A Trifle Dead: Cafe La Femme, Book 1 (17 page)

Stewart was on his third cup of coffee. ‘I was going tae track down Claudina today, for the follow up on the “Morris isn’t a drug user” story. Want tae come with?’

I thought about ping pong balls, and how annoyed Bishop would be. ‘You bet. Since I’m apparently not running a café today.’

Stewart passed the phone over. ‘Call Nin. If ye really want to get back tae normal tomorrow, let her know. No going back. Ye’ll feel better.’

I stared at the phone as if it might bite me.

‘Or you could tell her in person,’ Stewart suggested.

Okay, phone it was.

Nin was short with me, but agreed to come in for her Thursday shift. She muttered something about being glad I had come to my senses, and then offered to call Lara and Yui for me, to tell them it was business as usual. I felt better when I hung up.

‘No choice now,’ said Stewart. ‘Holiday’s over.’

‘Holiday,’ I said grumpily. ‘Half a week of insanity, more like. I’m going to murder Darrow when I see him again. No, worse. I will bake a peach meringue roulade and refuse to let him have any.’

‘D’ye think,’ said Stewart, and then cleared his throat. ‘Ye like Darrow a lot, don’t ye? He’s a mate.’

‘Yes. Not a cuddly on the couch, watching Doris Day movies when I feel bad kind of mate. But I’m used to having him around. He comes into the café a few times a week, when he’s not mysteriously disappearing. Hangs out, chatting to my customers. I make fancy French gateaux for him, and we have stupid conversations.’ I kicked the table leg. ‘I miss him and his laptop and his annoyingly beautiful coats.’

‘And yer not prepared to lose any more men in yer life,’ Stewart said pointedly.

I gave him my patented death stare. ‘You’ll save me a fortune on therapy.’

‘I’m only saying—it explains a lot.’

I got up and poured myself the last of the drip coffee, so Stewart couldn’t have it. He looked sad as I added milk and sugar. ‘Have I been acting completely off the show?’ I asked.

‘It’s hard to tell. I’ve only known ye a week. I don’t know what’s normal.’

‘I didn’t even start worrying until I found out Xanthippe was looking for him. Darrow, I mean. He often does vanish for weeks at a time, and it’s not like he owes me an explanation. He’s never been a hands-on business partner—he leaves the café stuff to me. But my rent isn’t transferred automatically. He always collects it in person. And he hasn’t missed this many fortnights before. He can’t be that scared of Xanthippe … well. Maybe he is. It was a very pretty car and no one knows better than him how long her vengeful streak can be.’ That didn’t explain why he had refused to sign the insurance papers, but I had my own theory about that one. Men are stupid.

‘Still,’ said Stewart. ‘There’s only so much ye can do until he comes back of his own accord.’ He looked more closely at me. ‘Tabitha, are ye glittering?’

‘New bubble bath. I tried to resist, but the call of the sparkly bubbles overpowered my senses.’

Stewart reached out, and touched my cheek. Glitter came off on his fingers. ‘I’m pretty sure most people would rinse this off.’

‘You must know some strange people. Are we going to call Claudina, or just turn up?’

‘We don’t want tae give her the chance to dodge us. Get dressed.’

‘Good plan.’ I got up, managing not to fall out of my kimono as I headed out of the kitchen.

‘Oh, and Tabitha?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why
did
yer dad call you Tish?’

I smirked at him, and bolted for the stairs. ‘Eavesdropper.’

F
or interviewing suspicious characters
, I had chosen today’s outfit very carefully. It was what I liked to call my anti-goth ensemble—shoes, stockings, skirt, top, jacket, choker, handbag, nail polish, and three locks of false hair in my ponytail, all the same shade of powder blue.

Okay, possibly I just chose the whole outfit to match the nail polish I was already wearing.

We had to go through town to get to Claudina’s place, and that meant driving past the café. As we got close, I clenched the steering wheel a little harder than I should have, every inch of me screaming to run inside and wrap pesto bagels for the lunch crowd.

What had I been thinking? I didn’t stop trading when Dad died, and yet I’d done it for three days in the (misguided) hope of luring my missing landlord out of hiding? Very stupid, Tabitha.

