Page 43 of The Little Porto Book Club

Chapter Twenty-Five

The old woman on the balcony folds her washing as she cries. I want to call out to her, to tell her I understand, but I don’t. I don’t know why she’s crying, but I know that eventually the tears come less frequently. It’s as if your body only has reserves of so much and you wake one day and find yourself dry-eyed, like your entire being has been wrung out. It’s a relief actually, when you get to that stage, so I wish that for her. That soon, the release will come.

I pass the one-eyed dog, doing figure eights around customers. The boutique owner shakes her head in mock annoyance as if she’s giving up trying to contain the creature. I turn from the boutique and spot a familiar figure in the gift shop next door. Hard not to, when he’s bouncing around, hands flying as he talks, bumping into displays. Tiago.

I’m about to do the unthinkable and confidently wander into the gift shop, hijack their animated conversation by saying hello when the woman he’s chatting to casually rubs his arm. She looks under her lashes at him, plays with her hair, bites on her bottom lip in what I can only describe as a flirtatious manner. Wanton is another word, depending on where your moral compass lies. She’s a walking, talking textbook cliché!

I take a moment to sift through my emotions. I’m not one to judge another woman, so why then am I judging her in the moment? Her body, her choice, and if she wants to bite down on her ruby-red lips, then that’s OK, isn’t it? When I land on an answer, I gasp. Could it be that I’m suffering pangs of jealousy? It appears so, if the visceral reaction to her continuously touching Tiago is anything to go by. The poor innocent appears completely unaware, he’s pointing to flowers, to chocolate boxes, as if he’s on a simple shopping trip, while the woman uses all her feminine wiles to relay her interest. What to do about this sudden strange desire to wrench Tiago from a pretty woman’s clutches?

I do what I always do in times of stress. I leave. Heartbeat erratic, and pulse racing. This won’t do. I can’t fall for the sidekick! Not so early into the piece, and not if he’s going to go back to the land of code in another country.

Chapter Twenty-Six

As the brains behind the sting idea, old Albert decrees today is the day. It’s a wild idea but the old man’s face shone with happiness when he set about planning it, so what could we do? You can’t take that away from a person. Can’t dim that shine. Detective Amber Quill has participated in a number of stings herself, so I’m fully aware of what to expect.

Over the last little while old Albert hammered out details with Tiago while I spent my spare time searching through the pastelaria’s social media pages, trying to find Lucinda, but came up blank. Their online accounts aren’t regularly updated, and there was little interaction so that’s one avenue crossed off the list.

I’m meandering around Jardim da Cordoaria, as ordered by old Albert. I’ve never felt so alive in my life and then question whether that’s ethical, since Lucinda’s husband might well be dead at this point.

Either way, today the plan is to see if my suspicions about being followed by The Man in the Blue Beret are correct. When my crack team confirm he is indeed tailing me, Tiago will make some sort of ruckus as a decoy so I can make a quick escape. Zephyr and old Albert will then follow the guy on electric scooters (due to old Albert’s dodgy knees and for speed) once he leaves the gardens to see if they can figure out who he is and how he might be connected to the case.

Thomas has refrained from joining in today’s exploits, which doesn’t surprise me, this latest development really is a touch Thursday Murder Club, but still his absence weighs on me. I sense he needs something from the book club, but just what that is, I’m not quite sure. After my negative past experiences in social groups, it’s important to me that every book club member feels included. Thomas is keen to meet up on Wednesday, so that’s a relief.

I hum to keep myself amused and for a playful air, on the off chance The Man in the Blue Beret has eyes and ears on me. My only wish is that we had tiny hidden earpieces to be able to communicate with each other like they do in the movies. If Detective Amber Quill can solve mysteries without the use of such devices, then I’m certain we can too.

