Miss Moonshine's Emporium of Happy Endings: A feel-good collection of heartwarming stories

by Helena Fairfax

  By now, Kurt Constantine was in serious hot water. He was on the tail of an elusive Chinese opium gang led by an old enemy nursing a grudge, wanted by Interpol in a case of mistaken identity involving smuggled rubies, being pursued for alimony by both ex-wives, and Luscious Lucinda, the client he was falling hard for, had very possibly killed up to four men – five, if you counted the sniper she’d accidentally knocked off the Empire State Building during a passionate clinch in chapter seven. All the while trying to babysit the suddenly mute budgie who’d been the only witness to the original murder, which Lucinda claimed had been pinned on her by her double-crossing former guardian. So he was coping admirably, considering.

  Callie (and Algie) were glued to the page as Kurt tiptoed, catlike, down the Chinese lantern-lit corridor leading to the secret Soho dope den – and to his nemesis, disgraced District Attorney Johnny LaMancha.

  Callie grabbed her pen and started writing.

  Kurt, mate, what’re you thinking?! Never, ever, ever agree to meet the bad guy without backup. It’s a trap, you massive div!

  Algie agreed. At the top of the next page, an impressive caricature of his vision of Kurt as a mouse, in a long mac and fedora with a goopy expression on his whiskered face, was about to nibble a piece of Acme-branded, dynamite-stuffed cheese strapped to a giant mousetrap labelled WORLD’S MOST OBVIOUS TRAP.

  Just then, as Kurt was about to confront Johnny and exchange Pavlov the Budgie for the photographs that would clear Lucinda’s name… the doorbell rang. Cursing, Callie put Kurt, Lucinda and Algie to one side, dragged on a dressing gown and traipsed downstairs to answer it.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Um, hi.’ Narrowboat Dick was hovering on her doorstep, clutching a bottle of wine. ‘I hope you don’t mind me popping round. Meg gave me your address.’

  ‘Did she?’ Callie pulled her dressing gown tighter around her, fully aware that her scoop-cut pyjama top and lack of bra weren’t leaving much to the imagination. ‘What for?’

  ‘Well, because I asked her to.’

  ‘Oh.’

  …let’s see. It couldn’t be Johnny LaMancha, that was a given. He had a watertight alibi due to being in bed with both Kurt’s ex-wives at the time of the murder. It might be Lucinda, except that seemed just a bit too obvious. And she was right-handed – Kurt had already worked out the murderer led with his left, unless it was a double bluff. But the Chinese opium dealer, Lo Chan Tan – there was an idea…

  Richard was staring at her. She shook her head to clear her thoughts.

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away. Did you say something?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nodded to her calves. ‘I said that if you don’t mind me saying so, those are some seriously impressive bedsocks.’

  ‘Thanks. You should see the matching suspender belt.’ She stuck out one leg and gave it a little jiggle, just to make sure he got the full effect. Callie was willing to bet Kurt’s femme-fatale girlfriend Lucinda didn’t have a pair of sexy bedsocks like hers.

  Richard smiled, his cheeks dimpling.

  ‘I came round to apologise, Callie,’ he said. ‘We got off on the wrong foot today, didn’t we? Totally my fault for being such a touchy, miserable sod, and – well, I brought you this.’ He held out the wine, his green eyes wide and appealing. ‘I’m really quite nice, most of the time. Please don’t ask my sister to corroborate that.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled as she took the wine. ‘OK, you’re doing the adorable eyes thing on purpose, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yep. Is it working?’

  ‘Might be.’ She examined the white wine he’d brought her. It looked like good stuff. Not that she was any kind of connoisseur. ‘You really didn’t have to do this, Richard. I should be the one apologising to you. I bet ten cases of wine wouldn’t cover what you lost in earnings today because of me.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, I managed to get things sorted out with my client,’ he said. ‘Told him what happened, and he said no worries as long as the work’s done by the weekend. I can paint over it, redo that section of the design and it’ll be finished by end of play tomorrow.’

  ‘A whole extra day’s work though! And all your beautiful lettering, ruined. I am so sorry, truly.’

