A Trifle Dead: Cafe La Femme, Book 1 (23 page)

Unless, you know, he would.

The tip of the Glock slid along my shoulder. He had to know that I’d always been freaked out by guns, that Dad’s determination to teach me to use the things safely when I was seventeen had resulted in something close to an actual phobia. Everyone knew it, all the cops who had worked with Dad back then. Looking at them scared me. Touching them made me completely lose my shit.

That’s me, the police superintendent’s daughter.

I could see the gun, hovering so close to my face, and it was almost enough to undo me. But there was Dad’s voice again, clearly in my mind. Not a memory this time, but a barked complaint.
For God’s sake, Tish, pull yourself together. It’s not aimed at you.

Fair point, Dad. The gun was pointing past me. Intimidating, but that was all.

My hand moved up, in an arc usually reserved for erratic pancake flipping. I threw the piece of spiky cactus up over my head, as fast as I could, and I heard it connect with his face.

Gary yelled, his gun lifted in reflex, and I ran. I skidded around the succulents and crashed back out through the door. I wasn’t up to the mental challenge of figuring out how to trap him inside. I ran like a rabbit.

Up more grass, veering sharply to the left. I was on autopilot now, thinking only about getting up and away. I didn’t want to be near people who could be at risk, but I didn’t want to be here by myself either…

I’d been thinking and running too much, and somehow ended up in a part of the Gardens I didn’t know. That was stupid. I spent half my childhood here, at birthday parties and picnics and school trips. I knew the damn place inside out—the only problem was that I remembered it as bigger than it was.

I had made it as far as a paved courtyard, with banked earth in neat little rows, supported by red bricks. Completely alien. But then I saw a notice on a signpost and realised what this was. It was the
Gardening Australia
organic garden left over from the old days when they filmed actual TV shows in Tasmania. Someone had been looking after it.

There was a veggie patch with a shed, and a nice stone wall. I looked around to check for any sight of Gary, and then pressed myself into the gap between shed and wall, hiding myself from view.

For a few minutes, I could breathe again. Well, wheeze, to be honest. Damn, I was unfit. The stone was cool against my head. It took a minute or two, but my brain finally started to calm down.

I’d done it again. I could kick myself. What the hell kind of survival instincts did I have, anyway? I had found myself yet another nice hiding place with no escape route if he actually caught me.

The main difference this time was the brick.

It was a loose one, a good size, red. Right by my foot. I picked it up, weighing it thoughtfully in my hands. A comforting brick.

‘Okay, Gary,’ I whispered to myself, nestling my prize close. ‘We’re even. You have your gun, and I have my brick.’

Stop talking to yourself, woman!
I heard footsteps nearby, quiet on the paving stones. What the hell had I been thinking? A brick was no match for a gun. It wasn’t even a projectile weapon. Well. Unless I threw it?

As a shadow fell across my hiding place, I straightened up and threw the brick as hard as I could, preparing myself for the nasty meat-squish sound as it hit Gary square in the nose.

Stewart McTavish stared at me in shock as the brick sailed harmlessly over his head. ‘Bloody hell, Tabitha. Good thing ye throw like a girl.’

Stewart. Not Gary. Stewart. Good old not-here-to-kill-me Stewart. I stumbled out of my hiding place and threw myself at him. Not blown up Stewart.

Now there was crying.

Stewart hugged me, and let me snuffle into his neck. His hands squeezed my hair. Everything he wore smelled like coffee. ‘Ye all right in there?’

I wasn’t sure that I was ever going to detach myself from his neck. It was such a nice neck, warm and reassuring against my face. Almost as good as my brick, possibly better. ‘How did you find me?’

‘Yer skirt was sticking out. Also, I could see ye from the path above. So rubbish at hiding.’

‘How did you find me
here
?’ I asked, tightening my hold on his wonderful, wonderful neck.

‘We spread out tae search. Bishop’s called half the local police force out. Witnesses placed ye in the area—and there were gunshots reported.’

I wiped my eyes on his shoulder. ‘Yep, those were definitely in my vicinity.’

‘Tabitha, could ye loosen up yer grip a bit?’

