There’s wheelchair access on the—’
‘In a minute, my love.’ Marigold was hovering over the display cabinet. ‘First, tell me about these delicious-looking bundles of goodness.’
Oh! Heavens … Vera forced herself to relax. Marigold wasn’t here to judge her. ‘Er, sure,’ she said. Talking about her baking was something she could totally do. ‘Up top we keep the staples the tourists gravitate to, the old-fashioned favourites: chocolate caramel slice, vanilla slice, ginger slice. The shelf below is where we get a bit adventurous. There’s a paleo slice with carob and nuts, a baked plum and crème anglaise tart, Portuguese custard tarts. Savoury items are at this end: pork pies, zucchini and feta muffins, tomato galettes. Which takes your fancy?’
Marigold fussed about in her pockets and brought out a handful of gold coins. ‘I stopped listening when I heard the word ginger, so it had better be that one.’
‘I’ll plate it up. Do you want to take it through to the back room so you can see the preparations we’ve made for the wake?’
Marigold waved a hand. ‘My love, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need a hand. If you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll just perch here at the counter, that way I can eat and talk.’