Drowned Vanilla (Cafe La Femme Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

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  The Blackmail Blend by Livia Day

  About The Author

  A Trifle Dead

  Love and Romanpunk

  About Twelfth Planet Press

  Copyright Page

  1

  ICE CREAM FLAVOURS: A GRAND EXPERIMENT, BY TABITHA DARLING

  Bluebelderberry (fruit + cordial)

  Pepperberry Fizz (sherbet)

  Caramel Surprise (how surprising do people want their caramel to be, seriously?)

  Bacon

  Vegetarian Bacon

  Peanut Butter and Jelly Jam

  Sweet Potato and Cinnamon

  Pineapple Chilli

  Crème Brulée

  Black Forest … something less obvious. Pink Forest?

  Vegemite

  Vanilla

  Summer in Hobart starts long and dry at the beginning of December, and the sun just keeps getting brighter. Hats, sunscreen and ice cream are all essential.

  Also? Any music with a salsa beat.

  The music flooded out from the windows of my kitchen — probably annoying any of my neighbours who were home on a Wednesday morning. The day was already heating up as I danced around the table in a tank top and undies, scooping freshly made sorbet into tasting dishes. And then went to pounce on my housemate.

  ‘Cee-ege,’ I said in my best whiny voice.

  He was at his computer as usual, in the same scruffy clothes he’d been wearing for three days. Since his horrible girlfriend (we do not speak her name in this house) dropped him, I’d been watching for signs of depression and non-showering. It was hard to tell, since staring blankly at his computer screen for eighteen hours a day making clicky click noises wasn’t completely out of the ordinary for him.

  ‘No,’ Ceege said, not looking up. ‘Whatever it is, no. You have to learn to entertain yourself.’

  ‘I bring ice cream for tasting,’ I said, at the most annoying wheedling girlie frequency I could. He tunes out all non-extreme sounds. ‘You don’t have to look away from the screen. Though you should, every fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, ergonomics, very important, don’t care,’ he said, opening his mouth obediently.

  I scooped up a small spoonful of a virulent purple sorbet and held it out for him to taste.

  ‘Guh, what is it?’ he said, pulling a face.

  ‘Blackberry hazelnut.’

  ‘Too complicated. Next!’

  I offered him a bright pink one, and noted the look of vague horror that crossed his face. ‘Raspberry vinaigrette. Bad?’

  Ceege grabbed his ever-present bottle of Coke Zero, swilled and swallowed. ‘Why would you even do that to ice cream? What’s wrong with strawberry, chocolate, vanilla?’

  ‘Vanilla is boring. I take it that means you don’t want to try my spicy avocado gelato.’

  ‘Not in this lifetime, Tabs.’ He dragged his eyes away from the screen (a miracle!) and peered at my tray. ‘What’s that one?’

  ‘Banana,’ I said, all innocent. He opened his mouth. Three seconds later, when the true wonder of the experience had been tasted and swallowed, he gave me a reproachful look. ‘Bananoffemato,’ I admitted.

  ‘Banana and toffee and tomato?’ Ceege said with a wince.

  ‘Banana and coffee and tomato.’

  ‘My mouth hates you right now, just so you know.’ He went back to his shiny computer screen. ‘How much more of your day off is left?’

  ‘Most of it.’

  He picked up the phone and handed it to me. ‘You fail. Make them take you back.’

  I eyed the phone like a chocaholic staring at her first Kit Kat in a month. ‘Maybe I’ll just check in.’

  ‘You do that.’

  Ceege buried himself in a sea of clicky noises, and I returned to the kitchen, balancing my tray of icy goodness. I hit the instant redial button and Xanthippe picked up on the second ring. ‘Nin has everything under control, one of the annoying arty waitresses is due here in ten minutes to swap shifts with the other annoying arty one, and I almost have the hang of the coffee machine. We don’t need you, we don’t love you, stay home.’

  ‘You’re mean,’ I said, perching on the edge of my kitchen table. ‘Let me come in. I’ve had like three days off already in cat years. And what do you mean almost? You’re not allowed to make coffee until you can name all the components of the machine and you know how to spell macchiato.’

