Serious Moonlight, page 27
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.”
“This place is huge. I can’t image what it takes to keep it clean. Just look at all the shrubbery and trees back here. His lawn has one of those golf course patterns mowed into it.”
“Unbelievable,” he murmured, something close to disgust in voice. “And what the hell are we doing? If the maids turned on the alarm, then no one’s home. Which means this trip may be a bust. I mean, we already knew he lived near here, logically, since he walks the dogs every morning. And we already knew he was rich. How does this help us figure out what he was doing in the hotel?”
“Detective work is slow,” I said. “But there’s lots to learn if you observe. It’s four p.m. on a Friday, and he isn’t home. Is he never home at this time? Is that why the maids are scheduled to come? They know the passcode, so they’re used to working alone in the house. Where does he go during the day? He doesn’t need a second job, clearly, and he doesn’t make public appearances as a writer. Is he shopping? We know he likes to go to Tenor Records early in the morning. Is that because he’s doing something else in the afternoon?”
“Whoa,” Daniel said. “I’m impressed, Nora.”
“Books are great teachers, Nick,” I said. “But all of this is speculation. What would be better is if we could figure out a way to see inside the house.”
Daniel surveyed the driveway. “A camera’s above the garage. What about that gate in the bushes?”
It was next to a small shed on the far side of the driveway, perhaps used for lawn equipment. No camera. No lock.
I looked at Daniel. He looked at me.
“We’d need a cover story, in case we get caught,” I said. “Maybe we should come back later with props or disguises or something.”
He shook his head. “No way. Luck’s on our side today. We need to go for it. What about . . . ?” He took out his phone and pressed the screen until he’d pulled up a photo of Blueberry the Enormous Cat and practiced an impromptu script. “So sorry to bother you. We’re staying with friends down the street, and their cat escaped this morning. We’ve been helping them scout the neighborhood and thought we spotted it back here, but now it’s disappeared, and, sir? Have you seen a cat that looks like this?”
“You are really good at lying,” I said. “It’s scary.”
He kissed my forehead. “Misdirection, Birdie. While I say all this, you call out for Twinkle Toes, the lost cat, and we apologize for trespassing before leaving.”
“Okay. It’s not the worst plan. Let’s see what we can find.”
Heart hammering, I walked up the driveway with him, careful to keep away from the camera’s eye. We moseyed on up to the side gate, and Daniel reached over it to lift the latch. Boom. We were in the backyard.
And what a yard. Beautiful grass. Lush trees. And the entire city of Seattle at our feet.
“Good God,” Daniel whispered. “Now, this is what I call an eight-million-dollar view. Look at the Space Needle, Birdie. We see it every day, but how many times have you gone up top?”
“Once, when I was a kid.”
“Exactly. Jaded hipsters would tell you that it’s just a tourist trap, and maybe it is. But it’s our tourist trap. It’s weird and iconic, and it’s a freaking engineering miracle with a flying-saucer deck on top, so it kicks the Eiffel Tower’s ass any ol’ day. Now, tell me you wouldn’t want to go up there with me.”
“I may, possibly, just a wee bit, see the appeal.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” he teased. “What’s changed your mind, Birdie?”
I gave him a brazen look, and he gave me one in return, and we were both smiling like idiots, so I blew out a breath and changed the subject. “Can you imagine the parties they have back here?” I said, shielding my eyes to take in the entire lawn. “Tea cakes and champagne. Pretty dresses. Classical music. Important people.”
“Who all know him as Bill Waddle, the husband of Seattle designer Fran Malkovich? Why does he live like that? If I were a megaton author, I’d be wearing a sign around my neck that said, ‘Yeah, it’s really me, motherfuckers.’ ”
“He probably tells his maids to never look him in the eye,” I said. “Oh! I wonder if that’s why they come when he’s away. Protecting his anonymity.”
“What about all his awards or whatever? Wouldn’t housekeepers see those and think, ‘Hey, this is Raymond Darke’s house!’ I mean, don’t they give writers giant gold books or some shit to hang on their wall? Musicians get Grammys. Actors get Oscars. What do writers get?”
“No idea. Whenever I see photos of a writer’s office, it’s filled with books and things they like, not awards.”
Once we got over the thrill of standing around in Darke’s backyard, we summoned the nerve to move a little closer to the house. The bottom floor was built into the hill; it had tiny windows, too high to see into, and a small patio flanking the back door. The top two floors had balconies. But the second floor had an enormous wraparound deck and tons of windows. It was accessible from a curved set of patio stairs that spilled onto the lawn.
