by Livia Day
‘If you could just answer a few questions,’ Bishop said.
A gaggle of girls came in, laughing, and went straight to the counter.
‘You don’t mind if I deal with my customers first?’ Margarita said, and started talking to the girls before Bishop could answer her.
My eye was caught by a cabinet of glassware and cheap jewellery. ‘Shot glasses,’ I said aloud. Tiny trifles in shot glasses. Perfect. ‘Ow!’
A large hand came down and grabbed me by the shoulder, and pushed me out of the shop. ‘Police brutality! I object.’
‘Why are you following me, Tish?’ Bishop said, his face all thundery.
I resisted the urge to be turned on by his dominant personality. ‘It’s not always about you, Leo sweetie. Sometimes, it’s about shopping.’
He gave me a very suspicious look. ‘You’re not playing girl detective again, are you?’
‘Again? That’s so unfair. There’s supposed to be an amnesty about stupid things you did when you were sixteen.’
‘Tabitha…’
I held up my hand. ‘Guide’s Honour. No girl detective. I happened to be in the area, and I remembered reading about this place on Stewart’s blog, and I thought, ooh, a secondhand clothes boutique I didn’t previously know about. You know my lust for pre-1980s cocktail wear is ever and eternal.’
Bishop sighed. ‘To my shame, I do know that about you. Also, that you were kicked out of the Girl Guides.’
‘Well, then.’ I smiled brightly. ‘Any leads on the murder?’
‘Tabitha.’
‘I’m interested. It happened in my building. I saw the body. I’m still kind of creeped out by the whole thing. I would like to know that my favourite police officer is going to make an arrest soon, so I don’t have to think about it any more.’ I paused. ‘So does Sandstone City have it right? Does your presence here mean there is a connection between the dead busker and the Trapper?’
Bishop looked as if he had eaten something horrible. Not my cooking. ‘You’re still hanging out with that Scottish bloke, then.’
‘Didn’t we already have this conversation? And before you ask, I don’t google my friends. You know, unless I’m bored. Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you evaded my question about the murder.’
‘It probably wasn’t a murder.’
‘You said murder inquiry,’ I reminded him.
‘We were considering the possibility, but he died of an overdose. Needle was still in him. Accident and suicide are looking the most likely. And I’d better not see any of this turning up on your friend’s blog,’ he growled. ‘But … you don’t have to worry about murderers running around your building.’
I got that he was trying to be comforting, but was he kidding me? ‘Swinging in a giant net in a building where nobody knew him? How do you get from that to accident? Is that Inspector Des’ big theory? And where does the Trapper fit into that anyway?’
‘Tabitha, you talk too much. Do I come into your café and start telling you what to serve?’
‘Yes, actually. All the time. It’s very annoying.’
Bishop stopped looking like a human being and started looking like a big angry police officer again. ‘I’ve got work to do. Go home.’
I didn’t want to argue any more, and my berries would be getting warm in the car. ‘Fine.’
‘Have you seen Anderson?’ he called after me.
‘Yep, this morning. My DNA is officially no longer a suspect.’ I made a face at him, as I opened my driver’s side door. ‘He wouldn’t tell me anything interesting about the case, either. Bastard. Like I didn’t introduce him to his last two boyfriends. Like I didn’t get him tickets when The Cure came to town.’
Bishop looked pained. ‘Just try and keep your nose for gossip in check during the investigation, okay?’
I blew him a kiss, and headed for home.
Except, I didn’t. I drove along to the dock, and ate a punnet of raspberries beside the bright blue water, watching the little white sailboats dart back and forth in front of the postcard-pretty city of Hobart. When I had allowed enough time to pass for Bishop to interview Margarita and head off to solve crime elsewhere, I went back to the shop.
Because, you know. Shot glasses.
7
By the time I made it back to the café, it was nearly time for the lunch rush. I took the counter, left Yui (my other art student) driving the cappuccino machine, and Nin in charge of the kitchen. That’s usually the best way to do it—Nin isn’t overly compatible with customers.
