Lula Does the Hula

by Samantha Mackintosh

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Tam straight away.

  I looked at Alex. ‘Your cousin,’ I said with venom, ‘is enjoying a cosy soirée with Jazz! Over there in the corner!’

  ‘No!’ she said. ‘They didn’t see us come in?’

  ‘Too wrapped up in each other!’ I snapped, stabbing at my cake with my fork.

  ‘You’ve got to do something, Alex,’ said Carrie. ‘Right now.’

  ‘ Right now!’ echoed Tam. Her mouth was so full I was surprised she could speak.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ huffed Alex. ‘Gimme a minute.’ She took an elegant sip from her mug. ‘Mmm, this is ve-ery good.’

  ‘Alex!’ we all hissed.

  She took another sip. ‘Don’t rush me!’

  ‘I can see I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands,’ I said, standing up quickly. ‘Do I have chocolate anywhere?’

  ‘Top lip,’ said Carrie, showing me where.

  I cleaned my face and strode to the front of the deli. I knew the girls would be listening to every word I said, and I felt a little disconcerted.

  Jack was saying, ‘What about that old lady, Esme someone . . .’ when I approached their table.

  ‘Hi, guys!’ I said brightly.

  ‘Lula!’ said Jack with a delighted grin. ‘I hoped you’d come here after your movie! Sit down, sit down!’ He sprang up and looked around for another chair.

  ‘No, no, you carry on,’ I said breezily. ‘I’m with the girls. We saw your car outside, Jazz, and I thought it such a shame it got keyed all down the front.’

  ‘Keyed?’ Jazz looked stricken. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I could be mistaken,’ I said with a thoughtful look on my face. ‘Only there was a bunch of kids out there –’

  Jazz was already out of her chair. I’d never seen her move so fast. She snatched her tiny bag up off the table. ‘Back in a minute,’ she said, and dashed out the door.

  Jack sighed, still smiling at me.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said, ‘even with your sobbing nose on.’

  ‘Omigod,’ I said, and covered my schnoz. ‘Is it still red?’

  ‘I’d better kiss you better,’ said Jack, pulling me into a hug.

  ‘You’re good at that,’ I said, lifting my face to his, feeling better already.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alex, to put it simply, went nuts.

  First of all Jazz came back and went on and on about how her car was absolutely fine, before I’d even got a peck on the lips. Jack made polite ‘oh, yeah?’ and ‘oh, good’ noises, but he was mostly staring at me and not letting me move away. I wasn’t complaining because my legs were so wobbly I was sure I’d fall down if he let go of me, and then when Jazz went to get an espresso refill and Jack finally put his beautiful lips to mine, then theeere was Alex.

  ‘What do you two think you’re doing?’ she whispered in a shrieky way. ‘Are you out of your minds? Why are you snogging in a shop window? Tatty? Tatty! I thought you didn’t want people talking about you any more! This will give them something else to talk about. Is that what you want? Hmm? Answer me!’

  There was a rap on the window and I broke away from Jack. Pen and Fat Angus both stood on the pavement, arms crossed, heads on one side.

  ‘At least people can see he’s alive!’ I bleated. ‘That . . .’ My voice went small as I leaned to whisper in Alex’s ear. ‘That he’s still my boyfriend!’

  ‘What?’ asked Jack, still holding me to his chest. ‘Wha–’

  ‘Not good enough!’ replied Alex, her arms also crossed now.

  I heaved a sigh, and looked regretfully at the boy in my arms. The romance was over. ‘Okay, Jack,’ I said. ‘You need to know about the latest outbreak of bird flu. It’s not official, but lots of people know –’

  ‘Wait!’ said Alex. ‘First things first.’ She looked round to see where Jazz was and spotted her still at the counter talking to Gianni. He was having to redo her espresso for some reason. ‘Cuz! What’s the story? Why are you spending all this time with Jazz?’

  ‘Alex . . .’ I warned.

  ‘No! No!’ said Alex, flapping her hand at me. ‘I don’t like the way you and Jazz are so insular with your work, Jack. You’ve been very offhand lately. We can all help, PLUS I’m a published journo too, you know!’

  ‘Hey!’ said Jack, looking worriedly at Alex. ‘I know you are! I’m not being offhand! You need to understand that Jazz – quite apart from being a great reporter – is sharing all her sources with me. She has connections everywhere.’