As planned, I amble along the main pebbled path, passing the fountain and historic statues. I’m pretending to be a local out for some fresh air, stopping to sniff flowers and frolic under soft patches of sunshine. OK, the frolicking might be taking it a touch too far. People don’t tend to frolic in big cities, do they? Frolicking is more for the seaside.

Where is Tiago? He’s supposed to be shadowing me. At some point every great detective must trust their sidekick, so I do just that.

Under my lashes I dart a glance at Zephyr, who sits at a bench, dwarfed by the spread of a newspaper she’s attempting to hide behind. I did warn her that a Gen Zer reading a newspaper might be more conspicuous, since when do her cohort read in analogue, but she insisted, because The Man in the Blue Beret might recognise her from the pastelaria, and I couldn’t argue with that logic.

Farther along, old Albert is meant to be sitting with his back against a tree, face hidden behind a book, but instead he’s playing petanca and drinking wine with the weathered-faced men who make that corner their own. Or is that his plan, to hide in plain sight?

If The Man in the Blue Beret doesn’t scrutinise him too closely then old Albert does fit in with the men, who all wear a similar style, button-up shirts and formal trousers. They’re of a similar vintage, as they merrily chatter away holding their balls. Their petanca balls, that is.

When I walk past, he gives me a surreptitious nod, which I ignore, yet feel a burst of pride at my fellow book club members and their above-average skills when participating in a real-life sting. Sure, the jaunty hat-wearing man may not even arrive, but it’s worth a shot. If he does, we have a real chance in finding out just who he is.

I’m forced to do another loop of the park because my decoy is nowhere to be seen but then neither is The Man in the Blue Beret if my keen observational skills are to be trusted.

I deviate from the main path to the quieter side of the gardens, hoping fewer people will make it more obvious for Tiago to see if I am being followed. Perhaps I’m not and this is all a wild goose chase like Thomas predicted?

I’m sure I’ve seen snatches of cornflower blue in these very gardens when I’ve visited Chess Man and who else could it be?

I must admit, having got no further with my own investigations on just who he is, or Lucinda for that matter, is a bit of a downer – solving mysteries doesn’t happen as fast as it does in the books, but I push the negative thoughts to one side. I can’t let the worry of failure take hold, especially in the middle of a sting.

Chess Man is in his usual spot, using his wine bottle as a microphone, tipsily warbling away. When I get close, he flashes me a smile. Maybe I can stop to play chess one of these days. So far, book club is going swimmingly well (if you don’t count the missing member and the possibility of murder) so it’s possible that my social skills aren’t quite as lacking as I’ve led myself to believe. It bears some consideration.

Just as I’m about to go back to the main track, Chess Man waves me over. There’s no sign of tipsiness when he whispers in my ear, ‘There’s a man following you. Be careful, OK? I’m here if you need me. Just yell.’

‘Obrigado. I appreciate you looking out for me. I have friends on the other side of the gardens, so I’ll go there now.’ It’s all I can do to keep my expression neutral. Did our sting work?

It takes great effort not to speed up my pace, but it’s hard not to rush back to the main path in my excitement. I’m still out of sight of Zephyr and old Albert when the unthinkable happens.

A figure appears beside me, wearing the hallmarks of a mugger; black clothing, black face covering, and yes, confirmed to be a bag snatcher when they grab hold of the strap of my bag. ‘Oh no, you do not! I do not consent to this!’ I yell out, frustrated that I’m out of sight of my team.

Inside my bag is my very important notebook of mysteries, without which I will be quite lost. Luckily my martial arts training kicks into gear, and by using muscle memory alone, I use the bag snatcher’s momentum against him and soon have him on the ground. ‘AEIIIIIIIIII’ is all the attacker can manage as they plummet hard against the ground, their breath leaving them in an ‘UNGH.’

Once I have full control, I get their elbow joint locked which gives me ample time to disengage the strap of my bag, a feat to do one-handed. I only hope the attempted bag snatcher hasn’t frightened off The Man in the Blue Beret before my book club friends can follow him.