Maybe it was all that sunshine rotting my brain, but I felt reckless and said, “Bet we could see straight into the house from up there.”
Daniel hesitated, raised a brow, and said, “All right. Let’s find out.”
Trying not to laugh, we headed up the patio stairs to the second-floor deck while Daniel called out “Twinkle Toes” in a low voice as he searched for cameras or a sign of anyone inside. We were high up with a splendid view of both downtown and all the homes below. I felt like royalty.
“I think the coast is clear,” Daniel whispered into my ear from behind, causing me to squeal. He grabbed me around the waist, pulled my body back against his, and pretended to eat my neck. After some hushed laughter and wrestling, I freed myself and swung around to give him a finger of warning.
“This is not cat-hunting behavior,” I whispered.
“I could make a joke right now, but I won’t. Jesus ever-loving Christ, look at this shit, Birdie,” he said, suddenly distracted as he stared into Darke’s window.
Just as I thought, we could see right inside a large, open living room with posh furniture, artwork, plants, and a grand piano. It was like something out of one of those lifestyles of the you-can’t-afford-it, so don’t bother magazines.
“Look,” Daniel said. “In the frame, hanging over that chair. It’s the same artwork from that Aida opera album sleeve—the one I bought at Tenor Records.”
So it was. And nearby it were several framed prints from local opera productions. I spotted the Paramount Theatre; I’d seen Les Misérables there a few years ago with Aunt Mona.
But it was the print hanging next to it that caught my eye. A chair sitting in front of the print prevented me from seeing the bottom half of it, but there was something familiar about the bold design at the top of the print: a yellow sunset on a red background with something black and swirly blocking the sun. Why did this look familiar? Maybe it was something I’d seen on another opera album cover in Tenor Records, like the Egyptian-temple Aida album Daniel had bought there. As I was squinting to make out the swirly mark blocking the sun—or the type below it—Daniel said from several feet away, “What do we have here? Recycling?”
He was on the side of the deck, peeking inside a built-in hutch that hid three plastic bins.
“He shreds a shitload of paper,” Daniel noted, digging around. “Hey, what’s this?”
It was an envelope that had been opened. Daniel rooted through the shreds and found its mate: a piece of folded paper. The envelope and letter were addressed to Bill Waddle. “What does it say?” I asked, peering over his arm.
“It’s from the Seattle Opera. A written confirmation for the reservation of a private box for him and five guests. You think that’s one of those balcony seats on the side of a concert hall?”
I nodded. “Probably very expensive.”
“Well, seems as if the opera company is just reminding dear old Bill to let his guest know that they can pick up tickets the night of the opera by going to the VIP will-call window and letting the attendant know they’re part of his party. They’ll be shown up to the box.”
I blinked at the paper. “They don’t have to show ID?”
“Huh? Oh, nope. It just says to identify themselves as a member of his party. And they thank him for his continued patronage and generous donations.”
“When is it?” I asked, taking the letter from him. “A week from now.”
“So?”
“At the Seattle Center.”
“Again, not following,” he said, tugging his bad ear.
I repositioned myself so that he could hear me better. “Remember what Ivanov said when he was buying those shrunken heads?”
Daniel stared at me, realization dawning behind his eyes. “He was stopping in Seattle one last time to see a show ‘uptown.’ ”
I nodded slowly, unable to stop smiling.
“Oh shit! Do you really think Ivanov is planning to attend this opera?”
“If so, he’ll be with Darke. In his opera box.”
“Both of them there at the same time. In public,” Daniel said, blinking rapidly. “How does that help our case?”
All my mystery-loving senses were lighting up and blinking inside my head, screaming, Undercover. “Don’t you see? If this letter is right and all we have to do to get inside the opera house is mention we’re with Darke—or Waddle, as the opera company knows him. And voilà! We’re in. It’s the perfect opportunity for spying.”
“You’re seriously proposing we should sneak into the opera and spy on him?”
“Who says we’re not members of his party? We don’t have to actually sit in the box. Maybe we can trail him. See if Ivanov shows up. Overhear some conversations that won’t be behind a closed hotel door. Their guard will be down. They won’t be expecting anyone like us to be spying on them.”
