Drowned Vanilla (Cafe La Femme Book 2) (3 page)

‘We promised we’d never contact her family or friends at home,’ said Melinda, chewing her lower lip. ‘It was part of the deal. She’s terrified they’ll find out about all this.’

Was rural internet access
really
that bad? Even a town like Flynn with a thousand or fewer occupants had to have at least one web geek who’d figured out the connection. Still, let them keep their illusions.

I looked at Xanthippe who was intrigued. ‘C’mon, Tish. There must be something food related down that way. Give us an excuse.’ Oh, she’d cracked out the high school nickname (I used to dress like Morticia Addams). So she was keen.

‘Some of the state’s best honey farms,’ I admitted. ‘Fresh fruit, the beginning of berry season…’

‘There you are! So many excuses for a road trip.’

‘It’s a lot of petrol for a bit of honey.’ Though mmm, honey gelato. There was a thought.

‘We can pay you,’ said Melinda. ‘We make pretty good money off the webcams, and…’ she hesitated, looking at Ginger.

‘What she’s not saying is that our subscribers are going to start kicking up if Anna isn’t back in the house soon,’ said Ginger. ‘We’ve already got a bunch of cranky emails clogging up the server. French Vanilla has her own following, you know?’

Xanthippe snorted. ‘Why did she choose that particular handle?’

Melinda shrugged. ‘Vanilla — safe — boring. She never strips for the cameras. Always buttoned up. Some watchers like that more than the blatant stuff.’ She gave Ginger an arch look. ‘Though I swear she gets more harassing messages and emails than the two of us put together. Sometimes it pays to take your top off.’

‘So,’ I said. ‘The promise you made to her means you don’t want to check out her family house yourself … but you’re okay with us doing it?’

‘Hell, if it will shut Cherry up, it’s worth it,’ said Ginger. ‘If she’s not there, and not home by the time you’re done, then … well, it will be the police, I guess. We’ll pay you two hundred dollars for the trip. Plus petrol.’

Not a fortune, but nothing to be sneezed at. There was a very nice pair of shoes I’d been saving up for.

‘Roaaaad trip,’ Xanthippe said in an undertone. ‘It is your day off, Tabitha. What else were you going to do?’

She had a point, and Nin would probably do better at the café without Xanthippe underfoot. ‘Can we take the Spider?’ I asked hopefully.

Xanthippe grinned. ‘Hell yes.’

3

BLUEBELDERBERRY GELATO

In case you’re wondering, my definition of gelato is ‘sorbet with a bit of cream in’. As long as I stay away from genuine Italian people, I’ll probably get away with it.

Ingredients:

1 cup water

2/3 cup caster sugar

4 cups fresh or frozen blueberries, blended (most recipes would try to make you strain out the bits but are they HIGH? All that beautiful blueberry pulp going down the sink, no thank you. I tried once and couldn’t bear it. This is SUPERFOOD gelato.)

3 tablespoons elderberry cordial (if you can’t find it, 2 tbs of lemon juice will do but then you have to call it Bluebemon, obviously)

2/3 cup thickened cream.

Instructions:

Put blended blueberries, water, cordial and sugar into a small saucepan. Stir over a low heat until sugar has dissolved.

Chill in fridge until super cold, or overnight.

Whisk/blend glorious purple liquid with cream.

Turn into ice cream by a) putting in metal bowl in freezer and stirring every half hour until ice creamable, or b) following instructions of your friendly neighbourly ice cream maker. The latter takes about 20 minutes. The former takes at least 3 hours. And part of your soul.

There’s one problem with convertibles, which is nicely illustrated by Xanthippe’s new haircut. As we bombed along the Huon Highway in her bright red 1972 (almost completely restored, still waiting on a few parts) Alfa Romeo Spider, Xanthippe’s short, shaggy dark hair looked casually rumpled and adorable. My longer, lighter and entirely unstyled hair flew behind me like an insane cape, and, judging by the irritated noises behind me, it was actually trying to strangle Stewart.

It was vital that we kept moving. I had no idea what was going to happen to my hair when we stopped, but it wasn’t going to be pretty.

‘Vanilla,’ said Xanthippe.

‘You’re as bad as Ceege! You can’t say vanilla,’ I complained.

‘Sure I can.’

‘That can’t actually be your favourite.’

‘Why not?’

‘Vanilla is boring.’

‘Classic,’ she corrected. ‘You appreciate classic clothes — ’ I had thrown on my one vintage Chanel black and white dress for the road trip because it was the outfit I owned that was most worthy of the Spider. Style matters. ‘ — and classic cars. Why not classic flavours?’

