Serious Moonlight(21)

For a while. A housekeeper woke me up, which was embarrassing.

It probably had nothing to do with narcolepsy. I was just exhausted, getting used to working nights; it could have happened to anyone. So I told myself not to obsess about it.

But because I’d fallen asleep, I missed both Daniel and the first ferry and was forced to wait for another. By the time I got back to the island and walked home from the terminal, it was well past seven a.m.

As I headed down the steps toward our front door, I spotted Grandpa in the greenhouse . . . and someone else. He waved me inside, a blurry figure behind rain-spattered glass. I hesitated before changing course. Humid air and compost filled my lungs as the rickety door slammed shut behind me.

Grandpa cradled a small tomato plant connected to a clump of dark soil. Next to him was his longtime friend, a retired Seattle police officer named Roger Cassidy, known simply as Cass. He was tall and willowy, and a good decade older than Grandpa, his once bright ginger hair now pale. He also had a prosthetic hand, after losing his before I was born—he was shot in the line of duty.

“Birdie,” he said, smiling broadly.

“Hi, Cass. Didn’t expect to see you here so early.” He lived alone on the other side of the island in a small house that faced Bremerton. He’d never married or owned any pets. I sometimes wondered if he was lonely. Ever since my grandmother passed, Grandpa and Cass had been spending more time together. It was as if her death had broken an invisible barrier around our house, and now half the town was knocking on our door, checking in to see if we were managing.

“I was picking up coffee downtown and thought I’d drop some off for Hugo, found him out here a few minutes ago.” He raised a paper coffee cup. “Just back from your new job?”

“Indeed, I am.” I moved Grandpa’s metal walking cane a few inches so that he wouldn’t knock it over. I’d texted him earlier this morning from the hotel, so that he wouldn’t worry, but he never answered. “Sorry I’m late. I missed the first ferry.”

“And you’re mizzled,” he said, using his own slang for the misting of rain clinging to my hair and clothes.

“I’m always mizzled. What are you doing out here?”

“Staking the Marnero tomatoes,” he said, brushing dirt off his gardening gloves. “Your grandmother would have a fit if she knew I’d neglected her plants.”

My grandmother had loved to cook and had spent half her days out here, growing herbs and vegetables and a few orchids. Before she’d married my grandfather and had my mother, she’d done missionary work in East Africa and Bolivia, and she’d said those trips awakened her interest in cooking new things. Curries. Fried breads. Fragrant rice dishes.

When she was alive, especially over the last couple of years, all we did was fight. But now that she was gone, all I could remember were good things. It was as if my mind were intent on making me regret not appreciating her more when she was alive. The same thing happened when my mom died. Anyway, I guess that’s why I’d avoided coming out here the last few months, to avoid thinking about it too much. And I guess Grandpa had too. A lot of her plants were dead. At least the orchids were blooming.

“Any reason why you were late?” Grandpa asked.

“I just . . . lost track of time.”

He didn’t ask why, so I didn’t elaborate.

“Anything interesting happen at work?” Cass asked. “That’s the hotel where that starlet died. What was her name?”

“Tippie Talbot,” I said.

“She was only twenty,” Grandpa added. “Did one picture with Cary Grant, I think. Birdie says her room was torn down. Any other animal rights protests?” he asked, briefly filling Cass in on the octopus and goldfish scandal.

“No protests. No sewage main breaks. It was super boring tonight. I’m not even sure why they need an auditor, to be honest. It’s pretty much all automated. A monkey could run the program.”

“Those are the best jobs,” Grandpa said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “No stress. No responsibility. Enjoy it while you can. One day you’ll be wishing you were back there, doing monkey work.”

“Ooo-ooo, ahh-ahh,” I hooted, doing my best monkey imitation.

They laughed, and Grandpa began rolling up the chicken wire he’d been using around the tomato plants. “Actually,” I said, “something interesting did happen today. I heard some gossip about Raymond Darke.”

Cass perked up. “The writer? Doesn’t he write the stuff you read, Hugo? Thrillers?”

“What gossip?” Grandpa asked.

“Someone I work with claims Darke checks into our hotel every week for an hour.”

Grandpa pushed up his glasses, leaving a streak of dirt on his nose. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. Hold still.” I used my thumb to wipe away the smudge. “I combed through the hotel’s records, and someone named Ivanov checks in every week. Same room.” I told them about the home address being the same as our sister hotel in San Francisco and about the man with the baseball cap in the elevator.

“Very odd,” Cass murmured. “But why does your coworker think it’s Darke? Every journalist in Seattle would sell their left foot for a chance to reveal the man behind the books.”

“Daniel says—”