  ‘No, I am,’ Richard said in an earnest tone. ‘I overreacted. I should never have had a go at you like that when I could see it was an accident. It was out of order.’

  ‘It wasn’t at all. I paint too – I mean, not like you, just a hobby. But I’d have been the same if someone had spoiled my best work.’

  He smiled. ‘So are we going to stand on your doorstep apologising to each other all night or are you going to invite me in?’

  She hesitated. ‘Now?’

  ‘It’s not all that late for a Friday, is it? You can split your bottle of wine with me and we’ll have a chat about plans for the caf.’

  ‘It’s just… I was kind of in the middle of something,’ Callie said, grimacing apologetically.

  A Soho opium den, to be precise. The drink was tempting, when Richard was being all friendly and funny – and, unless she was sorely mistaken, more than a little bit flirty – but she couldn’t abandon Algie now. Not when Kurt was so close to finally unmasking the killer.

  Richard glanced at her pyjamas. ‘Oh. Sorry, rude of me. You were obviously having a duvet evening, you don’t want me galumphing in.’

  He was quite charming really, now he wasn’t angry at her any more. And he’d brought her wine, and the dimples were endearingly cute. Callie felt guilty for having misjudged him. He obviously wasn’t grumpy by nature, she’d just caught him at a bad moment. And whose fault had that been?

  ‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll hold onto the wine and we’ll do it another night, eh?’ She wiggled her foot. ‘I might even put my sexy bedsocks back on for you, since you’re such a fan.’

  ‘I’m forgiven then?’

  ‘You’re forgiven. And I’m sorry I called you a dick.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I had it coming.’ He frowned. ‘Did you call me a dick?’

  She couldn’t help grinning. ‘Well, no. Not to your face.’

  He laughed. ‘Glad we got things sorted, Callie. I’ll be in touch about the caf and the drink.’

  She felt a stab of worry. ‘Richard, are you sure about taking on the caf? You’re not just buying out your sister as a favour? Because I’d rather sell up than be partners with someone who isn’t fully committed.’

  ‘Are you kidding? I’ve always envied Meg her working day on a narrowboat. You paint enough of them, you start to hanker after one of your own.’ He flashed her a reassuring smile. ‘Callie, don’t worry, please. I’m going in with my eyes wide open. Yes, I know about the finances. Yes, I know it’ll be an uphill struggle. But it’s a great little business. With an injection of fresh ideas, I know that between us we can get her back in the black.’

  Callie smiled back. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘I know I’m right.’

  ‘You’re not taking over the waitressing too, are you?’ She scanned Richard’s broad chest and well-defined shoulders. She couldn’t quite see him in Megan’s lace-bordered floral pinny, somehow.

  ‘Well, I’ll be more of a silent partner for the first month or two. I’m still based down in Manchester at the moment, then I’ll be moving into Meg’s old place. We’ll have to talk about whether we need to hire someone for the interim period. But after that, yeah, of course I’ll do my share.’

  ‘No need for a temp, I can cope on my own for a bit. I mean, if it’s only for a couple of months.’

  It wasn’t like they were overrun with trade, Callie thought glumly. It’d be pretty lonely though, just her. She’d miss Megan something rotten. Fleetingly she wondered what it would be like, working alongside Richard day after day instead of Meg.

  ‘OK. We’ll thrash out the details another time,’ Richard said.

  ‘Right. Another time. I’d better get back to Algie.’

  Richar
d frowned. ‘Algie?’

  ‘It’s short for Algernon.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Your boyfriend.’

  She smiled, wondering if the look of disappointment in his eyes was really there or her wishful thinking. ‘No, just a friend. We were actually in the middle of a reading date when you called.’

  Richard looked puzzled, but she didn’t bother to explain. Always leave the two-bit Charlies wanting more, as Lucinda would’ve said. Although it might be a bit late for Callie to start cultivating an air of aloof mystery now, given the bedsocks.

  ‘Night, partner. Thanks for the wine.’ Callie treated Richard to a warm smile before she closed the door.

  Chapter Four

  As soon as Richard had gone, Callie hurried back to her book. But there was a disappointment waiting for her when, around midnight, she reached the last chapter.