‘Chanel is not vanilla,’ I pouted. ‘The Spider is not vanilla. The Spider is chilli cherry chocolate bombe Alaska with salted caramel topping.’

Stewart leaned forward from where his long legs were impossibly folded into the tiny backseat. ‘I cannae hear a word the two of ye are saying.’

‘Favourite ice cream flavour?’ I yelled back, getting a mouthful of my own hair as I tried.

‘Rum an’ raisin.’

I resisted the urge to kiss him. Kissing him would be bad. Also it was currently physically impossible. ‘That’s a good answer. I mean, it tells me that you’re a middle-aged dad who should be playing golf somewhere, but at least it’s not vanilla.’

Flynn was just about twenty minutes past Huonville, which came as a surprise to me as I hadn’t previously realised there was much of anything past Huonville. We were well into the deep green of rural Tasmania now, and passed three posh tourist farms on our way in — lavender, honey and berries. No apples in sight, though I requested a stop at least three times to buy fruit on the side of the road. Xanthippe put her foot down and told me I could buy pears and organic cherries in Hobart, which was deeply unfair.

We made it to Flynn, and sent Stewart into the corner shop/takeaway/milk bar/newsagent to ask for directions to the Sunset Springs vineyard, where Annabeth French’s postcard-sending ex-boyfriend could apparently be found.

‘Why did we bring Stewart again?’ I asked, when he was safely inside.

Xanthippe leaned on the wheel, shaking her hair back into place. Damn her. Mine was somewhere between a dustbunny and a mushroom cloud. ‘He hasn’t been around for months, and it’s nice to catch up with friends. Also I’m auditioning him for the role of my sidekick.’

‘Hey!’

She gave me a look. ‘Want to keep him all to yourself?’

‘Of course not,’ I said quickly. ‘But … you’re my sidekick. You’re not allowed to have one of your own.’

‘I am not your sidekick!’ she said indignantly. ‘Nemesis, I can accept.’

I glanced at the shop. Still no Stewart. ‘You’re not interested in him, are you?’ Oh help, it was high school all over again.
Do you like him, you know in a like like way?

‘What if I was?’

I so wasn’t answering that question. ‘Are you?’

Xanthippe laughed. Lucky for me, she gets bored with playing chicken pretty fast. ‘I don’t go for emo indie boys. Too much hard work.’

My first reaction was relief. Uh-oh. This was not something I should be feeling relieved about. As a respectable almost-in-a-relationship-it’s-complicated woman, I should be matchmaking Stewart, not being pleased my friends didn’t fancy him. I should be setting him up with Xanthippe so they could run off together for wild sex and happy fun times.

Instead, I said, ‘He’s not emo indie. Is he?’

‘He blogs for a living, he makes wall art, he lives on black coffee and what’s with all those grey T-shirts? Believe me, he counts as emo indie even without me knowing what kind of music he listens to.’

‘Also, he writes romance novels,’ I said as Stewart sauntered back to the car with an armful of supplies.

‘I have nothing to add to that,’ said Xanthippe. ‘Good man, that McTavish!’ she added, loud enough for him to hear. ‘Navigate me.’

Stewart threw a tourist pamphlet at her and squeezed into the ‘not quite big enough for a human’ backseat, then leaned forward to share his bag of chips. ‘We haftae go up a mountain.’

‘Excellent,’ Xanthippe said happily, examining the pastel-coloured map on the brochure and then tossing it on to the backseat. ‘The Spider likes mountain roads. We laugh in the face of inclines and flirt madly with sheer cliff edges.’

‘I should have brought a jumper,’ I said sadly. Hot summer sun was all very well, but as soon as we got into the trees, it was going to get chilly.

Stewart fell back into his seat, taking his chips with him, and we were off.

The Avery Grove vineyard was lush. We drove up a long driveway lined with dark green trees that looked like they belonged in a Jane Austen costume drama. No sign of the drought here, even after six weeks of fierce sunshine, though I hated to think what their water bill was like.

Australian grass should never be this green in December.

The driveway snaked up to a huge old house, and … okay, were those peacocks on the lawn? Why would anyone have peacocks in the same place as their grapevines? Talk about style over practicality.

A couple of lads in their late teens were attacking a trellis that was choked up with all kinds of evil, spiky greenery. One of them strolled over to us, eyes sweeping speculatively over me before he settled on Xanthippe, grinning widely at her. Hot brunette in a sports car, yeah yeah.

