Drowned Vanilla (Cafe La Femme Book 2) (12 page)

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 sensitive 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.

Darrow used to own a much larger slice of my business, but had handed over most of his share to Xanthippe in recompense for totalling her previous vintage car. He has a sweet tooth for my cakes in particular, but was not making friends with the treacle tart today, rolling the cranberries around on his teeth and making a thoughtful face. Darrow thinking was rarely a good thing.

‘Not a fan?’ I said. I wasn’t surprised. Treacle was an acquired taste and while he liked his desserts sticky, this was probably a bit beyond him. ‘Should have ordered the crunchy lime cheesecake.’

‘Sure, you tell me that now.’ He poured himself a cup of tea with precise measurements, and added a slice of lemon. ‘How’s your life, Darling?’

‘Found a missing person, Stewart and Xanthippe are both pissed off at me for ratting said missing person out to Bishop, some kid exploded my kitchen and I can’t get my muffins to rise.’ Not that I needed muffins until we reopened, but I’d put a batch in the oven before I remembered that all over again. Damn it.

‘Not a good week.’

‘Not especially, no.’

‘What’s the damage in the kitchen?’

‘Nothing expensive except the microwave, and we needed a new one anyway. I sent Nin shopping. How are things with you?’ I indicated the laptop. ‘Still writing that book of yours?’ I tried not to curl my lip. Unlike Stewart’s inoffensive romance writing, Darrow’s novel had caused me all kinds of problems earlier in the year. Here’s a tip — when writing a novel that features inventive crime methods, it’s really important to not let it get in the hands of people who want to use it for actual crime.

‘Eh, I’ve gone off the idea,’ said Darrow dismissively. ‘Rejection letters are terrible, terrible things. I couldn’t get out of bed for three days. Who wants to be a writer anyway?’

I was not going to smack him. Not at all. It was for the best if that book never saw the light of day. I might have known he’d never follow through. ‘So what are you up to instead?’ Darrow was always up to something. He had too much money and no day job, which meant he was constantly teetering between bored and far-too-interesting.

‘Thought I’d try my hand at filmmaking,’ he said with a wide grin. ‘An old girlfriend of mine — remember Cassidy?  — is opening an indie cinema bar at New Year’s, and she wants a short film for it. Doesn’t sound too hard. I’ve been buying up the equipment, gathering media student volunteers…’

I blinked. ‘Writing a script?’

‘Nah, I’m going for more of a loose, casual approach. Get some actors who are willing to improvise, turn a camera on them…’

‘Let them do your work for you…’

‘Exactly.’

‘Are we talking a reality TV sort of thing? Contemporary take on something or other?’ I couldn’t get my head around it.

‘Oh no,’ Darrow said, ridiculously pleased with himself. ‘I’m thinking film noir.’

Improvised film noir featuring a cast of Australians. Someone save us all.

‘Sounds fascinating,’ I drawled. Oh, it was going to be a cake wreck. Still, hopefully the costumes would be cute.

‘Doesn’t it though?’

The doorbell jangled and Xanthippe stuck her head in. ‘Darrow, move your arse, I’m on a loading zone.’

‘Only for you, my sweet.’ He started to pack up his laptop.

I looked at Xanthippe in surprise. ‘You’re involved in his film?’

She gazed coolly back at me. ‘Why not?’

Apart from the fact that Darrow was her ex and the two of them could barely spend five minutes in a room together without sniping at each other, I couldn’t think of a single reason.

‘It just seems sort of…’
Made for failure
. There, I said it. Internally, but it’s the thought that counts.

‘Fun?’ Xanthippe said archly.

‘Why don’t you join us, Darling?’ Darrow asked in that melted toffee voice of his. ‘Dressing up, running around a small town playing a femme fatale. Just your sort of thing.’

‘I bet you even have the perfect dress,’ Xanthippe added. She sounded smug. She was also right. I had the perfect dress, and normally I would completely drop everything for a caper like this. It didn’t matter if the end result sucked, the journey would be entertaining and fun. Oh hell, I had the perfect shoes, too.

‘Someone has to wait here for the electrician, and the building inspector,’ I said pointedly, to my two business partners.

‘Very responsible of you,’ said Xanthippe with a nod. ‘Isn’t she being responsible, Darrow? All grown up. I can feel the pride just bursting out of my chest.’

Okay, what exactly had I done to justify Xanthippe being such a dick?

Xanthippe dragged Darrow out the door. ‘Stewart, give us a minute!’

‘You’re taking Stewart?’ Talk about rubbing salt into my wound! Stewart was my sidekick, not theirs. At least, he used to be.

‘They took a vote and apparently I can’t be trusted to point a camera at anyone,’ said Darrow. ‘I have a sweetarse director’s chair, though. And a megaphone!’

The sweetarse director’s chair was jammed into the tiny backseat of Xanthippe’s Spider, along with Stewart, who gave me a wave.

Of course they were taking Stewart. This sort of quirky adventure was the kind of thing that Sandstone City lived and breathed. I tried not to look bereft as I waved back. ‘Have fun, guys.’

Xanthippe shook out her dark hair as she elbowed Darrow in the ribs to stop him getting in the driving seat. ‘How can we not?’

13

From: Darlingtabitha

Let’s do something this weekend.

From: Bishop

Uh-oh

From: Darlingtabitha

Don’t be like that. Adventuuuuures.

From: Bishop

Is it the kind of adventure where you and all your friends end up covered in glitter?

From: Darlingtabitha

THOSE ARE THE BEST ADVENTURES.

From: Bishop

Go ahead without me, I have some report-writing to catch up on.

From: Darlingtabitha

You’re so lucky that you’re hot. Want me to drop by later after all the glitter is cleaned up?

From: Bishop

Now that sounds like a much better plan.

Even my experimentation with sweet potato ice cream (surprisingly yummy, though it needed more cinnamon) didn’t cheer me up. I wanted to be racing around a small town with an insane crowd-sourced film noir film crew and my friends. Who wouldn’t? The electrician arrived by the end of the day and gave me the all clear, but it turned out the building inspector wouldn’t be able to make it until the day after tomorrow. Bloody brilliant.