A Trifle Dead: Cafe La Femme, Book 1

by Livia Day

  ‘But why would the Trapper be interested in me?’ I protested. Sometimes denial is a girl’s best friend.

  Stewart gave me an incredulous look. ‘Ye work in the same building where Morris was found, ye live barely a street from the other two incidents, one of which involved yer step-sister’s partner, and ye were recently photographed in a clinch with one of the police officers investigating the case.’

  ‘Apart from that,’ I said weakly. Oh, hell. I didn’t like this at all. ‘Gary said they think Morris was the Trapper all along,’ I added.

  ‘And if not?’ Stewart glanced at Kevin. ‘What about yer other friend, Tabitha? The one Xanthippe suspected.’ He mouthed ‘Darrow’ at me.

  ‘No,’ I said sharply. ‘He wouldn’t try to scare me like this. The other stuff … I don’t know, maybe, but not this. I’m the only person in the state he trusts to make caramel briôche. We’re friends.’

  ‘As ye say,’ Stewart said, not looking convinced. ‘But ye have to tell Bishop about this wee ball. It might be relevant.’

  ‘He’ll shout at me,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Have we nae established yet that ye subconsciously want him to shout at ye?’

  ‘Caffeine and electric shocks make you mean.’ I bit my lip. ‘This electrocuting ping pong ball—could one of those kill a person? If the charge was strong enough?’

  ‘No,’ Kevin said primly, sounding like a university professor. ‘The charge you experienced is about as powerful as it gets. An elderly person with a pacemaker who held it in both hands might potentially be hurt, but even then I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ I accused. ‘I can just about take the mystical knowledge of electrical workings from Stewart, but you’re a kid. Is there some secret boys club that teaches this stuff?’

  Kevin tilted his glasses at me. ‘I read books.’

  And they say the internet’s dangerous.

  15

  ‘Is Gladstone Street around here?’ Stewart asked as we left Kevin Darrow and his scary little brain with his nanna.

  ‘Sure, it’s just up the hill. What’s in Gladstone Street?’

  ‘Dr Pembroke’s office.’

  I eyed him warily. ‘How much coffee have you had? I don’t think a GP will have a stomach pump…’

  Stewart laughed, a maniacal caffeine-laced laugh. ‘Dr Pembroke happens to be the well-respected dentist whose wife threw a hissy fit two days ago at the Jiggle Bits…’

  ‘Jiggle It Fitness Hub,’ I corrected. The words were apparently burned into my brain forever. ‘Stewart McTavish, you’re not doing detective work, are you?’

  ‘I prefer the term journalism. Want tae come with?’

  ‘Hell yes!’

  * * *

  ‘You didn’t tell me it was a party,’ I complained a little later, as we arrived at the swanky dental offices. What the hell kind of dentist has a ballroom? The reception area looked like something out of a fancy hotel, and was filled with elegant people drinking champagne and orange juice out of flutes.

  ‘Did I not?’ said Stewart, snagging us a couple of drinks as he surveyed the crowd. He looked particularly scruffy surrounded by the pretty people. ‘Possibly I was afraid ye would add glitter tae the occasion.’

  I took my glass of bubbles, and then elbowed him. ‘Luckily, I always look good. They might take one look at your last century jeans and kick you out, though.’

  Stewart wasn’t bothered. ‘The trick is to look like ye belong.’

  ‘I belong everywhere.’ I eyed the hors d’oeuvres platters. There’s something very wrong about sushi made with semi-dried tomatoes and pine nuts. Seriously. And the vegetarian sausage rolls looked like something had died inside them. ‘Ten to one their caterers are ripping them off.’

  ‘Not the story I’m investigating, but I’ll keep tha’ in mind,’ said Stewart cheerfully.

  ‘Toothpick food,’ I said, wrinkling my nose at a platter of chilli prawns and lemon scallops surrounded by abandoned toothpicks. ‘They never think about where the guests are going to stash them afterwards.’

  The crowd applauded. I assumed it wasn’t because of me—it was only a minor snarky comment by my standards.

  A very refined looking man had the attention of the crowd. He smiled at them all and—oh. Shiny, shiny teeth. ‘Should have brought sunglasses,’ I said in an undertone.

