Chapter Fifty-Three
On Wednesday Thomas arrives at book club with a friend. When I recognise her I have to do my level best not to let the surprise show on my face. ‘Hi, everyone, this is Mary, my mother-in-law. She’s keen to join book club, if that’s OK?’
I give her a welcoming smile. ‘More than OK. I trust Thomas has told you we have a strict no-talking policy that absolutely no one follows?’
She smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners like stars. ‘He did. And he also told me what happens at book club stays at book club. Whatever that means!’
‘Right, well, then I can see no reason why you can’t join. We’re delighted to have a new member,’ I say and find myself meaning it.
Old Albert shuffles in, grin splitting his face. ‘Hello, hello, fellow bookworms. What a glorious day it is. Should we take this meeting outside, share some wine perhaps?’
‘At 4 p.m.? I don’t think so, Albert,’ I say.
‘It’s practically dinner time.’
‘Not quite.’
The group chatters away about what they’ve been reading. The nosy waitress is nowhere to be seen so I bring out the notebook of mysteries. ‘Last time we met we discussed the most likely method Lucinda would use to kill her husband was …’
‘Kill my husband? Me?’
I gasp as I turn to the raised voice. Lucinda. In the flesh. A murderous glint in her eye.
‘Did I hear that correctly?’ She unwinds a stripey scarf and takes her place next to Tiago. ‘Well? Don’t leave me in suspense!’
‘I-I.’ I may as well lay our cards on the table. ‘Lucinda, I saw you plotting six ways to kill your husband. And I overheard you on the phone asking about toxins. The cut on your hand, I didn’t buy that it was a gardening accident.’
‘Put us out of our misery, did you knock the guy off or what?’ old Albert says, leaning back on his chair, hands over the swell of his belly, like he’s ready for all the juicy details.
‘How many shovels do we need?’ Zephyr adds.
‘And who is The Man in the Blue Beret? We know his name, but that’s about it. Hitman for you? Or henchman for your significant other?’ Tiago asks.
‘And did your man deserve to die? Did he fit in the suitcase?’ Zephyr asks.
Lucinda guffaws. ‘You think I killed my—’
‘Get to the point, Lucinda,’ I spit. ‘We’ve got reading to do.’
‘Fine. I did write a note saying six ways to kill my husband, yes.’ There is a chorus of gasps around the table.
‘And I did speak to a chemist and ask how long a certain toxin lasted in the body, a toxin strong enough to subdue a man. And as for the cut, you’re right, it wasn’t a gardening accident.
It was from trying to get ice cream out of the tub with a knife, when my long-term partner Sofia told me to be patient and let it melt.
I had a bad case of writer’s block and I was impatient. ’
‘You’re not in a long-term relationship with a man?’ Albert booms. ‘Well, now that makes more sense. I just couldn’t see you with The Man in the Blue Beret, somehow.’
‘No, Albert, I’m not.’ She grins. ‘Sofia and I have been together for near on twenty years.’
‘But what about all that bluster that “instructions come with pictures because men don’t read”?’
‘Well, I mean, that’s true.’
‘So did you kill … Sofia?’ I ask, blood running cold. It seems so much worse for some reason if it’s a woman. I don’t know what that says about me.
‘No, I didn’t kill anyone, at least, not any non-fictional people! I’ve been away promoting my very first foray into the feminist serial killer thriller genre. Six Ways to Kill My Husband. My book tour got moved to an earlier date, and my first stop was in Paris. Ta-da!’
‘It’s the title of a book?’ I ask. And then the pieces start to click into place.
‘And The Man in the Blue Beret? Is he connected to you, to your focus group?’
‘You know about those?’ Surprise colours her voice. It’s my turn to blush. Furiously.
‘We’ve done some investigations …’
‘Ah, our very own Detective Amber Quill, eh?’
I hide a smile. If only she knew the lengths we went to!
‘He’s my new business manager. And one of his jobs is to make sure my life stays … private… for reasons that I’d prefer not to share.’ But that just doesn’t make any sense. Business managers don’t eavesdrop on a simple book club. His ears pricked up when we talked about Lucinda, I’m sure they did.
‘He was following Viviane,’ Tiago says, a dark glint in his eye at the memory.
It’s kind of cute, but Tiago should know I can handle myself.
‘Following you? I doubt that, dear.’
‘He took a photo of her!’ Tiago hurries to say.
‘Were you by chance in the library gardens?’ Lucinda asks.
‘How did you know? Did you see the photo?’
She shakes her head. ‘He’s obsessed with peacocks. It’s why he wears the blue beret, same colour as their feathers. Fancies himself as a bit of a photographer too. Lives right across the road from Jardim da Cordoaria, he does.’
I slap my forehead as my mind goes back to that day, the peacock behind my mum was fanning its plumage just as his arm shot out behind the tree.
‘He wasn’t taking a photo of me, he was taking it of the peacock!
’ And if he lives across the road from the gardens, it makes sense he was using it as a cut through and while I was in fact seeing him, he wasn’t following me at all.
‘Yes,’ Lucinda says, as if that’s a given.
‘And the suitcase? Just to confirm it wasn’t for any dead bodies?’
‘No,’ Lucinda says. ‘He joined me on my book tour, so I presume it was for his … clothes. And as for the focus groups, well, I use this place to test out plots.’
Wait. Lucinda said this was her first foray into writing women’s serial killer thrillers.
Does that mean she’s written other books?
Lucinda likes her anonymity. Is a homebody.
Was using the café for focus groups to test out the plots of her very famous novels, perhaps?
Bouncing ideas off people who have no idea who she really is.
The writer who is so reclusive that no one knows a thing about her.
That is a secret big enough that a business manager would want to stop an unwitting book club from delving into, or at least report back to Lucinda if her cover was blown.
Could Lucinda be who I think she is? The mastermind behind the tenacious and fearless Detective Amber Quill? I’m about to faint. I’m star struck. I need confirmation.
Thomas’s mother-in-law’s expression is one of awe as she says, ‘This is a lot more exciting than folding washing!’ What had made her cry on the balcony must be the same trouble that stole Thomas’s smile, and I think I can guess.
Grief is like a shadow, just behind you, but always there.
I give her a warm smile which she returns.
‘We are the worst detectives ever.’ Tiago laughs.
‘Yes, you are. And now I’m back, book tour over. And I vow never to do that again. I much prefer being alone in my writing cave, than among people. I’ve got a signed copy of my very first book Six Ways to Kill My Husband for each of you.’
Lucinda hands out books like a fairy godmother. I can’t help but be excited we have a real-life writer in our book club and quite possibly the author of the greatest heroine who ever lived. I open the front of the book.
Dear Viviane,
I hope you enjoy this one. The heroine is no Detective Amber Quill, but I like to think she’s got just as much moxie. And who knows, maybe now this book is done and out into the world there’ll be time enough to write book eleven in The Quill Chronicles? But let’s keep that between us, eh?
Best,
Lucinda.
‘Oh, this is incredible, incredible!’ old Albert says. ‘We’ve got a thriller writer in our group. Shall we read the first chapter of Lucinda’s book and we can discuss?’
At sixty-three years old, I’ve learned a few things.
Like how to make the fluffiest Portuguese sweet bread – the trick is not overworking it.
That garden design is architecture for the outdoors.
It’s all about staggering plant heights to be visually appealing and so they have adequate room to grow, to sunbathe.
And I’ve learned – in fact I’d say I’ve become an expert on – how to determine if your commitment-challenged husband of forty years is still a cheater of the finest order.