Drowned Vanilla (Cafe La Femme Book 2)

by Livia Day

  I could see Stewart itching to ask questions. I put one in for him, to keep the story going. ‘But she stayed the whole year?’

  ‘Yes. The bloke didn’t let her down, at least I don’t think he did. She didn’t get into the school she wanted, but she was taking classes and getting a few auditions, and she wanted to keep going a bit longer. We decided she would tell them at Christmas, and we could stop the charade then. I … hadn’t decided what to do about that. I mean, I had friends in Hobart who knew me as Annabeth. I didn’t want to slip away from them.’

  Stewart met my eyes, and I didn’t blame him for being cynical. Alice/Vanilla had done exactly that, and we still didn’t know why.

  ‘Is that why ye got in touch now?’ he asked in his low burr. ‘Ye dinnae want tae leave yer friends not knowing what happened tae ye. So Tabitha and I can tell yer story, and ye can slip off back where ye came from without havin’ tae look them in the eye and tell them why ye lied all these months.’

  Alice looked taken aback. ‘I — I don’t know. I didn’t want them to think anything bad had happened to me. And I’m not going back where I came from,’ she added vehemently. ‘I wouldn’t … I don’t know what I’m going to do, but not that.’

  There were so many more questions I wanted to ask. Had she really joined The Gingerbread House on a whim, like she said on the website? Why had she left The Gingerbread House so suddenly? Did she really not know anything about what had happened to Annabeth? It was too much of a coincidence that she was killed at the same time that the girl pretending to be her disappeared. Wasn’t it? Did Alice know the name of Annabeth’s boyfriend, the mysterious older bloke who had been so generous in setting her up in her dream career?

  Why would anyone running away from what sounded like a nasty domestic situation choose to become even slightly internet famous?

  One thing I knew for certain, though — it shouldn’t be me and Stewart interviewing this girl, it should be the police. Alice had made the wrong decision in coming to me. Xanthippe was the one who could be relied on to go under the radar if you wanted her to. I had learned the hard way that I didn’t want to be involved in anything that had ‘murder mystery’ stamped on it. Not without backup.

  Bishop would be furious if he found out I had kept something like this from the official investigation. And he would be right. My rebellious days were over, well and truly.

  ‘Are you okay with answering a few more of Stewart’s questions?’ I said finally. ‘I need tea. Possibly some little cakes. There’s no situation that can’t be improved by very tiny food.’

  ‘Tea would be great,’ said Alice with that sweet smile of hers.

  I brushed Stewart’s shoulder with my hand as I left, hoping he wouldn’t be too cranky about what I was about to do. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t have the exclusive anyway.

  ‘A customer was asking about the ladybird biscuits,’ Lara said as I came inside.

  ‘We’ll get restocked on Friday.’ I slid my phone out of my pocket. ‘Can you make me a pot of peppermint tea? Plate of little cakes?’

  ‘I suppose I can manage it,’ she said, giving me a cheeky look. ‘Entertaining in the courtyard, are we?’

  ‘Yep, my life is so very full of excitement.’ I waited until Lara disappeared back into the café before I hit my speed dial.

  Bishop answered promptly. ‘I only saw you a couple of hours ago. Not playing hard to get, are you?’

  ‘I thought you might like to know that French Vanilla is sitting in my courtyard,’ I said, without any of the usual banter.

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Bishop, it’s me we’re talking about. Do you doubt that something this random is happening?’

  ‘Sadly, I can’t. Shall I send someone over?’

  ‘Well, you know. She appears to have some information on Annabeth French’s death that the police might be interested in, but if you’d rather save on manpower you can always read about it on Stewart’s blog later.’

  ‘I’ll come over myself.’

  ‘Now who’s playing hard to get?’

  ‘Try to resist kissing me when I’m on duty.’

  ‘I’ll hold myself back.’

  I slipped the phone away and went back outside to find Stewart doing that thing he does where he sits and gazes soulfully at a woman, and she spills her secrets. Or something. He had promoted himself to a chair and was making serious eye contact with Alice, who lapped it all up.

  It was his story. The best thing I could do was hang back and try to be unobtrusive. Sadly, I had forgotten one major detail.

