“Peter Falk. People underestimate him. They think he’s just a bumbling idiot, so they let their guard down, and that’s how he outsmarts them. He’s the kind of detective I’d want to be.”
I’d been drawn to mysteries since I was a kid, but I’d be drawn to detectives in particular since my mom died. Detectives were cool, calm, and capable. They were usually loners, helping people from a distance. Because the crime had already been committed, a detective could take the time to be careful and deliberate. They were underdogs that people miscalculated.
“You want to be a cop?” Daniel asked.
“No. I want to be a private investigator, not a police detective. For sure not a Coast Guard detective, like my grandfather. Their investigations are boring, mostly fishery violations and some minor smuggling. I prefer more scandal in my cases.”
“A gumshoe, eh?”
“It’s one of the reasons I was excited about working at the Cascadia. You know, that Agatha Christie stayed there, and the whole unsolved crime of that actress back in the 1930s, Tippie Talbot. So disappointing that they remodeled her room. If I were the owners, I would have decorated it with her Hollywood memorabilia. I bet old movie buffs would stay there if they played it up. Or crime aficionados. Maybe someone could have found a new clue and solved her murder.”
“Like you?”
I laughed, a little flustered. “The thought did cross mind. My grandpa wants me to find a good mystery to solve there, but so far I haven’t stumbled upon any dead bodies.”
“Birdie Lindberg, private eye,” he said, grinning at me. “You should be in security at the hotel, not a desk clerk.”
Now I was embarrassed that I’d said too much. I glanced around, scouting for an escape route. In the distance, I caught a glimpse of a bobbing yellow beehive. “So . . . anyway. You don’t have to stay. I’ll just—”
“I know a real-life mystery going on at the hotel.”
I stared at him.
“A real one.” His eyes were bright and wide. He sniffled, rubbed his nose, and then leaned closer and said, “Have you ever heard of a writer named Raymond Darke?”
Of course I had. Raymond Darke was the most successful thriller writer from Seattle—as in, number one New York Times bestselling author, millions of copies sold. Grandpa used to read his books. “I don’t really care for legal thrillers,” I said. “And his characters are boring.”
Daniel’s mouth curved into a smile. “But you do know who I’m talking about.”
“Everyone knows Darke. His books, at least. No one knows the actual writer. The mystery of his true identity is far more interesting than any of the plots in his books.”
The official author photos on Darke’s book jackets were silhouettes of a fedora-wearing man who never faced the camera. He didn’t make public appearances or do anything other than e-mail interviews. No book signings. No nothing. All his books took place in Seattle, and his biography claimed that he lived here, but who really knew?
I paused and gave Daniel a hard look. “What’s this got to do with the hotel?”
“What if I told you that Raymond Darke comes into the Cascadia every Tuesday night at seven? He has no luggage. He just goes upstairs for a few minutes, then comes back down and leaves without anyone realizing who he really is or why he’s there.”
“I’d say that sounds . . . sensational.”
“As in good?”
“As in tabloid fodder.”
“But what if it’s true?” Daniel’s face was open and honest. He seemed to believe what he was saying. Excitement flashed behind his dark eyes.
“That would be a national headline. Every magazine and newspaper in the country would jump at a chance to investigate Darke’s identity if it were true.”
“It is.”
“How do you know it’s Raymond Darke?”
He shoved both hands into his pockets and gave me a slow shrug. “I have my methods. And I can prove it to you. I’ve been trying to figure out why he comes to the hotel for a couple of weeks now. But if you’re interested, maybe we can team up.”
“Team up?”
“Just as friends,” he cautioned. “Less than friends—coworkers.”
What did he mean by that? My emotions were all over the place. A real mystery in the hotel? Involving a famous writer? It was almost too good to be true.
“Forget everything I said before. There’s no need to talk about what happened between us,” he said. “You were right. We’ll leave the past in the past, as you suggested. Onward and upward.”
“Um . . .” I didn’t know what to say. Shouldn’t I be happier about this? It’s what I told him I wanted. I should be relieved.
He was doing that walking-backward thing again, heading outside and leaving me at the market entrance. “Just think about it. If you want to know more, hit me up at work tonight. Maybe we can investigate together and figure out what he’s doing at the hotel every week. Maybe it’s something nefarious and scintillating,” he said, waggling his brows comically.
Before I could answer, a female Oscar Wilde stepped to my side. “Nefarious and scintillating? My favorite subjects.”
Daniel blinked.
“Uh, this is my aunt Mona,” I said.
“The aunt who’s not an aunt?” Daniel said.
“More like fairy godmother,” Aunt Mona said, extending a gloved hand. “Ramona Rivera. You can call me Mona. And you are . . . ?”
“Daniel Aoki,” he said, shaking her hand vigorously. “I work with Birdie at the Cascadia.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, practically purring. “I’ve heard about you.”
If there were an all-powerful being that ruled the universe, it would have surely heard my desperate prayer to please, oh please, have mercy and strike me down. I needed a natural disaster and pronto—earthquake, tornado, tsunami. Anything.
Unfortunately, no one answered my prayers. I was still standing and deeply mortified.
Daniel, however, was elated by this revelation. I mean, he completely lit up. Just for one lightning flash of a second. Then he almost looked embarrassed. Then . . . nothing. He scratched his chin absently and darted a glance at me under the cover of dark lashes.
Right. I got snippy with him about telling Joseph at work about us. Guess I told someone too. Yikes. Was he mad? I couldn’t tell.
He told Mona, “I really dig your entire Mad Hatter look.”
She primped her green hair, pleased. “Why, thank you. I created it myself.”
“Well,” I said, overloud, squelching any further conversation. “We’d better be on our way.”
“Pshaw!” she said. “We have all the time in the—”
“We’d better be on our way,” I repeated, elbowing her in the ribs.
“It’s cool,” Daniel said. “I probably should go too. It was nice to meet you, though.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” she said dramatically.
He walked backward and called out to me, “Think about what I said and let me know. Remember what Elvis told you.”
“Right. Fate.” I tried for a casual laugh, but it came out sounding nervous.