  ‘Hate you too, no frigging way, and Nin said that was crazy talk. She let me loose on the latté.’ Xanthippe’s voice was unbearably smug.

  Not fair. ‘Can I come in after lunch?’ I tried.

  ‘Café says no to Tabitha Darling. Thank you and good morning.’ Xanthippe hung up. I hate having a business partner. Correction: I hate having a business partner who doesn’t shut up and stay out of my business.

  I binned the sorbets and started flicking through my recipe books for the next trial batch.

  ‘Vanilla!’ Ceege yelled from the other room.

  ‘Not in this lifetime!’ I yelled back.

  Ten minutes later, the phone rang and I leaped on it, not at all desperate for a distraction. ‘Forget what I said,’ Xanthippe said in a grumpy voice. ‘We need you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said sweetly. ‘I did not hearrrrr you.’

  ‘People are crying, Tabitha. I can handle coffee, I cannot handle crying. Get in here now, or I take a blowtorch to the mural.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ I hung up and bounced back into the living room. ‘They need me! I am indispensable. I knew it.’

  ‘Put some clothes on,’ Ceege grunted. ‘Don’t want to frighten the customers.’

  ‘And deprive them of the sight of my Batgirl undies?’

  ‘Since when do you have…’ Ceege peered closer and then squeezed his eyes closed. ‘Holy batarangs, Tabitha, that’s a terrible thing to do to a bloke who hasn’t had sex in two months. If I start fancying you, I might as well throw myself off the bridge.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll put a skirt on,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘But only to avoid sunburn.’

  ‘Whatever helps you sleep at night.’

  When I was a little girl, my mum used to take me to this beautiful old fashioned bookshop in a sandstone building that sat squarely on a corner of two busy streets. I was sad when they moved the shop, but even sadder to see the array of uninspiring businesses that took over that building in the years that followed. Lawyer’s offices, accountants, a surf shop. It seemed such a waste.

  Three years ago, a smooth-talking mate of mine tried to convince me to go into business with him. My talent for goopy cakes, his talent for spending money. It was all far too good to be true, and when Darrow happened to mention that he had bought a certain sandstone building which was just crying out for an amazing café on the ground floor, I hung up on him and refused to take his calls for four days.

  Getting your dream is scary.

  Of course within a month of opening Café La Femme, I discovered that getting your dream actually entails a whole lot of hard work, and you don’t have to worry about karma and hubris and ‘life being too good’ when you’re getting up at 5am to slave over a hot oven. More recently, I
had to cope when Darrow handed over most of his share in the business to his ex, Xanthippe — a woman I would trust to protect the café against terrorists, but not to scramble eggs.

  Seriously. How can you not know how to scramble eggs?

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked as I burst through the door of my café, trying not to look too pleased that they had only managed half the morning without me. ‘Who did Xanthippe make cry?’

  ‘I resent the implication,’ said my new business partner from under her perfectly stylish swoosh of dark hair. ‘I almost never make people cry.’

  ‘Just keep telling yourself that,’ I said. ‘Tears?’

  ‘Kitchen,’ said Xanthippe.

  ‘Wuss.’ I headed for the swinging doors, to see what the damage was.

  My crew looked up at me, a haze of extreme innocence emanating from them. I looked from one to the other. No evidence of tears. ‘Lara, why are you still here? Yui, why haven’t you got your apron on yet? Nin, just keep rolling the pastry, you’re good.’ I folded my arms. ‘Why are none of you crying?’

  ‘We’ve gone well past crying,’ Lara said helpfully. ‘We’ve had vomiting.’

  ‘Panic attacks,’ Yui put in, sounding unreasonably gleeful.

  Nin just nodded, working on her pastry.

  My eyes narrowed. ‘Yet … I see calm and not chaos. The reason for this is?’

  ‘It’s not us,’ Lara said. ‘As if. It’s Melinda.’

