Serious Moonlight(89)

“N-o-o-o,” I drawled, giving him a guilty grin. “But it sounds easy.”

It wasn’t.

In the wee hours of the morning, we spent far too long searching, sitting cross-legged on the rug in my room, laptop propped on the Columbo pillow. We tried multiple stills, multiple ways. But it wasn’t until we narrowed our photo search down to Seattle—duh—that we stumbled across an article in the newspaper.

Fran Malkovich, interior designer. There she was, showing off, standing in her own kitchen, in her historical home in the Queen Anne District, which she shared with her new husband, vaguely described as a writer named Bill.

“Bill Waddle,” Daniel murmured. “That was the name he used at Tenor Records.”

“Does it indicate where the house is? That’s a big neighborhood.”

He read the article out loud. No mention of an address, naturally. But what it did provide was a slide show of several rooms she’d designed in the home . . . and one photo of the exterior. We didn’t even bother reverse-searching it. There was an entire website dedicated to historical homes in Seattle, and this eight-million-dollar pale-pink Victorian was right there, for all the world to see.

It was three blocks from Kerry Park.

“Got you, asshole,” Daniel said, flicking his finger against the screen. “Good work, Nora. Looks like you and I need to return to Queen Anne and take a little stroll.”

? ? ?

We couldn’t go the next day. Daniel needed to get home and change, as he hadn’t planned for a sleepover at my house and was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. And then we both had to work, which was a little . . . nerve-racking. Not in a bad way. It was just that everything had changed between us in one night. I was positive every single one of our coworkers knew what we’d been doing.

Joseph knew for sure. Every time I saw him, he had a funny look on his face and gave me a little lift of his chin. And don’t get me started on Chuck. First he asked me if I’d won the lottery because I was suspiciously “in a good mood.” Then he made a joke in front of Mr. Kenneth about me having a look on my face as if I’d “spent the weekend in Las Vegas with a bunch of male hookers and a bag of cocaine.”

I didn’t care, to be honest. Every time Daniel swaggered toward the registration desk to log a van trip, he said “Hi” in a way that made my insides melt like the center of a chocolate molten lava cake, because no matter what anyone thought or guessed, they could never actually know what was between us. It was the most delicious secret, and it made work a thousand times better.

Harder. But better.

On Friday, all the stars aligned, and we were able to meet before work and continue the Raymond Darke investigation. We decided it was better to just take a bus up to Darke’s side of town and avoid the hassle of parking. Plus, it was gloriously sunny—the first real sun of the season. Walking outside was not optional, so we chose to get off the bus a few blocks from our destination to soak up every ray, as if our very existence depended upon it.

“Vitamin D, you feel so damn nice,” Daniel said as we strolled along a city sidewalk, turning his face up to the blue above. When we passed Kerry Park, we didn’t stop, because the grassy space was packed with other sun worshippers. And who could blame them? The sky was so clear, the dome of Mount Rainier rose over the city like a snow-capped guardian. It made you feel good about life.

And good about the future, too. Daniel’s arm was slung around my shoulder, and we took our sweet time, sauntering past luxury apartment buildings and big houses with perfect lawns and perfect city views, every cross street flashing us glimpses of Puget Sound, glistening in the sun.

Perhaps we were too dazzled by the perfect weather. When we came closer to Darke’s address, we got a little turned around. Problem was, the hillside homes facing the street were hidden behind gates and shrubs and columns. It was almost as though they were downplaying their assets, trying to look nondescript to passersby—nothing to see here, folks—while they showed their grand sides around back, facing the city. But while Daniel double-checked the address on his phone, I spotted the pale-pink Victorian behind a tall, deep green hedge.

“That’s it,” I said, gesturing across the road. “It’s got three stories facing the street, but it’s on a slope—”

“Four stories around back,” Daniel said. “All the pictures online were taken in their backyard.”

The house was perched on a corner. An iron gate between hedges guarded the paved front “yard,” which was just empty space for several cars. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” I said.

“Unless there’s a garage or something around back.” He squinted into the sun. “Looks like there’s a camera pointed at the front door, so let’s steer clear of that and head around back.”

An open, curved driveway led to a garage beneath the side of the home. Parked there was a white van with a richly scripted QUEEN CLEAN painted on the door. We paused behind a tree and watched as three uniformed maids emerged from a door near the garage. One of the women locked the door and pressed a code into the security panel before she got in the van. A minute later it was backing up, and we flattened ourselves against the hedge as it sped away.

“Shit,” Daniel said. “That was close. Three maids? That’s some kind of rich.”