Chapter Five #3
Tiago does a honking laugh. ‘Yes, makes it hard to look at household chemicals quite the same way. It’s great to have a Portuguese author doing so well. Must support our homegrown talent, eh?’
‘Yes, that’s a must! Even the more private among us, eh?’
‘Private?’ Tiago queries.
Lucinda shoves her oversized tote under the table. ‘Yes, the author of The Quill Chronicles fiercely guards her privacy, or so I’ve heard. And I can relate to that, homebody extraordinaire that I am. People just complicate things when I’d rather be reading.’
‘I can relate too,’ I say with a weak smile. It seems, while chatty, Lucinda is an introvert as well.
Our coffee and coxinha arrive. Tiago is in full flight, chattering away like Lucinda is his long-lost godmother while he rescues her tea from the table opposite.
If I don’t speak up now, it will be too late.
‘My apologies, you’ve been misinformed, Lucinda.
This is not a book club, it’s a silent reading club.
’ A club. What am I even saying? The speed with which we’ve arrived here is astounding.
There hasn’t been time to make excuses or shut this down.
It doesn’t matter if she adores The Quill Chronicles, does it?
Or if she’s a homebody much like I am. Tiago and I need to protect the sanctity of our silence.
‘Even better,’ Lucinda says. ‘I’m not much of a people person. I prefer cats to humans. Hell, I prefer chatting to my hydrangeas over people. No offense.’
‘None taken,’ Tiago hastily replies.
Something niggles at me about this woman, there’s a familiarity, as if I’ve seen her before – ah!
Last Wednesday when I met Tiago, she was here too, heavily sighing and aggressively frowning as she stared into the ether, like she was untangling a knotty problem.
I gaze at her anew, not as someone destroying my silent reading – well, OK, yes, that too – but as yet another question mark. Another mystery to ruminate over.
While Tiago prattles in his usual upbeat way, I take a moment to study the newcomer.
I’m no doctor, but to my untrained eye the laceration on her hand could have used a stitch or two.
Why then did she not seek medical intervention?
Could it be that someone hurt her, there was a domestic incident perhaps, and she’s protecting the aggressor?
And it was no simple gardening accident.
Who works in the garden wearing an all-white ensemble?
While outwardly glamorous, Lucinda’s got a skittery energy about her.
I make a mental note to keep a close eye in case I need to intervene.
I’m not the intervening kind, however, I also can’t stand back if an injustice is being done, especially to a woman.
I could be totally off base. It’s possible Lucinda’s life is just as she claims and the deep cut on her hand is genuinely a gardening mishap, but my whodunnit senses twitch and tell me otherwise.
At this rate, I realise Tiago is going to win an award for speaking the longest sentence, so I cough and clear my throat. A couple of times. When he finally ceases jabbering, I say, ‘Are we going to … read?’
‘Ah – yes! Of course. Let’s get started, shall we? Lucinda, you’re bookless though.’
‘Never bookless, I’ve got an Agatha Christie novel with me.
I’m making my way through her oeuvre. Again.
I’ve almost memorised them at this point.
Don’t you just find some reads are like a warm hug?
That’s what Poirot is like for me.’ Dammit.
That’s exactly how I feel about Detective Amber Quill.
I’m beginning to like this Lucinda. ‘Murder is most fascinating.’
Tiago lets out a nervous chuckle.
Is Lucinda reading them as a how-to guide? You just never know when a person is going to snap. Hopefully, if said snap does happen, a jury of her peers will be sympathetic to her circumstances and understand she acted purely out of self-defence.
It’s only my second social outing with real humans and already the waters are getting muddied.
It’s unconscionable of me to hope that Lucinda will be exonerated for homicide when I don’t have all the facts.
In actuality, I have zero information, just a tingling sensation that all is not what it seems.
I’m getting carried away! Picturing everything as a whodunnit.
Perhaps I do need to change up my reading matter on non-book-club days, if this is where my mind goes.
Could it be that too much of a good thing is in fact true …
and I’m seeing mysteries that don’t exist, like my mother is always crowing?
I fell into reading whodunnits after the death of my dad, probably some deep-rooted need to find answers.
It makes me feel less alone, knowing other people (fictional or not) have gone through great upheavals, like I have.
‘Let’s settle in for a session of cosy crime.’ There, not too bossy but enough of a clue that the idle chitchat should cease. ‘Reading cosy crime, that is,’ I hastily add in case Lucinda misunderstands me.
‘Yes,’ Lucinda agrees with a nod. ‘Here’s hoping we learn the trick to not getting caught, eh?’ And with that she lets out a maniacal laugh.