Cooking the Books (16 page)

‘No, and I’ll never work with her again if I’m exceptionally lucky. She’s everything they warned me she would be. Yes, she’s a piece of work all right. Perfect in her way, like a perfect cobra or a perfect black widow spider.’

‘Harsh,’ I commented.

He leant forward and took my hand. His grasp was warm and calloused, like a builder’s hand.

‘But true and fair. You’ve seen how she persecutes poor Emily?’

‘I have.’ And poor Emily would be rapturous if she could see the gentleness and concern in those brown eyes. Just then Emily looked over and did see us, and gave me a glare of pure malice. Ouch. I released my hand.

‘However, she’ll get hers,’ said Ethan complacently, sitting back in his chair and gathering a few more empanadas. ‘God is not mocked.’

This was complicated. In my experience God is frequently mocked, especially when the Melbourne Comedy Festival is on. And which God did Ethan mean? Surely not himself? Did photographers have their own saint?

Fortunately Daniel returned before I had to think of a reply.

‘Walk with me?’ he asked, extending an elbow. I rose and slid my arm through his.

‘See ya, Eth,’ said Daniel and we walked down Calico Alley into the arcade. I could have gone back and said farewell to Bernie but I didn’t. Daniel was worried about something and needed my counsel.

‘I’m worried,’ he told me.

‘So I guessed,’ I responded.

‘Did you guess what Ms Atkins wanted with me?’

‘Not a clue.’

‘She wants me to find out who has been playing tricks on her,’ said Daniel. ‘Chilli in her food. Missing shoes. Harassment. And she wants me to find her child.’

‘What?’ I stopped dead in front of a display of fountain pens.

‘She wants me to find her missing baby. Twenty-odd years ago she gave away a baby. She was just starting to be successful as an actor and model and she couldn’t keep it. The babe, I mean.’

‘Why do you say “it”?’ I asked.

‘She never saw the child, doesn’t know if it’s male or female. Her sister took it away and later told her that it had been adopted. Before she could tell Ms Atkins more, the sister died of a stroke.’

‘And she wants to find it now because . . . ?’

‘One does not ask the clients for their motivations.’

‘Soap opera,’ I wailed. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have got involved with soap operas! This sort of thing is always happening in soaps! Next it will turn out that someone has amnesia or hysterical paralysis or a plane will crash into Harbour Studios!’

‘Calm, Corinna, calm,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll start with adoption records. The birth must have been registered. Then we shall continue from there. How I am going to find out who has been playing tricks on her, I don’t know. Perhaps I can get Ethan to give me a job as a gofer.’ He grinned.

‘I don’t like it,’ I told him. Then the thought which had swum irritatingly just below the surface of my mind rose like a salmon, and leapt. ‘Come on. I’ve just recalled the fine lady on her fine horse.’

We strolled through the city. Melbourne on a warm night is peaceful and charming, except in front of the nightclubs. Children ate ice cream. Students walked, snail-backed with books in knapsacks, deep in discussion. Probably more about boys or girls than Derrida, but engrossing nonetheless. I led Daniel up Swanston Street towards the library. We skirted a woman with two little doggies, each startlingly like Traddles, and ascended the slope in front of that massive pile, scattered as usual with recumbent students who were putting off study until after they had recuperated from their twelve-hour shift in the fast-food industry.

‘I don’t know about Banbury Cross,’ I told Daniel as we reached the forecourt of that great temple of books. ‘And I haven’t examined the genitalia of this particular horse, but he is fine, isn’t he?’

There rode Joan the Maiden, armoured cap-a-pie, lance in hand. Another magnificent bronze. And in the pedestal, another slip of parchment with filthy fingerprints.

‘Gotcha,’ said Daniel. ‘Thank you, Corinna!’

‘What does it say?’ I asked, trying to read under his shoulder. Daniel unfurled the paper.

‘
Rain, rain
,’ he read.

‘
Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day
,’ I sang. ‘I can’t recall the rest. All I can remember is a parody from a TV show called
HR Pufnstuf
which ends “little witchy wants to zoom, she can’t take off on a wet broom” and I’m sure that’s not the original.’

‘Hardly the true Mother Goose philosophy,’ he agreed.

We strolled home again. My grumpy mood, however, despite the revelation of Ms Atkins’ lost child and the other irritants, seemed to have evaporated. So I suggested that we drop back in to the Lorca party on the way and see if there were any munchies left.

We found Ethan outside, beset with girls, drinking Spanish beer and grinning. Daniel joined him. I noticed that the girl whom he had displaced from her chair just sat down on Daniel’s knee. Oh, well, she had to sit somewhere. Inside, it was hot and dimly lit. I found a display of prawns which looked lonely and decided to keep them company. Bernie had had the same idea. We swapped crustaceans.

‘Having a good time?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been nailed for an hour by Mr Health and Strength,’ she said, dolefully. ‘He disapproves of cakes and told me so. For an hour,’ she repeated. ‘Luckily I got some tapas.’

‘Come outside,’ I offered. ‘This way.’

I led her out of the babble and motioned to Daniel to offer her a chair. He stood up, holding his girl in his arms, and Bernie flopped down. I put the prawns in front of her.

‘This is my good and deserving colleague Bernie,’ I told Ethan. ‘Have a prawn. She makes most of those cakes you wolf down during delays.’

‘Nice to meet you!’ Ethan took Bernie’s work-reddened hand and smiled into her abashed face. ‘You’re a good cook!’

‘Pastry chef,’ I corrected.

He accepted the correction. ‘Of course. Nice to meet you, Chef. How did you make that yummy cake with the cherries in?’

‘Do you cook?’ asked Bernie in a reverent tone.