  ‘That’s our host, Dr Pembroke,’ Stewart whispered in my ear. ‘Dentist tae the rich and smug. Ye dinnae want tae know how much he charges for a consultation.’

  ‘His teeth are almost blue.’ I wasn’t actually listening to Pembroke talk, but his smile was oddly hypnotic. ‘What are you looking for?’

  Stewart’s mouth tickled my ear, and leaning closer was the only way to hear him under the crowd noise and the booming microphone. ‘Suspicious tha’ a man whose wife was arrested for assaulting a police officer three days ago is hosting a party.’

  ‘Technically it’s a soirée,’ I said. ‘Once you have semi-dried tomatoes and pine nuts in the sushi and women wearing—bloody hell, that’s a fur stole. A real one. Not even vintage or ironic. Who are these people?’

  I’d done my share of catering, but mostly for uni students, police officers, hipsters and musos. Even a wedding or two, when I was training. The rare big fancy affairs I’d helped with had been—well. Not quite as soiréeish as this.

  I’d bet they were paying for each pine nut what I would normally charge for a plate of sandwiches.

  ‘This is officially the other half,’ murmured Stewart, his attention mostly on Dr Shiny Teeth and his boring speech. ‘And how they live.’

  ‘This isn’t the other half,’ I scoffed. ‘This is the point one percent. And they should be able to afford better caterers. Maybe I’ll leave my card.’ I hardly knew anyone here. This was not my Hobart.

  ‘Did ye hear that?’ Stewart said in astonishment as the crowd reacted to something Dr Shiny had said, muttering and gossiping together.

  ‘No, I was bitching about the clothes and food. What did I miss?’

  ‘See there.’

  A woman stepped up beside Dr Shiny. She wore a simple dress—the kind of simple that costs thousands of Chanel dollars. Her apricot hair was pulled back in a clasp and she wore expensive ‘I’m not wearing any makeup’ makeup.

  The crowd stilled.

  ‘Natasha Pembroke,’ Stewart whispered. ‘Otherwise known as the Jiggle It archer herself.’

  ‘I barely recognised her out of harem pants, but I did get that,’ I whispered back. ‘Are they going to turn on her like sharks?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Bits of designer frock everywhere?’

  ‘Tabitha, it’s no’ always about the frocks.’

  I glared at him. Was he calling me shallow? This is what happens when you go around snogging people—they get ideas above their station.

  Natasha Pembroke was speaking, quiet and uncomfortable. ‘I think most of you know that I had a very busy weekend.’

  A few titters. Dr Shiny stood beside his wife, looking so pleased with himself that I wanted to hit him with a plate of chilli prawns. How could he put her through this?

  ‘I have no excuse for my behaviour,’ Natasha continued. Her shoulders looked … defeated. ‘Except for the one explanation that really is no excuse at all. I was high on prescription medication when I shot that policeman. Prescription medication that I had obtained illegally.’

  The whispers exploded through the room.

  ‘I have been living a secret life for some time now,’ she continued. ‘And I am so grateful to my husband for supporting me after … the rather devastating shock he had upon my arrest on Saturday.’

  ‘Aye,’ Stewart muttered, eyes on Dr Shiny. ‘I’m sure it came as a massive shock tae the man.’

  ‘So cynical,’ I whispered back. Stewart had his phone out, and was recording the speech.

  Natasha Pembroke spilled her guts before the crowd of her peers. High stress lifestyle … easy acces
s to medication … no excuse. She was in a day release treatment program now, was falling on her sword as far as the police investigation went, there were no excuses for her actions … and oh yes, she was taking the opportunity to make something good out of all this by sponsoring an awareness campaign, and she urged all her friends to contribute.

  ‘Addiction is not just about the unfortunate, the down and out, the young and the immigrants,’ she said finally. ‘It can happen to anyone. I am very lucky to have a family who will support me through this hard time.’

  The crowd lapped it up, applauding and smiling and oh so proud of her. No sharks here, we love you Natasha, isn’t she brave?

  I left Stewart to it, and nipped to the loo. ‘I miss anything?’ I asked when I came back.

  ‘No, I think I’m done here.’ He eyed the crowd. ‘Is it wrong tae think their public support of her is somewhat insincere?’

