Getting the signature right

Here is the speech I made:

On Launching A Trifle Dead, by Livia Day (and Tansy Rayner Roberts)

Thank you all for being here again – it makes me so happy to be able to fill a bookshop with friends and family and loyal readers, even when I confuse you by changing my pen-name. I’m particularly grateful that the books decided to grace us with their presence tonight because that led to some stressful moments that were very not fun.

Crime is supposed to be fun, right?

The first adult crime novel I ever read traumatised me for life. I was ten years old, and it was a Dick Francis book about a man whose brother died when scaffolding fell on him. I still have serious issues with walking under scaffolding. It was bad enough already that the Trixie Belden mysteries had taught me that apple pips have cyanide with them, and if you chop apples whole into your waldorf salad, you could die!

(I wonder if that actually counts as the first time I read culinary crime?)

Crime as a genre can be scary and confronting and deeply traumatic, but the books I really loved, enough to read them over and over even when I knew who the murderer was, were the ones with a sense of humour. Robert B Parker’s Spenser does some horrible and ethically dubious things, and he lives in a tough scary world, but those books have some of the best banter known to humankind. He’s also a really good cook.

Dick Francis’s heroes can often cook well too, and don’t get me started on the importance of food in Agatha Christie novels, Janet Evanovich, and Kerry Greenwood. Food in fiction is often used for character development – for nourishment, for comfort. And sometimes you need something comforting to get you through all the dead bodies and grim psychology.

So by the time I started writing my own crime novels – and I started pretty early – the elements of murder, food and banter had programmed themselves into my head.
As for setting, well that was never a question. Every crime writer has their city, or their village, the place that becomes a character in its own right – and pretty much the only character who is free of suspicion about being the murderer, thanks to the legendary Agatha Christie who taught us you can’t even trust the narrator of the book. She never did one where the city was the murderer, did she?

But yes, Boston, Trenton, London, St Mary Mead. My crime stories were always going to be set in Hobart. Quite specifically they were going to be set in one particular building.

When I was a little girl, the Greensleeves Bookshop moved from its pretty sandstone building in the middle of town, to an equally pretty shop in Sandy Bay. It was a favourite of mine, not least because it was there that I discovered the wonders of heavily discounted Star Trek Next Generation novelisations.

But I always felt a little sorry for the building that was left behind. It was in a beautiful position, next to the Hadley’s Hotel, opposite St David’s Cathedral and the Walsh’s art supplies store. Over the years it had many businesses come and go – offices, a surf shop, nothing that I found personally inspiring. (Most recently it had a gorgeous children’s design shop, Ruby’s Room, and I was really sad to see they had moved because that was the first time in decades something stylish had been in there)

But back when I was first inspired to write this story, far too many years ago to count, I didn’t think any of the businesses that had followed Greensleeves really gave the building much to work with.

During my matric/college years, I wrote three complete novels. One was a comedy about a space assassin, and two were completely different murder mysteries featuring the same characters and set in that stone building that used to be the Greensleeves Bookshop. Only now it was called The Troubleshooters Cafe.

The first thing that writing that book in my teens taught me was that I didn’t know anything about writing or plotting crime novels. I remember throwing myself on the mercy of my good friend Isabel, who threw a pile of classic detective novels at my head, and forced me to think, seriously think about how the genre worked then and now. It really helped to have someone there poking holes in my writing and demanding that I do better not just for the reader, but for the crime genre as a whole (no pressure), and Isabel gave me the closest thing I had to professional editorial feedback until I actually started selling novels.

(And found out that professional editors are way less mean.)
(So that is why the book is dedicated to her)

So here we are, many years later, with A Trifle Dead. Many of you know that this particular book did not have an easy road to publication. There were bumps along the way, bodies that had to be buried, evidence destroyed, nasty blood stains on the ceiling that we never talk about. But at the end there was trifle, and what’s that if not a happy ending?

So many people to thank for bringing this book into existence, including my publisher who is about to have her own launch party in West Australia, and our brilliant cover designer Amanda Rainey, and the whole Twelfth Planet team. Tehani and Steph for their contributions this evening, Chris and Janet and everyone at the Hobart Bookshop for giving us the space and the wine. My family for their support and enthusiasm.