  The kitchen door opened behind me as Lara brought out a tray that smelled strongly of peppermint. ‘One pot of … bloody hell, Annabeth?’

  Oh, crap. Seriously. How had Alice not factored in the fact that this city (and this café in particular) was full of people who knew her? Or thought they knew her.

  Alice stood up like a frightened animal. She was going to run, and Bishop was going to accuse me of a prank call and one way or another, badness was going to ensue.

  ‘Everyone stay calm,’ I said, just as Xanthippe strolled into the courtyard. She took in the scene quickly, and her eyes narrowed as she recognised our guest. ‘This is not what it looks like,’ I said hastily.

  Except it totally was.

  Xanthippe stared at Alice. Everyone was staring at Alice. ‘It’s amazing who’ll come out of the woodwork for one of your salad sandwiches,’ Xanthippe said finally. ‘How did you manage this, then, Tish?’ Why was I not invited, was implied.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said desperately. ‘These things happen to me.’

  ‘I need to go,’ said Alice, sounding frantic.

  ‘Go?’ demanded Lara. ‘Melinda and Libby are sick with worry about you. Where have you been?’

  ‘Good question,’ Xanthippe agreed. ‘Also, where do you think you are going?’

  They were both good questions, and I just bet Stewart wished he had asked them earlier. Alice no longer looked like a willing and enthusiastic interviewee.

  ‘You have to tell Libs and Mel you’re okay,’ Lara persisted. ‘They thought you were dead.’

  French Vanilla burst into tears.

  The ultimate girl rule is that when someone starts crying, you stop giving them a hard time.

  Xanthippe and Lara looked at each other, equally startled and helpless. Stewart moved into the kill with his nice bloke routine, patting Alice on the arm as she sobbed. ‘Tabitha, have ye got any tissues?’

  If I went inside, more catastrophes were likely to occur. I’d come back and find that the courtyard was also full of jugglers on unicycles, and Green protestors dressed as giant koalas, and…

  A familiar blue light flashed at the entrance of the courtyard, reflecting off the gritty yellow sandstone. Oh boy, this was going to be fun.

  Bishop strolled into the courtyard with Constable Heather at his side.

  Stewart grabbed his phone, slipping it casually into a pocket of his jeans so it wouldn’t be immediately obvious that he had been recording a conversation with the murder suspect. He gave me a reproachful look.

  Xanthippe was spittingly furious. ‘Tabitha, you arranged a meeting with French Vanilla without telling me and you brought in PC Plod?’

  ‘Charming as ever, Xanthippe,’ Bishop said mildly, his eyes on French Vanilla. ‘You’re going to have to tell me your name, miss.’

  ‘Alice,’ she said, shaking visibly. Her eyes were wide and frightened. Why was she so afraid of the police?

  ‘Alice what?’ Constable Heather asked in her ‘I’m so much nicer than Bishop’ voice.

  My kitchen exploded.

  12

  TABITHA’S LUSCIOUS LEMON LICK

  Ingredients:

  1 part Limoncello

  3 parts Lemonade (i.e. the clear fizzy commercial stuff, a good way to use up that flat half bottle of S***te left over from last time you ordered a pizza.

  Instructions:

  Pour 1 part limoncello t
o 3 parts lemonade into a wine glass. Place glass in freezer. After 30 minutes, remove glass and stir with swizzle stick. Or chopstick, if clean. Rinse, repeat. After about 3-4 hours of this, should be perfect consistency.

  Yes, it’s a lot of hassle to go to for one cocktail. Yes, it’s totally worth it. Yes, you can do a bowlful, to be ladled into several glasses at the end. But where’s the romance in doing it that way?

  Prep time: 30 seconds, repeated every half hour until you crack and drink it even though it’s still a bit runny and not perfect yet.

  Suitable for that late, hot evening, a romantic date, or to unwind if you’ve spent the whole day cleaning up after some ARSEHOLE blew up your kitchen.

  No, really. My kitchen exploded.

  Bright orange sparks hit the windows in a burst of light and acrid smoke. The windows held. Everyone stared in shock, and then I made a dash in entirely the wrong direction, according to Bishop who grabbed hold of me around the waist, holding me back.

