The Blackmail Blend
Page 8
As Heather made the first call, Bishop kept moving me through the flat, and out on to the landing. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, when we were alone.
I nodded, a bit too fast. I wasn’t okay. The most drama I see in one day is a fallen sticky date sponge, or a yard full of smashed free range eggs. ‘I’m good.’
‘Did you recognise him? Is he from around here? From the café?’
I shook my head, not quite trusting myself to speak.
Bishop gave me one of those ‘she’ll be right’ awkward bloke pats on the arm, and then ducked back into the flat to do his job.
I stood alone on the landing, breathing in the musty air. After a minute or two, I pulled myself together and headed down the stairs.
kCeera charged up past me, dragging one of the Sandstone City bloggers with her, and a large camera. ‘Have they been arrested yet?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘Well, not for wasting police time,’ I replied.
About ten seconds after kCeera reached her front door, I heard a yell. ‘What the fuck?’ Which probably meant she had been informed it was a real dead body in her spare room.
At that moment I could see nothing but that horrible image of the man hanging in the net. He was young—maybe my age. I gripped the banister. ‘Real girls don’t swoon, Tabitha.’
That was good, because I was pretty sure I was going to throw up instead.
I clattered down the stairs so fast that I didn’t see another person step out of the Sandstone City flat, and we collided. The world spun.
‘Whoa,’ said a male voice. A hand caught my elbow. ‘Are ye all right?’
I stared at him, still not really seeing him, though I was dimly aware of a Scottish accent, and stubble. ‘Yes. Fine. Really very fine.’
‘Good,’ he said, which proved he was male and didn’t understand anything. ‘Did ye see which way our Simon went?’
I pointed to the upper floor.
‘Thanks,’ the accent continued. It was soothing, actually. I could pretend we were in a gritty Glasgow crime drama on TV. People hardly ever throw up in those, unless they’re crack addicts. ‘And ye are all right, then?’
It occurred to me that if I had to be asked this many times if I was all right, then maybe I wasn’t. ‘No,’ I said clearly. ‘Not.’ And I bolted down the last flight, scrabbling to open the back door.
In the side yard, confronted with a burst of sunshine and fresh, crisp March air, I stumbled over the steps and sat down in a hurry. Probably, now I came to think of it, in a mess of congealed raw egg. I covered my face with my hands.
‘Are ye planning tae throw up?’ The Scottish accent had followed me. The last thing I needed was a nervous breakdown in front of someone who sounded a bit like Ewan McGregor. ‘Because I’m bad at holding hair. I often miss.’
I looked up, peering through my fingers. He was an ordinary looking bloke, a bit on the skinny side, a lot on the scruffy side. ‘Um, no. Thanks for the offer.’
He grinned at me, and his face lit up in a way that made him a lot more interesting. ‘I dinna believe I did offer.’
‘Well, thanks for caring.’
‘Pretty sure I dinna care.’
I pointed a finger at him. ‘I’m going to stop thanking you in a minute, and then you’ll be sorry.’
He sat on the steps beside me, stretching out long legs in old grey jeans. ‘Dae your worst, kid.’
‘I just saw my first dead body,’ I confessed.
‘Bummer.’ The Scotsman nodded seriously. ‘Dead bodies are never good. Except, ye know, in Raymond Chandler novels. Anyone ye knew?’
‘No. Just random deadness.’ Deadity. Was deadity a word?
‘Thank Christ for that. My crack about Raymond Chandler wadna been very sensitive, in that case.’ He held out a hand. ‘Stewart McTavish. Comforting in times o’ crisis. Only no’ very.’
I shook it. ‘Tabitha Darling. Screams, runs away, hides head in sand.’
‘Ye look like ye need a cuppa,’ he announced. ‘Which is to say … any chance o’ a cuppa?’
Lara, one of my teen art students, had joined Nin for lunch prep, and there were only a few customers front of house, so I felt vaguely justified in sitting out in the yard with a steaming teapot, fresh lemon slices, my own neuroses and a Scotsman I was starting to think might be a bit cute. When the world sends you a morning like the one I had just had, you welcome all the distractions you can get.
‘Simon was saying I should talk to ye,’ Stewart said, inhaling a second long black while I sipped my tea and basked in the adorableness of his accent. ‘I’ve started at Sandstone City this week—the outsider’s view of Hobart—and he reckoned that wha’ Tabitha Darling doesnae know about this place isnae worth knowing.’
I laughed. ‘Simon didn’t say that. He said something like, “If you can’t find anything, go pick Tabs’ brain. She’ll do your work for you, mate.”’
‘That daes sound more like him,’ Stewart said sheepishly. ‘Any ideas? I’m still finding me way around.’
I finished the last of my tea. Distractions. Distractions were good. Anything to stop thinking about the dead body upstairs. ‘I have to drop in on an old friend after the lunch rush. I think you could benefit from meeting her. She’s an artist.’
‘Art is good,’ agreed Stewart. ‘Half the grant money comes in because we depict Hobart as a seething den of artistic talent.’ I could practically hear the sarcastic inverted commas around his words.
‘Her art is somewhat unconventional…’ I warned him.
‘Even better. Do ye think she’d let me take photos?’
I smiled, feeling a little better about the world. Almost completely distracted. ‘I think she’d be offended if you didn’t.’
BUY A TRIFLE DEAD
Join Tabitha Darling for Book 2 of the Café La Femme series in: DROWNED VANILLA
It’s the beginning of a hot, hot summer in Hobart. Tabitha Darling is in love with the wrong man, and determined to perfect the art of ice cream. Playing amateur detective again is definitely not on the cards—not even when her friends try to lure her into an arty film noir project in the historical town of Flynn.
But when a young woman goes missing from a house full of live webcams, and is found drowned in the lake outside Flynn, Tabitha is dragged into the whole mess—film crew, murder victim, love life and all.
There were two girls using the internet pseudonym French Vanilla, and only one is dead. So where is the other one? Why is everyone suddenly behaving like they’re in a (quite specific) Raymond Chandler novel? And how the hell did the best kiss of Tabitha’s life end up on YouTube?
Even ice cream isn’t going to get them out of this one.
Reviews of Drowned Vanilla
“Food and crime, together at last. This warm, funny book is murder á la mode.”—Kim Wilkins (Kimberley Freeman)
"A delicious, frothy confection, full of vintage frocks, murder, heart, and fun. Tabitha Day is my favorite mystery heroine in years…and she is anything but vanilla!"—Stephanie Burgis
"Drowned Vanilla is a deliciously intriguing Tasmanian tale of missing girls and murder. One of the most original crime novels I've read in ages, this second book in the Café la Femme series sparkles with Livia Day's unique brand of murder-mystery served with a triple helping of mouthwatering desserts, vintage fashion and romantic tension. A wonderful, exuberant and quirky novel that warms your heart, makes you laugh, and keeps you turning the pages until the very last."—Poppy Gee
BUY DROWNED VANILLA
About the Author
Livia Day fell in love with crime fiction at an early age. Her first heroes were Miss Jane Marple and Mrs Emma Peel, and not a lot has changed since then! She has lived in Hobart, Tasmania for most of her life, and now spends far too much time planning which picturesque tourist spot will get the next fictional corpse.
You can find her online at www.liviaday.com
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Copyright Page
The Black Mail Blend
Published by Deadlines
Copyright 2015 Livia Day
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