Simone Kirsch—ex-stripper, sex kitten, private investigator, and drinker of more cheap wine than is good for her—is back, setting up her own PI agency and getting into more trouble with her clients, her lovers, and the police Just how much trouble can one girl get into? If it's Simone Kirsch, then it's a lot. The Simone Kirsch Detective Agency—it has a ring about it that Simone loves. And she's willing to bump, grind, and shimmy until she has money enough to make it happen. But nothing ever really runs quite to plan for Simone. Andi Fowler, a childhood friend and now journalism student, turns up at the strip joint in need of a detective, yet unwilling to tell Simone anything more than she's got something explosively big on someone in hospitality—and the whole frenetically fast, chaotically connected case starts right there. By the next afternoon, Andi has vanished mysteriously. Restaurant corruption, an insane celebrity chef, an untraceable possum head, a conveniently absent boyfriend, and a surprising amount of family history aside, Simone still has to deal with her continuing desire for Alex, her favorite policeman, while racing the clock in her desperate search for Andi. Her third adventure has enough red herrings and jaw-dropping surprises to shake even Simone. "Do not, under any circumstances, read this book in public, while eating or drinking, as you may splutter with laughter and embarrass yourself."  — Sydney Morning Herald "Simone has a sharp eye and a smart mouth, and her wry world view infuses these books with a kind of wisecracking tone that will be welcome and familiar to readers of Sue Grafton or Janet Evanovich—although Redhead's books can be a lot sexier."  — Age Leigh Redhead is the author of the Simone Kirsch series. Cherry Pie By Leigh Redhead Allen & Unwin Copyright © 2007 Leigh Redhead All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-74114-736-0 CHAPTER 1 Two days earlier I kicked off denim hotpants with flames appliquéd over the arse, shook my long dark hair and shimmied in a red spangled bikini. A Warrant song blasted from the pub speakers and a bunch of tradies and smattering of lunchtime suits bellowed along with the chorus. The Royal was on Punt Road, opposite the Richmond Cricket Ground and not far from the MCG. With its multicoloured carpet and topless barmaids the hotel was delightfully retro and I wondered why all the inner-city thirty-somethings hadn't discovered its ironic joys, the way they had lawn bowls. I swung my hips exaggeratedly to the left, then right as the lyrics suggested, unclipped the back of the bikini top and held the fabric to my breasts, squishing them together to create a cleavage. Not that I had a hell of a lot to work with. 'Take it off!' yelled a guy in dark blue King-Gees. It was a strip show. That was the general idea. The crowd formed a rough circle, perching on stools, lounging in vinyl armchairs, leaning against the bar. I went to each guy in turn, flashed a nipple and they stared, mesmerised, pupils dilating. Amazing what the sight of a B-cup could do to a grown man. Still, I wasn't complaining. Those puppies were financing the Simone Kirsch detective agency. I twirled the bra around my head and flung it onto the stage. One of the suits waved a ten buck note so I sashayed over and danced close. Every little bit counted. Although it was a cold September day the pub was heated and I felt a line of sweat snake from the nape of my neck to the small of my back. The suit, balding and pasty, sat in one of the low chairs with his legs apart and I rested my red platform stiletto on the arm and indicated he should put the money in my garter. Thick fingers fumbled in the sequinned elastic as I ground my pelvis in time to the beat. I had just turned my head to smile at the other punters so I didn't see the sneaky fucker reach for my pussy until it was too late. Still swaying to the music I whipped my leg down, grabbed his hand and moved in close, holding it to my chest and resting my knee lightly on his crotch. The other blokes thought I was a top sheila, pressing myself against the guy and letting him cop a feel of my tits while I whispered sweet and dirty into his ear. What they didn't know was, I had his middle finger bent back at an unnatural angle and was increasing the pressure of my knee on his balls as I said, 'Sweetheart, you try that again and I'll snap this thing off and shove it up your arse, understand?' His face flushed puce and he nodded, vigorously, so I let go and skipped off. I hadn't always been such a tough chick. There was a time when I might have giggled sweetly and told him to stop being so naughty, but a year of various scumbags trying to waste me with assorted weaponry meant I wasn't going to take any shit from a smarmy suit with wandering digits. A pissed guy with plaster dust in his hair was doing a little dancing of his own. I grabbed him and we fell into a sloppy waltz, got a laugh, then it was onto the stage to squirt Nive