And I wanted to give a particular shout out to the writers who produced the luscious trifle recipes in the back of this book – Kathryn in Perth who just upstaged us all by having a baby this morning – hooray!) and our own local Louise Williams. If you buy a copy of the book today, and I hope you will, you not only get a chance to see me practice my new Livia Day signature, but you can also ask Louise to sign her recipe!

(I have talked for long enough, I will read you a tiny bit from the book because I don’t approve of long readings at launches, and then we can get on with the wine and the book buying.)

A Trifle Dead was launched by former HarperCollins Voyager editor Stephanie Smith and indie press publisher Tehani Wessely – both new Tasmanian residents!

The book is officially released tomorrow, so this is your last chance to get in for a pre-order! In the mean time, check out a sneak peek of the novel’s opening two and a half chapters to whet your appetite for trifle.

A Trifle Dead
Livia Day
ISBN 978-0-9872162-9-8
Cover design by Amanda Rainey
Preorder Now
Published by new crime imprint, Deadlines

Chapter 1.

You can tell a lot about a person from their coffee order. I play a game with the girls who work in my café—guess the order before the customer opens their mouth. It’s fun because half the time you’re spot on—the bloke who would rather die than add anything to his long black, the girl who doesn’t want to admit how weak she likes her latté, the woman who’ll deliberate for twenty minutes as to whether or not she wants a piece of cake (she does), the mocha freak, the decaf junkie.

The rest of the time, you’re completely wrong. An old age pensioner requests a soy macchiato, a gang of pink- haired school girls want serious espresso shots, a lawyer in a designer suit stops to chat for half an hour about free trade… The best thing about people is how often they surprise you.

Ever wondered what kind of coffee a murderer drinks? Yeah, me neither.

I tumbled into the kitchen of Café La Femme, arms full of bakery boxes, a vintage mint-green sundress swirling around my knees. Late as usual, but at least I was wearing my favourite sandals.

A gal can cope with anything when her shoes match her bra.

Nin paused in the middle of kneading focaccia dough to stare at me from under her expressive eyebrows. I love her eyebrows. They make Frida Kahlo’s look meek. ‘They’re here again,’ she said, and went back to kneading.

My assistant cook doesn’t use paragraphs when a sentence will do, so I had to read between the lines. ‘They’ almost certainly referred to several respected members of the Hobart police force, most of them in uniform, some of them armed. ‘Here’ meant all the comfortable chairs in the main room of the café, and probably leaning on the counter as well. ‘Again’ meant that Nin was sick to death of them all asking her where I was, and how I was doing, and I probably owed her a raise.

I couldn’t afford to give her a raise, so I piled my boxes of bread rolls, bagels and croissants on the bench and tied on my Barbarella apron instead. ‘Can I help you with that dough?’

Nin’s eyebrows judged me. Hard.

‘Okay, okay. I just have to bring in the eggs, and then I’ll go front of house. Five minutes.’

I ducked outside and took several breaths of salty spring air before she could object. Five minutes, and I could just about deal with a café full of guns and bicycle clips. Couldn’t I? The café courtyard is a gravel square, walled in by sand- stone blocks that were once shaped by convict hands. I keep saying I’ll clean it up and put tables out here, but the truth is I don’t want to lose my little sanctuary of calm.

Our local egg supplier had left a basket by the back step. I’d asked her more than once to take them straight into the kitchen so no one will trip over them, but she claims to be afraid of Nin’s eyebrows. Who can blame her?

As I leaned down to pick up the basket, I caught a whiff of strawberry perfume, and then someone came up behind me and yanked my braid. I reacted with a lifetime of skipped self-defence classes by screaming like a girl, and slamming the basket of eggs behind me and into the face of my assailant.

‘What the—!’ she exclaimed in disgust, and let go of my hair.

