A Trifle Dead: Cafe La Femme, Book 1 (16 page)

‘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?’

T
he 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.

B
ishop 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.’

I handed him a Tupperware container with the second electrified ping pong ball inside.

Bishop picked the ball out of the container, and dropped it as the thing stung him. ‘Tabitha,’ he said, in a tone of voice usually reserved for swear words.

‘I did tell you it was electrified! There was a parcel, too—a creepy stalker parcel, with mouse traps inside.’ I had a horrible feeling that I was sounding like someone who had been watching too many B-grade horror movies.

‘And where is that?’

I felt myself going red, damn it. ‘I didn’t actually see it. It was … intercepted by a friend.’

‘Which friend?’ he asked in a voice that remained professional but had a little extra growl in it. ‘McTavish?’

‘No.’ This was going to be bad. ‘
Xanthippe
,’ I admitted.

There was a small choking sound in the back of his throat. ‘Xanthippe is back in town. Brilliant. Why don’t the two of you just kill me now?’

‘Leo,’ I said, to show him I was serious. ‘I wouldn’t call you over some prank. I know the evidence is ropey, but someone is trying to freak me out here. And I think it’s the Trapper.’

‘Someone with a sick sense of humour,’ Bishop agreed. ‘Maybe someone who knows you’ve been poking your nose around this case, for God-knows-what reason —’

‘I have not!’

‘But the guy who made those traps is dead. And even if he’s not—the death was accidental.’

‘Are you really sure about that?’ I said in a small voice.

Bishop gave me one of his patented big brother looks. ‘I’ll put you down in the register as a person of concern. If you get any more strange packages, let me know. Some officers will swing by every now and then, to check you’re okay. Plenty of the lads will volunteer, to make you feel better.’

‘Fine,’ I said, knowing I sounded like the brat he always said I was. I couldn’t help it. It was all I could do not to cross my arms and pout.

He looked frustrated. ‘I do care about you, Tabitha.’

‘But you don’t care about my opinion. You’re better than this, Bishop. You can’t give up on everything Dad taught you because he’s not around any more and some inspector is trying to play politics with your case.’

‘Tish—’

‘Don’t call me that,’ I snapped. ‘Stop calling me Tish. You’ve always called me that because he did, but I doubt you even know what it means.’ I had tears in my eyes now, and I really hated myself for it. One rolled down the side of my nose, and I swatted it away. ‘Xanthippe knows what it means,’ I added. ‘Ask her, if you’re interested. She always knew me better than you did.’

Bishop had that frantic expression that some men get around crying women. ‘Tabitha, if you need to talk…’

‘Thanks,’ I said, getting control of myself. ‘I have friends for that.’

He nodded, putting his professional face back on. ‘You should maybe keep your head down for a while.’

‘Until when?’ I said. ‘Until you’ve caught my imaginary stalker?’ He turned to go, and I darted forward, grabbing at his sleeve. ‘No, Bishop, wait. I know this sounds mad, believe me, I know. I haven’t had much sleep, which isn’t helping. But the café, and Amy and Danny, and Margarita’s place is just around the corner, and I went out with Julian at colleg—I can’t help thinking that maybe this whole mess is connected to me. Somehow.’ Yep. That really did sound stupid.

Bishop looked at me for a long time, as if trying to figure out a tactful way to tell me I was nuts. Then, of course, he remembered that he was
Bishop
. ‘You’re nuts. I know you miss your dad—’

‘Don’t. It’s not about that.’

‘Isn’t it?’ He looked tired—tired of me, maybe. I didn’t entirely blame him. ‘The world doesn’t revolve around you, Tabitha. Maybe it’s time you learned that.’ And then he left.

A few minutes later, Stewart came back in to refill his coffee cup. He was wearing one of Ceege’s band t-shirts, a grey thing with something obscene scrawled across it. ‘How long has it been?’ he asked after a long quiet moment.

‘How long what?’

‘Since yer dad passed away.’

‘Oh,’ I said. He’d figured it out, then. Good, I suppose. I hated telling people. Hated talking about it. Pretending it wasn’t a thing was easier. ‘About three months ago. Before Christmas. But he wasn’t here for a couple of years before that—retired to Queensland. Died there. I’m okay,’ I added fiercely. ‘I’m fine.’

‘But you and Bishop—are not normally like this.’

I wiped my face with the back of my hand. ‘Not as bad as this, usually, no.’

‘A whole lot of things are starting to make sense.’ Stewart put down his coffee and put his hand on the back of my neck, drawing me into him.

I put my arms around his back, and hugged. ‘You smell like Ceege,’ I said into his shoulder. It was bony.

‘Is that a bad thing?’