  ‘When I was in the stall I heard various women call Natasha Pembroke a silly bitch, a slut, a drug-addled whore and a lying hypocrite. Several of them emphasised that they were friends of hers, which was why it was totally fine for them say that.’

  ‘Oh, nice.’

  ‘Two of them were snorting cocaine at the time.’

  ‘I should blog that.’

  ‘Best not. I don’t want some mad rich women hunting us down with their Versace fingernails. Let’s go.’ I looked around the room, shuddering a little. ‘I feel dirty. You know what we need?’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Down, boy. We need to dry you out.’

  * * *

  When I was a little girl, Dad used to take me out to his favourite milk bar near the station (probably the last place in Hobart that called itself a ‘milk bar’) and order me lime spiders in glasses so tall I had to stand up to drink them through the straw. It’s basically lime syrup, ice cream and lemonade, thoroughly disgusting, and they never fail to cheer me up.

  It wasn’t working. I sat on the café counter, poking my own homemade concoction with a straw while Stewart worked on the mural.

  It was killing me to keep Café La Femme closed. Not to mention that it wasn’t the best financial decision I’d ever made.

  I didn’t have any specific reason to suspect that Darrow was involved with these odd crimes, but there was a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, and my stomach was usually reliable. Even when filled with sickly sweet bubbles, battling each other for the championship.

  Instead of playing with shot glass trifles again, or preparing for tomorrow’s cake crowd, I left a still-jittery Stewart in possession of my café, under strict instructions to a) leave the coffee machine alone, thank you very much and b) not host any gatherings of redheaded women unless I was there to chaperone and c) not invite me to any more shiny-toothed dentist parties, as they are bad for the soul.

  I went home to an empty house. Ceege had written ‘Staying the Night at Katie’s’ on the fridge in carmine lipstick, so my first order of business was cleaning that off. Arse.

  The thought of that ping pong ball in my handbag was creeping the hell out of me. I didn’t know whether it was some practical joke or an actual warning … but it was icky. The house was very quiet without Ceege thumping around, swearing about elves and flamewars and how hard it was to buy size twelve stiletto heels that were remotely cute.

  The one thing I was not going to do was call someone to keep me company. Especially since the first person who came to mind was Stewart. I’d only known him a week, how had he become the most reliable person in my life?

  An independent and feisty young woman with awesome hair and a wardrobe of glorious vintage clothes does not need a pet Scotsman to keep an eye on her at all times. Even if he does have nice eyes, and artistic hands.

  Blah. None of this was getting me anywhere. What I needed was a repetitive task to keep busy, and shut off my traitorous brain. Cleaning out the fridge would do it. Followed by baking. Much baking.

  I flung open the fridge door, and a wave of white ping pong balls cascaded out of the fridge and over my feet.

  I screamed and jumped backwards, flailing so violently that I slipped and crashed to the floor, cracking the back of my head on the lino. Shit! Through the panic, I managed to process that many of the balls had touched my feet and legs, but I had felt no electric shocks.

  Shock, yes. Electric, no. My head felt like someone had whacked it with a skillet. Or, you know, a floor.

  I sat up and prodded a finger at one of the ping pong balls that flooded my kitchen floor. Still no shock. I grasped it firmly and pulled myself to my feet, then put the ball on a chopping board, grabbed my best bread knife and sliced the damn thing in half.

  It was a ping pong ball. No circuitry inside, just air. Bloody hell!

  I had gone way past scared and was furious now. I shook a garbage bag out of one of my kitchen drawers and started stuffing the balls in, as fast as I could. I was about halfway through when I grabbed hold of the one ping pong ball in the lot of them that actually was electrified.

  I screamed and swore, dropping the garbage bag. More of the little sods spilled across the floor.

  My house. Whoever was doing this had been inside my house.

  It wasn’t a joke any more.

  16

  It was getting dark by the time I parked my car in the usual spot outside the café. I sat there for a few minutes, enjoying the illusion of safety. A woman in a parked car in the middle of town at night wasn’t especially safe, but it felt better than my own house right now.

  After those few indulgent minutes, I got out and headed inside, around the front rather than through the kitchen. The lights were on, and Stewart was painting.