  My crew all nodded enthusiastically, assuring me that yes, it was Melinda. Which was still unhelpful. ‘Someone called Melinda has been crying, throwing up and panicking in my kitchen… What did you do, put her in the pasties?’

  ‘We gave her to Stewart,’ said Yui, wiping a blue hair extension back out of her eyes and smiling at me. ‘You know how good he is with the crying woman thing.’

  Stewart. I tried not to look as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. ‘Courtyard?’ I headed out before any of them saw anything completely wrong on my face. Crying and puking and panicking. All things to be avoided.

  I stepped out of my kitchen door and stood on the steps, looking out at it. A quiet corner, my favourite little haven. I’d finally cracked and put a café table out here, but never let anyone use it but the crew.

  Customers didn’t belong here in this little patch of green surrounded by convict-era sandstone blocks, just a couple of metres from one of the busiest roads in the city. It was ours.

  Stewart sat at the table, comforting a messy young woman. She had dark hair in bunches, and clothes that just screamed ‘quirky fine arts student’. Who thinks it’s remotely justifiable to bring back the poncho? More to the point, who wears a poncho in December, a month when the sharp sunlight cuts through Hobart like a newly honed knife?

  I wasn’t really paying attention to her. Stewart had let his hair grow longer, and it hung in his eyes. He was still a complete scruff, in jeans that should have been turfed to the Salvos years ago. Nothing had changed.

  But I hadn’t seen him in seven months, and he was really here, and oh, yes there was the panic welling up inside me, with a twist of guilt on the side.

  I’d really screwed things up.

  Stewart handed one of a small hoard of napkins to the messy art chick who blew her nose on it and wiped her streaming eyes. Then he looked up and saw me, grey eyes steadily on mine for a moment before his face broke into a grin. An entirely friendly, ‘everything’s fine’ grin. ‘Tabitha. Miss me?’

  I ignored the question, because throwing myself into his lap right now would be bad. ‘Here we are again,’ I said, bouncing into one of the cast iron chairs. ‘Should have known, McTavish. As soon as the crying women turn up, you roll into town to save the day.’

  ‘I like tae be where my skills are needed,’ he said solemnly.

  I put my feet in his lap. ‘Introduce me to your friend.’ See, this was easy. I could do this. Friends, with occasional flirting and none of that stupid awkwardness that had wrecked it all for us, after the Kiss That Shouldn’t Have Happened.

  ‘Melinda,’ said the girl, wiping her eyes and looking almost normal. ‘Sorry for the fuss, I didn’t mean to … explode at everyone. I’m pregnant, it’s weird. I start sobbing at ordinary things, and when I get stressed all hell breaks loose. Really, I shouldn’t be allowed out in public.’

  ‘Hey, I have days like that,’ I told her. At Stewart’s startled look, I added, ‘Not the being pregnant part. General emotional wear and tear. I’m Tabitha, by the way. This is my café. Mostly.’

  Melinda nodded, dabbing at her eyes again. Someone had given her a cup of ginger tea, which smelled so good I had to resist the urge to ask if I could have a sip. No stealing from pregnant women, Tabitha. ‘I know Lara and Yui from uni. They thought maybe you’d be able to help me.’

  Help how? ‘Does this involve cooking or shopping? Those are my two special subjects.’

  ‘No,’ Melinda said hesitantly. ‘But … we can’t go to the police. Friend of ours has gone missing. We’re really worried about her.’

  I looked at Stewart, who nodded. Which was a lot of help. ‘How long has she been missing?’

  ‘Five hours,’ said Melinda, and her lip started wobbling again. ‘I didn’t know what to do, but Yui was there and she said you had this stalker earlier in the year, and you were good at figuring out how to do things without the police, and…’ She started crying again, messily. Stewart handed her another napkin. ‘Sorry, I’m normally not this bananas, but I’m so very worried about her.’

  Oh, hell. Is that what I had a reputation for now? Someone who solved crimes? That was nuts. Surely everyone knew I couldn’t be trusted with that sort of thing. If not, I was going to have to release some kind of memo. Tabitha Darling is not a private detective, but she’s quite good with coffee.