‘I can live with it. Almond soap. The boy knows how to moisturise.’

The phone rang, and I answered it without de-hugging Stewart. ‘Hello? Yep, he’s right here.’ I handed it over. ‘Simon for you.’

Stewart took it from me. I washed up my omelette plate as he talked. ‘How do ye even have this number? Oh, really, yer a reporter? First I’ve heard of it.’ Ooh, Stewart was sarcastic in the mornings. I kind of liked it. ‘Aye, I heard about the press conference. Planning to crash it? Don’t need me, surely—hardly worth taking decent photos. Oh. Cheers, I’ll call her. See you later.’ He hung up.

‘Do you have to go to Inspector Clayton’s little shindig?’ I asked.

‘No, but I’m away to the office now. Have to return a phone call to Melbourne.’

‘You can do that from here,’ I told him. ‘We have like a dozen free interstate calls on our plan, and I’m—well, I’m not calling Queensland much, these days.’ Before he got his serious face back, I batted my eyelashes at him. ‘Plus, Ceege is paying the phone bill this month. Really, it’s fine.’

‘Cheers,’ said Stewart. ‘I’ll take ye up on that.’

‘No problem. I’m going to have a bath.’

B
aths are
the best thing in the world. If you get the perfect combination of water temperature, steam, bubbles and oils, then you can entirely forget your troubles. Even if your troubles include a ping pong ball stalker and a police officer who keeps snogging you out of misplaced loyalty to your dead father, but doesn’t actually think you have two IQ points to rub together.

Well, maybe not all your troubles.

Like most old rental houses, our bathroom was pretty grim. Exposed pipes lined the walls, the cracks in the lino had reached epic proportions and the mirror only barely showed a reflection. The state of the bathroom was actually top of the List of Reasons Why Kelly Didn’t Feel Guilty About Moving Out Despite Sticking Ceege and Tabs with the Extra Rent.

There was a pot of teal paint in the corner that I had bought with every intention of brightening up the little room, but it had never even been opened. Who has time for home improvements when there are soups and salads to perfect?

The bath was our crowning glory, the one thing which made up for stubbed toes, peeling paint and pipes which bounced noises all the way from one end of the house to the other. It was a fabulous tub, huge and deep. It also stood up from the floor, raised on four claws of solid, greenish metal.

I pinned my hair up, and stepped into the hot water, immersing myself in glittery foam. The scents of tea tree and peppermint washed up through my skin, flooding my senses. One long mmmmmmmmm.

I sighed, closed my eyes, and tilted my head against the water pipe. It was an interesting feature of our otherwise horrible bathroom that anything spoken on the stairs, immediately outside the back door or anywhere near the kitchen sink could be heard perfectly from this particular vantage point.

Not that I intended to eavesdrop on Stewart and his phone call. Because that would be wrong.

‘Di,’ he said in a low burr.

For one shocking moment I thought he’d said “Die”, but I blame the bath bubbles and a misspent youth watching Hitchcock movies. Then I remembered Diana Glass, and rolled my eyes at myself. Of course she was the person in Melbourne he would call.

‘What are ye doing back home?’ Stewart asked. ‘I thought ye’d be in the States for … is Col there?’

There was a very long pause, during which I scrubbed my toes with a pink flannel, and wondered what the legal ramifications were of tapping one’s own phone. It was no fun just hearing half the conversation.

‘How did tha’ happen?’ Stewart said suddenly. ‘Di, what the hell —’

My toenails were in a state—definitely time to make a triple mud cake for Sara at the salon, to swap for a pedicure.

‘No, no, I’m no’—I know I shouldnae have got ye into this. I never thought … what do ye need me tae do about it now?’

So frustrating. I resisted the urge to run naked and soapy into the kitchen, demanding to know all the details. Instead, I dipped my head under the water, blowing bubbles. Not my business, not my business, not my business… But I resurfaced, of course, and kept listening.

‘Christ,’ said Stewart, so quietly I barely heard him. ‘I like this job, Di. I’ve only just started. This is no’ the best timing.’

A long, long pause.

‘I love you, I love you! Yer the best.’

I washed my knees very thoroughly, and tried not to be depressed. Stewart’s personal life was none of my business. Really, truly.

‘Ow—Kinky Boots, gerroff!’ He laughed, and I let the sound wash over me. ‘No, it’s a cat, trying tae kill me. I’m staying at a mate’s place. No, no’ a girlfriend, shut up. Aye, me too. Talk tae ye later. Bye.’

I stepped out of the bath, and dried myself off while the water gurgled and splurted its way down the plug hole. Then I wrapped up in my green kimono and padded out to the kitchen.