We walked together in silence through the dwindling crowds in the main arcade until Daniel tapped my bag. “What did you get at the bookstore? Another mystery book?”
“At a mystery bookstore? Imagine that.”
“Who’s your favorite detective?” he asked before quickly adding, “I like Jessica Fletcher. I’ve streamed every episode ofMurder, SheWrote. Angela Lansbury is the best. When I was a kid, I had a crush on her.”
“On Angela Lansbury?” I said, incredulous.
He struggled to hide a smile. “So hot.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m totally serious. I like old shows. Anyway, who’s your favorite detective?”
He seemed genuinely interested, so I answered. “From fiction, probably Miss Marple or Amelia Peabody. In movies, Nick and Nora Charles fromThe Thin Man.”
“The Thin Man? That sounds familiar.”
“It should. It’s just one of the best movies of all time.”
“Is that so?” Daniel chuckled, but not in a mean way, so I continued.
“And my favorite TV detective is Columbo,” I said. “Hands down.”
“The cop in the trench coat? What’s the actor’s name?”
“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 thoughtdidcross 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 oneNew York Timesbestselling 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 youdoknow 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?
