Cherry Pie (7 page)

Whoa
. Yasmin told the police Andi had left via the front.

Alone.

‘They usually all leave together?’

‘No.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What’s it to you anyway?’

‘Nothing, mate. Just making conversation.’

‘I gotta finish cleaning.’

He sucked on the last of his cigarette, more butt than anything else, and scurried off. I ground mine under my heel.

It was freezing and I could feel the hard plastic crate cutting diamond patterns into my arse. Time to go and drag Chloe out of there. I was just getting up when I heard a car coming down the lane and saw headlights moving across the brick walls. I didn’t want anyone to spring me out the back so I stayed put, hidden in the shadows, peeping out from behind the bin. Tyres crunched and a white one tonne van pulled up,

‘Doyle Food Group’ stencilled in cursive script on the side next to a picture of a trout leaping over a cheese wheel, just like the card. A solid looking guy in navy trousers and a matching nylon windcheater got out of the van. He had shoulder length dark hair and a goatee and he slid open the side door and stacked four boxes onto a small trolley.

I heard the unmistakable clomp and rattle of motorcycle boots coming down the hallway and then Trip’s voice: ‘Hey, Gary.’

‘Trip.’

They shook hands and the delivery guy handed Trip an invoice, which he shoved in his back pocket. He wheeled the stock into the restaurant while Gary leaned against the van, having a smoke. A couple of minutes later Trip was back with the trolley.

‘All there, mate?’ Gary asked.

‘Yep. See you tomorrow.’ He walked back into the building and Gary started up the van and reversed out.

A restaurant where stock gets delivered in the middle of the night and the chef personally marks it off the invoice? Not in my lifetime. Adrenaline shot into my bloodstream the way it always did when a case picked up momentum, and all sorts of thoughts raced through my brain. Import, export, drugs …

Maybe Andi really was onto something big.

I rounded the skip, opened the back door, and ran straight into Trip Sibley.

Trip was holding a large white plate loaded with some sort of flan. Cherries oozed from the side, thick cream lolled over the top and the whole thing was sprinkled with icing sugar.

He stepped into the yard and I was forced to back up.

‘What are you doing out here?’ His smile looked like a threat.

‘Needed some fresh air.’ I realised how stupid it sounded as soon as I’d said it. We were surrounded by rubbish bins.

‘Been out here long?’

‘Minute or so. Guess I’d better be off home. Grab my friend.’ I went to walk around him but he sidestepped and blocked my way.

‘Not until you’ve eaten dessert.’ He spooned off a big chunk of pie and cream and advanced, backing me against the wall.

‘Trying to stay away from carbs.’ I patted my tummy. ‘You know, watching my weight.’

‘C’mon, live a little. I bet behind those glasses you aren’t quite as conservative as you look. Taste it. You know you want to …’

The spoon zoomed closer, laden with sin, smelling as good as it looked. Fantasy food, the kind us hippy kids wished our mothers would bake while we choked down tofu and tahini.

‘My clafouti recipe’s a secret but I can tell you I fly the cherries in from California, use vanilla bean, clotted King Island cream …’ He pressed the cold metal against my lips and when I opened my mouth to protest he pushed it a little way in.

Heaven hit the tip of my tongue. Buttery crust, cherries sweet and tart, silken cream. An involuntary moan started low in my throat and I shut my eyes and sucked off the lot.

He dug out another chunk, hovered it near and when I opened up he jerked the spoon back a bit. Bastard. I grabbed his wrist and pulled it towards me, got the pie in my mouth and held it on my tongue to prolong the sensation. God. I hadn’t even finished this morsel and already I was wondering how long it would take to get my next fix. Normally I was a savoury girl, mad for cheese in all its forms. It was the first time I’d met a dessert worth selling your arse down Grey Street for.

I chewed slowly, swallowing just a little at a time. Just as well my eyes were still closed ’cause I had a feeling they were rolling back in my head.

Trip chuckled and I thought that he must really get off on being able to do this to people.

‘And you want to know the most important ingredient of all?’ he said. ‘Kirsch.’

My eyes snapped open and I choked on pie. He smirked, eyes black and glinting in the low light.

‘Patsy finally figured it out when your friend asked him to work for her. Chloe. The stripper off the tele who got kidnapped and was rescued by her friend, fellow stripper and sometime PI Simone Kirsch.’