Daniel grimaced. “I don’t know. That seems . . .”
“Risky? Like what we’re doing now, standing on the man’s balcony? We could be shot for trespassing.”
“Touché, Birdie.”
“You don’t have to wear a tuxedo or suit, or anything. I know boys hate that.”
“Au contraire, mon ami,” he said. “I look dope in a suit.”
I laughed. “Dope?”
“So dope . . . so fly. I’ll have you know, I’ve got a lucky suit.”
I squinted. “It makes you lucky, or you got lucky in it?”
“Zero getting lucky. I was my mom’s date at a fancy charity thing for Disney Cruise employees a few months ago, so she got me a new suit.”
“Well,” I said, smiling, “you’re one step ahead of me, because I have no lucky dress in my wardrobe.” I’d have to figure something out; maybe Mona could help. “But we have to go to the opera, Daniel. Don’t you see? It’s fate.”
“Oh-ho-ho,” he said, merry. “So, now you believe in fate?”
“Don’t know about that, but you have the lucky suit, and this is the break we’ve been waiting for,” I argued, trying not to get too excited. “Ivanov and Darke in the same place again? And not behind closed doors. They’ll be relaxed, in Darke’s element. They may loosen their tongues. We could overhear a conversation that could change everything. It’s a detective’s dream—investigating right in front of everyone. We’ll be undercover—just a couple of young opera fans, there to see the show.”
“Okay, Nora. If it means that much to you, we’ll go. But if we end up in the slammer, my mom is going to be pissed.”
As he stuck the letter in his pocket, I wanted to return to the wall of windows and take a second look at Darke’s living room, to see if there was anything else there that could help us figure out what Darke could be doing in the hotel and perhaps study that framed sunset poster from another angle. But as I started to turn around, Daniel’s head snapped toward the side of the house. My gaze followed.
A pickup truck filled with lawn equipment was pulling into the driveway.
If they saw us up here . . .
Alarm fired through my limbs. Daniel grabbed my hand and took off, racing across the deck and down the stairs, onto the back lawn. “What about the cat cover story?” I asked.
“Fuck that! Run for it, Birdie!”
The lawn maintenance truck was blocking our way out. Panicked, I glanced around for a place to hide.
“There!” Daniel said, redirecting our run to the back corner of the yard, where a waist-high gate sat in the bushes. It was locked, but easy enough to jump over. At least, easy for Daniel. He had to drag me over the top when I got stuck.
Breathing heavy, we sped down a narrow service walkway between Darke’s house and the next row of Victorians farther down the hill. Once we were fairly certain we were clear, we found a sidewalk and headed as far away from the house as we could get.
“I think we’re safe now,” Daniel said, glancing down the street. “Whew. I nearly had a heart attack. Sleuthing is hard work.”
And frustrating. I never got a second look at that framed sunset print on Darke’s living room wall. Which shouldn’t have bothered me; after all, we had our next clue in the letter about the opera box, a much flashier, more interesting clue.
But even the most boring TV detective knew better than that.
The devil is always in the details.
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
—Student speaking to Thursday Next, The Eyre Affair (2001)
28
* * *
“Hol’ ’till,” Aunt Mona complained, pins clamped between her lips, while she adjusted the hem of my dress.
I stood on an upside-down wooden crate in the living room area of Mona’s theater, wearing a simple white gown that once was part of Mona’s ice princess outfit. Yesterday she’d deconstructed it to remake it into something I could wear to the opera, and now threads hung loose around missing sleeves and the hem was several inches too long. But at least it didn’t have glittery snowflakes on the bodice anymore.
She removed the last pin from her mouth and stretched her neck while Zsa Zsa Gabor flipped over and rolled around on the dress’s discarded chiffon sleeves. “I think that’s straight. We’ve lost the daylight. Be sweet and go flip on the lamp, will you?”
I stepped off the wooden crate and shuffled over to a 1960s space-age floor lamp. Aunt Mona looked tired, or maybe that was because she was wearing no makeup or wig and was dressed in a pink satin robe, her natural short brown hair slicked back. Without all the glamour, she seemed smaller and a little vulnerable.
“You aren’t mad about having to do all this sewing work on a Saturday night, are you? Because we’ve still got next week. The opera isn’t until Friday night.”
“Are you kidding?” she said. “It’s one of my favorite things to do.”
“I thought maybe I was keeping you from a hot date with Leon Snodgrass.”