I also had to throw marshmallows at Stewart until he got down off my wall, and put the tables he had been standing on back the way he found them.
‘I need painting time,’ he protested.
‘I have customers! We’re closed on Sunday, if you can wait that long,’ I told him. ‘You can have the place to yourself most of the day, and we’ll have time for the paint fumes to clear overnight. Don’t you have an actual job, in the meantime?’
‘If I use acrylic there won’t be much smell—sealing the final result might stink the place up for a few days but it’s not essential—means the work ages more naturally.’ Stewart grinned at me, and then an even wider grin at Yui as he accepted a cup of coffee from her. I was going to have to fire both of them. ‘Also, I blogged the blue muffins this morning. Slow news day.’
‘You’re going to get typecast as the food reporter,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
Stewart shrugged. ‘Simon’s away covering the comics convention at the Town Hall, so he asked me tae hang around and keep an eye on the police investigation for follow up posts.’
‘Do mysterious deaths really make Hobart seem like more of a happening place?’ I suppose it beat landscape pictures of the mountain and cartoon Tassie Devils.
‘Sadly, it does.’ Stewart leaned in, regarding me closely. ‘So, Tabitha Darling. What do ye know now that ye didnae know yesterday?’
‘Do I have Nancy Drew written on my knickers now?’
‘I wouldnae be shocked if ye did.’
‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’
He grinned and shook his head. ‘Think ye can tempt me with modern literary references and yer underwear? I’m no’ that easy.’
The trickle of customers suddenly swelled to a torrent, and hardly any of them were police officers—except good old Gary, of course, who had probably been sent ahead to check the menu for pies and report back to his superiors. ‘Come back after two,’ I told Stewart. ‘I’ll bribe you with food.’
‘I feel oddly cheated,’ he replied, with a wicked grin.
* * *
As soon as the lunch crowd eased, I abandoned Nin and Yui to immerse myself in the possibilities of custard combined with berries, cherries and other sources of deliciousness. I left some sponge cake soaking in homemade lemon-and-raspberry juice jelly, with a good splash of limoncello. I had a cherry curd chilling in the fridge. The new shot glasses were freshly scoured, washed and gleaming on a tray.
Oh, and I had already eaten my own body weight in fresh fruit. It’s a bad thing to skip lunch on experimental recipe days.
It wasn’t working. The shot glasses made for great bite-sized trifles, but you could hardly squeeze enough fresh raspberries in to make the enterprise worthwhile. By the time Stewart turned up, I was depressed about the whole thing. Also a bit queasy, and craving salty things.
‘So what do ye have for me?’ he asked, from the doorway of the kitchen.
‘Margarita talked to me. Of course, she talked to Bishop first, which makes it less of a victory.’
‘I have no objections tae the police being as well informed as I am,’ said Stewart, stealing a handful of cherries I was about to drown in three different kinds of brandy. ‘They’re no’ exactly our main competition.’
‘Which police officer gave you the information about the Trapper in the first place?’ That was one thing I had been wondering about. Bishop would not be happy about one of his people spreading rumours.
‘Called himself Victor,’ Stewart shrugged. He sat on Nin’s favourite stool, and ate more cherries. ‘Constable, I think. Youngish.’
‘I don’t know a Constable Victor.’ But then I didn’t know Heather, either. Things were looking up. I might eventually become a total unknown to Tasmania Police. When I was fifty. ‘What happened to protecting your sources?’
Stewart gave me a funny look. ‘He didnae ask to be anonymous. The postal worker in the cage did.’
‘But you didn’t quote Constable Victor directly in your stories?’
‘I’m no’ stupid. Even saying “a police source” would have yer Bishop breathing down my neck. Giving Constable Victor’s name would make certain I get no more information from him, ever. Tabitha, why on earth are ye putting jellied sponge in those perfectly good shot glasses?’
‘It’s supposed to be teeny weeny trifle,’ I said. ‘But there’s no room for whole raspberries or cherries.’
‘Does it hae tae be trifle?’
