Serious Moonlight(22)

“Daniel,” Grandpa repeated. “That’s the boy you mentioned before? You two are becoming fast friends, huh? Mona texted me last night. Said she met him . . .”

Ugh. “She did.”

Cass laughed. “I know that look. Hugo, stop pestering her.”

Grandpa held up his hands in surrender. “Not pestering. Continue, Birdie. Continue.”

“There isn’t much left to tell you. Daniel claims to have proof it’s Darke. He just can’t figure out why he’s checking into the hotel. He wants me to help him figure out why.”

Grandpa nodded. “I see. He knows you’re a mystery hound, then?”

“Yes.”

He shared a conspiratorial look with Cass that I ignored. Then he shoved the roll of chicken wire underneath a potting table. “You know, it’s strange you bring this up, because just last night they were talking about Darke on Rainier Time.”

His favorite local radio show, which ran late at night.

“A listener called in, talking about the detective in Darke’s books—”

“Paul Parker,” I said. “Stupidest detective name ever.”

“Like it or not, it’s a million-dollar name for Darke,” Grandpa said with a smile. “Anyway, the listener was talking about how Darke’s detective is a fan of opera music and that all the book titles are based on opera names. They say writers usually write what they know. I would be greatly surprised if Mr. Darke didn’t have a real-life obsession with opera. I think I even remember reading an interview with him—he almost never gives them, you know.”

I made air circles with my hand, hurrying him along. “And?”

“What’s that on your palm?”

“Looks like a phone number,” Cass said.

I scrubbed a thumb over the ink, feeling my cheeks warm.

“Wouldn’t be from your friend Daniel, would it?” Grandpa asked.

“It’s just the manager’s number,” I lied. “You were saying about this Darke interview?”

“Oh, right. I was going to call into the show about it, but I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, and before I could look for the magazine, they were already talking about something else. But I seem to remember Darke mentioning in this interview that he collects opera records. Actual records, like they used to make.”

They still did. Lots of people collected vinyl, and some records were worth a lot of money.

If Darke collected records, then it stood to reason he browsed vinyl shops in Seattle. I wondered how many of those there were. I knew of at least one in Pike Place, but I didn’t recall seeing any opera records there. Besides, if a man was trying to keep a low profile, he probably wasn’t browsing in a place that was so busy and filled with tourists. Maybe a smaller store with less foot traffic. A store that employed someone who shared his passion for music.

Inside my head, I couldn’t resist typing up a suspect profile for Darke:

Suspect: Raymond Darke

Age: Early fifties?

Occupation: Mystery author

Education: Graduated from the University of Washington (according to his public biography)

Physical description: Caucasian. Slightly overweight. Possible rosacea? (Red nose)

Personality traits: Wealthy. Famous. Desire to stay out of the public eye; values privacy. Wears blue baseball cap and sunglasses in public . . . to hide his identity?

Other details: Books show a familiarity with legal procedure. Opera fan. Vinyl record collector. (Further investigation required . . . with Daniel?)

“Does any of that help?” Grandpa asked.

“Possibly. I’ll do some snooping. But right now I’m going to get some sleep.”

“I’ll be curious to know what you find,” Cass added.

Grandpa gave me an approving nod. “This is an excellent summer mystery you’ve found, Birdie. Much better than the toxic leaking sewage pipe—and probably better for your health.”

Funny, but it felt twice as risky.





“You know, that sounds like an interesting case. Why don’t you take it?”

—Nora Charles, The Thin Man (1934)





9




* * *



Daniel’s phone number on my hand didn’t wash off with soap. I had to tear the bathroom apart, hunting down rubbing alcohol, to remove the ink—and even then, the numbers were still faintly visible when I woke the next afternoon. That irritated me. I thought about using those numbers to text Daniel a piece of my mind about his tattooing them on my hand, but I decided to wait until I saw him at work, where I could also tell him about Darke and the opera record lead. But when I got to the hotel, I realized it was Daniel’s day off. I wasn’t sure if I was irritated or disappointed.

Maybe a little of both.

Unlike the previous night, the hotel wasn’t busy at all. Two of the staff called in sick, but Melinda seemed too tired to care. Maybe pregnancy was wearing her down. Or maybe it was Chuck, who insisted on telling everyone on staff some stupid dirty joke, which was bad enough, but he kept getting the punch line wrong. I just ignored him and read my emergency purse book behind the desk in a desperate attempt to pass the time and stay awake.

When the night finally ended and the shift change came, I was exhausted from boredom and starving for hot food. After swapping out the Cascadia employee blazer for my favorite navy gabardine trench coat, I headed down the marble lobby floor and exited the hotel.