Oops. I turned around to see a tall, glamorous woman in black. Not black like a Goth, but black like Emma Peel in The Avengers, circa 1966. ‘Is that actually a catsuit?’ I asked, impressed. Even if I had a stomach as flat as hers, I doubt I’d have the nerve to wear something like that, and I have (almost) no shame when it comes to fashion.

‘It was,’ said my assailant. Egg and shell dripped down over the black catsuit in question, and down into her fitted leather boots.

‘It looks great,’ I offered.

‘Thanks.’ She crossed her arms, elegant and menacing despite wearing twenty dollars worth of smashed free range egg. ‘So where is he?’

‘You’re going to want to get in a shower really soon. Raw egg does bad things to hair, when it goes hard…’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ She paused meaningfully. ‘Tabitha? I’m in a hurry here. Your landlord. The arsehole. Where is he?’ Ah, well that made more sense. She was looking for Darrow. ‘Does he owe you money? Or are you planning to
hurt him?’ Both possibilities were more than likely.

‘Both. Hurry up, I can feel my hair hardening as we speak.’

‘I don’t know where he is,’ I admitted. ‘Honestly, haven’t seen him for weeks. But he’s Darrow. He’ll stroll back in, sooner or later.’

She gave me a filthy look, and somehow managed to still look gorgeous in the process. ‘You wouldn’t lie to protect him, would you?’

‘Of course not.’

Yeah, I probably would. There’s something about stupidly attractive men. They smile, and your knees turn to honey, and suddenly you’re doing things you never thought you would, like giving false witness, or accidentally learning how to poach quail eggs. But I wasn’t lying today. ‘If you must beat the information out of someone, why not try his white-haired, old grandmother?’

She smiled tightly. ‘Good suggestion. I’ll keep it in mind.’

I didn’t feel guilty. Darrow’s white-haired old grand- mother was more than a match for either of us. ‘Okay, then. I have to go inside and call my egg supplier. And evict twenty police officers from my café.’ I backed away from her, until I reached my kitchen door. ‘Oh—Xanthippe?’

‘What?’ she said, sounding tired.

‘Good to see you back.’

She glanced down at her egg-streaked outfit. ‘Yep. Just like old times.’

Back in the kitchen, Nin had put the focaccia in our little pizza oven to toast, and was making salad rolls so that the breakfast crowd could take their lunch away with them. When I was growing up, a salad roll was a confection-like sticky bun filled with cheese, tomato, lettuce, beetroot and sliced egg, all glued together with a mock-mayonnaise. Good old Australian corner shop tucker. Now, if it didn’t have cran- berry sauce, gouda or red pesto on it, our customers whinged the roof down. Oh, and ham wasn’t good enough for most of the hipster lunch set, even if it was triple smoked and carved off an organic local pig. Fat-free turkey and smoked salmon were where it was at—with a growing interest in grilled mushrooms and haloumi.

I realised I had reached the point of no return when I put ‘tofu and ricotta salad roll, deconstructed’ on the menu, and it became my biggest seller. After that, I started really having fun. If food isn’t creative, what’s the point?

Unfortunately I still had a very vocal (if minority) group of customers who were firmly attached to the Good Old Days, and relied on me to provide the basic staples of Man Food. Steak, fried potato products and pies. I never had this much trouble with the uni students when I was working at the café on campus. At least students appreciated an ironic sprout when they saw one.

Well, no more. The old guard were going to have to find their pies somewhere else. I had hipsters to feed.

The customer bell twanged loudly in the café.

‘In a minute,’ I protested as Nin’s eyebrows became stern and judgemental. ‘Egg emergency.’

As I picked up the phone, a tall, dark and handsome police officer in street uniform put his head through the swinging doors. ‘Tish, the natives are getting restless.’

I rolled my eyes at the old nickname, and handed the phone to Nin. ‘Call Monica. We’re going to need another three dozen. Might require grovelling.’

She dialled, knowing a good deal when she saw one.

‘So,’ I said to Senior Constable Leo Bishop, ‘by natives, you mean the usual gang of reprobates?’

Bishop grinned his gorgeous grin at me. ‘The accepted term is still police officers, you know.’

