A Trifle Dead: Cafe La Femme, Book 1

by Livia Day

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Stewart.

  ‘My cake stall always brings in the most money,’ said Bev with pride. ‘Though I do have to wrap them in brown paper for the ladies to take away.’

  Stewart slid a professional camera out of his bag, and started setting up a tripod. ‘This could get us more hits than the fellae who taped bacon tae his pets.’

  ‘That’s good, is it?’ said Bev.

  I gave her a hug. ‘Stewart’s going to make you an internet porn star.’

  ‘Well, it’s about time someone did, dear.’

  Stewart pulled the curtain open to let the natural sunlight into the room. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

  I followed his gaze. ‘Oh, crap.’ A familiar female figure was leaning over the back fence, sunshine bouncing off her reflective sunglasses. She was wearing another one of those form-fitting catsuits, this one in purple.

  ‘Xanthippe Carides,’ said Bev. ‘I haven’t seen that girl in ages.’

  ‘She looks like something out of a Bond movie,’ said Stewart. He lifted his camera, and took a few shots as if it was his automatic response.

  His reaction annoyed me way more than it should have done. ‘She’s probably casing the joint,’ I muttered.

  ‘Invite her in for tea, darl,’ Bev suggested. ‘I’ve got the jug on.’ She crossed to the table, scooped one of the nearest bare-breasted beauties on to a plate, and cut into it with a bread knife. Baked sugar crumbs exploded around her. ‘Some pav with your tea?’

  Stewart took her photo. ‘Ye’re brutal, Mrs D.’

  Bev grinned at the camera. ‘I also make dioramas using French pastry, marzipan and lollies. I’ve got a delicious Lord of the Rings battle in the outdoors fridge-freezer. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried to put elf ears on an army of jelly babies.’

  I slipped out and headed for the garden.

  * * *

  When Xanthippe saw me, she ducked back behind the high wooden fence. She still smelled of strawberries. Expensive ones. Maybe with a little guava thrown in for good measure.

  ‘Hey, Zee,’ I yelled. ‘When I said to beat the information out of his grandmother, I was actually kidding!’

  She popped her head back up, her face unreadable behind the mirrored glasses. ‘Darrow owes me.’

  ‘So what, you’re going to interrogate Bev to get to your ex-boyfriend? Very sad, Carides.’

  ‘Maybe I was trying to find out if he’s hiding here.’

  She sounded innocent, but I knew her better than that. Xanthippe was built of stubborn. This was a woman who had devoted the last ten years to locating and wearing fruit-flavoured perfumes in order to prove a point. (Yes, after arguing said point with me.) If she wanted to find Darrow, nothing would stop her.

  I crossed my arms, well aware that we had three different schools of martial arts between us, and she had all of them. ‘He’s not.’

  ‘Checked all the rooms, have you?’

  ‘I don’t know what Darrow’s done to piss you off lately, but he went to ground ages ago. He was working on one of his mad projects, spent more time than ever banging away on his laptop in a corner of the café, and then poof! No Darrow. If he’s really done something wrong, you think he’s going to hang out here, where Bev and her Supernanna Telepathy can worm his secrets out of him over a single cup of tea?’

  Xanthippe hesitated. ‘You have a point. I’d better find out what she knows, the old-fashioned way.’ She looked past my head, and waved cheerfully.

  Bev stood at her flyscreen back door. ‘Tea’s ready,’ she said, in one of those firm voices they teach at Nanna School. ‘Come on in, you two.’

  Xanthippe vaulted the fence so fast that my muscles twitched in sympathy.

  ‘No funny stuff,’ I warned, and she laughed at me.

  I so have to learn a martial art. This was getting embarrassing.

  * * *

  I have never been able to sit in a room with Xanthippe Carides without being uncomfortably aware of the differences between us. I was jealous of her thick, glossy dark hair and legs that went on forever even when we were best mates at school. She’s even more gorgeous now, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it used to. Nope, not at all. Good to be a grown up.

  I have a figure that I’m perfectly fine with, thanks very much, even if it’s more suited to vintage hand-me-downs than low-rider jeans. Who wants to wear low-rider jeans (or freaking catsuits) anyway? A cook who doesn’t eat the food is a suspicious thing. Also, I fill a bra better than she does.