  ‘We’ve got better connections,’ said Alex. ‘Ditch her. I don’t like her.’

  ‘Now hang on a minute,’ said Jack, starting to look angry.

  Pen was still outside, gesturing to Alex in a commanding way, so Alex gave Jack a last inscrutable look, turned on her heel and went outside to talk to my sister.

  ‘Geez,’ said Jack. ‘She does not get Jazz at all.’

  Okaaaay, I thought. Clearly the up-front approach was not going to work with Jack on the Jazz issue. Not one little bit.

  ‘Listen,’ I said desperately. ‘Alex is right about us knowing a lot of people around here. We’ve lived here sixteen years, you know!’ I laughed. Jack didn’t look convinced and my heart fell. No matter what he said, obviously some part of him really did see me and Alex and our friends as school kids, girls just playing at being grown-up.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Did you know about the bird flu that’s hit the ducks and swans up on Cluny’s land?’ I asked.

  ‘Ohh,’ drawled Jazz’s voice behind me.

  I turned to look at her.

  ‘You shouldn’t dabble in journalism, Talluley. I think we got it covered.’

  ‘Jazz,’ said Jack with a small frown. ‘I –’

  Alex burst back into Big Mama’s with an ecstatic grin on her face. ‘Jack! Tatty! Fat Angus says Bludgeon’s got the results on the bird-flu testing!’

  ‘Well, I’ve got one better,’ lilted Jazz, one eyebrow raised. She took a tiny sip from her tiny cup. ‘The lab technician is meeting us at the Guilty Felon in five minutes.’

  ‘Yesss!’ said Jack. He pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and grinned at Alex. ‘Come on! Jazz’ll drive us!’ and he dived out of the deli like Boodle the Poodle after a bone on a string.

  Tam looked confused. ‘So . . . what, like, no one’s interested in covering the Emily Saunders story now?’

  ‘Tam, you know Emily’s parents think she’s en route to her grandparents,’ declared Alex. ‘She packed a bag and everything. End of! New story – let’s go!’

  ‘I’ll be driving Jack, not you lot,’ sneered Jazz as the deli door slammed shut behind Jack. ‘The Felon is strictly eighteens and over after 10 p.m. Juveniles are hardly welcome.’ She followed Jack and we watched her bleep her car open, but Jack didn’t get in.

  ‘Ha!’ said Alex. ‘He loves you more.’

  We hurried outside. ‘If they can’t come in, then let’s just give the girls a lift home first, Jazz,’ Jack was saying in reply to Jazz. We joined him on the pavement, Alex beaming up at him. Carrie and Tam had followed us out to see what was going on.

  ‘I’d really love to, Jack,’ said Jazz, ‘but if we don’t meet the guy right now, we’re going to lose this lead. Do you want the story or not?’

  Jack blew out a sigh.

  ‘Call me tomorrow,’ I said, and reached up to kiss him on the cheek, but he was already ducking down to get in the car. My cheeks flushed and I bit my lip.

  Jazz laughed at me. Not breaking eye contact, she flicked her luxuriant hair over her shoulder and got in the driver’s seat, smirking all the while.

  Alex says Jack was trying to find the button to wind the window down. I dunno. What hurt was that he’d not thought to say goodbye before he’d left my side. A pulse of loud music burst from the stereo and Jazz pulled out with a squeal of her mag-wheeled tyres.

  ‘Well!’ exclaimed Tam, staring afte
r them.

  Carrie put her arm round me, and I squeezed her back, my breath all bottled with an emotion I didn’t want to think about.

  ‘She is such a b–’ started Alex.

  ‘Come on,’ I interrupted, my cheeks hot and prickly. ‘Let’s go eat cake. Lots of.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sunday morning, chilling on the green outside Sassy’s Salon

  Aunt Sassy’s not my aunt, she’s Tam’s, but that doesn’t matter. We all call her Aunt Sassy just the same. Her salon: buttery walls, big ornate mirrors in gold gilt, black marble counters, black leather seats. So the seats have their stuffing kind of coming out and the flagstone floor is totally beaten up – it doesn’t really matter. It does the business. If it weren’t for Aunt Sassy, Mum would still be making me have short back and sides instead of letting me look like a girl.

  Aunt Sassy does Seniors’ Sunday, a sneaky hour just before church. There’s no better place in town for information-gathering. Tam works there part-time and I was waiting for her to emerge.