  The problem wasn’t the finale, which packed a shocking twist as Pavlov the Budgie finally sang like a canary to reveal that the murderer wasn’t Lucinda or Johnny or Lo Chan Tan, but Babs, the beauty-queen daughter of Kurt’s dead partner. No, it was Algie who’d let her down. His annotations had suddenly disappeared, leaving Callie to experience the final showdown between Kurt and Babs alone. It wasn’t the same, somehow.

  Callie wondered what could’ve happened to stop him commenting. Surely he had something to say about Babs’s cry of, “You’ll pay for this, Constantine! You and your goddam tweety bird!” as the cops hauled her off to Sing Sing.

  Under the final paragraph, Callie wrote That’s all folks and doodled a morose-looking Porky Pig doing a thumbs down, a poor imitation of Algie’s more polished cartoons. She sucked the end of her pen, and as an afterthought added, Algie, I owe you a beer. Then she tucked the book away in her bedside drawer, feeling deflated and mildly bereaved. It felt like she’d been on a date that had been going amazingly, really building a connection, only for the bloke to suddenly disappear before pudding.

  She checked her phone for the time. Half-midnight, and well past her bedtime. Callie flicked off the bedside lamp and tried to settle down to sleep.

  But sleep wouldn’t come. The story she’d just finished whistled around her brain – shadowy images of Kurt, Lucinda and the rest, looking like Algie’s caricatures. Uneasy thoughts about where the book had come from, and the identity of the mysterious man – she was still certain it was a man – who’d kept her company as she’d read it, stopped her from relaxing. Algie’s annotations had really lifted the experience, from a straightforward night in bed reading to something social and fun.

  Giving up on getting any rest that night, Callie grabbed her phone again and pulled up Google. She typed in the name of the book to see what information there was online about it. She didn’t really know what she was looking for, but it was something to do.

  There wasn’t much. A couple of references on forums dedicated to the art of pulp fiction, with an image of the cover, but no real detail on the work itself. In fact, none of the people posting in the forums had ever seen an original copy. They were so rare that anyone who did have one in good condition could apparently get up to £600 for it from private collectors.

  Shame hers was covered in graffiti and falling apart, since she could really have done with £600.

  So it seemed like she and Algie were some of the only people in the world to have actually read Budgerigars Don’t Talk. Eventually Callie gave up looking for information about the book and typed in the name of the author, Sidney Farrier, instead. That was a bit more helpful, and she soon found an entry for him on a wiki of crime writers. A single paragraph seemed to be enough to summarise his career.

  He was English, she discovered, which wasn’t much of a surprise. No one who tried that hard to keep his similes American could really hail from the land of baseball, hot dogs and Mom’s apple pie. Plus Kurt Constantine’s habit of saying, “Crikey, toots!” to Lucinda when they found themselves in a tight spot was a dead giveaway.

  Sidney Farrier was a British pulp fiction author of the 1960s, the terse paragraph noted. His debut novel, Budgerigars Don’t Talk, sadly failed to make its mark on the reading public. After abysmal sales, the publisher recalled and pulped all remaining unsold copies. Any that survive are now highly prized by collectors. Mr Farrier never published another book, and his current whereabouts and career status are unknown.

  So it had been one of a kind, pulp fiction in a very literal sense. Poor old Sidney Farrier. It must be depressing, watching all that hard work end up as a pile of mulch. It made Callie think of Richard and the beautiful, intricate canal boat signage she’d managed to ruin. She still felt guilty about him having to do it again.

  She glanced once more at the paragraph about Sidney Farrier, then switched off the phone. It hadn’t really given her any closure. She wasn’t sure what would have done, really, except a useful note at the end saying “By the way, Callie Fox, your copy was previously owned by…” followed by Algie’s real name and his address so she could look him up. Sighing, she tried to settle down again and managed to fall into a fitful sleep.

  She slept for a good half-hour before sitting up with a jerk.

  ‘That’s it!’ she muttered. ‘I’ve got it!’

  *

  Callie marched into Miss Moonshine’s shop the next day, her copy of Budgerigars tucked under her arm, and rang the silver service bell smartly. A curtain behind the counter billowed, and, as if by magic, the shopkeeper appeared.