  My hair needs serious help of the chemical variety to make a shiny honey blonde ponytail (or ginger or chestnut or um pink, but blonde right now) instead of something that straggles on in a charming shade of mouse, but hey—I like to play with colour. Art is fun.

  In short, I’m not remotely jealous of Zee’s effortless grace and glamour. Also I hadn’t at all locked away in my brain the priceless image of her covered in raw egg to relive over and over. Because I’m a good person.

  Once Stewart could be dragged away from photographing Bev’s masterpieces, we all sat down in a very floral living room, balancing cups of tea and plates piled high with meringue boobs and coconut cookies.

  The cups and saucers were real china, but not matching sets. Bev loves antique shopping, but will only buy one piece at a time.

  ‘I was looking for your grandson,’ said Xanthippe, sipping from a porcelain cabbage.

  ‘That’s easy, love,’ said Bev. ‘He’s staying with me while his mum’s on the mainland.’

  Xanthippe coughed. ‘He’s here?’

  ‘In his room, working away. Home schooling,’ Bev added in a loud whisper. ‘Don’t believe in it myself, but his mother has funny ideas about him being a genius.’ She went to the door. ‘Kevin! Come and have some bikkies, luv. Cordial’s in the kitchen.’

  ‘Right,’ said Xanthippe, slumping back into the chair. ‘I was probably thinking about a different grandson.’

  I gave Bev a hard look, wondering if she was doing this deliberately. Dotty oblivious old lady was one of her favourite disguises.

  An extremely short Harry Potter lookalike entered the room, glanced at us all with disinterest, and selected a heavy book from the shelf. ‘Sugar’s unhealthy, Nan,’ he said from behind his oversized glasses. ‘I’ll have a banana.’

  ‘If you like, darl,’ she said to his back, as he shuffled out of the room.

  ‘I didnae think children were called Kevin these days,’ said Stewart.

  ‘Well, my daughter-in-law is very old-fashioned,’ said Bev. ‘Or incredibly trendy. I can never remember which. But of course you meant my older grandson, Xanthippe. I know the two of you were … close.’

  Close like a forest fire and an arsonist.

  ‘He hasn’t been around the café for weeks,’ I said helpfully.

  ‘I did want to catch up with him, while I’m in town,’ gushed Xanthippe, all bubbly and innocent. Pfah.

  ‘He’ll turn up,’ said Bev. ‘I’ll let him know you were asking, love.’

  Xanthippe put her cup down, running out of polite. ‘I’d better be going. Thanks for the tea, Bev.’

  ‘I need to get my goodies back to the café,’ I said. ‘Bev—there’s an American cruise ship in dock tomorrow. Any chance of some shortbread kangaroos?’

  ‘No problem at all, luv,’ said Bev. ‘I could throw you in some convict kisses as well.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Thanks for the story, Mrs D,’ said Stewart, shaking her hand politely. ‘I’m gonnae hae a hard time topping this one.’

  She smiled at him. ‘You just come back at Christmas, my darling. My gingerbread brothels have to be seen to be believed.’

  As I collected my boxes of goodies from the kitchen, I saw Kevin Darrow tapping away at something on a laptop. He reminded me of his older cousin, drilling away at a keyboard when his enthusiasm was firing on all cylinders, like he couldn’t download the information fast enough from his brain. ‘What are you writing?’ I asked.
>
  ‘How comic book merchandise insults the intelligence of nine-year-olds,’ he said.

  ‘Tank Girl was always my favourite,’ I said, awash in happy nostalgia.

  Kevin gave me a look that clearly said: ‘I do not get your pop culture references, strange old lady,’ and I backed away quietly under his scornful gaze.

  5

  Stewart spent the drive back to the café thumbing through the memory on his camera. ‘These came out great. I owe ye one.’

  ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘I’ve been telling Bev for years she should get a website and go into the Hens Night catering business. Maybe this will give her the right push.’

  ‘Well,’ Stewart said as I parked my little blue Renault in my favourite loading zone. ‘It’s nae quite a mysterious murder, but it’s a good start.’

  Oh, yes, the murder. I hadn’t forgotten, but it’d been nice to pretend for a little while.

