Page 45 of The Little Porto Book Club

Tiago’s appearance is rather wan, as he scrubs his face. Why is he so suddenly quiet? Oh. It dawns on me loud and clear.

‘Lucinda’s killed her husband, hasn’t she? And you don’t have the heart to tell me.’ A small sob escapes, not only for my new book club friend who will most likely be jailed for life and won’t be able to come to book club anymore. There’s also the heartrending fact I failed at my very first real-life investigation.

Tiago scrunches his nose in that adorable way of his. ‘No, Lucinda hasn’t killed him yet. Not that I’ve heard. There’ve been no reports of a missing man, have there?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, no. Then why the long face?’

He waves my concerns away. ‘I – uh – thought we might celebrate our successful mission, spend some quality time together, you know.’

I grin. ‘I’d love to. How should we celebrate? Not around here, that’s for sure. Far too many people.’

‘No, definitely not around here!’ He chokes out a laugh.

‘What do you think happened?’ I gesture to where the florists were. ‘Cold feet?’

‘Something like that. I’ll check in with old Albert and Zephyr and tell them to meet us somewhere quieter? We can have a picnic, you and I. I thought we could share our favourite passages from book four of The Quill Chronicles now that I’ve finished it – how does that sound?’

Just about perfect.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Lucinda

I’ve discovered there are six foolproof ways to kill my husband and ensure he’ll never be found. Murder is most fascinating, not only in the pages of a book. A lifetime of reading mysteries has come in rather handy. I have dear Agatha Christie to thank for that.

Now the most pressing issue is to figure out the method that suits a man like him best. And which is least traceable to me. And more palatable too. After all, I don’t want a mess to clean up, I’ve been doing that for the damn man my entire life. I’ve set a date, sorted my alibi. It won’t be long and I’ll be footloose and fancy free.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Wednesday arrives and I’m at the pastelaria nice and early to save our spot by the window, not that the place has got any busier, just that I’m a creature of habit.

‘Viviane! Did you get my email?’ Tiago slides into the seat opposite and leans all the way over the table as if he’s going to grab my hands but he stops at the last moment. It’s only been a couple of days since I’ve seen his sunny, smiley face, and one look at him, my mood brightens. He changes the energy in a room, uplifts it and makes even difficult spaces more tolerable for me, and how can that be?

I rummage in my handbag for my book, we must keep up appearances, and I’m secretly hoping we do manage a bit of silent reading time today. ‘Which email?’

‘The email I sent this morning.’ Tiago bounces in his chair, as if he can’t sit still. I make a mental note not to order any coffee while he’s so jumpy.

‘Well, I woke up to a few of them from you. Was it the one where you asked: If you were a salad, what salad would you be? Or: What if our dreams are an algorithm and we just need to figure out the code? I hadn’t even had a cup of coffee at that stage, Tiago.’ I don’t usually check my email first thing, either, because I don’t want to be a slave to technology, but I haven’t been able to resist checking in case there’s one from Tiago. This is the road to ruin, I’m sure of it.

‘You didn’t catch Porto News today?’ After taking book five of The Quill Chronicles from his rucksack, he shoves the bag under the table.

I fear Tiago is not listening, not entirely. He’s too wired, it’s possible he might have overdosed on caffeine if his edginess is anything to go by.

‘No, Tiago, I did not. On workdays I wake at 6 a.m. and turn on my computer at precisely 7 a.m. before finishing at 3 p.m. I am being paid an adequate sum to copyedit, so copyedit is what I do.’

Perhaps I need to rethink this rule while we’re in the middle of a case, so I don’t miss any updates.

The Morse code blinks make a return. ‘Right. You’re an asset to your, erm, publisher.’

‘Thank you. I like to think so too.’ There’s a clattering in the kitchen, and the clink of metal soon followed by a Portuguese curse word. ‘What did they drop?’ A squabble breaks out, it sounds exactly the way it does in my family, loud, fast and full of pepper.

‘Viviane, what I’m trying to say is, Porto News shared an online article early this morning, a local man has gone missing and they are appealing to the public for information.’

I gasp. This is a huge development.

‘Why didn’t you lead with that, Tiago? We’ve just spent the better part of five minutes discussing my daily schedule!’

‘Sorry, my fault. Let’s not get off track.’