Salvage (18 page)

‘Duty is never dull,’ he shot back, with that look in his eye. The look that made my stomach jump somersaults when I was sixteen and still innocent enough to be impressed by cute men in uniform. Good thing I got over that particular fetish.

I circulated, smiling my best smile at a horde of middle-aged men who thought of me only as Tabitha, Geoff and Rose Darling’s precious little girl. ‘G’day all. Seen my new breakfast menu?’

Inspector Bobby tapped the pretty laminated pages. ‘No pies on there, Tabby love. How’m I going to start my day without one of Rose’s steak and bacon glories?’

My smile got brighter. ‘Come on, Bobby, this isn’t Mum’s café. It’s mine. And I’m pretty sure your wife told me that eating those steak and bacon glories for breakfast is what led to your heart attack last year. I can’t have you on my conscience any more.’ 

‘Leave it out, Tabby,’ said Superintendent Graham in a genial voice. ‘Your pastry’s a work of art. Can’t go wasting skills like that.’

Well, it’s true. Excellent pastry is the one tangible thing I gained from running off to Europe with a French landscape artist instead of going to uni. Phillipe parked me at his mother’s farm in the Dordogne for six months, where I learned about soups and sauces as well as melt-in-the-mouth pastry before I found out about the other women he had waiting for him in Paris, Marseilles and Berlin.

‘I’m not wasting it,’ I said patiently. ‘I have tomato-pear tartlets and vegan quiche on my Specials Board. The mochachino special comes with dunking profiteroles.’

The collective weight of Tasmania Police muttered amongst themselves, and glared at said Specials Board.

‘What exactly is
in
vegan quiche?’ said Bishop in a low voice.

‘Bok choy,’ I told him.

‘And?’

‘What do you mean,
and
? I know you all miss my mum’s cooking, but she doesn’t run the police canteen any more. In case you haven’t noticed, neither do I.’

It’s not that I don’t appreciate their business. Loyalty’s a nice thing. But if you had fifty-odd honorary uncles and brothers constantly hanging around your place of work, you’d start to crack too. I never dreamed when my parents split up and Mum abandoned the police canteen to make lentil burgers at meditation retreats and folk festivals that I’d end up inheriting all her old clientele.

Pies and chips are fine, but I’m not going to spend my life heating them up. This café was supposed to be a fresh start for me, and I was going to have to stand my ground.

‘So, no sausage rolls?’ asked Detective Sergeant Richo, from his little island of denial.

‘I haven’t served sausage rolls in six months.’ They had been the first thing to go, and it hurt to do it. But every revolution has its casualties.

‘Yeah,’ Richo said sadly. ‘Rose always made great sausage rolls. But yours were better,’ he added.

I crossed my arms. ‘If no one orders the focaccia with tempeh and pepperberry dressing in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to have to ask you all to leave.’

There was a strangled pause. The effort that it took each of them to not say something patronising was monumental. I could practically see the steam coming out of their ears.

‘All right. Tabby,’ said Inspector Bobby. ‘We’ll be in later for coffee.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed one of the Sergeants, brightly. ‘Those low fat muffins of yours are almost as good as real ones.’

One by one, the officers trooped out of the café. I sagged a little. It wasn’t working. Possibly it wouldn’t work even if I started serving nothing but flavoured oxygen. I was doomed to run a café under constant police surveillance.

‘Reckon you were a bit hard on them,’ said Bishop, who had stayed behind.

I gave him a dirty look. ‘Do you know how good my side salads are? In the year since I started this place, I’ve had three reviews that specifically mention how awesome my side salads are. I’ve turned side salads into a work of art. So the day that one of you bludgers actually eats one of my side salads, instead of pushing it to the side and ordering another slab of pie, is the day that you get to have an opinion about my menu.’

He folded his arms. ‘Do you really think we come here for the food?’

‘Thanks,’ I said, stalking behind my counter. ‘Nice to know.’

A couple of people came in to collect lunch bagels. I served them, ignoring Bishop the whole time. My muesli customers finished their breakfast, and paid for their meals.

‘You know I didn’t mean that in a bad way,’ he said, when they were gone. ‘We keep an eye out for you, that’s all. Since your dad…’

‘I know,’ I said between gritted teeth. And boy, did I. Good old Superintendent Geoff Darling, my beloved Dad. In the days between his retirement party and eloping to Queensland with his soon-to-be second wife, he took it upon himself to ask every single member of Tasmania Police to keep an eye out for his precious girl. Imagine how grateful I was for that now. ‘I feel very safe and warm and protected.’

So protected that most days, it’s hard to breathe.

The café door clattered open, and a uniformed constable walked in—one I didn’t actually know.

‘Are you advertising in the police department foyer, now?’ I complained.

Bishop ignored me. He was good at that—he’d been practising the art since he knew me only as his boss’s teenage daughter, and his sister’s bratty best friend. ‘Looking for me, Heather?’

The constable gazed around at my colourful pop-art tables, my wall of vintage
Vogue
covers, and my 1960’s frock posters. ‘They said you’d be here,’ she said, as if not quite believing it.

Yep. The décor had been my first assault in the War against Tasmania Police, long before I went to the lengths of taking red meat off the menu. Sometimes I glue glitter to the windows.

Lesbian lunchtime poetry readings were only a phone call away.

‘Constable Heather Wilkins, meet Tabitha Darling,’ said Bishop.

I waited for the spark of recognition, but there wasn’t one. ‘You haven’t heard the name, Constable Heather?’

‘Should I have?’ she asked politely. ‘I only started a few weeks ago.’

I smiled happily at Bishop. ‘There’s my answer. I just have to outwait you dinosaurs. Thirty years and you’ll all be outnumbered by bright young things who’ve never heard of me or Superintendent Darling.’

Bishop made the sensible decision to ignore me again. ‘What’s up, Constable?’

‘Burglary in this building—the top floor.’

‘Crash Velvet?’ I said. ‘I’ll come up with you.’ I leaned into the kitchen. ‘Nin! The cavalry are gone. Come mind the front, and bring me the blue muffins for upstairs.’

‘Crash Velvet?’ It meant nothing to Bishop.

‘A rock band,’ said Constable Heather.

‘Not just a
rock band
,’ I said. ‘Crash Velvet are the new wave in formal kink. The latest YouTube sensation, right here in Hobart.’

Bishop tilted his head at me, as if I was speaking Mandarin. ‘You can’t come with us,’ he decided. ‘This is official police business.’

Nin came out from the kitchen with a basket full of bright blue muffins, and a particularly expressive eyebrow lift.

‘Thanks, hon.’ I made a face at Bishop. ‘As if I’m interested in your burglary. I have food to deliver.’

Livia Day fell in love with crime fiction at an early age. Her first heroes were Miss Jane Marple and Mrs Emma Peel, and not a lot has changed since then!

She has lived in Hobart, Tasmania for most of her life, and now spends far too much time planning which picturesque tourist spot will get the next fictional corpse. You can find her online at
tabithadarlingsbedroomfloor.tumblr.com