Drowned Vanilla (Cafe La Femme Book 2) (16 page)

PIPPA: Oh, her name is Tippi Godspeed, and she’s a femme fatale — a bad girl, of course! I’m ridiculously well behaved in real life, so it’s lovely to cut loose and pretend to be evil. I’m hiding the Maltese Wombat from my husband, small town cop Charles Danger, and we just had a lovely scene where he flashed a light in my eyes and tried to get me to crack under the pressure.

SC: Charles Danger was played by your real life husband, local mayor Greg Avery. Do you think he found it difficult to get so hard with you in the scene you improvised?

PIPPA: Not at all, actually. (laughs) That’s a little scary, isn’t it? We were just so into it, it felt like being Bogart and Bacall. Though I always had more of a thing for Rita Hayworth, actually.

SC: Didn’t we all…

Breathing was a problem, apparently. Eventually we had to breathe, and that meant we had to look each other in the eye. Bad form, Tabitha. Really bad form.

Handy guide to kissing someone other than the person you’re regularly sleeping with: once you make eye contact, that’s when the guilt sets in.

Tabitha Darling, this is why you can’t have nice things.

I stared at him, letting my hands fall to my sides, feeling ridiculous. When in doubt, movie quotes, but the only one that swum up to the surface of my mind through all the
Stewart kissing, OMG, Stewart kissing! was from Murder My Sweet.
‘You shouldn’t kiss a girl when you’re wearing that gun,’ I said quietly. ‘Leaves a bruise.’

Stewart gave a wan sort of smile. ‘I killed him fer money and fer a woman,’ he said quietly. ‘I didnae get the money. And I didnae get the woman.’ He let go of me, which felt belated. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t do that,’ I blurted. ‘Don’t pretend it was only you.’ It was an equal opportunity kiss if ever there was one.

The awkward silence stretched out before us. It practically walked off into the sunset and then returned, circling us like a vulture.

‘Is it me,’ I said finally, ‘or is film noir really depressing?’

‘Ha,’ said Stewart, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Take it up wi’ the director.’ After the day of chaotic shooting (with cameras and fingers but so far no bananas) Darrow’s cast and crew took over the weatherboard town hall for a wrap party.

I couldn’t understand how one day of mad semi-filming a bunch of people improvising bad film noir vignettes could possibly produce a satisfactory result or anything resembling a coherent movie, but Darrow was happy enough.

Any party I don’t have to cater is an awesome party (obviously the ones I cater are better, but a whole lot less relaxing for me personally). Darrow was doing his bit to bribe the town for their approval, and had bought out the contents of the local ice cream parlour, along with what looked like half the cellar of Avery Grove. A barbecue was set up outside with a couple of organic free-range goats turning on a rotisserie. The local berry and honey farms had been raided too.

There was dancing, and laughing, and drinking, and an altogether happy glowing kind of vibe. I dragged Darrow up to dance with me, and thank goodness he hadn’t extended the his- torical theme to the music, because I never did learn to foxtrot.

He’d done it all with a community that was mourning the death of one of their own. Did that make him like one of those clowns that goes into hospitals to entertain the sick people?

‘You did good,’ I said, still a little bewildered by the whole thing. ‘I’m still not sure what you did, or why, but … it was a fun adventure.’

‘Adventures never need a reason why,’ Darrow said firmly. ‘They simply are.’

I needed more of that. Simply being. I used to be good at letting go and throwing myself into the universe, but lately — and Stewart was right, it was post-stalker, not post-Bishop — I’d been so damned careful about everything.

‘I’m getting the hang of days off,’ I told him proudly. I’d even texted Nin to ask her to wait for the building inspector in the morning — she was on the payroll anyway, and it only needed one of us. I’d stay the night in Xanthippe’s room here and drive back tomorrow to take the afternoon shift.

‘Good to know.’ Darrow glanced at something behind me. ‘Looks like the playing hard to get thing is working for you too. Someone’s come looking.’

I turned my head and my stomach hit my vintage pumps like it was weighed down with the Maltese Wombat as I recognised the man in the doorway of the hall. Leo Bishop, with a warm and relaxed smile as he surveyed the room, looking for me. When had he got here?

‘Shouldn’t you be happier to see your sweetie?’ Darrow said into my ear.

I didn’t say ‘he’s not my…’ because really if I couldn’t cope with ‘sweetie’ I shouldn’t be sleeping with anyone. Or kissing anyone, come to that. What I said instead was: ‘Hide me.’