We went through to the café together. Two customers sat at a window table, enjoying plates of muesli trifle and plum honey toast. The other fourteen customers—sprawling on tables and generally holding up the walls—were mostly over forty, uniformed and slightly dangerous. Even the detectives were so painfully plain clothed that their police credentials were obvious.

Bishop was pushing thirty, but the other adjectives still applied. Uniformed and dangerous. ‘One of these days,’ I warned him in a low voice, ‘you’re all going to get bored with keeping an eye on me.’

‘Duty is never dull,’ he shot back, with that look in his eye. That look had made my stomach jump somersaults when I was sixteen and still innocent enough to be impressed by cute men in uniform. Good thing I got over that particular fetish.

I circulated, smiling my best smile at a horde of middle- aged men who thought of me only as Tabitha, Geoff and Rose Darling’s precious little girl. ‘G’day all. Seen my new breakfast menu?’

Inspector Bobby tapped the pretty laminated pages. ‘No pies on there, Tabby love. How’m I going to start my day without one of Rose’s steak and bacon glories?’

My smile got brighter. ‘Come on, Bobby, this isn’t Mum’s café. It’s mine. And I’m pretty sure your wife told me that eating those steak and bacon glories for breakfast is what led to your heart attack last year. I can’t have you on my conscience any more.’

‘Come on, Tabby,’ said Superintendent Graham in a genial voice. ‘Your pastry’s a work of art. Can’t go wasting skills like that.’

This is true. Excellent pastry is the one tangible thing I gained from running off to Europe with a French land- scape artist instead of going to uni. Phillipe parked me at his mother’s farm in the Dordogne for six months, where I learned about soups and sauces as well as melt-in-the-mouth pastry before I found out about the other women he had waiting for him in Paris, Marseilles and Berlin.

‘I’m not wasting anything,’ I said patiently. ‘I have tomato- pear tartlets and vegan quiche on my Specials Board. And the mochaccino special comes with dunking profiteroles.’

The collective weight of the local police force muttered amongst themselves, and glared at said Specials Board.

‘What exactly is in vegan quiche?’ said Bishop in a low voice.

‘Bok choy,’ I told him.

‘And?’

‘What do you mean, and? I know you all miss my mum’s cooking, but she doesn’t run the police canteen these days. And, in case you haven’t noticed, neither do I.’

It’s not that I don’t appreciate their business. Loyalty’s a nice thing. But if you had fifty-odd honorary uncles and brothers constantly hanging around your place of work, you’d start to crack too. I never dreamed when my parents split up and Mum abandoned the police canteen to make lentil burgers at meditation retreats and folk festivals that I’d end up inheriting her old clientele.

Pies and chips are fine, but I’m not going to spend my life heating them up. This café was supposed to be a fresh start for me, and it was time for me to stand my ground.

‘So, no sausage rolls?’ asked Detective Sergeant Richo, from his little island of denial.

‘I haven’t served sausage rolls in six months.’ They were the first to go, and it hurt to do it. But every revolution has its casualties.

‘Yeah,’ Richo said sadly. ‘Rose always made great sausage rolls. But yours were better,’ he added.

I crossed my arms. ‘If no one orders the focaccia with tempeh and pepperberry dressing in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to have to ask you all to leave.’

There was a strangled pause. The effort that it took each of them to not say something patronising was monumental. I could practically see the steam coming out of their ears.

‘All right. Tabby,’ said Inspector Bobby. ‘We’ll be in later for coffee.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed one of the sergeants, brightly. ‘Those low-fat muffins of yours are almost as good as real ones.’

One by one, the officers trooped out of the café. I sagged a little. It wasn’t working. Possibly it wouldn’t work if I served nothing but flavoured oxygen. I was doomed to run a café under constant police surveillance.

‘Reckon you were a bit hard on them,’ said Bishop, who had stayed behind.

I gave him a dirty look. ‘Do you know how good my side salads are? In the year since I started this place, I’ve had three reviews that specifically mention how awesome my side salads are. I’ve turned side salads into a work of art. So the day that one of you bludgers actually eats one of my side salads, instead of pushing it to the side and ordering another slab of pie, is the day that you get to have an opinion about my menu.’