Of course, I looked at the café as we passed. Something caught my eye. I flung the car into a bus zone on the next block, and parked messily.

‘Tabitha, we cannae stop here,’ Stewart said in alarm.

‘I’ll only be a sec.’

I ran back across the lights in my wedge-heels, past the café and around to the yard behind. ‘Locks!’

Lockwood the drug dealer was sitting himself down on my back steps when I called his name. He gave me a reproachful look and started levering himself up again. ‘I’m just hanging out for a bit, no funny business. I’ll move on…’

‘No,’ I said, out of breath. ‘I mean—I wanted to talk to you.’

He lit a cigarette, not meeting my eyes. ‘Café’s closed. You don’t have anything to bribe me with. Unless you’re going to give me cash for pills?’

‘I’m re-opening tomorrow. I’ll bring you coffee and a sandwich out here, every day for a week.’

He didn’t look tempted. ‘I’d rather have marshmallows. Or, hey. Some of those melty biscuits. Those are good. Are you and that cop on together?’

I blinked at the quick change of subject from sweets to my love life. ‘I’m not talking to you about Bishop.’

‘Fair enough, thought I’d check for facts before spreading the goss.’

‘Don’t,’ I said flatly. ‘I want to talk to you about The Vampire.’

That amused him. ‘So you’re not fucking a cop, you’re collecting evidence for him…’

‘Don’t laugh.’

‘Dangerous territory, cutes. I find it pretty funny stuff. “Vampire.” Too much to hope for a more specific reference like Nosferatu? Would be classier.’

‘Do you have much to do with him?’

‘Nah. You know me, I’m small time. Limited supply and demand, special parties, enough to keep me in Cocoa Pops and Nintendo. But this Vampire bloke—he’s a corporation, near enough. A real professional, here six months and looking to expand, if you know what I mean.’

‘Do the police know about him?’

‘The police always know. But what are they going to do? They don’t know what his real name is. No one’s ever nabbed one of his couriers. He doesn’t pick innocent faces, he’s smart enough to know that the real innocents are too noticeable. He finds the people that no one ever notices—man’s an artist when it comes to delegation.’

‘You sound impressed,’ I accused.

‘Got to respect the fellers at the top of the food chain, babe.’

‘Do you know his name?’

Lock’s eyes were wary behind his glasses. ‘No one knows.’

‘You’re not going to tell me?’

‘Nuh.’

‘Anything you can tell me?’

‘It’s always the people you least suspect.’

‘That will be a real help. Was Julian Morris working for The Vampire?’

Now Locks looked at me as if I really had said some-

thing funny. ‘Tabitha Dah-ling. Such a nasty suspicious mind. I’ll want my coffee tomorrow. Don’t bother about the sandwich.’

I glared at him. He was too damn thin, that much was obvious even under the stupid moth-eaten coat that covered everything. Every time I saw him, I wanted to sit him at my kitchen table and give him a good square meal. ‘Take care of yourself,’ I said as I walked away.

‘Always do,’ Locks drawled, and lit another cigarette.

‘
I
s this it
?’ I said a while later, when I pulled the car up outside Claudina’s place. It was a grey concrete slab that apparently passed for a block of flats, standing out in the centre of an otherwise attractive suburb of weatherboard houses and European trees. ‘I was expecting something more bohemian.’

‘Could be nice inside,’ said Stewart.

‘Only cos you can’t see the outside from in there.’ There was a mountain view from the car park, at least, which made me feel better. It always does. ‘Exactly how many redheads are we likely to find in this hovel?’

‘Only the one, unless we’re very lucky.’ We got out of the car, and surveyed the building. ‘So,’ said Stewart, after a while. ‘How are we gonnae play this?’

‘You’re the plucky ace reporter. I drove the car.’

‘Psychological warfare?’

‘At the very least.’

Someone had beaten us to the psychological warfare. Claudina opened the door in a tatty old dressing gown and an oversized t-shirt nightie with a giant teddy bear on it. People who design women’s nighties these days should be beaten with a big stick.

‘What do you want?’ Claudina asked. She was a mess, her eyes too bright above dark circles. Whoever had convinced her to change her story for the police had done a real number on her.

