Get a taste of Just Desserts by Kerry Greenwood
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I drew a blank with Therese Webb in 5A (Arachne) and deliberately avoided 5B (Juno), wherein lurked our resident pain in the neck Mrs Pemberthy and her loathsome dog Traddles. I knew that Jon and Kepler in 6A were still overseas doing good works in South-East Asia. Trudi wasn’t home, and most of the remaining apartments were either vacant or occupied by transients who seemed disinclined to socialise. I didn’t even know who owned them, I realised. Shrugging off the thought, I proceeded to the roof garden, where I found Trudi tending the vegetable garden. As I approached, she stuck her garden fork into one of the herbal beds and glared at me.
‘Corinna! I have some bones to pick viz you! Haf you heard about Kylie?’
The glorious blue of the sky—what could be seen of it amid the towering skyscrapers above us—perfectly matched the colour of her overalls, which were cut off at the knees. But she looked anything but sunny ‘Well, yes, I have, Trudi. Would you like some bread? Or muffins?’
Trudi shook her head, ignoring my basket, and showed her gleaming teeth. ‘No sank you! You know vot zat girl hass done?’
‘I gather she has a part in a TV gardening show. But—that’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘No, it iss not all right at all, Corinna!’ She ran a pink-gloved hand through her cropped blonde hair and scowled. ‘Zose two girls, they haf pimped—no, vot is ze vord?—pumped me for gardening tips all veek. And what iss ze sanks I get? I find out zay are goink to be filming right here! Zere vill be cameramen tromping all over ze place, putting zeir boots all over our beautiful garden. No, it iss not all right.’
This was indeed a surprise. Neither of the girls had mentioned it. It was clear I would have to calm down our incandescent gardener.
‘Trudi,’ I suggested. ‘Quite apart from the fact that this is Kylie’s first big break on TV, please think about all the good you can do here. The world needs more urban gardens. This is the perfect opportunity to spread the word about growing herbs and vegetables in the inner city. It is a good deed in a naughty world. Please?’
Grumbling, Trudi resumed her excavations with the gardening fork. Finally, she looked up at me. ‘All right. I do this, for Kylie. So long as ze ozzers don’t object. But trouble vill come of zis. Mark my vords!’
I marked them, deciding it was time to repair to my own quarters. I had arranged a Zoom call with Daniel, who was off in the outer suburbs somewhere on a job. Daniel is a private detective, and I don’t enquire too closely about his work. But thanks to the wonders of Zoom, I could savour his curly-brown[1]haired features whenever I wanted, so long as we had teed it up first. Our call was scheduled for noon, and according to my phone it was now three minutes to. But as I made my way to the lift, I received a text from my beloved. Sorry ketschele see you at 2pm.
Oh bother. I wondered what was wrong. Doubtless he would be off doing something dashing and heroic. As I stared at my phone, another text pinged. Daniel again. Can you find out anything about McRobertson Holdings? And someone called Tarquin Tucker?
Curiouser and curiouser. This, I realised, was something I could ask of Nerds, Inc, whom I had yet to visit, on account of their late rising. I took the lift down to shop 2 (Hephaestus) and stepped into their office. Taz, Rat and Gully were lounging in their chairs, more or less awake and functioning. I stared at them with my customary bemusement. The best you could say was that they were unkempt. In fact, I don’t think they had ever been kempt in living memory. All three wore their standard uniform of t-shirts and blue or black jeans with designer holes. Taz’s t-shirt was black, and announced in a white machine[1]like font: No, I Will Not Fix Your Computer! Clearly, reverse psychology was hard at work here. Rat was resplendent in a greyish t-shirt sporting the words Arctic Death: For a Taste You’ll Never Remember. This was accompanied by a grinning skull and crossbones, and a picture of the boys’ favourite night-time relaxant: a venomous drink consisting of vodka, bitter lemon and stark terror. I had tasted it once. Never again. Gully’s chest urged the viewer to Ratify The Diet of Worms: an injunction I did not wish to investigate.
They fell upon my basket with cries of delight. I stared momentarily at my becrumbed tea towel, lying at the bottom, devoid of bready products of any sort, then grinned at them.
‘You’re welcome, but I do have a favour to ask,’ I ventured.
‘Shoot,’ said Gully, his capacious mouth still full of muffin.
‘Could you please investigate McRobertson Holdings? It’s a company of some sort. And a man called Tarquin Tucker?’
There was a taut silence. Rat put up his hand. ‘Corinna? Is this guy’s name for real?’
‘I don’t know!’ I protested. ‘Maybe he is. But if you can find out anything, I would be very grateful.’
I left their shop to the sound of enthusiastic muffin-eating and returned to my apartment. I had decided to assemble my dinner early, so it had time to mature. The trick with Greek salad is to use goats’ cheese. Yes, it’s more expensive. Of course it is. But what passes for feta in supermarkets tastes all too often like a cross between Blu-Tack and tile grouting. You don’t need that sort of negativity in your kitchen. Goats’ cheese proper is a bit on the semi-liquid side here, when you can get it at all, but that does not worry me one bit. It combines perfectly with the oregano-flavoured emulsion of olive oil and lemon juice, and makes a superb dipping sauce for your lamb chop.
I also had pears in my fruit bowl, exuding the soft scents of autumnal glory. I had plans for them too. I was going to poach them in red wine and make them into a pie with crumbled blue cheese, mulling spices and brown sugar. I removed two sheets of puff pastry from the freezer, ignored my cat’s questing look, and placed them in the fridge, confirming that the blue cheese was still there in its black wax covering. Now, I know some cooks prefer to make their own pastry, but my life is insufficiently blessed with that level of time and energy. I peeled and cored the pears, stuffed the offcuts into my composting bin, poured a good splosh of shiraz into a bowl and submerged the pearsegments therein. Next, I added cinnamon, cloves and allspice and covered the bowl with a tea towel. Into the fridge it went, just as my phone announced the hour of two o’clock.
I switched on my computer and waited for him to appear. There was the usual declaration that the host is waiting to admit you, and then suddenly there he was, silhouetted against his customary Zoom backdrop of Jerusalem under blazing skies. I stared in horror. His face was as bearded and adorable as ever. But amid his curling, dark-chocolate hair I could see a lump the size of a golf ball, and a substantial smear of dried blood
Partially extracted from Just Desserts by Kerry Greenwood, available 3 November.
Just Desserts
by Kerry Greenwood
Intrepid baker and courageous investigator Corinna Chapman returns in her triumphant final appearance.
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