  But it was Mr K bowling towards me now, looking freshly shorn and very pink about the ears.

  ‘You untrusting bastard!’ screeched Esme Trooter from inside the salon.

  ‘Whoa,’ I said as Mr K collapsed on the bench beside me. ‘What have you done to incite wrath on the Lord’s Day? Is she gonna have to confess to that?’

  ‘I don’t think Esme is a churchgoer,’ muttered Mr K grimly.

  ‘Kadinski!’ came Esme’s voice again, and seconds later she followed after, slamming through the glass door and coming straight over, thwacking her stick down on the tarmac with every step. ‘Why don’t you believe me about Parcel Brewster?’ she shrilled, bending slightly to eyeball Mr K.

  Before he could answer, a Russian-accented voice cut through the still morning air and yet another figure emerged from the salon.

  ‘Oh, leave him alone,’ called Madame Polanikov. ‘Find another private detective, Esme. My lover’s wrists are wrecked after the last escapade.’ My eyebrows shot up into my scalp, and mine weren’t the only ones, but Madame was not finished: ‘I have told him vitamin E oil is the way to go, but he won’t listen to me. And I’m so good at massage. He needs rubbing three times a day.’

  Mr K had gone bright red. I’d never seen him this disconcerted.

  ‘Rubbing?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘Rubbing,’ he confirmed bitterly. ‘She makes me.’

  ‘Wow. You two are a match made in heaven.’

  Mr Kadinski growled, but that did not deter Esme, who sat down beside him.

  ‘Three’s a crowd,’ he said to her clearly, looking straight ahead at Madame Polanikov making her slow and heavy way across the road.

  ‘Did you go talk to Parcel Brewster, Alfred?’ persisted Esme.

  ‘I can’t get up there now, can I?’ he replied. ‘They’ve cordoned off the whole area to contain the bird flu.’ He twitched at his fedora irritably.

  ‘Bird flu . . .’ I mused, my brain whirring. ‘Hmm. Is Parcel Brewster still living in his shack?’ I asked.

  ‘That is precisely the question!’ chirped Esme. ‘Did you know, Tallulah, how close he was to your grandmother? Did she ever talk of the bird man? Always tending to the geese and the ducks up at Frey’s Dam?’

  ‘Yep,’ I said, ‘of course.’

  ‘Well,’ said Esme, ‘no one’s seen Parcel for days. Add Emily Saunders’s disappearance and I bet there’s no bird flu there at all! I bet something else is going on!’

  ‘Ooh!’ I said. A memory flashed across my mind. Esme on the telly at the appeal on Monday. Jack pressing Jazz for a chat with Esme. And something else . . . ‘Mr K, the note. Could it have been Parcel? He called the police, didn’t he? Asked them to go up there. Was he worried about bird flu there? Did he leave the note for Grandma Bird?’

  ‘What note?’ asked Esme. ‘What’s going on?’

  I was about to explain when Madame Polanikov finally staggered to a halt at our bench. ‘Whooof!’ she huffed, and I got up hurriedly so she could sit down.

  Madame fell gratefully back on to the bench, wedged in tightly next to Esme. She nudged my ankle with her umbrella. ‘What is this note you speak of?’ she enquired. ‘My love pudding is not investigating anything, da? Nyet, nyet!’

  ‘Don’t tell us nyet!’ said Esme hotly, clearly feeling crowded by Madame.

  There was a jangle of keys at the salon door. Aunt Sassy was locking up while Tam came over to our overpopulated bench.

  ‘Nyet, nothing!’ continued Esme, wriggling for more room. ‘There’s a man’s life at stake here!’

  ‘Whose life?’ asked Tam. She looked at me accusingly. ‘What now?’

  I held up my hands, not involved, totally not involved. ‘Don’t look in this direction, Tam. I was just siiiiitting on the bench. Miiiinding my own business.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ said Esme. ‘No one sits on this bench on a Seniors’ Sunday not looking for info. Now what note are you talking about?’

  ‘It was just Parcel telling Grandma Bird about the bird flu –’

  ‘Grandma Bird is dead, though,’ said Tam.

  ‘Parcel may not have known or remembered that,’ mused Mr K.

  ‘Alfred!’ barked Madame Polanikov. ‘You do not become involved! Da?’

  ‘Oi!’ shrieked Esme. ‘There’s been traffic up the mountain! All hours of the night! Something’s going on! Talk to Parcel, Alfred! Talk to him!’

