—Officer Jim Chee, The Ghostway (1984)
Late the next afternoon, I took a ferry into the city. I’d been trying to call the daytime manager at work to see if she’d put me back on the work schedule after my emergency leave. I was a little worried Melinda would be miffed for making her shuffle everyone around to accommodate me—and more worried about what would happen when I told her my doctor wanted me to work in the day. But when I called, no one picked up the manager’s line. So I called the main guest line repeatedly but kept getting a busy signal.
Which was strange. It should go straight to the automated menu.
After several fruitless attempts, I wasn’t sure what to do. Then I got a text from Daniel:
The Cascadia is closed today for maintenance.
But u should go in anyway.
Maybe around 5:30.
Will u go? Y/N
I reread this several times. I had so many questions: Closed for maintenance? Why? Were guests still there? Employees? Was Daniel working? Did he want to talk? About us? Was he being terse because we weren’t speaking right now, or because he was about to break things off with me?
In the end I decided to send a simple reply: Yes.
He never responded, and that made me worry even more. I was also hopped up on my new medication, and it made me feel anxious and weird. But I figured it was better to go face whatever was going to happen than sit around wondering.
When I got to the Cascadia, the entrance was roped off, and a big sign in the front said that the hotel was temporarily closed for repairs and for guests with bookings to speak to the doorman. Only there was no one there. The van was gone too. I headed around to the employee entrance in the alley and had to squeeze past massive trucks and people in hazmat uniforms.
And the smell. Dear God, the smell . . .
Before I could swipe my badge to get inside the employee hallway, the back door swung open and Chuck’s blond head appeared. A surgical mask covered his mouth.
“Dopey,” he said brightly, pulling down his mask. “Weird to be here during the Hawk shift, huh?”
“I’ve been trying to call. What’s going on?”
“SARG happened. The animal rights group reported us to the city for the sewage leak in the garage. Think they sabotaged us too, because there’s shit coming up inside the hotel toilets. It’s an actual shit show on the fifth floor!”
“City shut us down until it’s repaired. We’ve been busing people over to the Fairmont and comping their stays. Guests are pissed, the management is stressed, and no one’s in charge.”
I blinked at the hazmat team. “What about Octavia?”
“What about her? SARG didn’t take her, if that’s what you’re thinking. I think they’re just trying to make us look bad. Roxanne says they’ve been trying to get the city to vote on making public aquariums illegal.”
“When will all this be fixed?” I asked, holding my hand over my nose.
“They say to call in tomorrow and prepare to come in then, in case it gets finished tonight. But the cleanup crew says that’s a crock of shit. See what I did there?”
“Who’s the manager on duty?”
“Roxanne’s in the parking garage right now. So, Tina? I think. She’s crying in the manager’s office, so I’d avoid her at all costs. Oh, and if you hadn’t heard, Melinda went into labor last night, so she probably had her kid. Hard to find out because everything’s in chaos.”
“I see that.”
My phone buzzed. I pulled it out of my pocket while Chuck called out to someone in the alley. The screen showed a new text from Daniel: Are you at the hotel yet? I typed a quick response: Just arrived. His reply came a few seconds later: Find Chuck.
I stared at my phone. Find Chuck? Why? No further replies clarified the message.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m supposed to talk to you, I think?”
Chuck turned around, gave me a blank stare, then smacked himself on his forehead. “Duh, almost forgot. Daniel left something for you in locker twenty-seven.”
“In the employee area?” I asked, my heart thumping madly. “Is he here somewhere?”
Chuck shook his head. “Nah. He was driving the van earlier today, helping the midshift driver haul guests and luggage. I think he’s gone now. Oh, and I’m supposed to tell you to hurry before it closes.”
“Before what closes?” I said. “The hotel? Isn’t it already closed?”
He shrugged. “No idea. That’s what he said. I’m just the messenger.”
With my pulse speeding, I murmured a quick thanks, and as I slipped inside the hotel’s back door, I paused and called back into the alley, “By the way, don’t call me Dopey again.”
Chuck blinked at me and opened his mouth, but he couldn’t quite manage an immediate retort. And I didn’t give him a chance to think of one. I just let the door shut behind me and made my way inside the hotel.
The employee hall was empty. No one in security. No manager. No one in the break room. I checked the schedule when I passed the time clock, but it just had a red line drawn through today and tomorrow.
I made a beeline to the employee lockers. Number twenty-seven was locked and had a note taped to the front that read: You have the key.