I stared at him. Brilliant. Thinking outside the box. ‘Truly, you are a prince among Scotsmen.’ I started another jelly, only this one was made from raspberry juice, lemons and—after a moment’s thought—some champagne left in the fridge from the last private party I’d let Lara and Yui hold here.
The cherries could go on top. Where else would they go?
‘Wasnae difficult,’ Stewart said, around another mouthful of my precious, precious cherries. I took the bowl away from him. ‘I loathe trifle. My granny used to make it slimy and gritty at the same time.’
‘She was doing it wrong.’ Stewart’s granny had to be a pretty special person to make trifle both slimy and gritty.
‘So…’ he said now, pretending to be casual. ‘What did this Margarita say?’
Ah, the metaphorical mutual flashing of underwear. ‘She said Bishop was a Spanish bull in a previous life, which I really couldn’t argue with. Then she said that cats were the superior species and they’re just waiting for us to die so that they can become the super-species of the planet, and I was going to run away very fast at that stage, but she distracted me with some Jackie Kennedy pillbox hats until I calmed down. Then she started telling me all about how some bastard set up a trap in the street, and her cat got caught in the net. She said it was about the right size for a person, but it was under a tree, not done with poles like the one upstairs.’
‘Does she hae any of the pieces?’ Stewart asked quickly.
‘Nah, she cut the cat free and took him home. The next day, when she went back, the whole thing had been dismantled.’ I hesitated. ‘Do you think Crash Velvet are in on this? I mean, is it some freaky publicity stunt?’
‘Killing some bloke is gaein a bit far,’ said Stewart. ‘Even metal bands don’t tend to be that hard-edged.’
‘Bishop said…’ I swallowed, remembering Bishop telling me that Stewart wasn’t to be trusted. ‘And this is totally off the record, but it probably wasn’t murder. The busker died of an overdose, and they’re thinking it was accident or suicide. Which suggests that his death was drug related, though Anderson wouldn’t confirm that for me. Maybe … Crash Velvet had a party or something and the guy overdosed and they thought they’d use it to their advantage.’ That was the creepiest train of thought I’d had in a long time. Never mind cherries—it was time to start eating custard straight from the bowl.
‘Maybe,’ said Stewart. ‘But they’re pretty damn clean-cut as rock bands go. I mean, blue muffins and Facebook? That was their big plan to conquer the internet? Also, I don’t think they have parties up there. They rehearse during daylight hours, but I’ve pulled a couple of late nights at Sandstone City, and they don’t even turn up their telly loud enough for us tae hear it. I’ve known Boy Scouts who were less considerate neighbours.’
I ate some more custard. ‘Maybe the traps are … random. And the dead body is just a dead body.’
‘Could be,’ said Stewart. ‘So we have three traps, one in Bellerive, one in Dynnyrne, and one upstairs. Randomly.’
My spoon hovered halfway between my mouth and the bowl. ‘The postman’s trap happened in Bellerive?’
‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s where Margarita’s was, aye? The postman lives in Dynnyrne. Parliament Street.’
I stared at him. ‘Margarita’s shop is in Bellerive, but she lives in Dynnyrne. Well, Sandy Bay, but the street where her cat was netted is, like, just around the corner from Parliament Street.’ And about thirty seconds from my house. Holy crap.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘I … this is starting to feel kind of personal. Margarita and this postman of yours both live close to me. And the busker in the net was here upstairs.’
‘So,’ Stewart said slowly. ‘What do ye want tae do?’
Throw myself into Bishop’s bed until the danger has passed. ‘I think,’ I said, licking my spoon. ‘I think maybe it is time to start playing girl detective.’
Stewart took the bowl away from me. ‘Too much sugar, lassie. I’m cutting ye off.’
‘No, I’m serious. I want to know what’s going on, especially if it’s in my back yard. I am a genuinely nosy person, and Bishop’s never going to tell me.’
‘This isnae a murder mystery like in a book. Red herrings, and the suspects called to the drawing room for tea and revelations.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I’ll help you with your story. Maybe we can make sense of it together.’ I had to do something. Standing still was not a very appealing idea right now.
