A Trifle Dead: Cafe La Femme, Book 1

by Livia Day

  ‘Thank Christ for tha’. No offence, Tabitha, but I get the feeling ye’d be a high maintenance girlfriend.’

  Well, obviously.

  * * *

  My fridge at home should still have been full of leftover hors d’oeuvres from the Oscars party, but the bastard with the ping pong balls had stolen my leftovers before perpetrating the crime. Stewart and I ate pizza on the couch instead.

  I put on a Doris Day movie for comfort, but Stewart started twitching in a manly fashion every time she burst into song or moved in for a blurry close up, so I hit the mute button. The living room was dark around us, with just Doris and her cheerful cast for illumination.

  ‘D’ye think it’s someone ye know?’ Stewart asked.

  Darrow, Xanthippe, my treacherous brain came up with as an instant response. ‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘But then—I know everyone, don’t I? So, chances are.’ I picked a loose bit of cheese and pineapple off the cardboard box. ‘I wish I knew what was going on with Xanthippe. She’s acting stranger than usual—even for someone who is arranging eccentric PR for a rock band, and hunting my landlord down for God-knows-what purpose.’

  ‘Do ye think she’s the Trapper?’

  ‘No,’ I said automatically, then let my brain catch up to my mouth. ‘No,’ I said again after a moment’s serious thought. ‘This whole setting traps thing is completely stupid. If she was doing it, it would be stylish.’

  ‘Attacking a rock band with a knife kind of stylish?’

  ‘Exactly. Wait, were you being sarcastic?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve lost track.’

  I thought about it for a minute. ‘Natasha Pembroke. She talked about the case when she made that phone call to the police.’

  Stewart nodded. ‘She said nothing she couldnae have read in the papers. Might have chosen that story randomly.’

  ‘It makes more sense if the stories are connected. Despite what Sandstone City like to claim, Hobart doesn’t usually have this much weird all at once.’ I jumped suddenly, smacking my greasy hand down on Stewart’s leg. ‘Did you see that? Outside.’

  ‘What?’ He went to the window.

  ‘Not too close. I saw a light. Someone has a torch out there.’

  He peered out. ‘I don’t see anything.’

  ‘Right.’ I reached under the couch, and came up with a cricket bat and a fishing net, both heirlooms from Dad. Ceege likes to keep them handy for the zombie apocalypse. ‘Choose your weapon. I am not going to let some trap-obsessed creep besiege me in my own house.’

  Stewart looked weary as he took the cricket bat off me. ‘Ye say it’s Hobart tha’s suddenly got weird. From where I stand, these things are only happening around Tabitha Darling.’

  That was uncalled for. Surely everyone has a stockpile of possible zombie weapons under their couch.

  * * *

  There’s something surreal about creeping around your own back garden after dark. I couldn’t help but feel like I was the intruder. ‘Do you see anything?’ I whispered as we made our way around.

  ‘I didnae see anything the first time,’ Stewart whispered back.

  My ears went hot. ‘Are you suggesting that I made it up?’

  ‘Did I say so?’

  ‘You’re thinking it, though.’

  ‘How can I possibly respond to tha’?’

  ‘Aha, you admit it.’

  ‘Let’s do one circuit, then back inside.’

  ‘Proving that Tabitha was imagining things after all, the silly girl.’

  ‘Shush.’

  ‘You shush! Don’t you shush me!’

  ‘You know,’ broke in a cynical female voice. ‘You two? Not stealthy.’ A shadowy figure stepped out from behind my back door, and I caught a whiff of banana conditioner.

  Of course, by the time I recognised her, I had already died of shock. ‘Zee, what the everloving fuck?’

  Xanthippe switched on her torch, pointing it at the grass so that it didn’t blind either of us. ‘You were expecting maybe Humphrey Bogart?’

  ‘He wasn’t my first suspect, no,’ I muttered. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed,’ she said. ‘You’re the latest target in the game that our mutual friend is playing. I figured someone had to look out for you—and if it means catching him in the act, all the better.’

  I led the way back into the kitchen, where the ping pong balls were still scattered across half the floor, and switched the lights on. ‘You knew about this?’

  ‘I heard about the one in your handbag,’ Xanthippe said, looking around. ‘This doesn’t surprise me. I intercepted a package on your doorstep this morning.’