  ‘Tabitha, stay out!’ he yelled.

  ‘Nin is in that kitchen, and thousands of dollars of equipment and Lara, get in there and see what’s going on!’ I howled. Lara was closer to the kitchen door than I was, and had the added benefit of not having a large police officer hanging on to her around the waist.

  She did what I asked, throwing open the kitchen door and releasing a wave of disgusting smoke. Good waitress. She had her priorities right.

  ‘Goddamn it, Tabitha,’ Bishop roared.

  I kicked him in the shins hard, which he obviously wasn’t expecting, struggled out of his grip, and ran after Lara.

  The kitchen looked — okay. Surprisingly okay. The windows over the sink had blown out, and the whole place smelled like burning plastic. Nin stood in the inner doorway between the kitchen and the main café, looking furious.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ I demanded.

  ‘There was this boy,’ she said, in the tone of voice she usually reserved for people who choose prepackaged frozen meals. ‘I don’t know how he sneaked into the kitchen, he crashed into me when he ran out — ’ and she threw up her hands, gesturing to a mess of something on the kitchen counter.

  Our microwave was toasted. A few charred wires or something lay on the smashed remains of the glass plate. The door had blown off and was lodged in the sink.

  I just stared around for a moment, furious. Several glass jars had cracked, and there were scorch marks on my fridge and my ceiling. Not destroyed, but far from okay.

  Nin started to cough. I opened windows, trying to air the place out as quickly as I could.

  Bishop strode in after me, glaring fit to burst. ‘Fireworks,’ he said finally. ‘Someone set fireworks off in here.’ He peered at the microwave. ‘In there, rather.’

  Steam was practically coming out of Nin’s ears. ‘I had cakes in the oven!’ she said between coughs. ‘Whatever happened blew a fuse too, there’s no power now.’ She switched a few things on and off to prove it.

  ‘Where did he go, the kid who did this?’ Bishop asked Nin.

  She pointed back through the café. ‘I threw a rolling pin at him.’

  Bishop was caught between disapproving and impressed. ‘Did you hit him?’

  ‘Sadly, no.’ She went for the back, taking deep breaths of fresh air.

  Stewart stood in the doorway, and let out a low whistle. ‘This is gonnae tae take some cleaning up.’

  ‘Lara, Nin, can you reassure any customers we have left that this isn’t a terrorist attack?’ I said, glaring at my usually pristine (ish) kitchen. ‘Offer them muffins and takeaway coffee on the house. I’m going to have to close the kitchen — check that nothing electrical has been permanently damaged before we get the power back on. Other than, you know, the microwave. Cross everything off the menu that isn’t sealed under glass out there.’

  Damn it. I hate being a grown up.

  ‘Why would anyone do this?’ I demanded the empty air, not expecting an answer. There were bits of charred sparkler embedded in the custard I had been cooling for tomorrow’s ice cream experiment. A few hot sparks had turned the cling wrap over the bowl into melted sludge.

  Whoever had set off fireworks in my kitchen was going to die slowly, and not by rolling pin. Serrated edges were more what I had in mind.

  ‘I’d think tha’ was obvious,’ Stewart said dryly. ‘A distraction. Anyone notice French Vanilla slipped away in the commotion? Well timed.’

  Bishop looked back at the courtyard. ‘Did you see her leave?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Bishop met Stewart’s steady gaze, glaring at him. ‘And you let her?’

  ‘I’m nae the police officer around here,’ said Stewart. ‘Didnae she have the right tae leave? No one placed her under arrest.’

  ‘I’ll deal with you later,’ Bishop growled, then looked at me. ‘You all right?’

  ‘No,’ I sulked. ‘Go away. Everyone who is not actively mopping or recommending an electrician can leave.’

  ‘I’ll question the customers,’ said Bishop.

  I looked at Constable Heather, who just gave me an uneasy smile and followed him.

  That left Stewart and me in the singed kitchen together. ‘You called your boyfriend to arrest her?’ he said mildly.

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ I said automatically. ‘But, yeah. I did.’ I eyed the mess. ‘Apparently she has loyal accomplices.’

  ‘I thought…’

  ‘What?’ I said, turning on him.

