Read Drowned Vanilla (Cafe La Femme Book 2) Online
Authors: Livia Day
She had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘It’s a publicity thing. Our new PR manager has us ordering the weirdest food we can, all around town. We’re aiming for, when people google “weird” and “food”, our band is in the top ten hits. Do you have a Tumblr? Twitter? Facebook?’
I think I was the last café in town not to have a Facebook presence. It was bad for my hipster image, but when you get up at 5am most days to bake, something has to give. My compromise is to hire trendy teen art students as waitresses who tweet their little socks off, sometimes while pouring cappuccinos. ‘Not officially, but we’ve got a few ways to boost the signal. You should come down and eat the muffins in the café sometimes. We have big windows.’
Really, blue muffins? I’m pretty sure rock bands are supposed to be slightly edgier than that. Still, hard drugs and trashing hotel rooms is such a cliché these days. If they wanted to make their reputation through eccentric baked goods, who was I to judge?
‘Excellent idea. Every bit helps.’ She took the basket and smiled past me to Bishop, apparently unfazed by his uniform. ‘I’m kCeera. Small k, big C.’
‘Senior Constable Bishop,’ he said, trying not to look offended at how much muffin talk had taken precedence over his own business. ‘There was a burglary report from this address.’
kCeera looked genuinely startled. ‘There was?’ She backed into the apartment, making room for us all to come inside. ‘Tabitha, I’ll write you a cheque for the first month. Hey Owen, did you call the police?’
The place was a mess—it must have been a long time since Darrow sent his army of cleaning ladies to make an inspection. Towers of junk, CDs and musical instruments were stacked haphazardly against every wall. The only items of furniture were two unmatched Tip Shop couches, a kick-ass stereo system with enormous speakers, and a widescreen TV that probably cost more than my car. It was certainly about the same length as my car.
The best thing about the room was a window with a clear view of the mountain, silver grey against a bright blue sky. Hobart sits squarely between the enormous Mount Wellington, and the mouth of the River Derwent. Water views are all very well, but I’d take our mountain any day. Just looking at the thing makes me feel all Zen and at one with the universe. Plus it helps with urban navigation. If you can see the mountain, you know pretty much where you are.
Fabulous view aside, the most salient feature of Crash Velvet’s flat was that it smelled of feet. In the middle of the crappy chaos, two lean and long-haired blokes in paper-thin t-shirts stood playing laser hockey on a Wii system. A pair of boots attached to a fourth member of the band stuck out from one of the couches.
kCeera cleared her throat loudly. ‘Guys? Police? Standing in front of me?’
‘Oh, right.’ One of the blokes paused the game, and elbowed the other. ‘Owen. Mate.’
‘Yeah,’ said the one called Owen. ‘Burglary. All our stuff got stolen.’
‘Stuff, what stuff?’ kCeera demanded. Obviously she was the brains of the outfit. The other two didn’t have enough spare brain cells between them to brew a cup of tea. ‘Why didn’t you tell me when I got home?’
‘Mate, laser hockey,’ said the one not called Owen. ‘Priorities.’
Constable Heather took out her notebook, looking all official. ‘Perhaps you could tell us exactly what was stolen?’
‘Everything, babe,’ said the not-Owen. ‘All of it, gone.’
Bishop looked around at the expensive stereo system, big screen TV and CD collection. ‘All of what, exactly?’
‘The clothes, mate,’ said Owen. ‘The hats and belts, even.’
‘Shoes,’ not-Owen added.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ asked kCeera. ‘I packed the gear away in the spare room this morning.’
‘Not there now,’ said Owen with a shrug. ‘Some wanker nicked it all, didn’t they?’
‘Someone stole … your clothes?’ said Bishop.
‘Wearable Art Treasures,’ I explained in an undertone. ‘The name of their first album. They collected a stash of unusual costume items from museums, antique dealers, artists … the photos looked great. They still wear a lot of the collection at their gigs.’
‘Why are you still here?’ Bishop asked in a grouchy voice.
‘I’m waiting for my muffin cheque. Excuse me for being helpful.’
‘So is that all that was taken?’ Bishop asked the guys.
