Page 31 of The Little Porto Book Club

Keeping half an eye on The Man in the Blue Beret, I motion for them to come even closer. In hushed whispers, I tell them what we know and brandish my notebook of mysteries so they can read the facts in print themselves.

The Case of the Missing Book Club Member with Murder on Her Mind

An unusual sight: The ‘gardening cut’ that clearly needed medical attention.

The jotted notes: Six ways to kill (or kiss?) my husband.

The statement: The only way I’ll miss book club is if I’m dead.

Overheard snatches of phone call: An enquiry about toxins.

Concerning behaviours: Mentions of reading whodunnits to get away with murder/learning new techniques to dispose of dead bodies/aggressively frowning, heavily sighing.

Other notes: Focus group – how does it fit?

Turn the page for my speculations on these matters.

‘May we?’ old Albert asks and points to my notebook.

‘Yes, you may.’ The three book club members convene while Tiago and I sit side by side in silence. They take an inordinate amount of time, their faces tense, but it’s not every day your book club friend goes missing, is it? The Man in the Blue Beret is tapping away on his phone and occasionally darts an enquiring glance to our group. Suspicious, if you ask me.

I nudge Tiago and motion to the fishy onlooker.

His face dissolves into a cheeky grin. ‘Yeah, yeah, a man who dresses well, no slouchy clothing in sight. I get it, but I just don’t think I could pull off a beret. Don’t really have much of a hat head. Some people have hat heads, some don’t, have you ever noticed that? I bet you’d look pretty in a beret, Viviane. You have that kind of face, graceful, the perfect shape to pull it off.’

I sift through all of that. Lord, give me strength. ‘Thank you, but what I meant was—’

‘What about sunglasses? I bet they suit you too. Give you an air of mystery.’ He waggles his brow. We’re getting off track here and once again Tiago is missing the point entirely.

‘Yes, yes, I like wearing the same type as Detective Amber Quill, thick black frames that highlight my intelligence, but enough about that. Don’t you think it’s odd that The Man in the Blue Beret is always here when we are? Have you noticed that? And now he’s trying his best to eavesdrop while he’s tapping away at his phone. Is he recording details or informing someone?’ Who could he be and how is he connected to this, because in whodunnits there are no coincidences.

Tiago’s expression turns to one of awe. ‘You really are observant, Viviane. I’m sure I’ve never seen that guy before in my life.’

‘He’s been here four times, right when we have.’ I let out a sigh worthy of a Bridgerton sister. ‘Do you think he’s watching us? Or is he just a nosy parker?’ It could be I’m reading too much into it; but my whodunnit senses tingle and that can only mean I’m on the right track.

Tiago massages his temples, I presume in an effort to hide the direction of his gaze, as he sneaks a look at the man and then whispers, ‘I think he’s just nosy. He might be a local using this place as an office, like so many remote workers do.’ It’s true, he does have a laptop opened in front of him, a leather compendium too but they could just as easily be props.

Our musings are cut short when our fellow book club members wave us close. ‘There’s enough here to concern me that you might be right, Viviane. We have an obligation to our book club friend to at least ascertain she’s OK,’ old Albert says, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. ‘I’d bet good money that this is some mafia thing. Could even be that the cartels are involved. They’ve snatched her, wanting to silence her for whatever reason.’

Thomas, who seldom speaks, manages a loud scoff.

How could I not factor in that old Albert, our resident conspiracy theorist, would jump straight into wild speculations? I’ll have to nip this in the bud. ‘Albert, there’s no proof of that. We should stick to the facts as much as we can.’

‘Don’t you think it’s more likely that Lucinda killed her husband, what with her kill list and all?’ Tiago says, as he bumps the table, sending my coffee spilling over the sides of the mug into the saucer, and mouths sorry.

I wave his apology away. I’m getting used to Tiago’s clumsiness. He’s always so animated that his spatial awareness suffers for it, not unusual for those who ‘talk with their elbows’.

Zephyr glowers. ‘Yeah, I’m hopeful that Lucinda is the puppet master in this scenario. Why should men always be the ones getting away with murder, why can’t a woman have the same opportunity?’

Now we’ve got mafia, cartels and gender disputes? When last week they thought I was being rash. The shift in the meek and mild book club is monumental.

I mop the spilt coffee with a napkin while old Albert huffs and puffs like an old steam train. ‘Have a listen to yourself, Zephyr! Now you want me to support women’s rights and women’s wrongs, too? Not on my watch. Have you ever thought that maybe Lucinda’s husband is a good guy? He’s probably provided for her his whole life—’

‘Provided for her!’ Zephyr explodes. ‘Why, because she’s a woman so therefore can’t provide for herself? What century have you astral travelled from?’

Old Albert folds his arms and leans back in his chair. ‘This is ageism at its finest. It’s time you took a good long look in the mirror, young lady.’

‘Young lady!’ Laughter gets the better of Zephyr.