“You look lost,” he said, smiling, with a slight Scandinavian accent.
“Yes,” I agreed. “I suppose I do. This is the Nest?”
He nodded. “That’s right. Founded in 1972 by my parents. They brought the idea of cohousing with them from Denmark. Every child should have one hundred parents—that was the motto. We have twenty-eight parents here and seventeen grandparents. That’s close enough,” he said with a laugh. “I’m Mr. Jessen, the community Elder. You interested in living here?”
“No. I’m actually looking for someone. The Aokis?”
“Ah,” he said. “You have a private lesson with Cherry?”
“Uh...”
His brow furrowed. “She didn’t log it.”
“Log it?”
“She usually gives lessons in the common house. I’m almost positive that the room she uses has a bridge game booked. Mrs. Griffith is sick, but the game will probably still be happening. And it’s best without her anyway, because Bob has been getting a little flirty.”
Um, okay. Mr. Jessen was clearly the community gossip.
“Did I hear that you have a private lesson with Cherry?” another male voice said behind me.
I turned to face a stocky Asian man with a heavy beard, cradling a metal bowl filled with lettuce greens in the crook of his arm. He was dressed in jeans, sandals, and a sky-blue Hawaiian shirt covered in volcanos and palm trees. A leash was clipped to one of his belt loops; on that leash was the biggest cat I’d ever seen. Alarmingly big. Like a small bear.
“Jack,” Mr. Jessen said, adjusting his beret. “This girl is looking for you.”
“Me?” he said.
“She has a lesson with Cherry,” Mr. Jessen said. “But the room in being used. We talked about this at the last meeting. The sign-up sheet is mandatory. I don’t mind Cherry giving private lessons—”
“I’m not here for a lesson,” I said, exasperated. “I’m looking for Daniel.”
Discerning eyes flicked to the flower in my hair. “O-o-o-h,” the bearded man said in a low, excited voice. “You’re her. You’re the girl.”
“I am?”
“Nancy Drew.”
“Birdie Lindberg,” I said, feeling a little self-conscious.
“Birdie Lindberg,” Mr. Jessen murmured, as if he were committing it to memory.
I asked the bearded man, “Are you Daniel’s...?” He looked younger than Grandpa Hugo. Definitely not as old as Mr. Jessen. Was his ear pierced?
“I’m his Jiji,” he said, hand on his heart.
“Jiji,” I said, smiling. “His grandfather.”
His grin looked just like Daniel’s. “That’s right.”
The enormous cat lifted her face in my direction and sniffed the air. She was bigger than a lot of dogs and had an insanely fluffy ruff around her neck; the furry tail was longer than my arm. “This is Blueberry,” he told me. “She’s a Maine coon. Don’t let her size fool you. She’s a sweet and tender lady.” He flicked a tart look at Mr. Jessen.
“I’m just glad she’s taking to the leash,” Mr. Jessen said. “Just remember to keep her away from the playground. We don’t want another incident.”
Jiji looked as if he were biting back words. He closed his eyes for a moment and then turned to me and said, “You’re here to see Danny?”
Danny? That was jarring.
Before I could answer, Mr. Jessen interjected, “Daniel normally goes to the comic shop to play that game on Saturday nights. Has he left already?”