I immediately changed my mind on how to tackle this. This woman didn’t need to be pushed any further. A cup of tea and a sympathetic smile would just about break her.

So I broke her.

My mother is one of those natural hostesses. Even in other people’s houses, she’s the one who takes over the kitchen, makes a cuppa, and ensures that everyone is comfortable and looked after. It’s a sneaky tactic, which leaves its victims befuddled and utterly vulnerable. I only channel Mum in dire emergencies.

‘I was hoping to talk to ye about the story ye gave me a few days ago,’ Stewart started. ‘It seems ye might hae changed —’

I cut him off. ‘Don’t bother her with that now, Stewart. The poor girl looks awful. Are you sick, sweetie? A good cup of tea, that’s what you need.’

Claudina stepped back in bafflement, and I took the opportunity to bustle right past her and into the flat.

It was exactly as grim inside as out, with mismatched share house furniture, coupled with lousy housekeeping skills. The carpet was actually that awful bristly stuff that they used to put in school corridors to stop the students making out on the floor.

‘You sit down,’ I said to Claudina. ‘When did you last get a decent night’s sleep?’

She moved slowly, as if she needed to be told what to do. ‘Sunday, I think.’

‘Three days?’ said Stewart. ‘Is something wrong?’

I made a face at him to shut up.
Let me do the mothering
. ‘Right, then. We need to pour a cup of something soothing down you. Do you have anything with chamomile in it? Sleepytime is my favourite.’ I headed for the kitchenette in a corner of the living room.

‘Please don’t bother,’ Claudina said weakly, but she did at least drop on to the couch.

‘We’re somewhat obliged!’ I called out while I inspected her inadequate tea-making supplies. ‘Stewart can’t interrogate you about changing your story for the police while you’re in this state, now can he?’

Stewart shrugged at Claudina and leaned against the wall, knowing when to leave me to my work. Good boy.

I emerged from the kitchen to inspect Claudina’s DVD collection. ‘What we need is a nice relaxing old movie. Aha!’ I snatched up
The Philadelphia Story
. ‘Perfect.’

Claudina tucked her feet up under her as I fiddled with the remotes, and got the movie going.

‘Uh, Tabitha…’ said Stewart, nonplussed by my brilliant interview tactics.

I threw my keys at him. ‘Given that there is nothing remotely non-caffeinated in that kitchen, I need you to fetch me some supplies. There’s a pink shoebox above the stove at my place, with my special tea stash in it. Also, we’re going to need biscuits.’

‘Anything else?’ he said sarcastically. ‘Maybe a Doris Day movie in case Cary Grant doesnae cut it?’

‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ I said, blowing him a kiss. ‘You’re getting the hang of this.’

Stewart went out, muttering something. It was probably for the best that I didn’t hear the actual words.

C
laudina
and I were immersed in the angry banter between a bad-tempered socialite (Katharine Hepburn) and her wisecracking ex-husband (Cary Grant). We both jumped when there was a knock at the door, and Claudina looked afraid. I filed that away for future reference, even as I patted her reassuringly on the arm and went to let Stewart in.

‘I found the shoe box, but no biscuits,’ he said, handing over the box and (what a sweetie!) my Doris Day box set. I like a man who isn’t prepared to assume that I’m joking about stuff like that.

‘Not to worry,’ I said. ‘Scones will be ready in a couple of minutes.’

‘You baked
scones
?’ He really hadn’t known me very long. No one else of my acquaintance would be remotely surprised.

‘No, the scone fairy left some under the lampshade. Of course I baked scones.’ I rummaged through my box and came up triumphantly with my favourite teabags. ‘Claudina, I’m going to make you a cup of this, and get those scones out of the oven, and then maybe you can tell us what’s got you so worked up that you haven’t slept all week.’

Stewart dropped into an armchair, beaming. ‘Tabitha, I’m taking ye on all my interviews from now on.’

‘Still no coffee,’ I told him.

‘I think ye fail to appreciate how excited I get about homemade scones.’

I made the tea—Irish Breakfast for Stewart and me, and Sleepytime for Claudina. I found butter and half a jar of jam, and brought the hot scones out of the oven.

