Miss Moonshine turned it around to read the back. ‘“Budgerigars Don’t Talk. A page-turning whodunnit to keep you awake into the small hours. Femmes fatales! Murder! Sex! Intrigue!”’ Her mouth flickered. ‘Surely even a sensible girl like you enjoys being kept awake into the small hours every once in a while.’
‘But –’
‘Callie. It’s only a book.’
Refusing to listen to further protest, Miss Moonshine tucked the book into Callie’s handbag and pushed her towards the door.
Chapter Two
Callie picked her way carefully down the precarious steps that led into her narrowboat café.
‘Get much?’ Megan asked. She was mixing a cappuccino for the customer on the other side of the hatch, who looked like he was in a hurry to be somewhere else.
Callie shrugged. ‘Forty-five quid and a free book.’ She retreated into a hidden corner where she couldn’t be seen through the hatch while she put her pinny on. ‘Better than a kick in the teeth, I guess.’
‘It’ll keep you in pinot grigio for a week or two, at least.’ Megan smiled at the customer, a good-looking young man in paint-stained overalls, as she placed the coffee down in front of him. ‘There you go, you. Go on, get back to work.’
‘Cheers, Meg.’ The man took his coffee and wrap, and Callie noticed how his cheeks dimpled when he smiled. He treated Megan to a familiar wink before dashing off.
‘Could you try not to make me sound like a wino in front of the customers?’ Callie said, glaring at her friend.
Megan grinned. ‘Whatever will you do without me here to embarrass you, eh?’
Callie glanced through the hatch at the tables and chairs set out on the grassy area at the edge of the towpath and sighed. There was seating for at least thirty people out there, and another two dozen or more could sit inside. The sun was blazing, the swans and their cygnets were playful, the food was top-notch and the teashop-on-a-boat thing was unique in the town. So why were there only four customers out there? All the ingredients were right for the perfect business, but somehow it just wasn’t working.
‘Honestly, Meg? I’ve got no idea what I’m going to do without you.’ Callie helped herself to a fresh-baked muffin, threw herself into a chair and started picking out the chocolate chips. ‘I’ll miss you to bits, you know.’ She took in their cosy café with its lacy tablecloths and floral curtains, the smell of the fresh pink roses on each table – Megan’s joy – mingling deliciously with the scent of hot currant teacakes and melting butter. ‘The whole place’ll miss you.’
‘Come on. You don’t need me.’ Megan sat down in the chair opposite and reached out to squeeze Callie’s hand. ‘You’re the genius behind this operation. You source the cakes, the stock, the… you know, boaty things. I’m just a glorified waitress.’
‘The hell you are. You’re the heart.’
Callie swallowed, staring down at her muffin so her friend wouldn’t notice the tear welling in one eye. The truth was, she didn’t know how she was going to keep the place going without Megan. She needed the camaraderie, the friendship, the support. The feeling that they were, literally, both in the same boat. And on a more utilitarian note, she needed the money. So far, there’d been no interest from anyone in buying Megan’s half of the struggling business, and as Callie couldn’t afford to either buy her out or to pay the bills alone, that meant they could soon be closing their serving hatch for good.
But she couldn’t say any of that to Megan. Not when her friend was so blissfully, sickeningly happy with Jackson, all excited about the wedding and their new life in America. It wasn’t fair.
‘You’ll be OK, you know,’ Megan said gently. ‘I promised I wouldn’t leave you in the lurch and I won’t. We’ll work something out.’
‘Yeah.’ Callie summoned a smile. ‘Yeah. Something’ll come up. And if not… well, I’ll just have to move on, I guess. The sale of the boat’ll set me up in something, if it has to come to that. It was nice while it lasted, eh?’
Megan was silent. But there was a twitch at the corner of her lips that Callie knew all too well.
‘Meg, what is it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on, I know that face. There’s something you aren’t telling me.’
Megan let the twitch spread into a grin. ‘OK, there is. But I’m not sharing yet. It’s a surprise.’
‘I hate surprises. Tell me.’
‘Nope. I’m not saying a word till I get back from lunch.’ She tapped a finger to her nose when she clocked Callie’s worried expression. ‘It’s something good though, I promise. Something I –’ She stopped herself. ‘But I’ve said too much. We’ll talk after I’ve grabbed a pasta pot and stretched my legs.’
‘You’ve not had interest from a buyer?’
Megan pulled an imaginary zip across her lips. ‘You’ll get nothing out of me, Cal, so I’d save your breath. If I tell you now you’re going to want all the details and I’m starving.’
‘But –’
‘Look, just man the hatch for an hour. There’s someone I need to talk to before I spill the beans anyway. I’ll be back before you know it.’ Casting off her frilly pinny, Megan grabbed her jacket and disappeared up the stairs.
What could it be? What could it be? Callie went into autopilot as she served the thin smattering of customers who stopped by over the next hour, her head in a whirl.
She so badly wanted it to be a buyer. No one could replace Meg, of course, but a new partner was realistically the only way she could keep the business going. But she didn’t see how Megan could have had interest without it getting back to her. She was the contact on the ad they’d placed seeking enquiries.
Ten minutes after the last customer had disappeared, Callie was leaning on her elbows at the serving hatch, staring into space. She’d run through every possibility she could think of. Secret buyers. Lottery wins. Megan cancelling the move to America and bringing Jackson into the business as some sort of naked butler. Nothing added up.
She checked her phone to get the time. Meg was late back, as usual.
Callie had propped herself on her elbows again and was preparing to resume her fixed stare when she spotted something poking out of the mud on the towpath.
There was no mistaking it, glinting in the sun. It was only surprising she hadn’t noticed it sooner. A shiny Edwardian penny, hers for the looting. It was just what she needed to finish her latest craft piece.
She glanced furtively from side to side. The canal was quiet, locals back at work, tourists lunching in their favourite tearooms or pubs. She could easily nip out, grab the penny and be back before there was even the sniff of a customer. Anyway, Megan would be here any minute.
Callie jogged up the stairs and jumped off the boat. She looked around, but the penny, so clear a moment ago through the hatch, seemed to have disappeared.
Then she saw it, further away than it had seemed from inside, sticking out of a muddy slop a little way down the path. She fixed her gaze on it as she made her way over, a human magpie, her focus entirely held by the sparkling copper.
Her focus was so entirely held by the penny, in fact, that she completely failed to notice the dog. That is, until the tiny thing hurtled into her ankles, tripping her and sending her flying towards the canal.
Time seemed to slow as Callie careered out of control. She closed her eyes in panic, arms flailing but with nothing to grab hold of, unable to stop, preparing any minute to find herself up to her neck in dirty brown water. But, thank God, her progress was impeded by something soft in her way.
Something soft. Warm. Tall, she noticed when she’d plucked up the courage to open her eyes. With dark hair and attractive dimples and a seriously irritated expression on its face.
It was the good-looking customer in the overalls, the one Megan had served a cappuccino to earlier. Callie just sagged there against his body, confused and disorientated, until he pushed her impatiently away.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?
’ he demanded.
‘Sorry. Accident. I was – there was a penny.’ Callie glanced at the muddy patch and frowned. No glint of copper. The penny was nowhere to be seen. ‘At least, I… thought there was.’
The man snorted. ‘Seriously? You were striding along like a woman possessed for the sake of a damn penny? You’ve just cost me a day’s work worth a couple of hundred quid.’
He nodded to the narrowboat he was standing in front of, and for the first time Callie noticed what he was doing. A selection of paint pots and brushes were at his feet, and against the deep blue of the boat was an intricate pattern of flowers, wet and shining new. It bordered the boat’s name, The Naughty Nell, carefully written out in impressively detailed carnivalesque lettering. Callie’s eyes widened as she saw the huge streak of paint across the letters where she’d knocked into the artist, sending his brush arm off course.
‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry!’ she whispered, horrified. ‘Really, I didn’t – I tripped on a dog. There was a little pug or a chihuahua or something, I never saw it coming.’ She glanced around, but the dog and its owner, like the penny, seemed to have disappeared without trace. ‘It was here a minute ago,’ she mumbled weakly.