‘Can I help you, love?’

She pushed up her sunglasses, not overly impressed with him. Which was probably a good thing, because he was far too impressed with himself. ‘We’re looking for Jason Avery.’

‘I’m more fun,’ the cheeky bugger said, leaning on my window to get a better angle for checking out Xanthippe.

‘Excellent to know, I’ll be sure and remember that,’ she said, and the sarcasm was such a thin, subtle veil he probably didn’t hear it. Stewart was snickering in the backseat, which suggested he did. Smart man, that McTavish.

‘Ey, Jase,’ Xanthippe’s new conquest said, calling to the other bloke. ‘Some people for you.’

The other plant-wrangler strolled over, not looking bothered. Late teens, blond, clothes barely hanging on to his frame, and his hair falling into his face. ‘Restaurant’s closed this week,’ he said. ‘Accommodation too — we’re renovating. Cellar’s a little further down the hill if it’s wine you’re after — did you miss the turn off?’

‘Actually, we’re looking for Annabeth French,’ I said. ‘Do you know where we might find her?’

Jason hesitated. ‘What do you reckon, Shay?’

‘Thursday arvo,’ said the charmer. ‘Scallop.’

The words made sense. Individually. I smiled politely while we waited for further translation.

‘Local pub,’ said Jason. ‘She’s on the afternoon shift. Should be working until five.’

Huh. That was surprisingly easy.

We parked outside The Scallop Shell, a bog-standard pub at the edge of town. A shortish, curvy girl with bright blonde curls was clearing tables in the beer garden. ‘That her?’ Xanthippe asked me.

‘Looks a lot like her.’ To be honest I hadn’t seen her face on Ginger’s computer, and it occurred to me now that paying attention to what our missing girl looked like might have been helpful.

I would make such a bad private detective.

‘One way tae find out,’ said Stewart. He looked at me. Xanthippe looked at me too.

‘What?’ I protested.

‘We all have our special skills, Tabitha,’ Xanthippe said patiently. ‘Mine is dragging important information out of impressionable young men who want to make out with my car. Stewart is here for coffee fetching and the Scottish accent. Your job is making friends with runaway internet porn stars and all that girly shit that comes so easily for you.’

Well, okay then. As long as we each had a niche.

‘Be good,’ I said as I got out of the car, using my fingers in a vain attempt to tidy my hair.

‘Shame,’ said Xanthippe. ‘I was planning to molest Stewart in the backseat while you’re gone.’

‘I dinnae put out on the first date,’ said Stewart.

Xanthippe grinned at him. ‘I do.’

I chose to rise above their blatant flirting. None of my business at all.
Repeat after me: the cute Scottish boy is not yours, the cute Scottish boy is not yours…

‘Annabeth French?’ I asked as I approached the blonde.

She looked warily at me, stacking the last of her plates. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m Tabitha. Ginger and Melinda — I mean Cherry — asked me to look for you.’

A look of alarm crossed her face. ‘Really?’

‘Well, yeah. They were worried. You vanished quite … unexpectedly this morning.’

‘Oh.’ She nodded, still nervous. ‘Yes. I was, um. Sorry to run out on them. I couldn’t take any more of it. I needed to come home.’

And that decision had taken four minutes during a power cut? Intriguing.

‘I’m glad you’re okay,’ I said finally. Really, this wasn’t any of my business. Sure, their webcam business might suffer, but the girl showed no sign of having been abducted. If she didn’t want to be French Vanilla any more, that was up to her. ‘They almost called the police.’

‘Oh wow,’ Annabeth said, sounding stunned. ‘That’s … wow. Overkill. I’m fine. I was just over the whole … thing.’ She glanced around nervously. ‘No one around here knows about that. The Gingerbread House, I mean. I’d rather they never did.’

She thought she could keep a secret like that in a small town? Again, none of my business.

‘You might want to give the girls a call — work out what to do with your stuff. They’ve got your phone.’ Wallet, most of her clothes … she must have got out of there fast. Ten to one there was a bloke at the heart of it.

‘I will, I totally will,’ said Annabeth. ‘I’ll borrow a phone and text them tonight. It was nice of them to send someone looking for me. I sort of thought they wouldn’t miss me that much.’

‘They were really worried,’ I told her. Huh. So much for the ‘she’s so responsible, never misses a shift’ Vanilla that Ginger and Melinda had been so certain would never walk out of her own volition. This girl seemed like a completely different person.