He folded his arms. ‘Do you really think we come here for the food?’

‘Thanks,’ I said, stalking behind my counter. ‘Nice to know.’

A couple of people came in to collect lunch bagels. I served them, ignoring Bishop the whole time. My muesli customers finished their breakfast, and paid for their meals.

‘You know I didn’t mean that in a bad way,’ he said, when they were gone. ‘We keep an eye out for you, that’s all. Since your dad…’

‘I know,’ I said between gritted teeth. And boy, did I. Good old Superintendent Geoff Darling, my beloved dad. In the days between his retirement party and eloping to Queensland with his soon-to-be second wife, he took it upon himself to ask every single member of Tasmania Police to keep an eye out for his precious girl. Imagine how grateful I was for that now. ‘I feel very safe and warm and protected.’

So protected that most days it’s hard to breathe.

The café door clattered open, and a uniformed constable walked in—one I didn’t actually know.

‘Are you advertising in the police department foyer now?’ I complained.

Bishop ignored me. He was good at that—he’d been prac- tising the art since he knew me only as his boss’s teenage daughter, and his sister’s bratty best friend. ‘Looking for me, Heather?’

The constable gazed around at my colourful pop-art tables, my wall of vintage Vogue covers, and my 1960s frock posters. ‘They said you’d be here,’ she answered, as if not quite believing it.

Yep. The décor had been my first assault in the War against Tasmania Police, long before I went to the lengths of taking red meat off the menu. Sometimes I glue glitter to the windows.

Lesbian lunchtime poetry readings were only a phone call away.

‘Constable Heather Wilkins, meet Tabitha Darling,’ said Bishop.

I waited for the spark of recognition, but there wasn’t one. ‘You haven’t heard the name, Constable Heather?’

‘Should I have?’ she asked politely. ‘I only started a few weeks ago.’

I smiled happily at Bishop. ‘There’s my answer. I just have to out-wait you dinosaurs. Thirty years and you’ll all be replaced by bright young things who’ve never heard of me or Superintendent Darling.’

Bishop made the sensible decision to ignore me again. ‘What’s up, Constable?’
‘Burglary in this building—the top floor.’

‘Crash Velvet?’ I said. ‘I’ll come up with you.’ I leaned into the kitchen. ‘Nin! The cavalry are gone. Come mind the front, and bring me the blue muffins for upstairs.’

‘Crash Velvet?’ It meant nothing to Bishop.

‘A rock band,’ said Constable Heather.

‘Not just a rock band,’ I said. ‘Crash Velvet are the new wave in formal kink. The latest YouTube sensation, right here in Hobart.’

Bishop tilted his head at me, as if I was speaking Mandarin. ‘You can’t come with us,’ he decided. ‘This is official police business.’

Nin came out from the kitchen with a basket full of bright blue muffins and a particularly expressive eyebrow lift.

‘Thanks, hon.’ I made a face at Bishop. ‘As if I’m interested in your burglary. I have food to deliver.’

CHAPTER 2

There are people who should be trusted with ownership of beautiful old sandstone buildings, and people who shouldn’t. I’m not entirely sure where our Mr Darrow fits on the scale. He’s rich as all hell, and owns several almost- heritage listed buildings around Hobart. But instead of doing the sensible thing—installing yuppie apartments with skyrocketing urban rents—he fills the rooms with artists and other oddballs, at bargain lease rates.

It’s probably a tax dodge of some kind—but what can I say? Darrow came to the uni café for years after he graduated, because he liked my gateaux. He claims that he stole me because I was going to make his fortune, but I don’t buy it for a second. There’s not much profit in cafés, too many staff to support. Wouldn’t surprise me if he moved me in here because it’s not far to travel for his daily slice of mocha hazelnut hummingbird cake.

Not that I’m complaining.

I missed Darrow since his latest disappearance. I was used to him hanging around with his stupid laptop, bugging my customers and having pointless, batshit weird conversations with me until I felt the need to bounce cookies off his beautifully-groomed hair.