Did Daniel write this? It looked like his illegible scrawl. What did he mean? I have the key? I checked my purse, but of course it wasn’t there. After glancing around in paranoia to make sure I wasn’t being watched or filmed for some kind of cruel hidden-camera prank, I stared at the note again. I have the key. . . . My gaze flicked to the slits at the top of the lockers. Big enough for a key? I strode to my assigned locker, unlocked it, and what do you know? A tiny key sat on the top shelf.
Grabbing it, I went back to locker twenty-seven and stuck it inside the padlock. Success! I popped the lock, opened the locker, and peered inside. Empty. No, wait. Something sat on the shelf.
A book.
A single yellow sticky note on the cover read Birdie in neat handwriting.
I peeled it off and stared at the peach cover of an old Agatha Christie paperback—The Body in the Library. I’d read it many times. Not this edition, which looked to be from the 1970s or ’80s and had a fifty-cent price tag on the front.
My heart raced. I looked around the locker room as if I’d find Daniel lurking in the shadows. But no. Why had he left this here? Just a random gift?
Or worse: another misdirection?
Never trust a magician.
Right, well . . . Too late for that, wasn’t it?
I inspected the book, thumbing through the pages. No marks inside. Nothing unusual . . . except a receipt that fluttered out.
It was purchased at the mystery book shop in Pike Place Market. This morning. The name of the clerk who rang up the purchase was circled in red ink—the shop’s dull-minded assistant, Holly. Three red question marks were written above it.
Was this a clue?
I looked through the book carefully but found nothing else.
Should I text him? Hold on. Did he want me to go to the mystery book shop? Should I wait here until he comes back and ask him?
He could have given me the book in person. Why go to all this trouble?
I thought about what Chuck had told me, to hurry before it closes.
Before the market closes!
Daniel was handing me a mystery to solve.
“Holy crap,” I mumbled to myself as realization struck. Not a mystery—a mystery hunt, like the one Mona and Ms. Patty had given me in the diner that rainy Easter afternoon.
I glanced around the locker room, clutching the book against my chest, heart filling with joy. But before I broke down and got too emotional to think straight, I remembered the time. If I was going to find Daniel’s second clue, I’d need to get my butt in motion.
It took me ten minutes to speed walk to Pike Place Market. Stalls were packing up, so I jogged through the crowds and down the ramp into the lower levels to the mystery bookshop. Still open! I was breathless when I pushed open the door, scanning the cramped store for Holly. She stood up behind the front counter, lifting a box of used books.
“Holly,” I said.
Her head swiveled toward me. “Yes?”
“Someone left this for me, and they bought it here from you this morning,” I said, flashing her the Agatha Christie book and the receipt.
“Oh, right,” she said. “You’re Birdie.”
“Yes!” I said. “Was it a boy with long, dark hair?”
“Our customers are confidential,” she said robotically, sounding as if she were reciting lines. I was a second away from grabbing her by her cat-with-ball-of-yarn T-shirt and shaking the answer out of her when she pulled something out from beneath the counter. “This is for you.”
It was a ragged DVD box set of a British cozy mystery TV series, Midsomer Murders.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
Holly shrugged. “No idea. I just do what I’m bribed to do.”
I flipped the box set over, where it had a list of episodes. One called “The Magician’s Nephew” had been circled in red with more question marks.
Magician. Magic. Magic shop?
My heart raced, and my feet followed. “Thank you, Holly!” I shouted as I headed out the door and ran across the hall.
I’m not sure what I expected, but Daniel was not there. In fact, I was the lone customer in the shop. An out-of-order sign had been taped to the Elvis fortune-telling machine. I guess even fate broke down once in a while.
“We’re just about to close. Can I help you?” a middle-aged man said from behind the counter. I’d seen him before, showing kids how to walk an invisible dog on a trick leash that had a wire inside to make it stand up. I thought perhaps he was one of the owner’s sons.
I showed him the DVD set and cleared my throat. “Um, hi. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”
He stared at me.
I smiled back.
Nodding, he pressed a button on the register. It dinged as the drawer opened, and he pulled out an envelope with my name written on it in red. “This you?”
I nodded. “Did Daniel leave this?”
He zipped his lips. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”
I nodded excitedly and took the envelope from him. “Thank you.”
Walking briskly, I left the store and stopped near the Swami fortune-telling machine to inspect the envelope. It had my name written on it, and it was sealed.
