Page 76 of The Little Porto Book Club

‘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.’