He’d be back, eventually. Unless Xanthippe was hunting him down to kill him, which was not one hundred percent unlikely. Theirs had been a bad break-up.

Our building has two roomy flats above my café. The first floor is occupied by the Sandstone City mob, a gang of twenty-somethings who blog about weird stuff in Hobart, in the hope of making the place look cool. Bizarrely, it kind of works. Someday the government will stop giving them grant money, but this is not that day.

Then there’s the top floor, and Crash Velvet.

A tiny purple-headed rock chick answered the door. Her eyes slid straight past the two police officers to focus on my basket of bright-blue muffins. ‘Oh, excellent. Just what I wanted. Any chance you can repeat the order every morning for … oh, the next three months or so?’

‘Well, I could,’ I said. ‘Why would you want me to?’ Don’t get me wrong, they were fabulous muffins—the savoury ones were parmesan and onion, with a hint of Tabasco, and the sweet ones were blue velvet with cream cheese frosting and silver sprinkles—but it wasn’t like they’d ordered them for the flavour. When they phoned down the order, all they said was blue. I did consider just using food colouring, but imported blue cornmeal is such a pretty ingredient and I can rarely justify using it. Since they were paying through the nose anyway…

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 inspec- tion. 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…’

Chapter 3

Bishop steered me out of the room. ‘Heather, call for Anderson’s team to get over here as a priority. Then call Clayton and tell him this is one for the Crime Management Unit. Suspicious death, probable drug overdose. Make sure no one goes into that room.’

As Heather made the first call, Bishop kept moving me through the flat, and out on to the landing. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, when we were alone.

I nodded, a bit too fast. I wasn’t okay. The most drama I see in one day is a fallen sticky date sponge, or a yard full of smashed free range eggs. ‘I’m good.’

‘Did you recognise him? Is he from around here? From the café?’

I shook my head, not quite trusting myself to speak.

Bishop gave me one of those ‘she’ll be right’ awkward bloke pats on the arm, and then ducked back into the flat to do his job.

I stood alone on the landing, breathing in the musty air. After a minute or two, I pulled myself together and headed down the stairs.

kCeera charged up past me, dragging one of the Sand- stone City bloggers with her, and a large camera. ‘Have they been arrested yet?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘Well, not for wasting police time,’ I replied.

About ten seconds after kCeera reached her front door, I heard a yell. ‘What the fuck?’ Which probably meant she had been informed it was a real dead body in her spare room.

At that moment I could see nothing but that horrible image of the man hanging in the net. He was young—maybe my age. I gripped the banister. ‘Real girls don’t swoon, Tabitha.’

That was good, because I was pretty sure I was going to throw up instead.

I clattered down the stairs so fast that I didn’t see another person step out of the Sandstone City flat, and we collided. The world spun.

‘Whoa,’ said a male voice. A hand caught my elbow. ‘Are ye all right?’

I stared at him, still not really seeing him, though I was dimly aware of a Scottish accent, and stubble. ‘Yes. Fine. Really very fine.’

‘Good,’ he said, which proved he was male and didn’t understand anything. ‘Did ye see which way our Simon went?’

I pointed to the upper floor.

‘Thanks,’ the accent continued. It was soothing, actually. I could pretend we were in a gritty Glasgow crime drama on TV. People hardly ever throw up in those, unless they’re crack addicts. ‘And ye are all right, then?’

It occurred to me that if I had to be asked this many times if I was all right, then maybe I wasn’t. ‘No,’ I said clearly. ‘Not.’ And I bolted down the last flight, scrabbling to open the back door.

In the side yard, confronted with a burst of sunshine and fresh, crisp March air, I stumbled over the steps and sat down in a hurry. Probably, now I came to think of it, in a mess of congealed raw egg. I covered my face with my hands.

‘Are ye planning tae throw up?’ The Scottish accent had followed me. The last thing I needed was a nervous break- down in front of someone who sounded a bit like Ewan McGregor. ‘Because I’m bad at holding hair. I often miss.’

I looked up, peering through my fingers. He was an ordinary looking bloke, a bit on the skinny side, a lot on the scruffy side. ‘Um, no. Thanks for the offer.’

