They laughed, and Grandpa began rolling up the chicken wire he’d been using around the tomato plants. “Actually,” I said, “something interestingdidhappen today. I heard some gossip about Raymond Darke.”
Cass perked up. “The writer? Doesn’t he write the stuff you read, Hugo? Thrillers?”
“What gossip?” Grandpa asked.
“Someone I work with claims Darke checks into our hotel every week for an hour.”
Grandpa pushed up his glasses, leaving a streak of dirt on his nose. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not. Hold still.” I used my thumb to wipe away the smudge. “I combed through the hotel’s records, and someone named Ivanov checks in every week. Same room.” I told them about the home address being the same as our sister hotel in San Francisco and about the man with the baseball cap in the elevator.
“Very odd,” Cass murmured. “But why does your coworker think it’s Darke? Every journalist in Seattle would sell their left foot for a chance to reveal the man behind the books.”
“Daniel says—”
“Daniel,” Grandpa repeated. “That’s the boy you mentioned before? You two are becoming fast friends, huh? Mona texted me last night. Said she met him...”
Ugh. “She did.”
Cass laughed. “I know that look. Hugo, stop pestering her.”
Grandpa held up his hands in surrender. “Not pestering. Continue, Birdie. Continue.”
“There isn’t much left to tell you. Daniel claims to have proof it’s Darke. He just can’t figure out why he’s checking into the hotel. He wants me to help him figure out why.”
Grandpa nodded. “I see. He knows you’re a mystery hound, then?”
“Yes.”
He shared a conspiratorial look with Cass that I ignored. Then he shoved the roll of chicken wire underneath a potting table. “You know, it’s strange you bring this up, because just last night they were talking about Darke onRainier Time.”
His favorite local radio show, which ran late at night.
“A listener called in, talking about the detective in Darke’s books—”
“Paul Parker,” I said. “Stupidest detective name ever.”
“Like it or not, it’s a million-dollar name for Darke,” Grandpa said with a smile. “Anyway, the listener was talking about how Darke’s detective is a fan of opera music and that all the book titles are based on opera names. They say writers usually write what they know. I would be greatly surprised if Mr. Darke didn’t have a real-life obsession with opera. I think I even remember reading an interview with him—he almost never gives them, you know.”
I made air circles with my hand, hurrying him along. “And?”
“What’s that on your palm?”
“Looks like a phone number,” Cass said.
I scrubbed a thumb over the ink, feeling my cheeks warm.
“Wouldn’t be from your friend Daniel, would it?” Grandpa asked.
“It’s just the manager’s number,” I lied. “You were saying about this Darke interview?”
“Oh, right. I was going to call into the show about it, but I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, and before I could look for the magazine, they were already talking about something else. But I seem to remember Darke mentioning in this interview that he collects opera records. Actual records, like they used to make.”
They still did. Lots of people collected vinyl, and some records were worth a lot of money.
If Darke collected records, then it stood to reason he browsed vinyl shops in Seattle. I wondered how many of those there were. I knew of at least one in Pike Place, but I didn’t recall seeing any opera records there. Besides, if a man was trying to keep a low profile, he probably wasn’t browsing in a place that was so busy and filled with tourists. Maybe a smaller store with less foot traffic. A store that employed someone who shared his passion for music.
Inside my head, I couldn’t resist typing up a suspect profile for Darke:
