A Trifle Dead: Cafe La Femme, Book 1 (9 page)

We weren’t. We really weren’t.

I did force myself to read the actual story—mad arrow lady wasn’t named, but the paper said she was the wife of a respectable local dentist, and her lawyer was refusing to let her make any statement to the press. It couldn’t be that hard to find out who she was with a bit of judicious Google Fu (or at the very least, checking the Jiggle It Fitness Hub website to see how many apricot haired Bellycise experts they had), but I didn’t feel up to finding out. Stewart would probably know.

It was just after ten in the morning. I couldn’t get a park near the café, and had to walk a couple of blocks. I was standing at the lights near the GPO when I saw something that almost made me swallow my own tongue: an orange taxi turning a corner, with Darrow at the wheel. My prodigal landlord.

There was no mistaking him. He was even wearing one of his horribly expensive designer suits. ‘Hey!’ I screamed, waving an arm at him, but he drove smoothly away without giving any impression he’d seen me.

S
tewart was waiting
on the steps in the courtyard behind the café when I arrived in a foul mood, the Sunday paper tucked under my arm. ‘Didn’t I give you a spare key?’ I demanded.

‘Thought I’d wait tae see if ye were talking to me,’ he said, a little sheepishly.

‘The rest of the mural had better be freaking good.’ We went inside together, and I threw the paper on the kitchen table.

‘I didnae actually take the picture they printed in the paper,’ he offered as a possible white flag.

‘Mm.’ I switched on the lights in the café and booted up the computer. When I typed in the
Sandstone City
URL, Bishop and I filled the screen, snuggling intimately.

‘See?’ said Stewart. ‘The one I took is far more flattering. Ye can hardly tell how bad yer hair looked.’

I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘I’m going to spend the morning experimenting with trifle-free trifles. I may talk to you by lunchtime. But don’t count on it.’

Hours later, the smell of paint was warring with the scent of raspberries, custard and brandy. We had the doors and windows open, and it was freezing cold despite the bright sunshine outside.

While Stewart glued sequins to Mrs Peel’s boots, I lay on the café counter, sucking custard out of my third shot glass and reading the flyer of stolen Wearable Art Treasures that kCeera had given me. ‘You should blog this, it’s hilarious. Where did they even get a pair of ruby glass slippers with seven inch spiked heels? I want to shop where they’re shopping.’

‘Mm,’ said Stewart. ‘Might get us further than your so-called murder mystery.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re bored?’

‘The arrow-happy belly-dancing fitness instructor is a lot more newsworthy than the dead busker in a net. Not that our readers don’t prefer meringue porn any day of the week.’ He glanced over at me. ‘Ye know there’s a connection between Robinette Hood and Julian Morris, right?’

‘You mean that she—or someone—made a hoax call to get the police to good old Jiggle Bits yesterday?’

‘No, not that. Apparently this woman—Natasha Pembroke—runs local charity events to sponsor and promote health issues. Everything from dental health in third world countries to depression and suicide in local teens. Six months ago, she hired the Tin Man Tossers to provide the music for one of her soirées. That was Julian Morris on violin, his sister Ange on cello and someone called Misty Heavens playing the tambourine.’

‘Sounds vile,’ I said. ‘Good detective work, though. How did you find that out?’

‘Only good? I was hoping for brilliant,’ said Stewart. ‘Or maybe, masterful.’

‘I’m prepared to downgrade you to competent if you keep going on about it…’

‘Ange Morris emailed me after she saw the Fitness Hub story, and gave us the scoop. Not sure what that means, if anything. But it’s a start.’

‘See, it
is
a real murder mystery,’ I said cheerfully. ‘This is what we call a clue.’

‘Mysteries in books have the decency tae provide properly spaced out clues that lead tae a well-plotted resolution.’ Stewart shook his head. ‘I think I’ll stick tae Hobart’s arty citizens. Fighting crime hurts the brain. Got any more for me, by the way?’

‘A girl I was at school with is going to protest the tuna fishing industry by chaining herself to the Tasman Bridge wearing nothing but a mermaid tail.’

‘Excellent!’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Honestly, Stewart, you really do believe anything that comes out of my mouth, don’t you?’

‘Oh.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘Ye made it up.’

‘Yeah, it was last week. You missed it.’

‘Bugger.’ He leaned back, and regarded Mrs Peel’s boots with satisfaction. ‘Glue guns are most excellent devices.’

‘So,’ I said. ‘If we were trying to solve the mystery of Julian Morris’s death…’

‘Which we’re not.’

‘Which we’re not, because your blog readers aren’t all that interested, and the clues don’t make sense.’

‘And even making the attempt would piss your boyfriend off no end…’

‘He’s so not my boyfriend.’

Stewart made a cough that had the word ‘denial’ firmly lodged in it.

‘Shut up. Anyway, what would we do?’

‘Pool our information, re-interview witnesses, maybe start up some kind of spreadsheet tae compile the evidence…’

‘Might have known you’d be a spreadsheet geek.’ I seized on the most interesting thing he’d said. ‘When you say pool our information…’

‘Aye?’

‘Going to tell me who your sources were for the Trapper story?’

‘Nope.’

‘Even if I promise to swap it for a really hot lead?’

‘How hot?’

‘Smoking hot.’

Stewart gave me a suspicious look. ‘I’ll give ye one source.’

‘The postal worker.’

‘No. Constable Victor. I think he gave me a fake name, though, which is why I dinnae feel I’m compromising anything to share it with ye.’

I’d already figured that. I might not know all the constables in Tasmania Police, but I knew a good eighty per cent of them, and had never heard of a Victor. ‘What makes you think it was a fake name?’

‘Because when they took him away in the ambulance, ye called him Gary.’

I almost dropped my shot glass. ‘Gary gave you the Trapper information?’ I mean, yeah, he’s the biggest gossip tart in the station, but normally just for me. I felt cheated on. ‘Bishop would roast him for
dinner
if he knew.’

Stewart laughed. ‘No, he’d blame it all on me.’

‘This is actually true.’

‘So…’

‘So, what?’

‘Smoking hot lead, Tabitha. Ye promised me smoking and hot.’

‘Oh, right. I saw Darrow today.’

Stewart spun around so fast he almost fell off the table he was standing on. ‘Yer landlord.’

‘My
missing
landlord. Yes.’ I frowned. ‘Usually when he vanishes for weeks at a time, it’s because he’s off somewhere exotic. He’s been gone weeks, so I was expecting at least a bottle of duty free when he got back. But instead, he’s driving a taxi around Hobart. A
taxi
.’

‘What’s odd about that?’

I waved my hand. ‘Darrow has more money than God. He doesn’t need to work a job like that. He’s hiding.’

‘From Xanthippe? Her teeth did get rather snarly when she talked about looking for him.’

I knew exactly what he meant. Zee had a snarl that could scare wild animals. Men probably found it hot. ‘Maybe from Xanthippe. But he vanished long before she came sniffing around.’

‘She thought he might be involved. In the Trapper business.’

‘I’ve been saying the word “weird” a lot more than usual,’ I sighed. ‘Hobart isn’t usually like this. Buskers in nets, and postmen in cages, and strange women holding up corner shops with compound bows.’

‘So it’s usually … perfectly reasonable weird with meringue porn and mermaids chained to bridges?’

‘Exactly. But when something bizarre does happen, like the Penguin Appreciation riot at the Antarctic centre, or Miss Drag Queen 2007—well, usually, Darrow has something to do with it. He’s like the muse of odd. He was definitely working on something big before he went away—whenever I asked him what he was tapping away at on that laptop he would act all mysterious. Said he wanted to surprise everyone. But if he’s hanging around Hobart in a taxi, why hasn’t he come by to pick up his rent? I owe him six weeks. Don’t ask me why he can’t do electronic funds transfer like a normal person…’

Stewart gave up any pretence of working on the mural, and sat cross-legged on his table. ‘Let’s assume Darrow is behind the Trapper thing. Theoretically.’

‘Okay.’ I was in no way convinced, but I could entertain the theory.

‘Margarita’s cat was practice. That’s logical, aye?’

I agreed. ‘He wanted to see if the net system worked, before setting it up in Crash Velvet’s spare room. To which he probably has a key, as he does own the building…’

‘Getting ahead of ourselves. Next came the postman.’

‘Aha!’ I sat up. ‘You said postman. Not postal worker. That narrows it down.’

‘Stop tha’ right now. Think about how the postal
worker
fits into it.’

‘Hard to do that if I don’t know who he is…’

‘Hush.’

‘Well, you said he was based in Dynnyrne. A street or two from my place, which is so creepy I can’t think straight. And Margarita lives near there, too…’ A thought struck me, and I stared at Stewart. ‘Hang on, a postman living in Dynnyrne? In Parliament Street?’

‘Maybe,’ he said cautiously.