He grinned at me, and his face lit up in a way that made him a lot more interesting. ‘I dinna believe I did offer.’

‘Well, thanks for caring.’

‘Pretty sure I dinna care.’

I pointed a finger at him. ‘I’m going to stop thanking you in a minute, and then you’ll be sorry.’

He sat on the steps beside me, stretching out long legs in old grey jeans. ‘Dae your worst, kid.’

‘I just saw my first dead body,’ I confessed.

‘Bummer.’ The Scotsman nodded seriously. ‘Dead bodies are never good. Except, ye know, in Raymond Chandler novels. Anyone ye knew?’

‘No. Just random deadness.’ Deadity. Was deadity a word?

‘Thank Christ for that. My crack about Raymond Chandler wadna been very sensitive, in that case.’ He held out a hand. ‘Stewart McTavish. Comforting in times o’ crisis. Only no’ very.’

I shook it. ‘Tabitha Darling. Screams, runs away, hides head in sand.’

‘Ye look like ye need a cuppa,’ he announced. ‘Which is to say … any chance o’ a cuppa?’

Like what you’ve seen so far? You can order the book, A Trifle Dead, at Twelfth Planet Press.

My author copy arrived yesterday! Very happy with it. It arrived packaged with chocolate, and my publisher informs me that this is now official policy – chocolate will be delivered with books. When I asked if that meant I had to supply her with chocolate next time I sent her a manuscript, she replied gravely that chocolate should only flow towards the author.

You can of course pre-order A Trifle Dead from Twelfth Planet Press, or come along to one of the two launches on Thursday to source your own copy: Perth or Hobart.

Check out Tamara’s post for an interview with me, and info about the Goodreads giveaway.

Random Alex has also interviewed me/Livia as has Angela Slatter. There’s another interview coming from Narrelle Harris later in the week. It’s all happening!

I like it!

And here’s a snippet from the interview:

I wanted a protagonist who uses social skills and cake to solve crimes, because really in a small city like Hobart, it’s so hard to keep a secret. Gossip is not just a weapon in the hands of sweet little old ladies, it’s also a major currency among hipsters and party animals.

The Tasmanian launch is at 5:30-7pm at the Hobart Bookshop, Salamanca Square, Hobart. No need to RSVP, just come along and see my book off in style! Wine is provided.

Tehani Wessely will be our MC, and Stephanie Smith is launching the book.

If you can’t make it to the Hobart Bookshop in person, you can order a copy directly from the publisher, Twelfth Planet Press.

Or, if you’re in Western Australia, you can join Alisa, Terri and Tamara of Twelfth Planet Press at the Perth launch of A Trifle Dead, at Stefen’s Books. This launch is from 5:00-7:00pm and promises delectable desserts as well as a chance to schmooze with Perth’s coolest bookerazzi. (Facebook invite here)

If you’re in another state, there’s no reason you can’t have an A Trifle Dead party too! Pre-order your copies from Twelfth Planet Press and indulge in a trifle or two with your friends.

But of course I should have trusted the amazing Amanda Rainey, who added a splash (literally) more criminal intent to the original design, which really brings the concept together.

YOU GUYS IT’S REALLY SOON NOW!

A Trifle Dead will be launched on 28 March at the Hobart Bookshop – more details on that later. In the mean time, you can pre-order the book directly from Twelfth Planet Press.

Thanks to Sean the Blogonaut for scooping the author on this one & saying such nice things about the book based on only having read the first chapter. Someone get that man a review copy!

The sad part is there are only a couple of titles in this series so far, as it only started in 2010. But when I checked out the author’s website I discovered that she also writes Cake Decorating Mysteries under the name Gayle Trent. That should keep me busy for a while!

Yes, it had to be red.

Other discoveries this past weekend included the generosity and warmth of the Aussie Sisters in Crime, who I am totally signing up to join this week. Some amazing readers, writers and publishers, and so friendly in the face of yet another new author.

So, fun times ahead. New book coming soon. You will all finally, FINALLY get to meet Tabitha Darling.

Excuse me while I dance around my new website!