The thing about Darrow is, when the shit hits the fan you can rely on him to rescue you without question. He swung me around and through the crowd, one arm slung over my shoulder. ‘Someday you can tell me the story.’

I nodded enthusiastically. ‘Or not.’ And I fled through the back door.

Away from Bishop. The man who shared my bed and gave me footrubs and had been incredibly, stupidly patient about the fact that I wasn’t willing to play girlfriend. Or, more importantly, to actually be his girlfriend.

I wasn’t used to sleeping with someone who was so genuinely stable and commitment-worthy. I was used to flings with men who talked a good game but got easily distracted, or cheated on me while their mothers taught me to cook, or decided they fancied other girls more. Or I found someone I liked better, before it all went too far.

Almost every relationship in my life had ended with the words ‘no hard feelings’.

So basically my issue was, I had finally developed a better taste in men.
#firstworldproblems
eat your heart out.

I didn’t know how to have the conversation where I told Bishop I was ready to move forward like a proper grown up, or the one where I told him it was time to call it quits. Maybe it would be better not to have any conversation with him ever again. Or maybe all this was in my head, and that one random kiss with Stewart had been a symptom of me freaking out about nothing.

If it was really so random, I shouldn’t still be feeling it on my mouth.

It wasn’t properly dark yet. The best thing about a Tasmanian summer is the long late days. That, and the ice cream. The town hall backed on to a green oval, and in the interest of getting as far from the wrap party as possible, I sashayed (you can’t do an ordinary walk in shoes like this) across the grass.

Two lads looked up as I approached, and tried to conceal the fact that they were smoking something Unofficial. ‘Nah, it’s all right,’ said Shay French, relaxing. ‘Tabitha’s cool.’

Ha, I was cool enough for teenagers to smoke weed in front of. Who said I was a grown up?

I sat down on the grass with them, and swallowed down any comments about how nice it was to see that the two of them were talking again, or at least hanging out in the same general vicinity. Because I was not a maiden aunt.

Jason held the joint out to me with a question in his eyes and I laughed. ‘Thanks, but I don’t think that will make my night any less confusing. I’ll have some of what you’re drinking, though.’

They had a bottle of Coke, a bottle of Bundaberg rum and a stack of plastic cups. It really was like reliving my youth.

Shay mixed me a drink and passed it over. I swallowed it down. Sweet. Sticky. Perfect.

‘So what sordid tales of teenage iniquity have I interrupted?’ I asked.

Both boys shrugged. Stunning conversationalists.

‘You know that ice cream you made,’ said Shay. ‘Can you make ice cream out of, like, anything?’

‘That’s basically my mission in life,’ I confessed, then took another mouthful of the sticky drink. ‘I could make one of this. Well, not an ice cream. A sorbet, maybe. Or a granita.’

Shay was grinning, much closer to the cocky kid I remembered from our first meeting. ‘What about beer?’

‘I could do it,’ I assured him. ‘It would be revolting, though. I’d have to add sugar for the freezing to work right, and it’s unlikely I’d end up with anything that actual beer drinkers would like. Or non beer drinkers, come to that. There have been some experiments with Guinness. I can see one of those micro-brew chocolate beers becoming something ice cream worthy.’

‘You cook, right?’ said Jason, inhaling deeply. ‘Shay reckons you cook.’

‘I’ve been known to scramble the odd egg. Also, I make the best minestrone soup known to man, woman or beast.’

‘I thought about doing that,’ Jason said thoughtfully. ‘I like to cook. We have a restaurant at the vineyard. I’d have to go away to do an apprenticeship. Do it properly, get the piece of paper and all.’

Shay looked away, as if they’d had this conversation many times before.

‘Your dad wouldn’t let you go?’ I asked. Couldn’t be many nineteen-year-olds who actually wanted to step into the family business.

‘Dad reckons if I leave town I’ll just keep on going,’ Jason shrugged. ‘That’s what happens around here. The kids leave.’

‘I’m leaving,’ Shay said abruptly. ‘Soon as I save up enough. This place is dead.’

‘It could be amazing if people stayed,’ Jason argued. ‘Put in the effort, build the community into the next generation.’

Shay rolled his eyes. ‘No one wants to make the effort, mate. No one except your dad. The most exciting thing that happened around here in the last three months was when Burgers McCall figured out how to make caltraps with his dad’s welding equipment and covered Main Street in them, ripping up half the town’s tyres. You could Dark MoFo the crap out of this town, and there would still be no jobs on Monday.’