I relaxed my hold, but only slightly. Police. Bishop. So many presents, and it wasn’t even Christmas. ‘Have they caught him yet? Have they arrested him?’

‘I don’t know. We all sort o’ got separated.’

I stared at him in worry. Neck or no neck, Stewart wasn’t going to be much good against an armed and dangerous rogue police officer, if the uniforms didn’t find us before Gary did. ‘We have to get
out
of here.’

‘Might have known,’ said a steady voice. Gary. Of course it was Gary.

Slowly, Stewart and I both turned around to face him.

Gary was a mess. His face was badly scratched, and there was a long dollop of blood streaking down from his eyebrow. The cactus had done a fair job, but not good enough. The hand that held the gun was steady, and this time it was aimed directly at me. ‘I was hoping to get through this without having to shoot people,’ he said.

‘You still could,’ I said, eyeing the wrong end of the barrel for the second time that day. Didn’t get any easier.

‘No’ doing so well with the blowing people up skills either,’ said Stewart slowly, squeezing my hand. ‘Didnae even get the cat. Why no’ call it a day, and give yerself up?’

Gary shifted his gaze from me to Stewart, and I shivered. Maybe I could have talked him out of it if I was by myself, but I couldn’t for the life of me think of anything to say that would stop him shooting Stewart.

The fact that we were holding hands probably didn’t help, to be honest.

A tree came out of nowhere, swinging over the wall and cracking Gary’s gun to the paving stones. Another tree smacked him over the head, knocking him to the ground. A third tree came around the other side of the wall, slamming Gary flat on the paving stones.

When my eyes uncrossed enough to separate the trees from actual bodies, I saw a dishevelled Xanthippe sitting on Constable Gary’s back, a large uprooted sapling in either hand. Darrow was there too, sitting on Gary’s feet with a third sapling flourished high above his head. His shirt was rumpled, and his eyes were sparkling as if he had done something wonderful.

I went a bit wobbly, and felt Stewart’s hand in the small of my back, not quite holding me upright, but ready to do so if he was needed. Good to know that someone was on the ball.

Claudina and Ceege came whooping into the courtyard, brandishing more saplings. Bits of earth flew everywhere.

‘Job’s done, mates,’ Xanthippe informed them. ‘Too slow.’

I gazed at her. ‘You
are
wearing my coat. Give it back.’

She arched her eyebrows. ‘Say thank you, Tish.’

‘You tore up actual trees?’

‘They were convenient. And don’t lecture me about environmentalism, sweetheart. I saw what you did to the cactus house.’

I looked down at Gary. His face was pressed into the grass, as if he didn’t want any of us to look at him. I was mad as hell. If he hadn’t shown his true colours, I might still be smiling with him and flirting occasionally and making his coffee just the way he liked it. I had considered him a friend.

Apparently you could know just about anything about a person, including how many sugars they took in their favourite kind of coffee, and not know something really essential, like whether or not they were capable of murder.

I stooped, and picked up my brick.

‘None o’ that,’ Stewart said, deftly taking it away from me.

‘Give it to me,’ I said stubbornly. ‘It’s my brick.’

‘Leave it, Darling,’ said Darrow. ‘We’ve got your back. Everything’s fine now. Consider yourself rescued!’

‘Tell that to Julian’s mother,’ I said furiously. ‘Tell it to Locks.’

There were sirens everywhere, above and below us. The police were coming—pulling out all the stops for Superintendent Darling’s baby girl, even against one of their own.

Especially against one of their own.

I wasn’t in any state to greet them. Before the first wave of police officers arrived, even before Bishop got to us, my knees had buckled under me. I hoped that someone would catch me as I fell. That’s what friends are for, right?

I
t was Sunday
, and Café La Femme was inundated with police officers. For once, I had invited them. Officially it was a thank you barbecue for everyone who’d run to my rescue during the whole Botanical Gardens abduction fiasco.

Unofficially it was the wake I’d never got around to throwing for Dad.

It was a brilliant, lazy afternoon. My party crowd had taken over the courtyard at the back. Bishop and Inspector Bobby fought over who got to be in charge of the grill. Darrow made sinfully strong daiquiris in my kitchen, and flirted shamelessly with Xanthippe. She treated him like dirt. He seemed to like that. Even Nin loosened up, arriving with three dozen death-by-lemon-icing cupcakes and a banana lounge.