‘Right. I’ll just tell that to my client then, shall I? “Sorry, sir, but there was this invisible dog and this invisible penny and this insane woman who can’t watch where she’s going… well, you really had to be there.”’
‘I’ll pay,’ Callie said desperately. ‘I mean, I’m not rich or anything, it might have to be in instalments, but I will cover your fee.’ She looked again at the ugly paint smear spoiling what must have been hours of painstaking work. As a sort-of artist herself, she could imagine exactly how devastating that must feel. ‘Honestly, I’m really so, so sorry.’
Despite her faltering apology, the man’s anger showed no sign of abating.
‘This was an urgent commission,’ he snapped. ‘The client paid me extra to fast-track it for him, and he promised recommendations to boat-owning friends, guaranteed future work. I’ve travelled up from Manchester to do it.’ He glared at her. ‘And it’s not just the money, it was some of my best work too. All day that’s taken me, and now it’s lost. All day!’
Callie frowned. ‘Look, it really was an accident. I’ve said I’m sorry, and that I’ll do what I can to compensate you. I’ll speak to your client too if you like, explain it was all my fault. I am genuinely mortified, I swear, but what more can I do?’
‘Dunno, can you turn back time and maybe not ruin the best work I’ve ever done for the sake of your coin collection?’
‘If I could, I promise you I would.’
But the man just continued to glare, a paintbrush gripped menacingly in one fist. Callie, irritated at his refusal to meet her halfway, glared right back.
‘Oh. Hello,’ a bright voice called from further down the towpath. Megan was making her way towards them, waving.
‘Ah right, brilliant,’ she said when she reached them, smiling broadly, seemingly oblivious to the dense school-dinner-custard atmosphere she’d just dunked herself into. ‘You two’ve met then. Well, that saves me half a job.’
Callie blinked. ‘You what?’
‘Sorry, didn’t he do the introductions properly?’ Megan nudged the man in the ribs. ‘Can’t trust you with anything, can I, Rich? Cal, this is my annoying big brother, Richard. He’ll be relocating here from Manchester in August.’
‘Your… sorry, did you say your brother?’
‘Well, not just my brother.’ Megan beamed in the face of Callie’s puzzled stare. ‘He’s your new business partner too.’
Chapter Three
There was one thing to be said for being single, Callie thought as she stretched luxuriously the diagonal length of her double bed. As much leg room as she liked, and she could wear the huge, frumpy bedsocks that kept her feet cosy without anyone to comment.
After her confrontation with Narrowboat Dick, as she’d mentally nicknamed Megan’s grumpy brother Richard, a relaxing, stress-free evening thinking about absolutely nothing felt like just what she needed. Worrying about the mess she was in at work, with her best friend moving to America within the month and a new business partner who hated her guts, could definitely wait until the morning.
She reached for her Kindle to pick up the mind-numbingly worthy book club read she’d been struggling to get immersed in, then groaned when she went to switch the thing on. Dead battery. And God knew where she’d left the charger.
OK, paperback it was then. It was nice to go a bit old school sometimes, she reflected. You couldn’t beat the smell and feel of old paper.
Old paper… oh yeah, she’d nearly forgotten. The tatty detective thriller Miss Moonshine had slipped into her bag earlier was just visible in her eyeline, the corner of the loud illustrated cover poking out. She didn’t have much in the house older than that. In fact, she could practically smell the book’s musty beige leaves from her bed, faintly perfumed with the cheap scent and tobacco of decades of previous owners. Its smell suited it. It was enticing.
What was it called – Budgerigars Don’t Talk? Daft title. Still, it saved her going downstairs. She leaned over the bed and pulled her bag towards her.
The book had obviously been well-read in its life. The spine had long since peeled away, replaced by a couple of layers of Scotch tape, and when she flicked through, nearly half the pages had come loose from their binding. They were covered in scribbles and doodles too. Callie realised now there was nothing mystical or otherworldly about Miss Moonshine offloading this particular bit of stock onto her. She’d certainly never manage to sell the sad-looking thing.
