Serious Moonlight(68)

“Me?” he said.

“She has a lesson with Cherry,” Mr. Jessen said. “But the room in being used. We talked about this at the last meeting. The sign-up sheet is mandatory. I don’t mind Cherry giving private lessons—”

“I’m not here for a lesson,” I said, exasperated. “I’m looking for Daniel.”

Discerning eyes flicked to the flower in my hair. “O-o-o-h,” the bearded man said in a low, excited voice. “You’re her. You’re the girl.”

“I am?”

“Nancy Drew.”

“Birdie Lindberg,” I said, feeling a little self-conscious.

“Birdie Lindberg,” Mr. Jessen murmured, as if he were committing it to memory.

I asked the bearded man, “Are you Daniel’s . . . ?” He looked younger than Grandpa Hugo. Definitely not as old as Mr. Jessen. Was his ear pierced?

“I’m his Jiji,” he said, hand on his heart.

“Jiji,” I said, smiling. “His grandfather.”

His grin looked just like Daniel’s. “That’s right.”

The enormous cat lifted her face in my direction and sniffed the air. She was bigger than a lot of dogs and had an insanely fluffy ruff around her neck; the furry tail was longer than my arm. “This is Blueberry,” he told me. “She’s a Maine coon. Don’t let her size fool you. She’s a sweet and tender lady.” He flicked a tart look at Mr. Jessen.

“I’m just glad she’s taking to the leash,” Mr. Jessen said. “Just remember to keep her away from the playground. We don’t want another incident.”

Jiji looked as if he were biting back words. He closed his eyes for a moment and then turned to me and said, “You’re here to see Danny?”

Danny? That was jarring.

Before I could answer, Mr. Jessen interjected, “Daniel normally goes to the comic shop to play that game on Saturday nights. Has he left already?”

“I should have called,” I said, suddenly uncomfortable.

Jiji waved a dismissive hand. “He hasn’t been to one of those games in weeks. Have you had dinner?” he asked me, nodding toward his bowl of leafy greens.

It was dinnertime? How had I not been aware of that? I guess once I started working at the hotel, my entire sense of normal time got screwed up.

“Baba roasted chicken,” he said. “You eat roasted chicken?”

“I do?” I said, not knowing who Baba was.

“Everyone does. It’s the best. Come on.” He waved me toward him and held out his free elbow, and I couldn’t refuse. What was I supposed to say? No thanks—I only came here to find out if your grandson wants to have sex with me again as some sort of half-baked relationship test that may or may not tell us anything about our potential relationship?

Be cool, Birdie. Be cool.

I slipped my hand around his forearm, and he led me as if I were his prom date, the big cat trailing behind us. Mr. Jessen was trying to tell us good-bye, but Daniel’s grandfather just ignored him.

“Don’t bother being polite to Old Man Jessen. If an asshole could wear a beret, that’s what it would look like,” he said under his breath as we strolled down the sidewalk, heading left when it split around the central common house. “Some people don’t handle retirement well. He spends his policing us. Like I give a good goddamn about all his sign-up sheets. I weed the garden more than anyone here. I don’t need a schedule.” He glanced back at Jessen and gave him the stink eye. “Now he’s got Blueberry in his sights. It wasn’t an incident. If anything, we’re the victims here. Mrs. Berquist’s spoiled punk boy was trying to pull Blueberry’s tail.”

“Never pull a cat’s tail,” I said.

“It’s just common sense,” he agreed. “Of course, Blueberry swatted at him, and he got scratched on the arm. Whoop-de-do. It’s not as though the boy needed stitches. Spray some antiseptic on it and then put your punk kid in time-out for harassing my cat.”

“I’ve never seen a cat walk on a leash,” I said. “She’s very well trained.”

“She took to the leash in one afternoon. Smartest cat you’ve ever seen,” he said, beaming back at her. “Oh. Here we are, Birdie. This is us.”

We stopped in front of a turquoise house. He let go of my arm to unhook Blueberry’s leash, and the cat moseyed through a propped-open screen door on some sort of outbuilding attached to the side of the house. It looked as if it originally may have been a carport or garage but had been converted into a small workshop. Jiji ushered me inside. The scent of sawdust was heavy. My gaze roamed over a workbench. Saws. Pegboard filled with tools. And on a couple of sawhorses, an upside-down table was drying; the wood stain was still wet.

“Did Daniel build that?” I asked.

“Sure did. That’s for Mr. Fontaine,” he said, as if I would know who that was, and then waved his hand around the workshop. “Danny did all of this. The shelves on the walls, even. I helped him get started, but he’s surpassed my knowledge and skills. If he’d slow down and measure things, he’d be even better.” He sniffed the air. “Smell that? Roasted chicken’s done. We’d better hurry.”

Jiji stopped near another door and slipped off his shoes, placing them in a cubbyhole alongside others. With his hand on the door handle, he paused and looked back at me. “Baba does not allow shoes in the house.”