While all the fun happened outside, the café itself was strangely deserted. I had one tray already loaded up with perfect raspberry shot glass parfaits, and hummed to myself as I filled a second tray with espresso cup mocha trifles. Damn if they didn’t look cute as buttons.

Chocolate jelly. Coffee custard. A dash of sour cherry curd, for contrast. Tiny specks of tiramisu sponge dotted throughout, and whole marinated cherries sitting fat and juicy on top of the cups. Perfect.

‘All for me? Ye shouldnae have,’ said Stewart in the doorway. ‘I’m sure I couldnae manage more than eight or ten of those.’

I pointed a teaspoon at him. ‘The Trapper’s
Muse
? That’s how history will remember me?’

He looked uncomfortable. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘I get kidnapped, and you blog about it?’

‘Be fair. Even the mainland papers went with Botanical Gardens Terror Run headlines. Ye cannae blame a lad for making the most of being on the scene.’

‘Can’t I?’

‘Anyway,’ Stewart said with a sideway grin. ‘Turns out our readers were far more interested in the story of Moonshine, the cat that survived the bomb blast. At least the cat turned up for a proper photo session. She’s the true internet celebrity tae emerge from all this.’

‘Not doing yourself any favours here,’ I said, and slapped his hand when he got close enough to try for a cup. ‘I don’t think so.’

Stewart gave me puppy dog eyes. ‘Ye wouldnae deny a man caffeine, would ye? No’ after I stopped a bullet for ye, and beat off yer attacker with a small but effective trowel?’

I laughed at that. A lot of wrong details had appeared in the news, both the print and online media. Xanthippe and Darrow both managed to slink off before people started taking photos, but neither Stewart nor I had dodged the paparazzi. Which made it even more annoying when he turned the tables on me and reported the story himself.

We won’t discuss the fact that I’m pretty sure Ceege set up at least three anonymous Twitter accounts pretending to be me, Constable Gary and the bloody cat, reliving the whole event in gory and completely fake detail. I live in hope that Bishop doesn’t know what Twitter actually is.

The Morris case was re-opened, and Bishop was in charge of putting the pieces together. They were still untangling the incidents where Gary had tampered with evidence, and the charges against him were mounting. He, meanwhile, was making a very good case for being institutionalised and medicated long before the justice system got a chance with him. Dr Pembroke was in custody as well, and far more likely to serve jail time than Gary.

Bishop hadn’t told me any of these things, but I had my sources.

Stewart nodded towards the brick that currently had pride of place on the shelf above my cash register. ‘Keeping that, are ye?’

‘It’s a damn fine brick. I plan on framing it.’ I smiled sweetly. ‘You could add it to the mural.’

Stewart made a sceptical noise and stole one of my espresso mini-trifles off the tray, inhaling the coffee smell. ‘And here was me thinking it was perfect the way it was.’ He ate the cherry thoughtfully, and spit the pip into his hand. ‘Ye do like it?’

What with police interviews and ducking journalists and trying to make it up to Nin in the kitchen, Stewart and I hadn’t spent much time together for the past few days. I’d missed the moment when the mural was finished.

I had, however, spent all of today gazing with joy at my gorgeous, gorgeous wall. Stewart had added several cheeky finishing touches to the mural. There was a leather clad Xanthippe behind Mrs Peel, eyeing her up competitively. There was a Ceege in frock and war-paint sharing a cappuccino with Doris Day. At the very edge of the piece, in the far background, there were three tiny figures that looked a lot like a uniformed and disapproving Bishop, a smug and well-dressed Darrow, and Stewart himself with his camera concealing his face.

At an extra table in the bottom right of the wall, there were four squabbling, giggling women who just had to be me and Nin and Lara and Yui having a hell of a time with cherries, chocolate dipping sauce and a catapult.

I knew for a fact that Stewart had already received appreciative snogs from my two art student waitresses, who both adored their portraits. I also knew that Nin now kept an extra-strong pot of espresso in the kitchen just for him.

Stewart McTavish was insidious. No getting rid of him now. He painted a pretty picture.

