Live and Let Bondi
Page 26
“Could be worse, I guess,” said Nat.
Adam raised his eyebrows. “It could?”
“Oh yeah,” she said with a grin. “Sure, your entire company might be falling apart, but at least you’ve got your two best detectives on the case.”
The End
The Story Continues In
Gone Ghoul
Hey there, lovely reader!
You're looking mighty fine today. Have you done something with your hair?
* * *
I'm here to ask you a teeny tiny favour. In return, you'll receive my eternal love and affection...
* * *
If you liked this book, will you please leave a review?
* * *
OK, so you'll get my eternal love and affection anyway, but I would appreciate it so much if you'd take the time to write just a sentence to let people know what you thought of the book. That way more people will be able to find it and read it, and I'll be able to afford to pay rent. And eat. And boy, do I love to eat.
* * *
Eternally, lovingly and affectionately yours,
xx Clare
Have you joined the Readers’ Group yet?
No? Then you should head over to clarekauter.com/freestuff immediately.
* * *
Why?
* * *
Well, friend, because you'll get:
A FREE copy of the Charlie Davies prequel 'Short Fuse', PLUS 'Losing Your Head' and ‘Deadhead’ if you haven't picked up your copies yet
TWO EXCLUSIVE EXTRAS: an interview with Satan (based on the 'Damned Girl' series), and Charlie's school counselling report (which her counsellor would probably also describe as an interview with Satan)
SNEAK PEEKS into new books before they're released
INSIDE INFORMATION about upcoming sales
BEHIND-THE-SCENES of writing my books (which to be honest is mostly me lying on the couch covered in crumbs, but hey – you'll be right there with me. I know, the glamour is too much!)
What are you waiting for? Join me in the Readers' Group! It's like a cult, but less terrifying.
Also by Clare Kauter
Baxter & Co. Mysteries
Live and Let Bondi
Gone Ghoul
Hark! The Herald Angels Sting
The Charlie Davies Mysteries
Losing Your Head
Unfinished Sentence
Graceless
Higher Learning
Santa’s Little Helper
Undetected
Caught in the Act
Raising Hell
New Year, Screw You
Strip Joint
Breaking News
Not a Clue
* * *
The Charlie Davies Mysteries Books 1-3
The Charlie Davies Mysteries Books 4-6
The Charlie Davies Mysteries Books 7-9
The Charlie Davies Mysteries Books 10-12
Charlie Davies Shorts
Short Fuse (Prequel Novella)
Cut Short
Short Straw
Fall Short
Damned Girl
Deadhead
Sled Head
Hell’s Belles
Loch Nessa
Vampire Campfire
Gods and Frauds
King Thing
* * *
Damned Girl Books 1-4
Damned Girl Books 5-7
Hellfire College Romances
When the Moon
Shadow & Shade
Killer Kiss
Hold Me Deer
Ride or Wrong
Curse My Luck
Dragon Me Down
The Death of Me
For an up-to-the-minute list, head to
clarekauter.com/allbooks
About the Author
As a kid, Clare Kauter tried to break up fights among her classmates by reading books to them. It went about as well as you’d think, but she didn’t let that discourage her.
* * *
Clare began writing her first novel, Losing Your Head, at age thirteen. It was published eight years later and the Charlie Davies Mystery series was born.
* * *
Now a full-time author, Clare writes across a number of genres, including contemporary and cozy mystery, paranormal mystery and paranormal romance, although whatever the genre her books are always guaranteed to make you laugh out loud. And maybe swoon a little.
* * *
She’s currently somewhere near a computer with a mug of tea or coffee in hand (OK, maybe wine – but it’s in a mug, so how would you know?), writing her next novel at top speed so you never have to wait too long for something new to read.
Find Clare Online:
www.clarekauter.com
clare@clarekauter.com
What now?
Now that you've finished this book, you're probably wondering what comes next on your reading list. I'm guessing that since you've made it this far, you're a fan of mysteries. And hey, maybe you want to spend a little more time in the world of Baxter & Co. investigations.
* * *
If so, I have a suggestion for you…
* * *
I've included the first chapter of my book ‘Losing Your Head’, which you can pick up in its entirety for free from clarekauter.com/freestuff.
* * *
If you're unsure, why not give it a try? After all, it's free. What's the worst that could happen?
Losing Your Head
Chapter One
Why is it that every time you do something you hope no one will notice, you get found out?
I read once that the chance someone’s watching you is directly connected to how much of an idiot you’re making of yourself. I know this is true, because I screw up a lot and I have never gotten away with it.
It has been that way since the day I was born – when I did a poo during my first ever bath, which my father kindly documented on film so that he may bring it out at dinner parties forevermore – and it will probably be that way until the day I die. Given the number of ridiculous injuries I incur on a daily basis, that day can’t be too far away. Frankly I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long.