He set the plate and spoon on top of a wheelie bin and reached for my face. I ducked but not fast enough. He plucked off the fake glasses, tossed them over his shoulder, then reached around and yanked off my clip so my hair fell around my shoulders.

‘Now you look like those pictures in the paper. Still got that sparkly red bikini?’

‘Fuck you.’

He just laughed. ‘After Patsy worked it out Yasmin remembered a call she’d had from a female private investigator.

So the infamous Simone Kirsch is spying on me. It’s an honour.’

‘You can stop taking the piss, Mr. Sibley. I’m looking into Andi Fowler’s disappearance and it’s pretty damn weird that no one here seems concerned or will talk to me about it.’

‘People come and go all the time in this biz.’

‘Why won’t you answer questions then?’

‘That was just Yasmin. I’ll answer anything you like.’

‘When did you last see Andi?’

‘Staff party,’ he said without hesitation. ‘She left about two. Toddled off down Fitzroy Street to catch a cab.’

Liar. But I didn’t let on. For the first time I noticed a scratch on his cheek, opposite side from the scar.

‘How’d you get that scratch?’

‘You wouldn’t believe it but I was bending over in the cool room to get some stock, and a fucking pineapple attacked me.

I’ve got nothing to hide, darlin’. You want to check the rest of my body for suspicious marks? Maybe take a DNA sample?’ He moved his hands toward his belt, laughing at his own joke.

‘That won’t be necessary. I’m going now.’

He didn’t try to stop me. Just stood there and ate the rest of the dessert.

If I’d thought things were a disaster before, they were more so by the time I got back into the bar. Everyone was hammered and Chloe was making Patsy audition by giving her a lap dance.

‘That’s right, baby,’ she said. ‘Who’s your momma?’

Yasmin was leaning against the bar, mouth pursed into a cat’s bum. She grabbed my arm as I walked past.

‘I told you not to bother us,’ she spat. ‘Now take your slut friend and get out of here.’

I shook out of her grasp. ‘We were just leaving.’

I marched over to Chloe. ‘Come on, babe, we gotta go.’

‘Just a sec.’

Patsy, still sitting on her lap, said, ‘I have to ask, darling, are those fucking gazoongas real?’

‘Why don’t you have a feel and find out?’

He put a breast in each hand and weighed them up. ‘They are too!’

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Dillon. Chloe tipped Patsy off and marched over to Dillon, grabbed his hands and put them on her tits.

Patsy suddenly gasped and clapped his hands to his mouth.

‘Oh my god, Dillon, you are sooo busted.’

I followed Patsy’s gaze to the front door. A dark haired woman in her early thirties started pounding on the glass, a baby in a front pack and a pissed off expression on her face.

Dillon’s hands recoiled but it was too late. Gordon, the fat sous chef, leapt up sneering and let her in.

The woman stomped over to Dillon. ‘Just staying back for a couple of staffies, huh?’

I grabbed Chloe and her handbag and dragged her toward the entrance. Gordon turned the lock as we approached and reached out his hands. ‘But I didn’t get to see if they were real.’

Chloe giggled and I stood in front of her. ‘Party time’s over, mate, let us out.’

I went for the lock and the prick made a swipe at my boobs so I grabbed his chubby hand and dug my fingernails into the palm until his eyes started to water. ‘Try it and I’ll slap a sexual harassment suit on you so fast your head will spin.’

He looked me up and down, stood to the side and waited till I’d passed before he muttered, ‘Bitch.’

Chloe stepped out the door and fell on her arse on the footpath. I put my arms around her waist and hauled her up.

‘Come on, babe.’

She struggled against my grasp. ‘I’m going back in. I was having fun.’

‘No you’re not. I’m driving you to my place.’

‘Don’t wanna. Let go.’ She made herself floppy, like a kid chucking a tantrum at the shops, and slithered to the ground where she sat, legs stretched out, laughing.

I’d really had enough. ‘Damn you, Chloe, you’ve fucked up my undercover operation, made a dick of yourself and pissed off somebody’s wife. Not to mention humiliated your own boyfriend. I’m not Curtis’s number one fan but that was awful.

What the fuck’s wrong with you tonight? You’d better get your shit together because you’re fucking embarrassing.’

Soon as I uttered the last word I regretted it.

She picked herself up and stood in front of me swaying, one eye squinted. ‘You’re ashamed of me?’

‘I’m not—’

‘You fucking hypocrite. It’s okay for you to be a stripper because you have to do it to save for your business. But me, who does it ’cause I like it, that makes me a dumb slut, right?’