‘I love it,’ I said, and got a very nice grin in return. ‘Don’t let it go to your head.’

He knocked back the contents of the espresso cup as if it was actual liquid coffee. ‘I can always scrub it off and stick up some trendy wallpaper instead…’

‘Don’t you dare! It’s my wall, and I’m keeping it. Thank you.’ I leaned forward to give him a friendly smack on the lips.

At least, that was the plan. But somehow the friendly kiss lingered longer than I meant it to. Stewart was warm, and tasted of mocha trifle and cherries, and if the counter hadn’t been between us, I do believe I would have wrapped myself around him like a boa constrictor.

I hadn’t expected it. Did that make me stupid? All I can say is that it felt good, and I didn’t want it to stop.

‘Ahem,’ said a voice that was all smirk, and we leaped apart. ‘Those trifles you promised?’ said Xanthippe. ‘I’d offer to help with the tray, but I see you have your hands full.’

T
he best barbecues
are the ones that start at lunch, but keep going past dinner. I wasn’t sure where the beer and steaks kept arriving from, but I wasn’t complaining.

It was close to dark. We’d emptied the entire building of furniture, and stacked it around the courtyard for seating. Crash Velvet were playing from their top apartment with the windows open, so we could all hear the music. Every now and then, they sent down a basket on a long string, and we piled it up with cold tinnies and cooked sausages.

The espresso cups were empty, every single one of them, and I had a new recipe to add to my menu.

There were a few drunken, cheerful speeches about how great Dad was, and some nostalgic sniffles about the good old days when my mum ran the police canteen, before she ran away to live in rural paradise with her hippie mates. I drank to all the toasts and refused to make any of my own.

No one mentioned Gary, or the fact that I had almost been killed by one of their own. But if some of the lads and lasses of local law enforcement were a touch more protective or solicitous than usual … well, I let them. It was the only way they could demonstrate how rotten they felt about it all. We had that in common.

I’d always thought you could read a person by the type of coffee they drank, but now I was sure I knew absolutely nothing. That feeling would pass, I hoped. As long as I didn’t have to deal with any more surprises this week.

I sat on a
Sandstone City
desk in the courtyard, squeezed up between Xanthippe and Ceege, sharing a bottle of champagne. Across the yard, I could see Stewart hemmed in by Lara, Yui and Claudina, and I was working up the energy to go and rescue him. Right now, I was making the most of the fact that Zee and I were on good terms again. Not best friends yet, not nearly, but the awkwardness was going, piece by piece. I’d missed her so much, without even realising it, and when I’d needed her, she’d been there for me.

With saplings.

I was capable of getting into a whole lot of trouble without even trying, so I would probably need a girl like Xanthippe around.

‘Ladies and gentlemen and valued members of Tasmania Police, Hobart division!’ said Darrow, balancing dramatically on one of my Pop Art chairs. ‘I have an announcement to make. Some of you may know that I was recently involved in a certain accident, with a certain car, belonging to a certain woman…’

Xanthippe snorted. ‘Fully-restored 1967 Lotus Super Seven Roadster…’

‘Yes, yes,’ Darrow said with a wave. ‘I have been racking my brains as to how to make it up to said woman.’

‘Get on with it!’ I yelled, and threw a cream bun at him.

‘If there are no further interjections from the crowd,’ said Darrow grandly. ‘I would like to announce a compensation package—’ and he waved some documents from inside his jacket ‘—which is to say, the ownership papers for a slightly used (I know you like a challenge) 1972 Alfa Romeo Spider, ready for restoration, and to fund said exciting new project, we have here a contract signing over forty percent of the business of Café La Femme to Xanthippe Anastasia Demetria Carides, long may she reign.’

‘
What
?’ Zee and I shrieked simultaneously.

A car. I understood the car part. But he was giving her my café. Suddenly my unobtrusive, policy-of-no-interference silent partner had dumped me and handed the power to a woman who thought sandwiches didn’t need butter.

Xanthippe recovered faster than I did. ‘Tish, some thoughts on changing the menu. How do you feel about Buddhist cuisine? Ethiopian-Caribbean fusion? Also, here’s a novel idea, plastic cutlery that saves on washing up!’