  ‘Alfred is not going to put himself in any danger,’ said Madame Polanikov. She waved her bejewelled fingers about dramatically. ‘I’m looking after this fine figure of a man now.’

  ‘Maria Polony-baloney!’ yelled Esme Trooter. ‘You’re going to turn this man into a namby-pamby! He needs to get back in the game. Things keep happening in this town, and no one takes any notice! If it wasn’t for me, the whole place would be cemented over with property developers living in Barbados all year round off the proceeds and we’d have no one left here at all! People disappearing willy-nilly! Birds dying!’

  I shot a look over at Mr K. He was watching me out of the corner of his eye.

  The birds will die! I mouthed at him. He nodded.

  ‘Parcel Brewster . . .’ I murmured.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr K. ‘Your house is the closest to the mountain from his shack, and he knew all about you lot from your grandma. He probably felt he could trust you to do something, left the note and took off until everything dies down. He would have noticed the birds starting to get ill before anybody else realised anything was amiss at all.’

  It all made sense. Though I hadn’t felt particularly worried about the note, I still had a wave of relief wash over me. I hoped Parcel was okay being a hermit somewhere else for a bit.

  Mr K was chewing his lip, thinking, but didn’t get a chance. Esme was already elbowing him and squeaking, ‘Alfred? Alfred? Don’t ignore me, old man!’

  I tried to placate our town campaigner. ‘Mr K has other things on his plate right now, Esme,’ I said, thinking guiltily of Jack. ‘Maybe he could check on Parcel when this whole bird flu thing is over.’

  ‘No!’ said Esme. ‘No! No! No!’ She looked feistier than ever. ‘Someone’s got to go up to Frey’s, see what’s actually going on up there. See if Parcel’s okay. Must I do it myself?’

  Mr K sighed heavily and the general Sunday morning buzz around the green seemed suddenly to still. The chairs outside Big Mama’s were empty, the cinema doors still firmly closed, the salon clients all disappearing into the cathedral. For a minute there was total silence.

  But there wasn’t silence in my head. A part of me couldn’t help feeling she was right. What if Parcel was still around, being freaked out by the authorities crawling all over the place? Esme had turned her attention from Mr K to me. She arched an eyebrow and I nodded, very slightly. I leaned forward to help her up off the bench and murmured, ‘I’ll go up there tonight, Esme, okay?’

  I was sure I’d spoken too softly for Mr K to hear, but he gave me a
certain kind of look, regardless. Previous experience had taught my old and wrinkly friend that I had a tendency to get involved. If there was something going on, I’d be in it up to my neck, that’s for sure. Tallulah Bird, supersleuthy supersleuth!. . .

  Or, um, not.

  Yet even if Mr K had wanted to say something to me he had no chance. Madame Polanikov had her ringed fingers on him, and he was going to have to behave himself.

  Unlike me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunday afternoon, back on the bench at the green

  Tam and I had spent a day catching up, mooching about town, lunch at hers, over to Carrie’s, and now we were back on the bench at the small green outside the cathedral. The sun was already sinking, and the breeze was chilly. Jack surely should have been back in town by now, but I’d heard nothing from him, and I couldn’t bear to leave more than one voicemail for him. (Okay, two . . . but that’s all, I promise.)

  ‘How did we end up back here?’ I asked.

  ‘Ohh,’ sighed Tam, ‘dunno.’ But her eyes slid sideways across the grass to that small coffee shop called Big Mama’s.

  ‘Hn,’ I said, trying not to smile.

  ‘What you doing tonight?’ asked Tam.

  ‘Depends.’

  Tam groaned. ‘You’re going to turn into one of those creatures that dumps her mates when she’s got a boyfriend. Like Alex with that Gavin. We haven’t seen her all day.’

  ‘As if!’ I took a breath to argue furiously, but Tam just laughed.

  ‘I’m only winding you up. I’ve got supper tonight with Mum and the Carusos.’ She blushed a little.

  ‘Really?’ I was surprised. ‘I didn’t know your mum was matey with the Carusos.’

  ‘Not so much,’ said Tam. ‘They got talking a couple of weeks ago about polenta pizza bases and next thing you know . . .’ She shrugged.

  ‘Next thing you know’ – I made my voice dark and forboding – ‘arranged marriage between Tam and Gianni. Tam becomes Italian mama like no other. Bearing twelve children and making the best gnocchi in town.’