  ‘Callie Fox. Again.’

  ‘Miss Moonshine.’ Callie kept her expression fixed. She’d come here with one aim in mind. Well, two aims in mind. OK, maybe three. But she had a job to do and no enigmatic old ladies with weird dress sense and funny eyes were going to stop her.

  Miss Moonshine examined her for a second, smiled, and bent to tickle little old Napoleon between the ears.

  ‘You didn’t bring me anything.’

  ‘Sorry, are you talking to me or the dog?’

  ‘To you. The dog’s as deaf as a post.’

  ‘Oh, but I did.’ Callie slapped the book on the mahogany counter. ‘I brought you this back. And I want to know who donated it. Um, please,’ she added as an afterthought, noticing the sparkle in Miss Moonshine’s hazel eyes seemed to have taken on a dangerous quality.

  ‘Your heart’s not in it, my Miss Fox. Try again.’

  ‘Right.’ Callie picked up the book again and this time practically slammed it down. ‘Miss Moonshine, I demand to know who donated this book you very suspiciously gave me yesterday for free. Right now.’

  Miss Moonshine’s lip twitched. ‘Much better.’

  ‘Well?’ Callie said. ‘You’re going to tell me you don’t remember, aren’t you? I bet you are.’

  ‘How much do you bet?’

  Callie met the old lady’s gaze, and thought better of it.

  ‘I withdraw my bet.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it. I only ever play for keeps, you know.’ Miss Moonshine picked up the book and locked beady eyes with the budgie on the cover. ‘Yes, I remember. This came in a box of paperbacks owned by a lady who’s moving abroad.’

  ‘A lady?’ Callie felt her heart sink. That didn’t sound right. She was certain Algie was a man. One hundred per cent certain. Could it have been a wife, maybe? A daughter? She felt a jolt in her chest. She knew Miss Moonshine got a lot of her stock from house clearouts after people had… passed on.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Callie asked. ‘Do you still have them?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Miss Moonshine nodded to a pile of paperbacks stacked up in no particular order next to her table. ‘These all arrived with that one.’

  Callie scanned the pile. It was an eclectic mix. Thrillers, romances, children’s books, all relatively modern. Nothing in the same style as Budgerigars.

  She extracted one of the thrillers and flicked through the pages, feeling a stab of disappointment when she found they were blank. Well, not blank – they were covered in type, obviously. But there were no annotations. She pic
ked out a couple of others, but Algie hadn’t felt inspired to say anything about them either.

  ‘Not what you were looking for?’ Miss Moonshine asked softly.

  ‘No.’ Callie looked up to meet her eyes. ‘But I’ll take them.’ She gestured towards the other piles of books filling up floorspace around the shop. ‘In fact, I’ll take the lot.’

  ‘So it’s happened,’ Miss Moonshine said in the same low voice. She walked over to Callie and stood on tiptoes to squint into her eyes, putting one finger under her chin. ‘Yes. I see.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Miss Moonshine let Callie’s chin go and looked away.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ she said. ‘I won’t be able to take any more beautiful things from you. The ornamental pebbles were our last bit of business together.’

  Callie frowned. ‘What? I thought you liked my things.’

  ‘I like them very much. But I can’t sell them. Not now, not any more.’

  ‘But people buy them, don’t they?’

  ‘They do. And they’ll buy them from you just as well.’ She gave Callie’s cheek a rough pinch. ‘Take them. Sell them in your little boat with your teas and your buns and your books. I think the new idea should bring in a lot of customers, don’t you?’

  Callie stared at her. ‘How did you know I’d had a new idea?’

  Miss Moonshine smiled. ‘Goodbye, Callie Fox.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘Here you go, ladies.’ Callie placed the cream-tea-for-two tray down in front of a couple of elderly women at one of the indoor tables on her boat. She gestured around the shelves she’d had installed down one side, specially designed to make the best use of the space and bursting at the joints with old books. ‘Oh, and feel free to take a look at our books while you enjoy your teas. Just chuck a donation in the honesty box if you’d like to read one, and help yourself to a free Book Defacers’ Club pen.’ She nodded to the little pot full of branded pens, all different colours, in the middle of the table.