Forbidden Fruit

PRAISE FOR OTHER CORINNA CHAPMAN MYSTERIES

‘
Earthly Delights
is a pleasure to read—witty, surprising, and opinionated … there is corruption and violence … but there is also redemption, and compassion, and friendship, and courage, and humour. And good food. And lots of cats. If any of these appeal to you then
Earthly Delights
probably will too.’—
West Australian

‘An appealing mix of humour, romance and tales of the seedy side of the city.’—
Sunday Times

‘Chapman lives with a lusty appetite for good food and good sex. Every meal is a feat and every character is exceptional. Even her three cats are remarkable.’—
The Age

‘Kerry Greenwood has created a masterly chick-lit thriller, filled with sensual delights, twists and turns.’—
Cairns Post

‘Full of great food, humour, magic and lust—not to mention a likable new sleuth, a lot of dead bodies and a spate of nasty little hate crimes.’—
Sun Herald

‘Greenwood bakes a rich concoction that leaves you wanting more.’—
MX

‘A happy combination of the “chick lit” genre and a traditional cosy mystery story, redolent with stories about good things in the oven.’—
Limelight

‘Reading a Corinna Chapman mystery is as satisfying as the smell of freshly baked bread.’—
Illawarra Mercury

‘This is a fun read with amusing one-liners, entertaining characters, delicious recipes and enchanting descriptions of Corinna’s feline companions.’—
Canberra Times

Kerry Greenwood is the author of fifty novels and the editor of two collections. She is the author of the Phryne Fisher mysteries, as well as many books for young people and the Delphic Women series.

When she is not writing she is an advocate in the Magistrates’ Courts for the Legal Aid Commission. She is not married, has no children and lives with a registered Wizard.

Also in the Corinna Chapman series:
Earthly Delights
Heavenly Pleasures
Devil’s Food
Trick or Treat

KERRY GREENWOOD

A Corinna Chapman mystery

The extract on page 10, ‘those to whom is done do evil in return’, is from ‘September 1, 1939’, copyright © 1939 W. H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd.

The lyrics on page 49 are copyright Thomas A. Lehrer.

The lyrics on page 90 are from ‘All poor men and humble’ tr K E Roberts (1877–1962) from ‘The Oxford Book of Carols’ © Oxford University Press 1928. Extract reproduced by permission. All rights reserved.

The extract on page 177 is reproduced courtesy of The Society of Authors as the Literary Representative of the Estate of Alfred Noyes.

The extract on page 103 is reproduced courtesy of Eleanor Farjeon’s estate and David Higham Associates, London.

The extract on page 183 is taken from ‘A Minor Bird’ from
The Poetry of Robert Frost,
edited by Edward Connery Lathem, published by Jonathan Cape. Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Ltd.

First published in 2009

Copyright © Kerry Greenwood 2009

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian
Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web:
www.allenandunwin.com

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available
from the National Library of Australia
www.librariesaustralia.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 74175 982 2

Set in 11/14 pt Adobe Garamond by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

With many thanks to the indefatigable Greenwood Support Collective: Jen Pausacker, David Greagg, all the Pryors, Jean and Alan Greenwood, Miss Dawn for Diligence, and the recipe suppliers, tasters, commentators and email fans who make me feel slightly less isolated at three am on a dark morning.

Not to mention Ihr Altesse, Belladonna, Principessa di Gatti, of course. And Blackberry and Doughall the Giant Kitten.

In loving memory of Dennis Pryor, a charming and compassionate man of remarkable learning.

This book is for M.V.C.S, M.O.N.V.C.S., and all the singers of the Known World.

My fanatical vegans and my fanatical Christians are all fictional. There are no such organisations or churches and they are all a product of the author’s horrible imagination. The freegans are not. They seem to have left the city, however. If they turn up in your area it would be nice to step a few paces of the Hare Wombat dance with them. And perhaps buy them an ice cream. They rarely find edible ice cream in dumpsters.

For unto us a Child is born,
Unto us a Son is given.

—GF Handel,
Messiah

Now bring us some figgy pudding,
And bring some out here!

Trad.

Four am is not an ideal time, especially if someone is trying to have a conversation with you about glacé cherries and the desirability of making our own.

I opened one eye, which was about as much as could be expected, made a broad sweeping motion with my only available arm, and grunted ‘Go away!’ with all the force at my disposal.

‘Oh, shit,’ said someone, and there was a whisking noise. When the alarm went off and I really had to wake up, I saw, in order of perception: 1) my cat, Horatio, indicating extreme displeasure by folding himself into a tabby and white pillar and twitching the very end of his tail; 2) my apprentice, Jason, looking abashed and rumpling his thick curly blond hair; and 3) my lover,
Daniel, holding Jason by the shoulder with one hand and offering me a large cup of very strong black coffee with the other.

The last was the only thing I wanted at that moment and the delegation departed, led by Horatio, who was suggesting that only immediate and the fullest of full-cream Farmhouse milk could assuage his injured feelings at this disgraceful irruption into his solemn morning ritual. In fact, they might gainfully omit the milk component and go straight for the cream.