  I stared at her. ‘A package. What package?’

  ‘A love token from your imaginary friend,’ she said. ‘A pretty pink box with a ribbon, full of mouse traps. Ever so subtle.’

  ‘And ye didn’t think Tabitha should know about tha’ earlier?’ demanded Stewart. ‘Or tha’ the police might want tae know?’

  ‘I can protect Tabitha better than her darling Leo,’ Xanthippe shot back. ‘He has to follow rules, and go home when his shift is over.’

  I put the kettle on. To hell with preserving the crime scene, I needed chamomile. ‘This is all very nice, Zee, but you’re working from a false premise. The Trapper is not Darrow.’

  ‘Come on,’ Xanthippe said incredulously. ‘It’s got his manicured fingernails all over it. Who else would be this bloody dramatic for no evident gain? He’s been messing with everyone’s heads, Tish. Now he’s messing with yours.’

  ‘Did you see him deliver the package?’ I asked. ‘Did you see him put anything in my handbag? Have you actually seen him at all since you came back to Tassie?’

  ‘You have,’ Stewart said, looking at me.

  I glared at them both. ‘He’s driving a taxi. But he’s not the Trapper, and he’s not my stalker, and he’s not a murderer. I won’t believe it.’

  ‘That man’s capable of anything,’ Xanthippe insisted stubbornly.

  I lost my patience. ‘Okay, tell me! I told you about the taxi—that’s the biggest clue yet on how to find him. So you tell me what Darrow did to inspire this obsessive little vendetta of yours, right now, because this is way more than post-breakup mania.’

  Xanthippe blew out a breath, looking furious at me, and then threw herself into one of my kitchen chairs. It wobbled under the shock, but stayed upright. ‘My car,’ she muttered. ‘He crashed my car into the Richmond Bridge.’

  ‘Oh, Zee,’ I said, feeling the need for a sit down myself. ‘Not the Lotus.’ I wanted to hug her. Only we didn’t do that. I hated how awkward things were. Ten years ago I would have hugged her and she would have pushed me off, and I would have said something stupid to make her laugh and it would have been okay.

  I missed my friend.

  ‘My personally-restored 1967 Lotus Super Seven Roadster,’ she said miserably.

  ‘I’ll kill him for you,’ I breathed. ‘Oh, your pretty car…’ Back when we were starting uni and the Lotus was up on bricks in her mum’s garage, Xanthippe and I had planned to go on a road trip around the state, wearing 1960s outfits and playing cheesy nostalgia music. We’d never got around to it, and now we never would.

  She shrugged it off, speaking to Stewart rather than me. ‘It was supposed to be safe in storage while I was on the mainland, but he begged me to let him take it for a tune up and a run to keep the engine purring. Like a complete moron, I agreed. Two days later I got a text message—Crashed Lotus into Richmond Bridge, sorry, write off, will make it up to you.’ She growled under her breath. ‘They don’t make cars like that any more.’

  ‘How did I never hear about this?’ I said. ‘Come to that, how did he walk away from a crash like that?’

  Stewart snapped his fingers. ‘I remember this. Near Miss for Heritage Landmark. Simon covered the story for Sandstone City—not quite a Hobart story, but we do love a sandstone connection. Some idiot left the handbrake off a sports car and it
ran down a grassy slope intae the river—technically it only dinged the bridge supports, but the water did the most damage, o’ course…’ He stopped, realising he was being far too enthusiastic while Xanthippe’s face got grimmer and grimmer.

  ‘Nice car,’ he added weakly. ‘Ye want his head on a plate. Understandable. It was insured, aye?’

  ‘Insured for its value on paper,’ Xanthippe muttered. ‘Which doesn’t come anywhere near what it actually cost me, in time as well as money. Also, I don’t get the insurance money until he signs the statement about what happened to the damn car. Hence me trying to track him down with my supreme ninja skills. Meanwhile, he’s screwing with my band, because apparently he hasn’t messed my life up enough.’ She kicked the table leg.

  ‘If he is the Trapper, which he’s not,’ I put in. Now was not the time to mention that her ‘supreme ninja skills’ had yielded zero results.