  ‘If you want to thank me properly, you could do a story on the eating habits of a certain kinky formal wear rock band, and throw in a plug for the café.’ I batted my eyelashes at him. ‘Crash Velvet order a dozen blue muffins from me every day. What’s that about?’

  He laughed, and kissed me on the cheek. Friendly and yet intimate. I resisted the urge to put on a Jane Austen frock and swoon. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Great meeting ye, Tabitha.’

  ‘Yeah, you too.’ I lifted my meringue boxes out of the car, and watched him head back towards my building. Nice arse. Probably gay. So it goes.

  ‘And where the hell have you been?’ barked a voice, as I carried my load into the café courtyard. Bishop.

  I looked at my boxes with Bev’s Cakes printed across the top. ‘Obviously I was working my other day job as a strippergram.’

  ‘You’re a witness in a murder inquiry. You can’t go swanning off without telling us.’

  ‘I’m sorry, they didn’t cover that in murder witness school. Anyway, who says I’m a witness? I had my eyes closed the entire time I was looking at that dead body.’

  This wasn’t Bishop and I being particularly cranky with each other because of the dead body in my building. This was how we always were with each other.

  Bonking, shagging, screwing—all things that Bishop and I should have done years ago. There was no bonking him now. He had never quite got over the fact that, once upon a time (ten years ago!), I was sixteen years old while he was one of my dad’s constables at the incredibly grown up age of twenty. For some reason, he’s never given me the credit for growing up.

  When Dad skipped the state for his new life of blissful retirement, things between Bishop and me went from bad to worse. The past three months had been particularly dire. I don’t need an older brother figure, especially one that I want to lick honey off. It’s bad for my psyche.

  ‘Are you going to leave your car there?’ he demanded as I walked past him and let myself through the kitchen door, balancing boxes on my hip.

  I sighed. ‘Parking inspectors get free coffee. But they have to pay for their own cake. Otherwise, it would be bribery.’

  It was a good line, and I was hoping he would let me end on it. But Bishop hates not having the last word.

  I nodded to Nin as I set the boxes down on the table, and she fetched clean biscuit jars from the cupboard so we could store our loot. The cheesecakes went straight into the fridge.

  ‘Who’s that bloke you were with?’ Bishop demanded, filling my doorway.

  I stacked melting moments into a jar, while Nin did the jam drops. ‘You’re the police officer. Detect me.’

  ‘Stewart McTavish, resident of Melbourne until a week ago,’ he rapped out.

  I paused. ‘Don’t know if he’s into women, do you? Because you could save me some time…’

  ‘He’s only been here a week, Tish, and there’s a suspicious death in the building where he works? I can’t believe you just went driving off with someone you’d barely met. Aren’t you smarter than that?’

  ‘What can I say? He has a cute accent, it made me giddy.’

  ‘Are you actually trying to make my job difficult?’

  ‘No, I’m naturally difficult. The job thing is an unexpected bonus. How is my love life or distinct lack of it anything to do with you?’ I glared at him. ‘Why are you in my face? No leads? Been taken off the case? Wait—did Constable Heather get promoted over you already?’

  Bishop sighed, and looked very tired. ‘Can you try and stay out of trouble for a few days?’

  ‘That’s lovely. You’re the one who goes finding dead bodies all over the place, and I’m supposed to stay out of trouble? I was delivering muffins.’ I finished with the biscuits and started slicing brownies, possibly with more violent knife action than was actually required. Nin, who usually did that job, sensibly stayed out of my way.

  Bishop looked as if he was trying not to put a fork between his eyes. He gets that expression around me a lot. ‘Anderson will need to see you,’ he said finally, writing a number on one of my many sticky note pads, and attaching it to the fridge. ‘Some time today. He needs to take DNA samples to eliminate any bits of you they find at the scene.’

  ‘Technology,’ I said, slightly impressed. ‘Hey, if I was the murderer, it would be the perfect crime. You’d have to cross me off the suspect list.’

  ‘You’ll always be on someone’s suspect list, Tish.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said as he made his exit. ‘Be a policeman.’

  Half a minute later, Stewart McTavish popped his head in the same door. ‘He seems a mite pissed off, that copper o’ yours,’ he observed.