Not-Owen looked at him mournfully. ‘All? Mate, isn’t that enough? What are we gonna wear to the next gig? Just turn up in plain tuxedos without leather gauntlets and vintage lace collars and spiky things around our legs? That’s not cool.’
‘Have you guys been smoking something?’ kCeera demanded. ‘I was gone for like two hours. You were here the whole time. How can someone have broken into our spare room and taken all the Wearable Art Treasures? Were there ladders involved? Is Rapunzel our prime suspect?’
Owen shrugged. ‘See for yourself, mate.’
kCeera marched across the room, flung open one of the doors, and stared through it. Then she turned around, and headed out of the flat.
‘Where are you going?’ not-Owen called after her.
kCeera flung her head around. ‘I’m going to get the guys from Sandstone City. Because when they arrest you for wasting police time, I want to make sure someone bloody well blogs about it!’ She slammed the door behind her.
‘Okay, then,’ I said, in the silence.
Bishop headed for the spare room. I followed him, because—oh, what the hell. It was none of my business, but when has that ever stopped me? If I never found out any gossip, my afternoon Coffee & Cake sales would halve overnight.
Inside the room, Bishop swore under his breath. Very unprofessional—not like him at all. I skidded to a halt at his elbow.
‘Tish—no,’ he said, but it was too late.
Mostly what I saw was net. It hung from the ceiling, supported by wooden beams, ropes and four upright poles, like a four-poster bed. There was something in the net, weighing it awkwardly. I recognised an arm.
What was it? A dummy?
But the long mop of dark hair hanging down looked real enough, and if it was a dummy, why would Bishop be feeling for a pulse, sliding his hand along the neck, searching for signs of life?
It began to sink in that I was in the presence of an actual dead body. I stepped back to let Constable Heather through, and my foot caught on the strap of a bright green sports bag. A violin case was leaning against it, and I only just stopped it from crashing to the floor.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said one of the blokes from the doorway. I’d lost track of whether he was the Owen or not. ‘Whoever nicked our stuff, they left that thing there. The net. And the body.’
‘The violin’s not ours,’ said the other maybe-Owen. ‘But, you know. If no one wants it…’
Shortlisted for Best Debut Book, Davitt Awards for Australian Women’s Crime Writing
Love and Romanpunk
If you enjoyed reading Livia Day, try her science fiction and fantasy short stories, written as Tansy Rayner Roberts:
Love and Romanpunk
By Tansy Rayner Roberts
Volume 2, The Twelve Planets series
Thousands of years ago, Julia Agrippina wrote the true history of her family, the Caesars. The document was lost, or destroyed, almost immediately. (It included more monsters than you might think.)
Hundreds of years ago, Fanny and Mary ran away from London with a debauched poet and his sister. (If it was the poet you are thinking of, the story would have ended far more happily, and with fewer people having their throats bitten out.)
Sometime in the near future, a community will live in a replica Roman city built in the Australian bush. It’s a sight to behold. (Shame about the manticores.)
Further in the future, the last man who guards the secret history of the world will discover that the past has a way of coming around to bite you. (He didn’t even know she had a thing for pointy teeth.)
The world is in greater danger than you ever suspected. Women named Julia are stronger than they appear. Don’t let your little brother make out with silver-eyed blondes. Immortal heroes really don’t fancy teenage girls. When love dies, there’s still opera. Family is everything. Monsters are everywhere. Yes, you do have to wear the damned toga.
History is not what you think it is.
"The Patrician" - Winner Washington Science Fiction Association Small Press Award 2012, Winner Best Short Story Ditmar 2012, Shortlisted Best YA Short Story, Aurealis Award 2012, "Julia Agrippina's Secret Family Bestiary" - Nominated Best Novella/Novelette Ditmar 2012
Shortlisted for Best Collection, Aurealis and Ditmar Awards 2012
Enjoy this excerpt from the short story “The Patrician”
I
Clea Majora walked through the hot streets of Nova Ostia, her sandal-shod feet lightly treading on the wide, baked, paving stones. She bought a honey cake from a pastry stall and nibbled it as she walked, using the vine leaf wrapper to catch the crumbs.
At the wall, a couple of boys she knew from school were playing a covert game of soccer, and called for her to join them, but she waved and kept walking. It was too hot for games, and besides, she had her own plans for how to spend the lunch hour.