I impatiently ripped the side off the envelope and puffed it open to peer inside. When I tipped it sideways, a card spilled onto my palm. It was . . .
An Elvis not-a-penny fortune card.
I flipped it over and read the text:
I see that you will have a chance meeting with a dark stranger who will reveal great secrets to you. If you collaborate, a bold and dashing adventure will be in your future. But beware of perilous pitfalls that lead to ruin. It takes a level head and determination to survive a run through the gauntlet. In great attempts, it is glorious even to fail, because in conflict you will find common ground together.
This was the same fortune! My fortune! Maybe not the exact card, because this one had crisp corners, unlike mine, which got bent when I jammed it into the frame of a bedroom mirror. And there was something else: the word “gauntlet” was circled in red with three more question marks.
Crazy emotions pinballed around my chest. Embarrassment over my stupid sex-gauntlet proposal at Green Gables. But also a shimmering, distant hope that he was acknowledging our private joke for a good reason.
And there were other clues on the card. When I squinted, I could just make out a few words written in tiny print at the bottom.
Moonlight Diner. 8 p.m.
Did this note mean eight p.m. tonight? That was almost two hours from now. I flipped the card over several times and peered into the envelope but found no other information.
Was I going to follow the card’s direction?
How could I not?
Trying not to hang too much hope on any of this, I decided to go ahead and walk to the Moonlight. I holed up in our usual booth and ordered tea from one of Ms. Patty’s nieces who by some miracle I had never met. Then I used not only their free Wi-Fi and restrooms, but also the peace and quiet to think. Perhaps I did too much thinking, because I may have fallen asleep. But I didn’t beat myself up over this. My doctor said managing narcolepsy was never going to be easy, so I should get used to losing a few battles now and then. But by the time it got closer to eight, I was fully awake again and began watching the door like a hawk.
And watching and watching . . .
Eight came and went. No Daniel. No nothing.
WAS THIS ALL AN ELABORATE SETUP?
“Get it together, Birdie,” I mumbled to myself, blowing out a long breath.
I crossed my legs and brushed up against something under the table. When I bent to the side to peer underneath, I found not only my childhood crayon drawing of Ms. Patty, but also a note taped to the grain of the particle board. I ripped it off and quickly scanned more scrawled handwriting: Ride the blue horse.
My eyes darted around the diner. No blue horse here. Nothing outside, either. At least, none that I could remember.
I stared out the diner window, scanning the sidewalk, and noticed a blue Mustang idling loudly at the curb. Blue horse! But it wasn’t Daniel in the driver’s seat—it was Joseph, from work.
“Hey,” a woman’s voice said behind me.
I swiveled in my seat to face the bright red hair of server Shonda—aka TONY THE TIGER, according to her name tag today, taking off her coat, as if she was on her way to clock in or had just been on a break.
“You’re supposed to get a ride from that guy in the Mustang,” she said, pointing out the window. “That’s what your lovebird tipped me to tell you. There was a note or something?”
“I just found it. Thank you!” I quickly left cash on the table for my tea, scooted out of the booth, and strode outside to the Mustang.
Joseph ducked his head to me through the window and gestured for me to get inside. I opened the passenger door and slid into the seat while the engine rumbled. “Hey,” I said. “I’m supposed to get in the car with you. Sorry I’m late. I didn’t find the note in time.”
“No worries,” he said. “I’ve only been here a few minutes. Had to drive around the block a few times to snag this parking space.”
He checked his rearview mirror as I put on my seat belt. Then he put the car in gear. “Now you refrain from asking me where I’m taking you.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not supposed to tell you.”
“Just a hint?”
“Daniel wanted you to wear a blindfold, but that’s a little too kidnappy for my tastes, so just keep your eyes down, yeah?”
That was hard to do. And after a couple of blocks, I gave up. We were headed out of downtown as a purpled twilight fell over the city. I asked Joseph a rapid-fire series of questions, trying different angles to get him to spill the beans about this mystery hunt that Daniel had arranged, but he was buttoned up tight.
We sped down Second Avenue and turned north on Broad. After a couple of blocks, Joseph stopped at a red light and discreetly texted someone. When I asked if that was Daniel, he merely said, “You’ll see.”
I went through a dozen possible scenarios in my head, trying to figure out where we were going. Seattle Center was on the left, along with the opera house—something I wished I could forget—and then Joseph was taking a quick turn into a driveway marked with a valet-parking sign. We went around a fountain before coming to a stop. A middle-aged African-American woman in a blazer waved at us.