  ‘Lack of chocolate,’ I said, tossing him a brownie off-cut. ‘Shouldn’t you be blogging about naked meringue ladies?’ I tried not to be quietly smug about the fact that Bishop would have passed him on his way out.

  ‘Need coffee first. Coffee is the essential fuel tha’ keeps any good journalist on his toes.’

  ‘Didn’t we just have tea?’

  ‘Tea is not coffee. Tea is a thirst quencher and occasional calming agent. Coffee is a lifestyle choice.’

  He seemed twitchy, but I’d known plenty of caffeine addicts in my time, so that seemed normal. ‘Help yourself,’ I said, gesturing to the always-full staff coffee pot on the bench.

  Stewart found a mug and filled it. ‘That’s the stuff. Should ye no’ be charging me for these beverages?’

  ‘Did we not discuss how you were going to plug my café in your widely-viewed tourist blog?’ I said in mock-surprise. ‘Oh, wait—we did!’

  He grinned around his coffee, and caught my sticky note as it fluttered off the fridge. Bishop may solve crime, but he’s lousy with stationery. ‘DNA testing. Dinna believe in it, meself.’

  ‘Is this a religious objection?’

  ‘Cultural. I blame forensics for the death of the good old-fashioned detective novel. Wha’s the point of crime fiction when they feed all the details into a computer and it prints out the name of the murderer?’

  Nin, who loves all those sexy forensic shows on TV, made a little strangled noise at the blasphemy.

  I took Stewart’s coffee from him, which made him whimper. I filled his arms with bikkie jars, and pushed him through the door to the public part of the café before bloodshed occurred.

  Lara, working at the counter, stopped fiddling with her butterfly-tipped blonde dreadlocks long enough to smile flirtatiously at Stewart. He eyed her, and they exchanged a few words while he figured out where to put all the jars. Hmm. Further evidence that he might not be gay. On the other hand, I was now going to have to fire Lara.

  Stewart frowned at my posters and my collage of Vogue covers.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I said defensively.

  ‘You need a mural there,’ he said, nodding at the feature wall. ‘All this paper—it’s a bit scruffy.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a reliable mural artist in this city? Not to mention the expense.’ I checked out his dog-eared grey jeans and rumpled hair. ‘Anyway, if you want to talk scr
uffy…’

  ‘Och, don’t get personal.’ He was eyeing my walls in the same way that the dental technician I dated last month had eyed my teeth—like he was longing to fix them up. ‘I’m sensing a theme in your posters here. Did ye not hear about the 1960s being over?’

  ‘The 60s are eternal,’ I gasped.

  ‘And the 50s too, I suppose? Ye havnae even settled on an era or a single style—it’s a mess.’

  ‘Vintage fashion fusion isn’t a mess,’ I said, gritting my teeth. ‘It’s a spiritual philosophy.’

  ‘Fusion, you say?’ He didn’t sound convinced. ‘Ye need real art, to get an idea like that across.’

  ‘And I suppose you know a great mural artist who knows his fashion history and works for coffee and crumbs, possibly the occasional sandwich?’

  A sideways smile this time. ‘As it happens…’

  ‘Oh, no.’ I gave him a push back towards my kitchen. ‘I’ve hung out with writers and artists before. You are so procrastinating. Go back to your computer and blog the porn meringues. I am not your project.’

  ‘I was thinking maybe after that…’ Stewart said, as I pushed him through the kitchen, slapped his mug into his hand, and kept pushing him out the back door. ‘I need more coffee,’ he called pitifully.

  I closed the door on him. ‘If he comes back here with a paintbrush,’ I warned Nin, ‘don’t let him in.’

  I like my vintage posters. If I get bored with them, I can change them. I was not getting roped into feeding stray Scotsmen in exchange for wall art.

  ‘Your new bloke?’ Lara asked as I carried the last of the bikky jars into the café.

  ‘No,’ I said, more emphatic than I had intended.

  ‘Good,’ she said with a smirk. ‘Nice arse.’

  * * *

  Between three and four in the afternoon, it gets almost as hectic as lunchtime. The whole city’s blood sugar and caffeine levels plummet at the same time, and the workers and shoppers cram into the cafés with wild eyes and handfuls of money.