“Thirty it is.” She pointed a gloved hand at me, doing a finger-gun motion, before swishing her dandy butt away to the art stall, cane clicking on the tiled floor.
Inside my head, I filed away everything she said and made my way through the market. A riot of cheerful neon signs greeted me as I rambled through the main level, passing stalls laden with tulips, vegetables, freshly smoked salmon, and Pacific Northwest cherries. I followed a neon arrow down a ramp to the lower levels under the main arcade. Down here, windowless halls and creaking wooden floors led to an odd array of shops that seemed to stand still in time while the rest of the world moved on.
One of those shops was always my primary destination when I came here with Aunt Mona: Get a Clue Mystery Bookshop. The hand-painted sign featured a magnifying glass and a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker cap. It hung above a narrow door, the glass of which was covered in smeared handprints. The middle-aged owner knew more about mystery and thriller books than anyone I’d ever met—including Grandpa Hugo, and he knew quite a bit. I usually enjoyed talking to her, but she wasn’t in today. Disappointed, I browsed the overstuffed shelves and ended up buying a used Raymond Chandler paperback from the shop’s dull assistant.
When I left the bookstore, I noticed that some of the lower-level shops were already closing, and I was about to text Aunt Mona to tell her I’d meet her upstairs instead of in our usual spot. But something just down the corridor distracted me: a glass-encased old-fashioned animatronic fortune-teller machine. It stood in front of a collection of vaudeville Carter the Great stage magician posters that lined the front of a wood-paneled shop front from floor to ceiling.
Pike Place’s iconic magic shop.
A fixture in the market, the magic shop was one of the oldest in the country, crammed with novelty magic tricks and gags—interlocking rings, invisible ink, fake dog poop, signed photos from famous magicians. It was also where you could buy a deck of marked cards, and that made me think of Daniel.
I headed toward the fortune-teller machine and peered inside the magic shop’s propped-open door. A small group of people were watching the owner give an impromptu magic lesson. I used to love watching these performances when I was younger.
Hold on.
That wasn’t the owner.
Daniel’s long face turned toward the doorway, and before I could process what was happening, his eyes met mine and widened.
“If there’s a justification for my actions right now, it’s this: I have gone completely crazy.”
—Veronica Mars,Veronica Mars(2007)
6
Without thinking, I jumped back and hid behind the fortune-teller machine. Why, oh why, had I made the mistake of walking over here?
Don’t panic, I told myself.He probably didn’t recognize you.
So why were people suddenly exiting the store? Was the magic demonstration over?
What were my options here? I could run, but I’d already done that once with him, and look where it got me: working in the same hotel. I considered taking refuge in the bookstore, but they’d shut off their lights already and were flipping over the closed sign.
Crap! Daniel was exiting the magic shop, looking around. No time to escape. How could I look... less obvious? Maybe I should get my fortune told by the animatronic machine? Yes. Okay. That was a good reason to be standing here. I rummaged around the bottom of my purse for coins.Oh God, he’s coming over here....
“Is this a stakeout?”
I glanced up from my purse and tried to act surprised. His dark hair hung loose around his shoulders like it had when I’d first met him in the diner. Since when was I into guys with long hair? Since when did Iknowany guys with long hair? The only one I could think of was Chippy Jones, the old bearded hippie who owned the kite store on Bainbridge Island and rode a two-person bike everywhere. Daniel was no old hippie.
“Oh, it’s you,” I said, sounding a little touched in the head.
“Hello, Birdie.”
I started to reply, but my tongue felt thick in my mouth. A sickly sweat broke over my skin, as if I’d contracted the flu. Or food poisoning. Maybe the dropsy or some sort of milk fever—one of those vague, old-timey conditions.
“I made the joke about stakeouts because of your mystery-book obsession,” he explained. “Detectives. Sleuthing. Stakeouts.”
He remembered what I’d told him in the diner. Wait. Did he think I was stalking him?
“Not here for a stakeout.” I removed my hand from my purse to show him... three pennies and some fuzzy lint, which stuck to my palm when I tried to let go of it. “I’m looking for quarters. For this... thing,” I said, shifting my eyes to the machine.
“Really.” He didn’t sound convinced. Amused, but not convinced.
“I’m wasting time before the staff meeting. I was in there”—I used my lint-covered, sweaty hand to gesture toward the mystery bookstore—“only they’re closing, and I decided... I didn’t know you were here. I mean, I know you do magic, but I wasn’t stalking you. I’m just here for the Great Swami.”
“Oh, he’s not great. He’s just Swami.”
“Whatever. I’m not stalking you.”
