Bishop’s never going to tell me.’
‘This isnae a murder mystery like in a book. Red herrings, and the suspects called to the drawing room for tea and revelations.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I’ll help you with your story. Maybe we can make sense of it together.’ I had to do something. Standing still was not a very appealing idea right now.
‘I’m no’ denying I could use yer help. Native guide and all that. But … can we no’ tell Bishop about this? I like my balls where they are presently.’
‘He’s not that scary,’ I protested.
Stewart was sceptical. ‘Tabitha, he looks at me like he wants tae kill me. Every time he sees me in the same room as ye. The man has homicide on his mind, and I dinnae mean because he’s a detective.’
For some reason, that made me a tiny bit happy. Was that wrong? ‘I can keep a secret if you can. We have a while before my jelly sets. Fancy hunting some buskers?’
----
S ome of my earliest memories are of the Hobart mall—back in the day when kids were let loose on wooden play structures while their parents were shopping. The place has had a few revamps since then, though for all its café tables with big umbrellas and strange plexi-glass sails over the top, it still has that small town vibe about it.
Not small town enough for me to feel safe walking through the mall alone at night, or anything. But … small.
Mid-afternoon is shopping time in the city. There were people everywhere. Where people congregate, so do buskers.
I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so easy, but buskers love attention, and most of the ones we met were happy to pose for Stewart’s camera when he mentioned the Sandstone City blog.
When I asked—casually—if any of them knew a male violinist with long, dark hair, most of them knew whom I was talking about. Apparently, our corpse was pretty memorable.
‘Sure. Morris.’
‘Haven’t seen him around today.’
‘You want to find him, ask his girlfriend.’
I lit up at that clue, but it didn’t lead anywhere. ‘You know his girlfriend?’
‘Nah, just keep a look out for red-haired chicks.’
At least three separate people confirmed that Morris always dated redheads, but none of them were able to supply a second name, the contact info for a specific redhead, or any tangible information. Stewart gave out Sandstone City business cards, and we left handfuls of spare change in a dozen different instrument cases.
‘Stewart,’ I said as we gave up and headed back, ‘keep an eye out for redheads.’
‘Ye always give me the difficult jobs,’ he said, not sounding like he minded.
‘ Cherchez la femme .’
‘How do ye even know there’s a femme ?’
‘There’s always a femme . Luckily, I have a job that allows me to listen out for gossip. Speaking of which, we have to speed it up before Nin takes out a hit on me. I promised I’d let her go early today.’
As we approached the café, I spotted a drug dealer on my doorstep. ‘Oh, hell.’
Tim Lockwood and I were at college together—he was the kind of guy you always saw at parties selling weed, but never actually saw in class. It shocked the hell out of me when he turned up in Film Studies and turned out to be amazingly knowledgeable about Audrey Hepburn and Elizabeth Taylor as well as 80s schlock horror.
Locks used to look scruffy and disreputable … but these days, he looked like crap. So thin he was practically translucent, wrapped in a stinking stockman’s coat even on the warmest days, and always sucking a cigarette. I glared at him. ‘I have the local police in and out of my café on a daily basis, and you reckon it’s a good idea to sell dope on my doorstep?’
Locks’ bright eyes glittered out at me from behind round glasses. ‘You know I don’t sell out in the open, babe. Give me some credit.’
‘No, you go across the road to the cathedral instead. Very classy.’
He shrugged. ‘Any chance of a coffee? Nin wouldn’t let me inside.’
‘I don’t
‘This isnae a murder mystery like in a book. Red herrings, and the suspects called to the drawing room for tea and revelations.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I’ll help you with your story. Maybe we can make sense of it together.’ I had to do something. Standing still was not a very appealing idea right now.
‘I’m no’ denying I could use yer help. Native guide and all that. But … can we no’ tell Bishop about this? I like my balls where they are presently.’
‘He’s not that scary,’ I protested.
Stewart was sceptical. ‘Tabitha, he looks at me like he wants tae kill me. Every time he sees me in the same room as ye. The man has homicide on his mind, and I dinnae mean because he’s a detective.’
For some reason, that made me a tiny bit happy. Was that wrong? ‘I can keep a secret if you can. We have a while before my jelly sets. Fancy hunting some buskers?’
----
S ome of my earliest memories are of the Hobart mall—back in the day when kids were let loose on wooden play structures while their parents were shopping. The place has had a few revamps since then, though for all its café tables with big umbrellas and strange plexi-glass sails over the top, it still has that small town vibe about it.
Not small town enough for me to feel safe walking through the mall alone at night, or anything. But … small.
Mid-afternoon is shopping time in the city. There were people everywhere. Where people congregate, so do buskers.
I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so easy, but buskers love attention, and most of the ones we met were happy to pose for Stewart’s camera when he mentioned the Sandstone City blog.
When I asked—casually—if any of them knew a male violinist with long, dark hair, most of them knew whom I was talking about. Apparently, our corpse was pretty memorable.
‘Sure. Morris.’
‘Haven’t seen him around today.’
‘You want to find him, ask his girlfriend.’
I lit up at that clue, but it didn’t lead anywhere. ‘You know his girlfriend?’
‘Nah, just keep a look out for red-haired chicks.’
At least three separate people confirmed that Morris always dated redheads, but none of them were able to supply a second name, the contact info for a specific redhead, or any tangible information. Stewart gave out Sandstone City business cards, and we left handfuls of spare change in a dozen different instrument cases.
‘Stewart,’ I said as we gave up and headed back, ‘keep an eye out for redheads.’
‘Ye always give me the difficult jobs,’ he said, not sounding like he minded.
‘ Cherchez la femme .’
‘How do ye even know there’s a femme ?’
‘There’s always a femme . Luckily, I have a job that allows me to listen out for gossip. Speaking of which, we have to speed it up before Nin takes out a hit on me. I promised I’d let her go early today.’
As we approached the café, I spotted a drug dealer on my doorstep. ‘Oh, hell.’
Tim Lockwood and I were at college together—he was the kind of guy you always saw at parties selling weed, but never actually saw in class. It shocked the hell out of me when he turned up in Film Studies and turned out to be amazingly knowledgeable about Audrey Hepburn and Elizabeth Taylor as well as 80s schlock horror.
Locks used to look scruffy and disreputable … but these days, he looked like crap. So thin he was practically translucent, wrapped in a stinking stockman’s coat even on the warmest days, and always sucking a cigarette. I glared at him. ‘I have the local police in and out of my café on a daily basis, and you reckon it’s a good idea to sell dope on my doorstep?’
Locks’ bright eyes glittered out at me from behind round glasses. ‘You know I don’t sell out in the open, babe. Give me some credit.’
‘No, you go across the road to the cathedral instead. Very classy.’
He shrugged. ‘Any chance of a coffee? Nin wouldn’t let me inside.’
‘I don’t
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