I know I’m not the only person who gets embarrassed, but I seem to receive more than my fair share of public humiliation.
Just look at my time in high school. I did a lot of stupid things in the space of those six years. (Yes, six years – I went to an Australian high school, I’m not just really bad with numbers. Well, OK, I am, but not bad enough to mess up counting how long I was in school. Or to get held back twice.) All the idiotic things I did in that time were noticed. And all were highly embarrassing.
As early as my first high school assembly, the rest of the school learned my propensity for bad luck when I was called upon to receive an award. The laughter started the second I stood up and began walking towards the stage. I ploughed on regardless, hoping against hope that there was some event entirely unrelated to me that was causing this hysteria. I made it up to the stage, peals of laughter ringing through the hall, and accepted the certificate. That was when the man presenting the award leaned forward and whispered, “Your skirt’s tucked in at the back.”
I know what you’re thinking. ‘OK, that’s mildly embarrassing, sure. It’s hardly next-level though. To be honest, I was expecting a little more.’
Well, my friend, you will not be disappointed.
Realising that my bottom was on show to the entire school, I whipped around, trying to hide it. Unfortunately, however, my feet became tangled in a microphone cord and I tripped right into the man presenting the award – also known as the school principal. We both flailed awkwardly for a time, but it was in vain. Down we went, right over the edge of stage left, taking out a few members of the school band on our way down.
Luckily, I came out relatively uninjured. The teacher I had landed on top of (one leg either side, straddling him) was less fortunate. He tried to hold back the tears, but I saw them glistening in the
corners of his eyes. He kind of took the brunt of the fall.
He transferred schools not long after.
From then on, people at school were always quick to ask whether my ‘boyfriend’ would be giving me an award at the next ‘arsembly’. I don’t even remember what the award was for. I just remember that I made sure I was at the bottom of the class in every subject for the rest of that year to ensure there’d never be a repeat of the headmaster-humping disaster.
Even after I finished school, if I bumped into someone down the street who knew me from Gerongate High, I still got that same line. Honestly, it was getting a bit old. I mean, c’mon, I’d finished school two years ago. Why were my teachers still tormenting me?
My propensity for messing things up wasn’t confined to my school life, either. In fact, my misfortune (exacerbated by my chronic clumsiness) didn’t appear to have any confines whatsoever. Every time I thought it had hit the absolute lowest point it possibly could, it plunged to new, previously unfathomable depths.
Take my last job interview. Exactly the kind of circumstance where my anti-superpower thrived.
Things got off to a bad start for me when I was walking into the interview room and realised – drumroll please – my skirt was tucked into my undies at the back, revealing them to the world.
Oh yes. Again.
I know. You’d think I would have learned my lesson the last time. Or that, like, after nearly two decades of multiple trips to the bathroom daily I’d have figured out the routine. But if you think that, you don’t know me.
While I was attempting to untangle the clothing wedged in my underwear, I was also trying to focus on balancing in my brand new stilettos. I had worn them in the hope of making a good first impression, although I hadn’t quite learned to walk in them yet.
See earlier notes re: never learning my lesson.
I was nearly to the chair when I fell slightly to the left. In a rare display of basic reflexes, I quickly corrected to the right – too quickly, as it turned out. With all that pressure on just one of my shoes, which clearly hadn’t been designed to be worn by a trainee, the heel gave way. There was an audible snap and suddenly I was wearing a flat sandal.
As we’ve already established, balance isn’t my strong suit. (I haven’t yet figured out what my strong suit actually is, but I’m still holding out hope that I have one.) Destabilised, I fell face first and whacked my head on the table on the way down, then it was lights out for Charlie.
While I don’t actually have the clearest memory of what happened thereafter, the paramedics (who I’ve come to know well over the years) tell me that I hadn’t shut the door on my way in, so everyone got to admire me as I lay face down on the floor, unconscious, with my hand still resting on my arse, outlining my failed attempt to pick my skirt out of my crack.
And as though that wasn’t bad enough, the only pair of clean undies I’d been able to find that morning was a G-string. Nope. I’m not joking.
The good people at the office dialled emergency services and were advised to leave the injured exactly as she was until the professionals got there, to prevent them from causing any further damage. So I guess they were treated to the view for a while.
As a side note, I feel I should tell you that not all of my humiliations involve bums and/or poo. Just the most memorable of them.
I didn’t get the job. Not that I wanted it given what had happened. After that display, I would have been more than a little concerned if they had hired me. (‘Yes, we liked your… references.’ Eek. No thank you.) Plus I probably would have been a major occupational health and safety risk. OK, I definitely would have been. All in all, I wasn’t too surprised about the outcome. But I haven’t bought shoes from Salina’s Sexy Slashed-Price Stilettos since.