I pushed her off the desk. She scrambled to her feet with good humour and ran across the courtyard to pounce on Darrow, asking questions about her new car. Obviously that was the prize she was really interested in, and he beamed at the attention she was giving him.

Maybe she hadn’t realised yet that the café shares were designed to make her stay in Hobart. He didn’t want to lose her again. Sneaky, but not subtle. She should know that. Maybe she did know that. Maybe she wanted the excuse to stay…

And I was caught in the middle of their courting dance, yippee.

‘You know,’ said Ceege thoughtfully. ‘If Xanthippe’s sticking around Hobart and needs a place to live, I reckon she could be the third housemate we need to take over Kelly’s room.’

I rescued the bottle of champagne from him, and then pushed him off the desk too.

‘Scuse me,’ said Bishop, grabbing me from behind and hauling me off the desk. ‘Let’s remove you from further temptation to do violence to your friends, shall we?’

He drew me into the kitchen, and as soon as I was away from the crowd, all my objections spilled out in one crazy lump: ‘Xanthippe in my café, we’ll murder each other, Darrow never interferes but I know she will, he’s only doing this to get in her knickers again and Nin hates her, it’s going to be flat out war, and how can we be friends again if she’s in my face twenty-four hours a day…’ I couldn’t cope, I really couldn’t cope with this; I needed no more surprises.

‘Morticia,’ said Bishop.

I blinked at him. ‘What did you say?’

‘I know what Tish means. Before I met you, there was an embarrassing goth phase, yes? So your dad called you Tish after Morticia, from
The Addams Family
.

Xanthippe picked it up, because it annoyed the hell out of you. And I picked it up off them both without knowing what it actually meant.’ He crossed his arms, and looked almost as smug as Darrow on a bad day.

‘Xanthippe told you,’ I accused.

‘Nope. I figured it out all by myself. Well, I found the old picture your dad used to keep on his desk, at the station. And it clicked.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, good thinking. Well done, there.’

‘I won’t,’ Bishop said, and hesitated. ‘I won’t call you it any more, if you don’t want me to. I know it was your dad’s thing.’

Of all the horrible things I’ve ever said to him, this is the one he remembers?

‘I don’t mind. Well, obviously I do mind, it’s a nickname designed to humiliate me by reminding me what a complete try-hard I was at high school, but you’ve been calling me Tish for a while. It would be weird if you stopped now.’

‘Well,’ Bishop said with a smirk that reminded me that he was, after all, related to Xanthippe. ‘We wouldn’t want things to get weird.’ He swept his arm towards the open kitchen door, and the raging party beyond. ‘This was a good idea.’

‘I owed it to them,’ I said softly. ‘I haven’t been very nice to Dad’s mates this year.’

‘You were grieving. Trying to push us away.’

‘Not successfully.’ And how.

He gave me a friendly hug, patting me cheerfully on the back as he did so. All mates here. ‘It’s not something you want to get good at.’

I breathed him in, enjoying the rare moment of not shouting at each other. Then I tensed up. Only a couple of hours ago, I’d been molesting Stewart in the café with kissing and trifles. Now this—what the hell was I doing?

I shifted with a vague plan of putting some distance between us, but Bishop spoke against my hair, making me not want to move away at all. ‘All the arguing this year wasn’t completely about me trying to protect you now your dad’s gone,’ he muttered. ‘Actually, most of it was not about that.’

‘I know,’ I said as his breath tickled my ear. ‘Hey, wait. What?’

Then he was kissing me, and I was letting him, and my hands were all—well, busy—and my brain had temporarily left my head, obviously, and still neither of us had closed the damn door behind us.

What was it I had decided I wanted, in that aeon before Gary came to my kitchen door and everything went to hell?
I want my café back, and Stewart to stick around, and Darrow to stop disappearing, and Xanthippe to be my friend again, and Bishop to kiss me like he did in the stairwell that time, only more.

Now I was never going to get uniformed patrols out of my café, there was going to have to be meat back on the menu all over again, and I had Xanthippe as a business partner who was going to drive me up the wall, moving into my house and stealing my clothes on a regular basis. All that and I had pashed two different boys on the same afternoon. Just like bloody high school all over again.