  ‘Whatever,’ Xanthippe said, getting back to her feet. ‘It wasn’t an insulin overdose that killed Julian Morris in the net. It was a particularly nasty grade of heroin. He wasn’t the only one, either—there have been more overdoses in the emergency room of the Royal this fortnight than there have been all year. It’s all linked to some new dealer that people are calling The Vampire.’

  Stewart dug a battered notebook out of his jeans, and took notes. ‘How do ye know this?’

  ‘I have my sources,’ Xanthippe drawled. ‘Tabitha isn’t the only one who knows a lot of people in this town. Plus, I listen at keyholes.’

  ‘And you’re going to be hanging around protecting me on a regular basis, are you?’ I said, very suspicious of the whole thing.

  ‘When I don’t have anything better to do. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Tish, but you’re a magnet for weird lately. If I stay close, maybe I’ve got a better chance of figuring out what’s going on.’

  I hesitated. Xanthippe was scary, and I was pretty sure we weren’t friends any more, but she was a good person to have in your corner. She also wasn’t the first to notice that the madness seemed to be orbiting me specifically. ‘We have a spare room now that Kelly’s moved out,’ I offered.

  Xanthippe laughed. ‘I think that might be a little too close, don’t you? I’ll see you two around.’

  She strolled out of the kitchen, and I deadlocked the door behind her. ‘Okay,’ I said, for no particular reason. Apparently I didn’t have anything to follow it up.

  Stewart had that slightly glazed look that straight men got after talking to Xanthippe, fruit-flavoured femme fatale that she was. ‘Is she in the Mob, or something?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s just Xanthippe.’

  ‘Right.’ He recovered a little, and bumped his shoulder deliberately against mine. ‘Ye never offered me the spare room. Ye offered me the couch.’

  ‘Well? She’d be a live-in bodyguard. What are you going to do if a serial killer bursts in to attack me? Flip your kilt up at him?’

  ‘If I’m not manly enough to keep ye feeling safe and secure, ye know exactly what to do.’ He mimed a phone call. ‘Hello, police? Aye, this is Superintendent Darling’s wee girl, can ye send around five panda cars and a gun squad? I’m making gnocchi…’

  I smacked him. ‘I will call them tomorrow.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I already promised. Sheesh.’

  ‘So what do we do tonight?’

  As for that, I did have a plan. ‘We barricade ourselves in the living room, and watch Doris Day movies until we lose consciousness.’

  Stewart nodded, respecting my fine taste in classic movies. ‘Or ye could just hit me repeatedly with the cricket bat?’

  * * *

  The morning brought many things. A sore neck. The odd sensation of Stewart squashed behind me on the couch, one arm slung around my waist as he snored into my shoulder blades. The sight of Ceege, grinning down at us like a maniac. ‘Geez, Tabs. We have three beds in this house. If you want to shag him, why not get on with it? Try to leave mine as a last resort…’

  I unwrapped myself from Stewart and threw myself at Ceege. ‘I missed you. Katie can’t have you anymore. I need you here to protect me.’

  ‘Aw, that’s sweet. What’s with the ping pong balls in the kitchen?’ Ceege pushed me off him. ‘I only care if it’s something kinky.’

  ‘I’m being stalked.’

  ‘Nice. Only you could get stalked with ping pong balls.’

  ‘If you see my stalker, maybe you could hint that I’d prefer flowers,’ I said sarcastically.

  Stewart started making mumbly noises from the couch. ‘Wha’ time is it?’ he groaned.

  ‘Eight,’ said Ceege.

  ‘What?’ I howled. ‘I was going to open the café today.’

  ‘Did ye call Nin, or the girls?’ Stewart asked.

  That stumped me. ‘Um, no. But I made cakes.’

  ‘Without Nin, yer not going to open today,’ said Stewart, which showed how much he had been paying attention.

  ‘Bloody Lotus-smashing Darrow,’ I muttered. ‘I’ve lost my getting-up-early superpower, and I blame him.’

  Stewart sat up on the couch and pushed his hand through his hair. ‘To be fair, we were up until about 3am. Will ye now —’

  ‘Yes, Mum. I’m calling them.’ I flounced to the kitchen. ‘Have a shower. You look like something died on your head.’

  ‘Oh, yer so charming to wake up to,’ Stewart yawned.

  ‘Welcome to my life, mate,’ said Ceege with sympathy.