After my first coffee, I did the usual morning things in my usual morning trance, spiced with some outrage. Jason might be a feckless adolescent but Daniel knew how I felt about being awoken even a millisecond before I had to be. I treasure my hours of sleep. I grumbled as I dressed in my size 20 cotton baker’s overall—the weather was warm, which meant that the bakery would be blistering until the air conditioning kicked in—and pulled back my hair and secured it in a clip. I looked at myself in the mirror, always unwise at this hour. Three chins, which would refine to two when I woke up. Hair which was now reddish since Meroe had arrived with that henna rinse and the need for a subject for her experiment. Blue blurry eyes. Corinna Chapman. Good morning, ma’am.

Jason had gone, Daniel was reading the paper, and my croissant, jam, butter and a pot of coffee were on the table, while Horatio discussed his dish of cream underneath. I ate, I drank, I contemplated the front page of Daniel’s paper and it came into focus. Gradually, I became a human, instead of a grizzly bear woken up before it was even spring. I hate it when this happens because I have to apologise for whatever it was I did when I was half asleep.

Fortunately, I hadn’t done much. I might have meant to clip Jason’s ears, but I simply hadn’t had the coordination.

‘What was all that about?’ I asked.

‘I caught him too late,’ said Daniel. ‘I was just coming in when I heard him babbling about making glacé cherries. Sorry,
ketschele.
I sent him down to begin the baking so you could have a civilised breakfast.’

‘And so I have,’ I replied, leaning over to kiss him. Mmm. Coffee and croissant and the scent of Daniel’s skin, which always smelt like cinnamon. ‘No harm done—I’ll just mention that if he does such a thing again I will personally put him into a pie and bake him. This must be about his Christmas cakes. He’s been obsessing about them for days.’

‘And enthusiasm should not be quashed,’ Daniel told me, returning the kiss with compound interest.

I know about these things, because I was once an accountant, until I discarded my pantyhose forever, gave my suits and kitten-heeled shoes to the Brotherhood, and took up baking, which has brought me modest financial profit and much greater happiness than I deserve.

I dumped the bad mood. What right had I to feel grumpy when I had Daniel and Jason and the inhabitants of Insula, an eccentric but fascinating building in the middle of Melbourne, my favourite city?

I smiled. Horatio, having finished the cream and his kitty dins, decided that a thorough wash was essential before he went to meet his public in the shop, Earthly Delights, and levitated onto a suitable chair for the purpose.

‘Time to close the windows,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s blowing a gale.’

‘I hate north winds,’ I agreed, doing so and pulling the dark curtains across. ‘I loathe summer, and I detest Christmas. It’s only the start of December. Already it’s hot and already the shoppers are frantic. I’m glad we’re closing for January, because by the time we get to Christmas, we are all going to be knackered.’

‘Hanukkah is less stressful,’ said Daniel. ‘Now, if you are going to the bakery, I am going to have a shower and flake out. I’ve had a long night in the rafters, trying to locate a poison pen.’

‘Tell me later,’ I said, kissed him again, and descended to the bakery.

I was half an hour late, and Jason had already set all the mixers going, a charming noise. The Mouse Police, Heckle and Jekyll, had delivered their tribute of dead vermin and had been rewarded. I came in as Jason opened the door into Calico Alley and they scrambled out, in search of endangered species of the Southern Ocean, scraps of which Kiko and Ian from the Japanese restaurant always keep for them. For former street cats, they had expensive tastes.

The coffee pot was on and so was the industrial air conditioner, which might keep us alive during the summer. It was an engineering marvel, according to the Green Tech people who installed it, using waste heat from the ovens to do something ingenious and carbon neutral. And it was blasting out a lot of cold air, which was wonderful. I stood in the jet stream and revolved slowly.

‘Rye bread on, Captain, pasta douro prepared, muffin mix ready.’

‘Well done, Midshipman.’ I saluted. We were playing Hornblower, which Jason had taken as his manual for living. There could be worse role models. Besides, I got to be captain. ‘Now, what was that about cherries?’

‘Sorry to wake you, sir, I won’t do that again,’ he mumbled. ‘But why shouldn’t we make our own glacé cherries? It just needs someone to watch the syrup. It has to be cheaper than buying them in hundred-gram lots.’

‘You want to try it? Go ahead,’ I said, waving a Picardian hand. ‘Make it so.’

He jumped up and showed me a recipe. It was handwritten.

‘Where’s this from?’ I asked.

‘Yai Yai,’ he answered, meaning the matriarch of the delightful Pandamus family, who run Cafe Delicious. ‘She says you can candy anything with it.’

‘Yes, it’s
glykos,
it’s yummy,’ I observed. ‘Go ahead, but it’s going to be a long process!’

‘No problem, Captain, I’d rather stay in here with the cooler on anyway.’

‘Good point,’ I agreed. I was going to ask Therese Webb, Insula’s expert on all things woven, tatted, knitted, spun, embroidered and stitched, to teach me some handicrafts. It was looking to be a long summer. I preferred the planet when it had more ozone layer.