  ‘Couldn’t she…’ I said, and trailed off.

  Melinda gave me a sharp look. ‘Yes she could have simply gone shopping, or run away for some mad romantic fling or any one of a dozen things. But she didn’t. I know Annabeth. She’s a predictable person. Quiet and nice and sweet and considerate and very, very predictable. Something’s wrong, and I have no idea how to help her.’

  I gave Stewart a pleading look. He gave a small smile. The kind of smile that makes you go warm from skin to bone, and inspires even the slackest of lazybones to attempt virtuous deeds.

  Or maybe that’s just the effect he has on me.

  2

  www.sandstonecity.org - posted by random_scotsman

  I’m back in sunny Hobart, Sandstone minions! My Random Scotsman tour of deepest darkest Tasmania has taught me several valuable life lessons, which I will now sum up for you:

  Apparently the platypus isn’t just something that you people invented to lure in the tourists.

  Asking for platypus is a good way to get thrown out of several leading 4 star restaurants across the state.

  There really are towns on the north east coast with three pubs and no people.

  You have a town called Penguin. I know this comes as no shock to you locals, but naming towns after nouns? What’s next? Paper, Rock and Scissors? (still getting over Moriarty and Bagdad, you sick, sick puppies)

  Why do mainlanders (see I’m a real local now, I call them mainlanders) always complain about the weather? This is one of the sunniest places I’ve ever been. Admittedly all I have to compare it to is Glasgow, London and Melbourne, but still…

  Thanks for all the great feedback about my postcards from the wild, but I’m back for good, settled into my squeaky chair and ready to dish the dirt on the City of Sandstone. You know you missed me…

  Comments: 28

  Stewart would have come along to Melinda’s place with us, but she patted him politely on the hand and told him no men were allowed. Which … okay. Interesting. I made Xanthippe join us instead, because she might be useful in discussing matters like missing people and stalkers.

  Yes, I had a stalker once. Yes, I was — kidnapped, I suppose, for about half
a day back in March. I was scared as hell, and it meant a lot that people started looking for me as soon as they realised I was gone. If there was a chance I could help someone else in the same situation, I wanted to do that.

  One problem: I’m not actually any good at this. If you need to construct a tower of profiteroles or coordinate a vintage outfit, I’m your girl. But I only escaped my once-in-a-lifetime-abduction situation thanks to luck, stupidity, more luck, a handy half brick and some incredibly loyal friends. I wasn’t convinced I had the necessary resources to rescue someone else.

  Also, I was not the police. Who are professionally equipped to deal with missing people. They don’t even make you wait twenty-four hours here in Australia.

  There were many, many reasons why it was important to convince Melinda and her friends that they needed to talk to the professionals. Including my love life, but we’ll get to that later.

  Melinda’s house wasn’t what I was expecting. Student share houses are rarely to be found in the elegantly restored properties of Battery Point. Sure, these houses were slums a hundred years ago, but since then they’ve been renovated, restored, skylighted, water-featured, and generally transformed into the natural habitat for high flying lawyers, doctors, retired politicians — you get the picture.

  This tall brick house didn’t look particularly fancy, but it wasn’t a deathtrap kennel either. ‘We’ll have to get you to sign a waiver,’ Melinda said apologetically as she unlocked the front door and kicked her shoes off. ‘We can’t let anyone in unless they agree to have their face broadcast online, and to preserve our privacy — no sharing our address, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said slowly. ‘Why is that?’

  Xanthippe pointed past my face, up into a corner of the little hallway, and I caught her scent — coconut and lime today. I wish she’d give up the fruit perfumes. Whenever I spend any amount of time with her I get the subconscious desire to make jam.

  ‘Webcam,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Yeah?’ she added to Melinda. ‘Either that or you have a really full on security system.’

  ‘Both, actually,’ said Melinda, passing me a clipboard. I signed the waiver, taking note of the wording. Xanthippe hesitated when I passed it to her, but she signed finally. Curiosity is her weakness. We have that in common.