‘I didn’t say—’

‘I’m so fucking sick of you, Simone. Ever since you started being a PI you take yourself sooo seriously. Ooh, I’m too good for jelly wrestling. Ooh, I can’t share an office with my tarty friend. Well I don’t fucking want you anyway. Fuck off. Just don’t forget where you came from.’

‘Screw you, Chloe. I don’t need this shit. You’re the worst sidekick a girl ever had.’

She staggered towards me, pointing. ‘Ever thought that maybe you’re just my sidekick? Ever thought of that?’

‘In your dreams.’

She slapped me. I raised my hand to slap her back.

‘Come on.’ She put up her dukes.

I glanced inside the restaurant. Dillon was arguing with his wife. Patsy was passed out on a banquette. Trip and the other chefs were watching our bitch fight through the window, laughing and putting bets on who would win. I turned and walked away.

First thing I did when I got back to my one bedroom flat was open the fridge and reach for the wine. I wanted to obliterate the whole evening and thought a litre ought to do it. I grabbed the handle on the four litre box then paused. I’d gone all night without a drink, why start now? I could go to bed sober. It’s not like I was totally addicted to booze.

I let go of the cask. I’d wake up early and have a run and be all fresh and sparkly and put the debacle at Jouissance behind me. The fight with Chloe was completely mortifying but I supposed the night hadn’t been a complete waste of time. I’d found out Andi left with Trip and Yasmin, and they’d lied about it.

Now I just had to decide how to follow up on that information.

I grabbed a couple of cheese singles, sat down at my computer with a cup of chamomile tea and googled the Doyle Food Group. It was a Sydney based company that owned a boutique hotel there called the Villa, a food importing business, a restaurant in Kings Cross and half of Jouissance. The CEO was a guy named Sam Doyle and I searched his name and discovered he was fond of yachts and horseracing. He was generally described as ‘colourful’ but I couldn’t find out why.

It was two in the morning and my head was starting to pound again so I brushed my teeth, filled up a hot water bottle and tucked myself into bed. I knew the best way to achieve instant unconsciousness was by sorting myself out so I stuck my hand down my pyjama bottoms and tried to rustle up a romantic fantasy of Sean and me making mad, passionate love on a palm fringed beach.

It didn’t work. As hard as I tried to concentrate on Sean, Trip Sibley kept popping up, leering and brandishing desserts.

Damned if I was going to mentally cheat on Sean with a bloody celebrity chef. I gave up on the idea and kept my hands to myself. Simone Kirsch, sober, chaste, on the right side of the law. Alcoholic nympho my arse.

Next morning I woke at nine thirty, drank two cups of coffee (no need to mainline the entire plunger when you weren’t hungover) and called the number on the card I’d found in Andi’s bin.

‘Doyle Food Group, Rochelle speaking.’

‘I’d like to speak to Sam Doyle, please.’

‘I’m afraid Mr. Doyle is not available. What’s it regarding?’

‘An employee of his has gone missing from the Jouissance Restaurant in Melbourne. I’m a private detective retained by the family. Could you get him to give me a call when he has the chance?’

‘Certainly. If you’ll leave your name and number.’

‘Simone Kirsch.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Kirsch. K-I-R-S-C-H. It’s German for cherry.’ Most people had a little chuckle at that but she didn’t laugh. I’d had about enough of bitchy broads but stayed polite and left my mobile number.

I went through Andi’s address book, dialling every number.

Some were disconnected, others, including her best friend Daisy, I left messages for, and the few who answered didn’t have a clue where she was. I got onto her ex-boyfriend, Liam, who also had no idea, but I asked if we could meet up anyway. He was a student at RMIT, doing the same course as Andi, and told me he could meet me there at one thirty. It was a date.

Since I had a few hours to kill I pulled on my winter exercise outfit of black tights, faded Mickey Mouse t-shirt and grey hooded top, laced up my runners and jogged down the canal toward the beach. On the way I decided that I was absolutely not ringing Chloe to apologise after our first ever fight, she could call me, and I was going to spend the day finding out everything I could about a certain arrogant chef. I powered up the Elwood hill, calves aching, and checked out the bay as I leaned against the old wooden lookout, foot to butt, stretching out my quads. The water was choppy and steely blue and when I turned my head to look at the city skyline, I saw that the tops of the buildings were obscured by dark wispy clouds.