As I carried the makeshift tea tray into the living room, I saw something that made my whole body tense up. Stewart saw my distress, and leaped up to take the tray out of my hands. By all means, let’s save the scones first. ‘Tabitha, what’s wrong?’

I marched across the room, and found a ping pong ball, wedged in the crack between the carpet and the wall. I poked it with a finger gently to check it, then pulled it out and flourished it at Claudina. She stared at me as if I were pointing a gun at her. ‘I think you’d better tell me what’s been going on,’ I said. ‘Really, truly.’

‘I can’t,’ Claudina said in a whisper, barely even a sound.

I started pulling at drawers and cupboards, panicking. ‘Where are the rest of them? Where did —’ The words choked up in my throat as I pulled on one of the desk drawers, and saw that it was piled edge to edge with ping pong balls. I poked at them one at a time, and eventually found one that zapped my finger. ‘Bloody hell.’

Stewart came and took my arm, and led me over to sit beside Claudina on the couch. I let him. ‘Right,’ he said, in that gentle, lovely voice that certainly made me want to spill all my secrets. ‘Claudina, do ye no’ think it’s time tae start talking? Yer not the only one this has happened tae.’

Claudina took a deep breath, and finally spilled.

I
don’t know
why it felt worse to know I wasn’t the only one being stalked by ping pong balls, but it did. It made it real.

‘They were in a bucket, balanced on top of my bedroom door,’ said Claudina. ‘You know, like a practical joke—something kids might do with water or confetti.’ She smiled weakly. ‘I got the shock of my life—literally. About half of them have an electric charge, but the worst it did was frizz up my hair. I wasn’t hurt, but shaken and scared.’ She pressed her hand to her mouth. ‘It was when I read the note that I really started freaking out.’

‘What did it say?’ asked Stewart, and I was glad he had taken over the interview. The sight of those ping pong balls had made it impossible to channel my mother any further—I don’t think she’s ever been afraid of anything in her life.

No, I wasn’t afraid of ping pong balls. That was silly. The rush of my stomach into my throat every time I saw them was … well possibly I could come up with an excuse for it if I had the time.

Claudina spoke in a flat voice. ‘The note said that he could get in any time, that nowhere was safe from him, that he knew my routine, that I should expect him to come calling again if I didn’t tell the police that Julian was into drugs, a total junkie, into everything. And—also that he was a practical joker, to make them think
he
was the one who set those stupid traps.’ She looked suddenly very fierce. ‘He wasn’t, though. He wouldn’t. It’s all wrong…’

‘Ye told the police he was a drug addict, and probably the Trapper,’ Stewart said, making notes.

Claudina hesitated, and nodded. ‘If there was heroin in his insulin container, he didn’t put it there,’ she said quietly. ‘I mean—he’s not that person. I shouldn’t have said he was. But I got scared.’

‘Where’s the note now?’ I asked.

‘I burned it. It said I had to.’

‘So much for evidence,’ I sighed.

‘I was scared,’ she flared at me. ‘Wouldn’t you be? Whoever it was, got into my flat without me even knowing he’d done it. I’m alone now, with Julian gone. Wouldn’t you be scared?’

I was
, I admitted to myself.
And I have Ceege, when he’s not gadding about. Stewart, too. Bishop … maybe.
Interesting that my favourite police officer came third on the list of reliable menfolk, and I should probably rank Xanthippe higher than all three of them. ‘You’re not alone now,’ I said aloud. ‘Trust me on this.’

Claudina gave me a sceptical look, flashing some hint of the kind of person she was when not grieving or frightened for her life. ‘You’re going to protect me, though, are you? Going to stay here every night to make sure I’m not raped and murdered and electrified and God-knows-what else?’ She turned on Stewart. ‘You are not going to put any of this in your damn blog.’

‘No’ yet,’ he said, looking startled at her outburst. ‘I’m thinking there’s nae story here until it’s all over. Don’t wannae publish something stupid, or dangerous.’

‘And no,’ I put in. ‘I’m not going to protect you, Claudina. But I know a woman who can. If I find someone to stay with you, keep you safe until the person who killed Julian is caught, will you come to me with the police at the end of it? Make a proper statement about the truth?’