‘I’m no’ denying I could use yer help. Native guide and all that. But … can we no’ tell Bishop about this? I like my balls where they are presently.’
‘He’s not that scary,’ I protested.
Stewart was sceptical. ‘Tabitha, he looks at me like he wants tae kill me. Every time he sees me in the same room as ye. The man has homicide on his mind, and I dinnae mean because he’s a detective.’
For some reason, that made me a tiny bit happy. Was that wrong? ‘I can keep a secret if you can. We have a while before my jelly sets. Fancy hunting some buskers?’
* * *
Some of my earliest memories are of the Hobart mall—back in the day when kids were let loose on wooden play structures while their parents were shopping. The place has had a few revamps since then, though for all its café tables with big umbrellas and strange plexi-glass sails over the top, it still has that small town vibe about it.
Not small town enough for me to feel safe walking through the mall alone at night, or anything. But … small.
Mid-afternoon is shopping time in the city. There were people everywhere. Where people congregate, so do buskers.
I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so easy, but buskers love attention, and most of the ones we met were happy to pose for Stewart’s camera when he mentioned the Sandstone City blog.
When I asked—casually—if any of them knew a male violinist with long, dark hair, most of them knew whom I was talking about. Apparently, our corpse was pretty memorable.
‘Sure. Morris.’
‘Haven’t seen him around today.’
‘You want to find him, ask his girlfriend.’
I lit up at that clue, but it didn’t lead anywhere. ‘You know his girlfriend?’
‘Nah, just keep a look out for red-haired chicks.’
At least three separate people confirmed that Morris always dated redheads, but none of them were able to supply a second name, the contact info for a specific redhead, or any tangible information. Stewart gave out Sandstone City business cards, and we left handfuls of spare change in a dozen different instrument cases.
‘Stewart,’ I said as we gave up and headed back, ‘keep an eye out for redheads.’
‘Ye always give me the difficult jobs,’ he said, not sounding like he minded.
‘Cherchez la femme.’
‘How do ye even know there’s a femme?’
‘There’s always a femme. Luckily, I have a job that allows me to list
en out for gossip. Speaking of which, we have to speed it up before Nin takes out a hit on me. I promised I’d let her go early today.’
As we approached the café, I spotted a drug dealer on my doorstep. ‘Oh, hell.’
Tim Lockwood and I were at college together—he was the kind of guy you always saw at parties selling weed, but never actually saw in class. It shocked the hell out of me when he turned up in Film Studies and turned out to be amazingly knowledgeable about Audrey Hepburn and Elizabeth Taylor as well as 80s schlock horror.
Locks used to look scruffy and disreputable … but these days, he looked like crap. So thin he was practically translucent, wrapped in a stinking stockman’s coat even on the warmest days, and always sucking a cigarette. I glared at him. ‘I have the local police in and out of my café on a daily basis, and you reckon it’s a good idea to sell dope on my doorstep?’
Locks’ bright eyes glittered out at me from behind round glasses. ‘You know I don’t sell out in the open, babe. Give me some credit.’
‘No, you go across the road to the cathedral instead. Very classy.’
He shrugged. ‘Any chance of a coffee? Nin wouldn’t let me inside.’
‘I don’t blame her. That coat smells like something died in it.’ I sighed. I was a soft touch, and he wasn’t a bad source for gossip. ‘Go round to the courtyard. I’ll be out in a minute with your coffee. But I’m not going to feed you.’
‘Good decision, cutes,’ Locks said, inhaling the last of his cigarette down to ash and flicking it into the gutter. ‘Do that, and you’d never get rid of me.’
8
It had never occurred to me that Stewart had anything in common with Bishop, but there was a look on his face when I brought out Locks’ coffee … mildly fierce and protective, and very familiar. Fair enough. I didn’t trust the dealer too far either—though it is difficult to think of someone as all bad when you’ve heard them ranting about the inherent sexism of 1960s Brit cinema.
