Serious Moonlight(17)

My eyes flicked toward his.

“Yep, that Subaru. I inherited it when she got a new car a couple of years ago. Driving it is my private revenge. My father sucks. But whatever. His loss.”

We walked together in silence through the dwindling crowds in the main arcade until Daniel tapped my bag. “What did you get at the bookstore? Another mystery book?”

“At a mystery bookstore? Imagine that.”

“Who’s your favorite detective?” he asked before quickly adding, “I like Jessica Fletcher. I’ve streamed every episode of Murder, She Wrote. Angela Lansbury is the best. When I was a kid, I had a crush on her.”

“On Angela Lansbury?” I said, incredulous.

He struggled to hide a smile. “So hot.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m totally serious. I like old shows. Anyway, who’s your favorite detective?”

He seemed genuinely interested, so I answered. “From fiction, probably Miss Marple or Amelia Peabody. In movies, Nick and Nora Charles from The Thin Man.”

“The Thin Man? That sounds familiar.”

“It should. It’s just one of the best movies of all time.”

“Is that so?” Daniel chuckled, but not in a mean way, so I continued.

“And my favorite TV detective is Columbo,” I said. “Hands down.”

“The cop in the trench coat? What’s the actor’s name?”

“Peter Falk. People underestimate him. They think he’s just a bumbling idiot, so they let their guard down, and that’s how he outsmarts them. He’s the kind of detective I’d want to be.”

I’d been drawn to mysteries since I was a kid, but I’d be drawn to detectives in particular since my mom died. Detectives were cool, calm, and capable. They were usually loners, helping people from a distance. Because the crime had already been committed, a detective could take the time to be careful and deliberate. They were underdogs that people miscalculated.

“You want to be a cop?” Daniel asked.

“No. I want to be a private investigator, not a police detective. For sure not a Coast Guard detective, like my grandfather. Their investigations are boring, mostly fishery violations and some minor smuggling. I prefer more scandal in my cases.”

“A gumshoe, eh?”

“It’s one of the reasons I was excited about working at the Cascadia. You know, that Agatha Christie stayed there, and the whole unsolved crime of that actress back in the 1930s, Tippie Talbot. So disappointing that they remodeled her room. If I were the owners, I would have decorated it with her Hollywood memorabilia. I bet old movie buffs would stay there if they played it up. Or crime aficionados. Maybe someone could have found a new clue and solved her murder.”

“Like you?”

I laughed, a little flustered. “The thought did cross mind. My grandpa wants me to find a good mystery to solve there, but so far I haven’t stumbled upon any dead bodies.”

“Birdie Lindberg, private eye,” he said, grinning at me. “You should be in security at the hotel, not a desk clerk.”

Now I was embarrassed that I’d said too much. I glanced around, scouting for an escape route. In the distance, I caught a glimpse of a bobbing yellow beehive. “So . . . anyway. You don’t have to stay. I’ll just—”

“I know a real-life mystery going on at the hotel.”

I stared at him.

“A real one.” His eyes were bright and wide. He sniffled, rubbed his nose, and then leaned closer and said, “Have you ever heard of a writer named Raymond Darke?”

Of course I had. Raymond Darke was the most successful thriller writer from Seattle—as in, number one New York Times bestselling author, millions of copies sold. Grandpa used to read his books. “I don’t really care for legal thrillers,” I said. “And his characters are boring.”

Daniel’s mouth curved into a smile. “But you do know who I’m talking about.”

“Everyone knows Darke. His books, at least. No one knows the actual writer. The mystery of his true identity is far more interesting than any of the plots in his books.”

The official author photos on Darke’s book jackets were silhouettes of a fedora-wearing man who never faced the camera. He didn’t make public appearances or do anything other than e-mail interviews. No book signings. No nothing. All his books took place in Seattle, and his biography claimed that he lived here, but who really knew?

I paused and gave Daniel a hard look. “What’s this got to do with the hotel?”

“What if I told you that Raymond Darke comes into the Cascadia every Tuesday night at seven? He has no luggage. He just goes upstairs for a few minutes, then comes back down and leaves without anyone realizing who he really is or why he’s there.”

“I’d say that sounds . . . sensational.”

“As in good?”

“As in tabloid fodder.”

“But what if it’s true?” Daniel’s face was open and honest. He seemed to believe what he was saying. Excitement flashed behind his dark eyes.

“That would be a national headline. Every magazine and newspaper in the country would jump at a chance to investigate Darke’s identity if it were true.”

“It is.”