Like I said, you can’t screw up and expect not to be noticed. It just doesn’t work that way. Even if you think no one sees at the time, sooner or later things are going to start to unravel and everyone is going to find out what you’ve done. That is life and, like it or not, that’s just how things go.
Sometimes it can be a good thing. Like when someone commits a crime. A murder, for instance. (Why yes, I am amazing at segues, thank you for noticing.) Obviously, it’s not great news for the person who did it, but someone’s bound to see something. There will be some piece of evidence, some hint, no matter how hard you try to hide it. Of course, somebody has to figure out what those clues mean, and that doesn’t always happen. Which is how people get away with things.
That’s what I’ve learned about crime. At least, that’s what I learned from my first case. (Did I just say my first case? Argh, that sounds so lame. Like a toy for little kids. And not even a cool toy like plastic dinosaurs or a plushie pig.)
It wasn’t like I was a professional case-solver – uh, detective – or anything. I really only did it to prove that I could and I’ll admit that I made a few mistakes, but hey, how else are you supposed to learn? Really, given my track record, it’s a wonder I survived at all.
So, anyway, My First Case ($15.99 at your local toy store) – the murder of Frank McKenzie.
Gerongate wasn’t an exceptionally large place. I mean, it was a city, but with only 300 000 people, well, it wasn’t exactly New York. Even by Australian standards, it was fairly small. It was big enough, though, that you could never know everyone like you could in a country town. You’d get people who seemed to know everyone, but that was just because they always did the same thing and never saw anyone new. I guess I noticed this during the time I spent working at Gregory’s Groceries (George Street, Gerongate – just so you can avoid it).
Every customer had a regular shopping day and time, so by the end of the first month I knew everyone’s name. Two months and I knew all about everyone’s immediate family. Three and I could name everyone in their extended family as well. Four months and they started to let me in on the latest gossip. Five months and my job really pissed me off.
On the rare occasion that we got a new customer, it was normally just one of the regulars’ kids who’d grown up and left home. That was fine, but if someone entirely new came in, watch out. The amount of foul looks they received was enough to ensure that they would never return. The way people reacted to newcomers, you’d think that they were criminals. Then again, in the part of Gerongate where I worked, change pretty much was a crime.
So I was about to do something illegal.
I guess this is about time for the boring introduction. Don’t worry – I’ll keep it short. My name is Charlie Davies. I’m nineteen, and I have sometimes-curly, sometimes-straight blonde hair (it still hasn’t decided on its true identity), and dysfunctional blue eyes, meaning I have to wear glasses. Being roughly 5 feet 3 inches (including the height of my hair on a humid day), most fully-grown humans are taller than me. Some people think I have anger management issues. I disagree with this. I disagree with most things.
If you want a concise assessment of my general personality, you could just look at the sum of notes written in my file by the high school counsellor over the course of my two year stint of therapy sessions. It was part of the anger management program that the head of the P.E. department (side note – is it just me or is ‘physical education’ an exceptionally creepy name for a school subject?) stuck me on after I attempted to assault a guy two years up from me with a hockey stick. Not that it was my fault. He had it coming.
Anyway, the counsellor didn’t have much to say about me when I took a sneaky peek at my folder while he was out getting coffee one time. All he had written was ‘snide, jaded – would not date.’
Ta-dah, my psychological profile when I was fourteen. Yes, fourteen, and I was already bored with the world. (And also apparently not worthy of the attentions of a paedophile, which is somehow both comforting and offensive.) I haven’t changed much since then, except that I’m slightly taller. By roughly a centimetre.
I glanced down at the clock display on the checkout computer. Ten to five. Ten minutes and then my shift was
over. I’d been a checkout chick at Gregory’s Groceries for more than four years now. Four years of employment at a supermarket that barely passed health regulations. Oh, joy. You’d think that after working somewhere for that long I’d at least have a bit of cash saved up. Only in my dreams.
I cast my gaze around the supermarket. Not that you could really call it that, being that there was nothing exceptionally ‘super’ about it. Supersized rats emerging at night, maybe. Perhaps you could say that the owner had superpowers in his ability to sweet talk health inspectors. It amazed me that they didn’t close Gregory’s the moment they entered and were confronted by the cat-sized cockroaches guarding the front door.
I stood there surveying my surroundings, trying to spot the owner-slash-founder-slash-manager of this gem of a store, Mr Gregory himself. Strangely enough, the man’s real name was Jeremy Martin. Apparently there had been a misunderstanding when the sign was printed and he was too cheap to get it redone, so the store remains Gregory’s to this day.