  ‘I thought ye were on her side.’ Stewart sounded disappointed in me. If there had been any edible food left in this kitchen, I would have thrown it at him.

  I grabbed a mop, and glared at him. ‘Either you are helping, or you are leaving.’

  Stewart rolled his eyes and his shoulders, and headed for the door. ‘I have a story tae write up. Two stories.’

  ‘Make sure you spell my name right,’ I snapped as the door crashed behind me.

  How was I the bad guy here? I had been doing the right thing. Right?

  Sparkler bomb in the microwave. I looked it up, later, and found at least three instructional videos on YouTube that explained how to make one. The internet has a lot to answer for. It took most of the day to fix up the mess that the firework had done to my kitchen. No permanent damage, thank goodness, but it was going to be two days before we could get the building and electrical inspections we needed to reopen.

  I was in a filthy mood, but I had grrrlpunk music up at a high volume as I knelt on one of my kitchen counters, wiping black streaks off the ceiling. Seriously, if I found the kid who had done this, I was baking him in the oven.

  ‘You’ve done a good job,’ said Xanthippe, eyeing the space. ‘Really. It’s all de-terroristed.’

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ I grumped.

  ‘Any time.’ She didn’t sound happy either. Another one. I was so over this. I dropped to sit on the counter. ‘What’s got your knickers knotted up?’

  ‘You mean apart from the fact that you made an appointment with French Vanilla and left me out…’

  ‘That was Stewart! And then she came to me later on her own, there was no appointment…’

  ‘So you called in Leo to arrest her?’

  ‘Not to arrest her, to question her — why do I even need to justify this? She’s involved in a major crime…’

  ‘And you had to be the good girl and get in the police before you even knew the full situation? Since when is that your first response to anything, Tabitha? Oh, right. Since you started dating my brother.’

  ‘This had nothing to do with Bishop,’ I said sulkily.

  ‘You mean you’re not second guessing every decision you make based on ‘what would my boyfriend think’?’

  ‘No!’ I was insulted. As if I was that kind of girl. Still, I didn’t have the energy to give the ‘not my actual boyfriend’ line, not this time.

  Xanthippe sat at the kitchen table, looking up at me through that shaggy dark fringe of hers. ‘This was a sensitiv
e situation. I love my brother, but what on earth made you think he would contribute in any useful way?’

  ‘Bishop isn’t the one who set off a handful of fireworks in my kitchen,’ I said between gritted teeth.

  ‘True,’ Xanthippe agreed. ‘And I find that very intriguing. But would someone have been so desperate to cause a distraction to help French Vanilla escape if you hadn’t called in the cops?’

  ‘So this is my fault, just because I don’t want to run around playing at being a private detective? This is none of our business, Xanthippe. It is a police investigation.’

  She looked startled. ‘Seriously. What happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing. This is me. Being responsible.’

  ‘Being conventional.’

  Okay, that was below the belt. ‘I am not conventional!’

  Xanthippe shook her head, standing up. ‘You say that, Tish, but where’s the evidence? I hate to say it, but since you dragged Leo into bed, you’ve gone kind of … vanilla.’

  I stared at her, and the only thing I could think of to say was: ‘You like vanilla.’

  ‘In ice cream,’ she said with a shrug. ‘But on you? It’s not a good look. More importantly, it’s not your look. You’re trying someone else’s on for size, and that’s kind of sad.’

  ‘Get the hell out of my kitchen,’ I snapped. I did not have to take this. Not in my own place, and not from her.

  She shrugged, and left. I stood there with a wet rag dripping from my hand. Conventional? I’m not conventional.

  And I am so not vanilla.

  The next morning found a large-shouldered bloke sitting at the window in my café, a laptop open in front of him and a slice of cranberry treacle tart perching on the edge of his table.

  We weren’t open, but he was the one customer allowed in to eat up the leftover gateaux. After all, he still owned five percent of Café La Femme.

  I took him a pot of earl grey, admiring the outfit he was wearing as I sat opposite. There just aren’t that many men who can get away with wearing ruffled shirts and green velvet suits, and I can’t think of anyone else who would be insane enough to wear velvet in an Australian December.