I opened my mouth to suggest that a film crew had taken over their main street today, and the recent murder also had to count as something out of the ordinary. Then I decided that was really, really tactless and shut my mouth again.

More people were wandering out from the party. Shay and Jason exchanged a look and quietly stubbed out the joint, tucking the remainder of it in to Shay’s backpack.

‘My lips are sealed,’ I said firmly, refilling my cup. ‘I almost never tell things to police officers. At least, I’m trying to give it up as a bad habit.’

‘Taaaabitha,’ came a cry from one of the meandering groups of party escapees. Xanthippe made a good attempt at crossing the oval in her high heels, then collapsed at the last minute and put her head in my lap. ‘Are you hiding?’

‘Yes,’ I said truthfully.

‘Good for you. Should be more of it.’ She grinned up at me. ‘We made a movie!’

‘I’m very proud.’

‘Also, your hair looks excellent.’

Oh, I was so behind on the recreational drinking. I made ‘gimme’ sign language to Jason, who filled up my cup again. ‘I’m impressed that Darrow hasn’t got himself run out of town yet. Surely his powers to irritate and offend can’t have entirely abandoned him.’

‘Are you kidding?’ said Jason as he settled the bottle of Bundaberg back on the grass. ‘Greg Avery said yes to letting the circus come to town, and no one says no if Greg Avery wants something. Greg Avery was pleased as punch to get the chance to whack on a fedora and pretend to be a mafia boss — it’s like his wet dream.’ There was something creepy and disturbing about the fact that he was saying the full ‘Greg Avery’ instead of, you know, ‘Dad’.

‘Ha,’ said Shay, taking the bottle back. ‘Mrs Avery is my wet dream.’

Jason leaned over and smacked him. ‘No perving on the stepmother, you wanker.’

A few town girls in borrowed glam dresses and very non-period lipsticks walked past, keeping a distance between us. They glanced over at us a lot and whispered to themselves in between checking their glittery candy-coloured phones, and it was pretty certain that Jason was the centre of their attention.

He scowled and looked at his feet.

Shay glared after the girls. ‘Snobs,’ he muttered. ‘A month ago they were climbing over themselves to make you notice them.’

‘That was before I was a murderer, right?’ Jason said flatly, no trace of humour.

Xanthippe raised her eyebrows at him and then at me. ‘You know what I feel like, Tish? Walking. Let’s walk.’

‘You have to take your head out of my lap first,’ I told her.

‘That shows a lack of imagination,’ she said, but rolled her weight off me. ‘How about you fellas show us that lake of yours?’

I shot her a look because really, asking to see the place where their sister/girlfriend was found dead was beyond rude, even for Xanthippe.

The boys didn’t seem to be bothered, though. ‘It’s not far,’ said Shay.

‘Awesome. Bring the bottles.’ She took off ahead of us, walking unsteadily. And that was the point at which I realised she was faking it. Zee is not an unsteady drunk. The more she drinks, the stiller and calmer and more watchful she gets. It’s eerie.

Okay, then. She wanted to see the scene of the crime. Avoiding the girl detective game hadn’t been doing me any favours. I could play along. Or at the very least, keep an eye out for the boys who were in no way prepared to deal with the wiles of Ms Xanthippe Carides.

Plus it allowed me to avoid the adorable, delicious man in my life, and the conversation I had to have with him.

We weren’t the only ones heading across the oval in the direction of the lake. A few straggler kids and film students meandered in that general direction, or were already making themselves comfortable on the grassy bank when we arrived.

‘Popular hangout?’ Xanthippe asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Shay. ‘It’s somewhere to go.’

‘Hmm,’ she said, still unconsciously swaying on her heels as her sharp and suspiciously incisive gaze swept the lake. ‘Not for privacy, obviously.’

‘Depends,’ said Jason, looking around uncomfortably. I didn’t blame him. The place had a sinister vibe to it now. ‘It’s a big lake.’

Xanthippe swung around, almost giving the game away as she looked at him with a firm, unblinking stare. ‘So this isn’t where…’

‘No,’ Jason said sharply. ‘You have to walk about ten minutes that way, around the curve and beyond those gum trees. Can’t miss the spot, there’s a shitload of flowers and junk set up there. Cards. People pretending to care.’ He dug his hands in the pockets of his jeans. ‘Go see for yourself if you want to.’