  17

  Bishop turned up within fifteen minutes of my phone call, in uniform but alone. Presumably so he could shout at me without any official witnesses. It was wrong of me to enjoy the moment when Stewart came out of the bathroom with wet hair, shirtless in yesterday’s jeans, but I did.

  If Bishop didn’t have such a lousy temper, I wouldn’t be tempted to provoke it all the time. It’s hardly my fault.

  ‘So,’ Bishop said, working hard to pretend that Stewart had not just appeared all damp and rumpled. ‘You’re in trouble?’

  ‘Amazing deductive reasoning,’ I said brightly, dipping a fork into my plate of scrambled omelette. ‘I can tell they’re going to promote you any day now.’

  ‘Be nice,’ Stewart muttered, heading for my coffee percolator. I’d put some of the good stuff on to drip already, out of the kindness of my slightly grateful heart.

  I closed my mouth, and smiled politely at Bishop. He gave Stewart a startled look, then drew his attention back to me. ‘Tabitha Darling, what exactly makes you think that the Trapper—who is dead—is stalking you?’

  ‘Well —’

  ‘Because Inspector Clayton closed the case this morning. He’s making a statement to the press in about an hour.’

  ‘Where’s the press conference?’ Stewart asked quickly. ‘I dinnae suppose Sandstone City got an invite.’

  Bishop gave him a dirty look. ‘They certainly did not.’

  ‘Ahem,’ I said, waving my fork to get their attention back to me. ‘The case is closed? Already? The flatmate changed her story, then.’

  Bishop continued looking at Stewart. ‘If the Press could give us some privacy?’

  Stewart headed to the living room, pretending he didn’t care. ‘Fine. Ceege had better have some clothes without sequins, so I can borrow a clean shirt.’

  When he was gone, Bishop looked at me. I looked back at him. ‘Tea?’ I suggested.

  Bishop unwound about a centimetre. ‘God, yes.’ Obviously the prospect of tea was alluring enough that he was prepared to remember, for a minute or two, that we were friends. Or maybe it was just the relief of having this case done and dusted.

  ‘Changed is a pretty mild word for what the flatmate did to her story,’ he admitted, sitting down at my kitchen table. ‘Now she says Morris was injecting, sniffing and snorting everything he could get his hands on, and there was nothing out of the ordinary about him keeping heroin in old insulin containers. Clayton and the team are convinced that the traps were down to Morris
being a lunatic prankster. He got caught in the last one when all the shit he’d been shoving into his veins caught up with him. We still suspect the band put him up to building the damn thing in their spare room for some PR stunt, but we can’t pin anything on them. So, that’s it. Tabitha goes back to her kitchen, Bishop makes inroads on his paperwork, life returns to normal.’

  Even without knowing what I knew, this sounded dodgy. Bishop didn’t really believe this story Inspector Des was pushing, did he? Dad would have worked at a case like this until it was watertight, and I’d always thought Bishop was the same kind of police officer. Dogged and cynical, and never going for the easy solution unless he was absolutely certain.

  ‘It wasn’t the last trap,’ I said, putting a strong cup of tea in front of him.

  Bishop leaned over and picked up my fork, helping himself to the last of my eggs. ‘What are you talking about? You didn’t make much sense on the phone.’

  I took a deep breath, knowing how dumb this was going to sound. ‘At the coffee fair, yesterday. I found an—an electrified ping pong ball in my handbag.’

  Bishop coughed on a mouthful of egg. ‘I’m sorry, you found a what?’

  ‘Don’t laugh, this is serious. It zapped me. And —’ I gestured towards the garbage bag in the corner of my kitchen. ‘When I came home, the fridge was full of them. They spilled out everywhere.’

  ‘Sure it wasn’t leftovers from one of Ceege’s gamer parties?’

  I glared at him. ‘Have you even thought about how difficult it would be for someone to fill a fridge with ping pong balls? The physics alone is bewildering.’

  ‘I’ve got to say, Tish, I’ve never been asked that question before.’ Bishop shook his head. ‘Were they all electrified?’

  ‘Just one of them. But someone had to break into my house to do it.’

  Bishop reacted to that, at least. ‘Any sign of forced entry?’

  ‘No,’ I had to admit. ‘The window in the front room is dodgy, they could have come in that way. Potentially.’

  His eyes darkened. ‘A policeman’s daughter with crappy security? Marvellous.’