‘When I can,’ said Ethan. ‘No good at cakes, though.’

Bernie beamed at him. The other maidens shot her poisonous glances to which she seemed oblivious.

‘Your work here is done,’ whispered Daniel into my ear, depositing his girl on her feet, very gently.

‘Come back inside,’ I urged. ‘I want you to talk to Tommy.’

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Because if anyone knows what Granddad Chapman used to call the ins and outs of a duck’s bottom, it’s Tommy. She adores theatre gossip,’ I told him, and back we went into the Spanish fug.

Where we found Tommy, sitting heavily in a chair and drinking what was definitely her fifth glass of sangria. This might prove to be unwise. Sangria is sneaky. It tastes like fruit juice and packs a punch very similar to being hit over the ear with a heavy fist by someone preparing to steal your handbag. The lady in the apron was slumped onto a similar chair but was drinking water.

‘Daniel, you remember Tommy. Tommy, you recall Daniel,’ I introduced them. ‘Daniel is fascinated with TV people,’ I lied.

‘Really?’ Tommy squinted up at my beloved. ‘Have a seat, take the weight off. Are you a chef too?’

‘Not me,’ Daniel replied. ‘I like a job where you get to sit down.’

This amused both ladies. Tommy laughed but persisted.

‘What do you do, then?’

‘I’m a private detective,’ he told her. ‘Lost children, missing husbands, that sort of thing.’

‘Oh no,’ said Tommy. ‘Don’t tell me that Molly has hired you to find that missing baby.’

After that statement we all poured ourselves some more sangria. Daniel recovered first.

‘So other people have tried to find the child?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes, and no one has a clue. In fact . . .’ she lowered her voice and leant closer, ‘some people think that it never existed at all. We can’t ask her sister because she’s dead. Poor Molly. She gets maudlin when she’s taken a few too many drinks and starts blubbing about her missing child.’

‘This puts a new complexion on the case,’ commented Daniel.

‘Oh, take the money and see what you can do,’ Tommy advised. ‘She might be sincere.’

‘Possibly,’ I put in. She had said please, after all.

‘Worth a look,’ decided Daniel. ‘And what about the tricks someone has been playing on her?’

Tommy laughed and took a deep gulp of the spicy wine. ‘They have been funny,’ she said. ‘The star on her dressing-room door was painted beige, to match the door. The chilli oil in her scrambled eggs—everyone assumed that was Ethan, and Tash ripped strips off him. The day Ms Atkins arrived and found every left shoe missing. I don’t know. Could have been anyone. But I can’t see how they managed the latest one.’

‘Which was?’

‘To meddle with the electronic scales. That’s why she went on a fast. Might have just been a weight fluctuation. Mostly fluid, of course. But she went into a snit and didn’t eat and that’s why she fainted. I can’t imagine how you are going to find out who did it. Good luck with that,’ she said airily.

‘Where did they find the missing shoes?’ asked Daniel.

‘Packed neatly into a carton next to the rubbish,’ replied Tommy. ‘Ah! Here she comes at last!’

And into the throng came a thin blonde. I recognised Julie, even though I had last seen her in a box-pleated tunic. Same hairstyle. Same vaguely disconnected expression. She caught sight of Tommy and squeaked. A brief flurry and spirited use of elbows and she was embracing her girlfriend. Then she noticed me.

‘Corinna!’ she exclaimed. Julie had always conducted conversations by exclamation. ‘And who’s this?’

‘Daniel,’ he introduced himself. ‘I’m Corinna’s partner.’

Julie gave me a swift look which was an exclamation in itself. I admit that I preened a little. Yes, he was gorgeous. Yes, he was mine. Get used to it.

‘How’s it all going?’ asked Julie, waving at the crowd.

‘Good,’ said Tommy affectionately. ‘And I’m not doing the cooking for a change. Time to go?’

‘Past time,’ confirmed Julie. ‘See you, Corinna.
Daniel
.’ The emphasis was marked. Which left Daniel and I a little bemused.

‘Well,’ he said, getting up, ‘I’ve got things to do. Walk you home?’

I thanked the lady in the apron for her remarkable food and followed him through the TV people onto the relatively quiet street. As I walked away, I looked back, and saw Ethan take Bernie’s hand and kiss it. Well, well.

After that there was not a lot to do but put myself to bed.

The next day dawned bright and hot. There was a faint haze in the air which spoke of coming rain. Lately we had been getting downpours which would not disgrace the tropics. Not a good day for bread, but I baked it anyway. Bernie was floating through her work with a delighted and astonished air. I wondered what had happened with her and Ethan, and hoped that she was not about to get her heart broken; but it was early morning, so I said nothing. I have never had a sensitive conversation early in the morning which has not gone horribly wrong.

We made the breads to accompany salads and cheese—walnut, seven seed, black bread, olive bread. They smelt so gorgeous that I hoped there would be leftovers. Just as the thought crossed my mind, a shadow fell across the open door. Bernie looked up and squeaked. I did not, because the looming person was my old friend Rui. He looks dangerous—he used to play for the All Blacks and Mother Nature has designed Maoris in two sizes, huge and enormous—but he is a sweetie’s sweetie. He volunteers for the Soup Run, an enterprise which feeds the lost and strayed, when he is not acting as a bouncer in some of the city’s most violent venues. Even there he does not hit people, just hugs them until they calm down. Which they do, quite fast. The Soup Run was contrived under the wimple of Sister Mary, the sort of nun who, in the Middle Ages, used to cause bishops to hide under their lecterns in case she commandeered their mitres to sell and feed the poor. He swept me into a hug from which I emerged rumpled but reassured. Large women are not often held as gently as a day-old chick.