Callie flipped to the first page and started reading. The opening line was everything she’d been expecting.
The luscious redhead who sashayed into Kurt’s office that morning had more curves than the Chicago Cubs’ best pitcher, topaz eyes that snapped like the fourth of July, and mile-high legs wasted outside a can-can chorus line.
‘Unless she thought she might use them for, oh, I dunno, walking?’ Callie muttered to herself. ‘You dirty old sod, Kurt.’
The anonymous annotator who’d owned the book once upon a time seemed to agree. Does Redhead get a name, Kurt? Or is she just a hair colour on top of a pair of legs? they’d scribbled in the margin.
Kurt Constantine had a list of enemies as long as the Mason–Dixon line and twice as dirty, Callie read on in a mental voice that sounded more like Humphrey Bogart than Humphrey Bogart. Every hood he’d put away. Every girl he’d cast aside. Two ex-wives, one ex-partner, one dead partner’s beauty-queen daughter, and those pen-pushing saps at City Hall who just hated how untidy things got when Constantine was on the case.
‘Well blow me. A maverick, womanising private detective who gets up the nose of The Establishment,’ Callie muttered. ‘Who saw that coming?’
Her gaze skimmed to a note in the margin, and she smiled. Her reading companion had really gone off on one over this bit.
Do they always have to be hard-boiled, cynical old buggers who throw the rule book out the window? he or she had demanded. Just for once, I’d like to meet a teetotal, non-smoking, touchingly naive gumshoe who always does as he’s told. Bonus points if he’s still a virgin and devoted to his dear old mum.
Impulsively, Callie grabbed a biro from her bedside drawer and scribbled her own note underneath.
Midnight, and DI Timothy Biggins stalks the mean streets of Milton Keynes…
A few chapters on, Callie had decided her phantom reading buddy had to be a he. For all his sarky comments on Kurt’s casual lechery, the sketch he’d done of flame-haired femme fatale Lucinda on page 21 – and in particular the attention to detail around the cleavage – suggested a distinctly male and heterosexual perspective. Callie decided to christen her new friend Algernon, or Algie for short. It was the name she’d always planned to give the cat her landlord wouldn’t let her have.
It was a good drawing, very detailed for a doodle. Algie had some serio
us artistic talent. It was also clearly based on Jessica Rabbit, with perhaps just a smidge of Rita Heyworth thrown in.
Callie scribbled another comment.
Ouch, Lucinda. You’re going to take someone’s eye out with those things. Chilly in Chicago, is it?
She found herself wishing that Algie, whoever he was, could write back.
A sudden thought struck her. This book was old. It looked old, it smelled old, and it sure as hell read old. It must date from long before the radical notion that women were anything more than a heady mix of lipstick-ringed cigarettes, push-up bras and dangerous yet compelling sex appeal. Would Algie still be alive?
Hurriedly she flicked to the page bearing the publisher’s details. Publication date of 1966. So even if Algie was still around, he’d be – she did a quick calculation – at least in his seventies. That was a sobering notion.
But then… Jessica Rabbit. He’d drawn Lucinda like Jessica Rabbit. No, not just like Jessica Rabbit – this was Jessica Rabbit, pretty much. And that character hadn’t existed until the 1980s.
Oh, what was the point dwelling on it? There was no chance she’d ever meet the real Algie, or recognise him if she did. What did it matter if he was an old man or not?
She smiled at a pair of cartoon eyes doodled in the margin, launching from their sockets on springs as, in her big seduction play, Lucinda left Kurt to “slip into something more comfortable”. Awooga ha cha cha! Kurt, you dog! Algie had written underneath. Callie knew she probably never would meet Algie. But if she did, she definitely needed to buy him a pint.
Two hours later, Callie was hooked, both on the story and her one-sided conversation with Algie. To be honest, without Algie she probably would’ve abandoned the book in chapter two. It really was pulp fiction at its most pulp-worthy. But with him to keep her company, it felt like fun. Like watching a cheesy film with an old friend you know is on your wavelength, always happy to yell at the screen along with you.
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