Serious Moonlight(3)

“Her current guardian in spirit.”

“That’s better.”

“I’m just saying. Yes. Of course. That wasn’t the problem.”

“There was a problem? Was he a jerk? Did you get caught?”

“Stop. It was none of that. It was me. I suddenly just got . . . weirded out.”

One moment I was all caught up in feeling good. This beautiful, funny boy whom I’d just met was kissing me, and I was kissing him, and I think I may have just possibly suggested we get in the back seat instead of going to the movie theater. I don’t know what I was thinking. I suppose I wasn’t, and that was the problem. Because once we got back there and clothes started getting unbuttoned and unzipped, it all happened so fast. And in the middle of everything, I had a startling moment of clarity. He was a stranger. I mean, a complete stranger. I didn’t know where he lived or anything about his family. I didn’t know him at all. It got way too real, way too fast.

So when it was over, I bolted.

Ditched him like a guilty criminal fleeing a botched bank job.

Then I headed to the ferry terminal and never looked back.

“Oof,” Mona said in sympathy, but I was pretty sure I heard some relief in her voice too. “Did he . . . ? I mean, was he upset about it?”

I shook my head and absently rearranged the salt and pepper shakers. “I heard him calling my name. I think he was confused. It all happened so fast. . . .”

“Maybe too fast?”

“He wasn’t pushy or anything. He was nice, and I’m such a dud.”

Mona made a chiding noise and quickly held up three fingers in a mock Scout salute. “On my honor—come on. Say it.”

“Trying to be an adult here.”

“Trying to help you be an adult. Say our pledge, Birdie.”

I did the salute. “On my honor as a daring dame and gutsy gal, I will do my best to be true to myself, be kind to others, and never listen to any repressive poppycock.”

When my grandmother was alive, she forbade swearing, cursing, and anything resembling rebellion under her roof. Adjusting to her rules after my mother died had often been draining. Aunt Mona had helped me cope by coming up with the Daring Dame pledge . . . and secretly teaching ten-year-old me a dozen words that contained the word “cock.”

Aunt Mona and Grandma did not get along.

Satisfied with my Daring Dame pledge, she dropped her fingers. “I know it’s hard for you to get close to people, and I know as much as you and Eleanor disagreed, she was still your grandmother and it hurts to lose someone. I know you must feel like everyone you love keeps leaving you, but it’s not true. I’m here. And other people will be too. You just have to let them in.”

“Aunt Mona—” I started, not wanting to talk about this right now.

“All I’m saying is that you didn’t do anything wrong. And maybe if this boy is as awesome as you say he is, he could be understanding about how things ended if you gave it another chance. You said he gave you his phone number. Maybe you should call him.”

“Must have fallen out of my book when I was running,” I lied, shaking my head. I actually tossed if off the side of the ferry on my way home that afternoon when I was still freaking out about what I’d done. “But maybe it’s for the best. What would I say? Sorry I bailed on you like a weirdo?”

“Aren’t you sorry you bailed on him, though?”

I wasn’t sure. But it didn’t matter. I’d probably never see him again. And that was a good thing. It was one thing to say the Daring Dame pledge and a whole other to live it. Maybe I needed to build up some real-world experience before I braved dating. Perhaps I needed to put on my detective glasses and figure out where I went wrong.

But after all the mystery shows I’d binged, I should’ve known that detectives never investigate their own crimes.





“I worry. I mean, little things bother me.”

—Columbo, Columbo (1971)





2




* * *



The Cascadia was a five-story historic brick building on the corner of First Avenue in downtown Seattle near the waterfront. It was a luxury landmark hotel built in 1920 and was recently restored to showcase its Pacific Northwest roots while offering thoroughly modern amenities—at least, according to the website.

And I was going to work here.

Its unassuming entrance sat beneath an awning that sheltered the sidewalk. And beneath that awning, leaning against a hotel van parked at the curb, stood a Native American porter in a green uniform, perhaps a couple of years older than me. When I approached, he mistook me for a hotel guest, straightened, and opened one of two gold-trimmed doors. “Good evening, miss.”

“I work here,” I told him. “Tonight’s my first shift. Birdie Lindberg.”

“Oh.” He allowed the door to swing shut. “I’m Joseph,” he said, quickly looking me over until his gaze briefly lit on the pink-and-white stargazer lily pinned over my ear. “You’re a Bat, right?”

“I’m the new night auditor?”

“You’re a Bat, then,” he said with a smile.

Right. I remembered now. Melinda was the night manager, and “Bats” made up the graveyard crew. My position was basically just a glorified front desk clerk who worked graveyard shift at the hotel and, after midnight, ran the software program that tabulated all the room bills and settled accounts. I was being paid a dime over minimum wage.