Outside the stifling confines of the city, she kept walking until she came to her favourite gum tree. She unpinned her stola so that it folded underneath her when she sat down on the rough ground, and slid in the earbuds of her iPod. For a blissful forty minutes, she listened to music and a podcast about movies she would never get to see. The rest of the world existed, out there, and she liked the reminder of that.
Clea did not see the stranger until he was almost on top of her. She was startled when he tripped on a root nearby and stared at her as she yanked out her earbuds.
‘I’m sorry!’ he exclaimed.
‘No, I’m sorry!’ Quickly, Clea fastened her stola back up so that it covered the front of the
Gladiators Do It In the Arena
t-shirt she had borrowed from her brother that morning. ‘I’m not supposed to be here,’ she confessed. ‘Not during daylight. Are you a tourist?’
‘Yes,’ said the stranger in a cultivated, I-was-not-born-speaking-English kind of accent. ‘I suppose that I am. Are we near Nova Ostia? I lost my way.’
Tourists always came to the city by train or by coach, but were asked to walk the ten minute hike up the sloped road so that they entered the city without the ease of modern transport. Clea recognised the factory-produced tourist toga and tunic as one from Roman Road Tours. This man must have wandered away from his group. ‘You shouldn’t wander off-road,’ she said accusingly. ‘This is Australia, the bush can be dangerous.’ She should tell him about drop bears. That would serve him right. She was resentful of losing the last fifteen minutes of her lunch hour. ‘Come on, I’ll take you.’
He wore a hat, at least. Many tourists refused, wanting the full ‘authenticity’ of the Roman experience, only to appear at the city gates bright red like crayfish. The city was built with shaded streets to keep the Australian sun away from bare arms and bald pates, but that ten minute walk could do a lot of damage.
The visitor wore a broad-brimmed woven straw hat, not a design Clea recognised from Roman Road Tours. His hands were blistered from their moments in the sun, but the rest of him was a paler, European colour.
Clea dropped into the usual tourist spiel, about how a replica Roman city had come to be built in New South Wales, though it wasn’t really a replica, but a combination of several Roman towns. She added the part about real stone from Ostia and Herculaneum having been shipped over as part of the building process.
‘Yes,’ said the visitor with a sigh. ’I wish you hadn’t done that.’
Still, he seemed interested enough, and stopped to peer at the triumphal arch which served as the city’s gateway. The soccer boys were gone, probably yelled at by one of the merchants. The worst crime in Nova Ostia was to be inauthentic where the punters might see.
‘Would you like to wait for your tour group?’ Clea asked politely. ‘Or some refreshment, perhaps?’ She would be late getting back to the thermopolium at this rate, and it would look better if she brought a customer with her.
The stranger’s eyes were fixed upon the wall of the Temple of Vesta, and it was as if he had already forgotten she existed. ‘Thank you,’ he said absently. ‘But I travel alone.’
Clea dreamed of snakes, of women with bright silver eyes. She awoke to a flickering light outside her window, which was all wrong. It wasn’t like Nova Ostia had street lights. She knew even before she made it out of bed that there had to be a fire somewhere.
The Temple of Vesta was aflame. The white marble walls had turned black, at the heart of the blaze. Clea watched as various citizens ran to help, rolling out emergency hoses that had been carefully hidden in gutters and hatches. There was shouting, and urgency, and the acrid taste of smoke in the back of her throat.
A man leaped out of the flames and ran across the roof. As Clea watched, he jumped from wall to roof again, and ran along gutters, holding something the size and shape of a Roman short sword. She knew him, from his height and gait. The visitor.
Not quite knowing why, she opened her window and leaned out. He turned, his head flicking once in her direction, and then leaped — this time, arcing over the nearest wall, and vanishing from her sight.
Obviously this was the sort of thing you mentioned to people. But when the Governor’s secretary went from house to house the next day, searching for any witness reports concerning the fire, Clea said nothing.
About Twelfth Planet Press
Twelfth Planet Press is an Australian specialty small press. Founded in 2007, we have a proven record and reputation for publishing high quality fiction. We are challenging the status quo with books that interrogate, commentate, inspire through thought provoking and provocative science fiction, fantasy and horror.