Drowned Vanilla (Cafe La Femme Book 2) Read online

‘Shoes,’ Melinda said, almost making it a question.

  I slipped my sandals off easily enough, but Xanthippe took longer with her black lace up boots. To her credit, she managed not to look completely hacked off about this. We made our way through a living room to a large, sunlit kitchen and I saw Xanthippe’s eyes flick around, locating the cameras as we went.

  ‘So, this is The Gingerbread House?’ Xanthippe asked. ‘Unless there are more webcam houses in Hobart that I haven’t heard of.’

  ‘That’s us.’ Melinda pulled her poncho off before she started laying out cups and things for tea. You could definitely tell she was pregnant now — I’m not an expert in these things, but I’d say she was second trimesterish. There was a definite bump going on under her close-fitting top. ‘Call me Cherry, by the way. While the cameras are on.’

  ‘Cherry it is,’ said Xanthippe.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, boiling the hot water jug. The day was too hot for anything but iced tea, but I didn’t object. Rituals are important. ‘French Vanilla was supposed to be here until noon. It’s her shift. She’s always really good about it.’

  Melinda had already told us that her missing friend’s name was Annabeth French — but French Vanilla? Cute, and a little obvious as a pseudonym.

  ‘Her shift,’ Xanthippe repeated.

  Melinda nodded. ‘One of us has to be here at all times, for the webcams. Vanilla’s great with the rules, normally. She takes them really seriously.’ She pointed to the fridge. ‘We have a schedule. She’s not the sort of person to leave without a note, even if it was an emergency. And there was the power cut. Which is suspicious considering the timing, and it just makes me think that maybe it’s her stalker.’

  ‘I think I’m going to need a few more bullet points here,’ Xanthippe said slowly. ‘What exactly is going on?’

  Melinda set a cup down with a clink. ‘Oh. Um. I’m not sure of the best way to explain it.’

  ‘Try,’ Xanthippe suggested.

  ‘Cherry, is that you home?’ called a voice from further into the house. A tall woman with a boyish haircut walked in, and took her top off. ‘Who are your friends?’ she asked, unfastening her bra and laying it on the couch, with her top.

  ‘Ginge, this is Tabitha,’ said Melinda, grabbing another cup. ‘And … Xanthippe? Yui thought they might be able to help us find French Vanilla.’

  ‘Cherry,’ said the bare breasted woman, sounding impatient. ‘She’s fine. You’re worrying about nothing.’

  ‘You’re the one who said you didn’t want to bring the police in here,’ Melinda/Cherry said firmly. ‘This is a compromise.’

  ‘She’s just gone off for a wander. She hasn’t even been gone overnight!’

  Meanwhile I was trying not to stare at the woman’s nipples. Because that would be rude. But they were right there, what was I supposed to do, ignore them? Was ignoring them ruder?

  Xanthippe accepted the cup of tea from Melinda with thanks. ‘Is it hot in here, or is it just me?’ she said archly.

  The semi naked woman laughed, relaxing a bit. ‘I’m Ginger. This is for the cameras,’ she added, gesturing to her breasts. ‘Pays the rent, you know.’

  I hid my face behind my own cup, not sure whether I was in awe or appalled. It would have sent me screaming into the night. I mean, I consider myself a recreational exhibitionist. I wouldn’t have as much fun with clothes if I stopped to think about the size of my thighs, and I certainly wouldn’t enjoy food as much as I do if my mind was constantly on the way my tummy sticks out in front during a scone-heavy week. And yes, anyone who spends any amount of time on YouTube probably has seen at least six seconds of my boobs with smiley faces painted on them (don’t ask!).

  But being constantly under surveillance? Complete strangers watching me constantly, perving on me and my friends, critiquing every crease and curve? I think I’d have a nervous breakdown in a week.

  ‘How long have you all been doing this?’ I asked.

