“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 arereallygood 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,thisis 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’sourtourist 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 aweebit, 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 thoselifestyles of the you-can’t-afford-it, so don’t bothermagazines.
“Look,” Daniel said. “In the frame, hanging over that chair. It’s the same artwork from thatAidaopera 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 seenLes Misérablesthere 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-templeAidaalbum 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?”