  Many of the figures were fully finished, now. I really did adore that mural—the mashing together of my favourite pop culture characters, the chaotic scene of tables and gorgeous food and beautiful people. It was everything I wanted in a wall, and it absolutely made Café La Femme.

  I pushed open the door. ‘That’s it. I’m opening tomorrow. Screw Darrow. Let him keep his secrets. I’m done.’

  Stewart literally jumped in the air, and barely stopped himself from crashing to the floor. ‘Bloody hell, Tabitha. Are ye trying tae kill me?’

  ‘I won’t have Bev’s cakes and bikkies, because I was stupid enough to cancel this week’s order, but I can whip up some caramel tarts now, maybe do a special on scones.’ I could think of nothing better than spending my whole day tomorrow bringing trays of hot scones out of the oven, and serving them to customers. ‘I’ve still got the good jam from the Berry Farm … a few calls will get the usual meats and salad stuff delivered.’

  ‘Tabitha,’ Stewart said, staring at me. ‘I thought ye were off home.’

  I looked him straight in the eye, and lied. ‘I’m fine. Just decided to stop letting a missing landlord rule my life. If you need me, I’ll be burning sugar in the kitchen. With style.’

  I made two gorgeous caramel tarts, with flaky pastry and gooey innards. I made three kinds of biscuits—Anzac, cranberry shortbread and Monte Carlos with real raspberry jam. I was cooking apples for a pie when Stewart came in to the kitchen, and sat at the table.

  ‘It’s almost done,’ he said. ‘Maybe a few more bits to glue on, a wee finishing touch or four. I’ve pinned up a sheet until the grand unveiling.’

  I smiled without looking up from the stove top. ‘Excellent. You must get some business cards run up so I can recommend you when people ask who painted it. And I know we haven’t talked about money yet, but…’

  ‘I didnae do it for money. Tabitha, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong, I’ve got a lot to get done before tomorrow.’

  ‘Tabitha.’ Stewart had to be the only person I knew who didn’t shorten my name in some way once they felt comfortable around me. He never called me Tabs, or Tabby or babe or cutes—and we won’t even get started on Tish. Even Darrow never called me Tabitha—he preferred the double meaning of Darling, drawling it at me with a smirk every ti
me.

  Damn, I missed Darrow.

  ‘Stewart, I’m busy.’

  He reached over my shoulder and turned off the hot plate, then drew me away from the simmering pan of apples. ‘Ye won’t even look at me. What’s going on here?’

  ‘You’re very alpha male tonight,’ I grumbled. ‘It doesn’t suit you. Remember who’s the sidekick around here.’

  Stewart lifted my chin, and made me meet his eyes. ‘Tell me. Why are ye no’ at home?’ His voice and that accent. So warm I wanted to cry.

  ‘It’s full of ping pong balls,’ I muttered.

  Stewart sucked in a breath. ‘Aye, is tha’ so?’

  ‘They were in my fridge. And now they’re all over my kitchen floor. So I am here, and I am cooking, and you are not going to stop me.’

  ‘Have ye told Bishop?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ I flinched away at his tone, and he calmed down a little when he saw my reaction. ‘Sorry, Tabitha, but this is not someone sticking something in yer handbag in a public place. This is someone breaking into yer home. Ye have to tell him.’

  ‘If I tell Bishop about this, he will never let me out of his sight again. And if you say that I subconsciously want him to become my permanent stalker, I will hit you.’

  Stewart folded his arms. ‘Better stalked by Bishop than by an alleged murderer with a trap fetish. The police need tae know about this. They think the Trapper’s our dead busker.’

  I knew when to give up. ‘I’ll tell him in the morning. Promise.’

  ‘Ceege home yet?’

  ‘Staying the night at Katie’s,’ I mumbled. I wasn’t going to ask, I just wasn’t.

  ‘D’ye have anyone brave who can stay with ye tonight?’

  I lifted my eyes, and gave him a hopeful smile.

  Stewart groaned. ‘So what yer saying is, ye want Bishop to shoot me.’

  ‘Two kisses does not give him ownership of my affections,’ I sniffed. ‘And by the way, you’d be sleeping on the couch.’