  ‘Two years,’ said Ginger, helping herself to coffee (never mind my other hang ups, I would definitely not handle hot water that close to unclothed tits!). ‘Cherry and me, anyway. Vanilla joined us about…’

  ‘Eight months ago,’ said Melinda. ‘We had another girl here before that, Pepperminty, but she got engaged to this super conservative bloke and he got funny about the webcam thing. We even had to erase her from the archives to keep him happy.’

  ‘Can’t imagine why,’ I muttered.

  Xanthippe kicked my chair. ‘Don’t be rude.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re in their house,’ she said firmly. ‘Not nice to judge.’

  She had a point, but I couldn’t help being squicked. ‘I don’t mean to be rude — I am sorry, Melinda — I’m really not used to being the straightest person in the room.’

  Xanthippe looked at me, then shrugged and pulled her top off, revealing a black bra.

  ‘I can’t take you anywhere,’ I protested.

  ‘When in Rome,’ she said, laughing at me.

  ‘Yeah,’ Ginger said approvingly, leaning over to clink her coffee cup against Xanthippe’s.

  Okay, I was officially out-cooled. Or something. ‘Can we get on with this?’ I said plaintively.

  ‘I haven’t told you about the stalker ex-boyfriend yet,’ said Melinda.

  Xanthippe looked troubled. ‘There’s a stalker ex-boyfriend and you didn’t go to the police straight away?’

  ‘A stalker and an ex-boyfriend,’ Ginger corrected. ‘I don’t know if the stalker even counts as a stalker; he’s someone who has left creepy messages on our fan forums. And that doesn’t exactly make him a special snowflake — we get a lot of creep attention. The ex-boyfriend sends postcards. I don’t think they’re the same person.’

  ‘I do,’ Melinda said firmly. ‘It’s possible for the same person to use the internet and snail mail. The postcards stopped a month ago, and now Vanilla has vanished? So not a coincidence.’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Ginger insisted. ‘Honestly. You’re worrying about nothing. No reason to bring other people in on this.’

  Stalker. Just the word unnerved me. If there was any chance that what had happened to me — or anything like it was happening to someone else… I hugged myself, feeling cold despite the hot day.

  ‘Tell me about the power cut,’ Xanthippe said in a businesslike voice.

  Ginger went to sit at a desktop computer, calling up her webcam records. This was a good thing, because it meant her breasts weren’t quite so obviously … staring at me.

  ‘Cherry and I were out this morning. Vanilla was the only one here, and she knows that she shouldn’t leave the house empty. At 9:02 — an hour before I was due home for my shift — the power fritzed, by the look of it. Everything in the house went dead — we presume for four minutes. After which the cameras came back on … and Vanilla was gone.’

  Melinda nodded seriously. ‘She looked settled, in the footage, doing her readings for tomorrow. No sign that she was planning to go out. She’s a history student. No one called the house this morning — she doesn’t even look upset.’

  On the screen, we saw an image of a blonde in a button-up shirt (in December?) with blonde curls pinned into a messy bun at the back of her head. She sat on the couch, reading, and the shot was from behind so we couldn’t see her face. Her feet were bare. Was it deliberate that she wasn’t posing for the camera? Had she forgotten it was there? I don’t think I could forget, but maybe you got used to it.

  The image went black.

  ‘Four minutes later she was gone,’ said Ginger. ‘We checked all the cameras. And her stuff. She took a pair of shoes. She left behind her mobile, her handbag, everything else.’

  I leaned back, looking at Xanthippe. ‘What can we do? We’re not exactly experts at this sort of thing. Like for example, the police.’

  Well, I wasn’t an expert. I wasn’t entirely sure what Xanthippe was or wasn’t qualified to do. The possibilities wer
e endless.

  ‘Could check out Mr Postcards,’ Xanthippe said thoughtfully. ‘Unless he lives in Belgium or Queensland or something.’

  ‘A small town down south,’ said Ginger. Careful that the cameras couldn’t catch it, she wrote Flynn on a Post-it note, then the name Jason Avery. That’s where Vanilla comes from. His family own a fancy vineyard. It’s what, an hour’s drive?’ She shrugged. ‘I reckon that’s where she’ll be, to be honest. Where else would she go? But we promised…’

  ‘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.