I was squeaking now. ‘Danny Masterton?’

Stewart looked at me in outrage. ‘How dae ye dae that? It doesnae count as revealing my sources if ye use telepathy!’

‘I used to have a thing with his brother. Plus, he’s shacked up with my stepsister Amy. Or he was last time I talked to either of them.’ I fished for my handbag, which was somewhere on the floor, and found my mobile phone.

‘I really hate this city,’ Stewart muttered.

‘Accept that you will never again have any secrets, and you’ll survive.’ I got the recording, and left a short message for Amy to call me back. ‘I think it’s an inside job,’ I said as I hung up.

Stewart didn’t look up from where he was glueing glitter across Wonder Woman’s corset top. ‘A bit cold to suspect yer stepbrother, isn’t it? Or is he a particularly suspicious postman?’

‘Stepbrother-in-law. Without the law. And no. I think it’s got something to do with Crash Velvet. I mean, I love them dearly, but they do seem a bit obsessed about self-promotion.’

‘A PR stunt,’ said Stewart in a tone of voice that made it clear they were also his prime suspects.

‘Maybe. If the cat and the postman—Danny—were practice, then Morris in the net is the main event. And there haven’t been any more traps since he was found.’

‘Ye really think the band killed a stray busker to get extra hits to their YouTube channel?’

‘Can’t be the first time that’s happened,’ I scoffed, only half serious. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he was a junkie after all, and they found him dead and decided to make use of him…’

Stewart looked at me blankly. ‘Where do ye get ideas like that? I’ve read about a thousand detective novels, and I dinna come up with dead junkie theories.’

I pointed my phone at him. ‘Obviously you’re not pulling your weight in this relationship. Do you want to come to a glam party tonight?’

The first reaction that flitted across Stewart’s face was suspicion. Interesting. ‘Why?’

‘Because Crash Velvet is playing. Maybe we can find out something useful. Plus: party. A party is an end without a means.’

‘Is this some kind of elaborate plan to get me murdered by a jealous senior constable?’

Ah. Hence the suspicion. ‘Trust me, it’s not his kind of party.’ I was momentarily distracted by the question of what kind of party would be Bishop’s kind. Possibly, it would involve lamingtons. And square dancing. I went a little cross-eyed at the image.

Stewart’s voice broke my train of thought. ‘If I say aye, will ye stop making that face?’

I uncrossed my eyes. ‘Yes?’

‘Then, aye.’

‘Excellent.’ I slid off the counter, and rummaged around in my bag for the spare key. ‘You can have this back. I need to go stock up on berries for tomorrow. Come by my place at five.’ I scribbled the address and a few vague directions on one of my Post Its, and stuck it to Stewart’s table.

‘Isn’t five a tad early for a party?’

I blinked innocently. He was going to look so cute in glitter. ‘I was planning to dress you up.’

Normally a threat like that has most straight boys sweating, but Stewart looked past me, through the window. ‘Is that … a goth in a bustle?’

I went to the glass, and pressed my nose to it. ‘Why, yes it is. And there’s a bloke in a Red Riding Hood costume, carrying a basket of vintage boots.’

Stewart joined me at the window. ‘It’s an anti-fashion riot.’

Dozens of people converged on the café from all directions, some wearing costumes and others just carrying them. There was a tall woman with a silver sequined top hat and a giant plastic bag full of petticoats. There were several men in drag, and at least four women in fishnets. ‘Someone set up a fancy dress flash mob, and no one told me?’ I said aloud. ‘Why would no one tell me?’

‘They’re all coming
here
,’ said Stewart.

‘Not quite here.’ I heard the outside door opening, and people crowding into the stairwell. ‘Crash Velvet.’ I ran to the counter and looked properly at the flyer that kCeera had given me earlier. ‘Oh, hell. The idiots offered a reward. This damn thing says they’ll be taking calls on Sunday afternoon.’

‘They didn’t publish their address, did they?’

‘This is Hobart. Plenty of people know where they live.’ I gazed out at the stream of helpful Crash Velvet fans. ‘Okay, there’s a bloke in fairy wings, and an old age pensioner in a corset. This is officially a happening.’

‘They’re between me and my
cameras
,’ said Stewart, running for the door.

‘Use your phone,’ I called after him, but that obviously wasn’t good enough.

I didn’t see any ruby stilettos or glow-orange fur boots out there. But hey—even if this shower didn’t provide any genuine info about the stolen Wearable Art Treasures, at least the band would get some new costumes out of it.