My heart pounded furiously.
I peered past the woman and stared at colossal, white metal legs that stood at the base of a towering urban structure I saw every day I came into the city. It was iconic and weird, an engineering miracle, and it kicked the Eiffel Tower’s ass any ol’ day.
It all happened so fast. One minute Joseph was stopping the Mustang and jumping outside. Then next he was talking with the woman in the blazer, and she was opening the passenger door and waving me out.
“I’m Martha,” she said, smiling. “You’re Birdie? You’re to come with me.”
I gave Joseph a look that said I’m freaking out right now. Please help me. And he gave me a shrug that said, You’re on your own now. Before I could protest, I was briskly led away by Martha and swept into glass doors. We passed the gift shop, where tourists browsed T-shirts and glass cases, and then hiked up a curving ramp, skipping past lines of people. It was all I could do to keep up with her hurried gait as she swept me into an elevator and closed the door on all the people gawking at us.
Then we began ascending.
“So,” Martha said as we rose over the city, flashing through the glass. “Normally I’d tell guests that we are climbing five hundred and twenty feet at five miles per hour. And that the Space Needle was built in 1962 for the World’s Fair, and the total height is over six hundred feet, which made it the tallest building west of the Mississippi for a few years. This your first time up here since the renovations?”
“Since I was a kid, so yes. Also, my first time in a private elevator.”
“My first time taking anyone up privately, so we’re even.” She unfolded her arms as the elevator slowed and then dinged. “And here we are at the observation deck.”
“But what am I supposed to do now? Is there an envelope you’re supposed to give me or—”
“Enjoy,” she simply said, urging me out of the elevator.
I stepped onto the round, flying-saucer section of the tower: the observation deck. An enclosed inner area that had been recently renovated with clean, smooth lines: white floors and ceilings, modern benches, and floor-to-ceiling windows that sloped outward to form the Space Needle’s distinctive shape.
People meandered around the circular space. They snapped photos and headed through glass doors that led outside, to the outer ring of the deck and the darkening purple city, lights twinkling on while the last orange rays of the sun sank on the horizon.
I swung around, heart racing, looking for the next clue—anything recognizable. And when I turned back around, I found it right in front of me.
Leather jacket with the diagonal zipper. Hair pulled back into a samurai topknot.
Daniel.
My frightened-rabbit heart thumped wildly with joy.
“Hi,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You made it.”
“You left a trail of bread crumbs,” I said.
“I knew you were a good detective.” He took a couple of steps and stopped in front of me, tugging his ear and looking more than a little nervous. Guess he couldn’t always hide it. Or maybe I’d gotten better at recognizing it. “What do you think about it up here? Was I wrong? The view’s not too shabby, yeah?”
I’m sure it was amazing, but I couldn’t possibly look at the city right now. My chest constricted painfully, because suddenly all I could think was how much I’d missed him over the past few days.
I missed his cheerful smile and his jokes.
I missed the way he looked at me right before we kissed.
I missed the thud of his heartbeat under my palm.
I missed all of him.
“Birdie,” he said in a low voice. “I’m sorry for everything. I was an idiot and I’m sorry. I should have told you right from the start about Darke. I was stupid. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I’m asking you to try, Birdie—please. No more secrets. Forgive me. I need you to forgive me. I need . . . you.”
I stared at him. He stared at me. And then I nodded.
“Because if you wanted to bail again, I wouldn’t blame you.”
I shook my head.
“Is that a no, you don’t want to bail, or—”
I blurted out, “I’m in love with you.”
He stilled. His eyes became glossy. He blinked rapidly, shifting his gaze to the side, blowing out a quick, huffed breath. Then he reached for me.
His mouth came down on mine. He kissed me quickly—small, desperate kisses all over my mouth, until I flung my arms around him and kissed him back. Earnestly, rapturously. Like he might disappear at any moment.
Warm fingers cradled the back of my head. He rested his forehead against mine, breathing heavy, eyes teary, and whispered, “I love you too.”
I let those words cascade through me, soaking them up like sunshine. “Are we going to be okay now?”
“We’re going to be okay,” he whispered back. “I told you fate would find a way.”
“And I told you there’s no such thing as fate.”
“Sorry. Can’t hear you,” he teased, his mouth turning up at the corners. “Can you repeat that?”
“Listen,” I said against his good ear, and then I told him I loved him again. And again. I couldn’t stop telling him. I didn’t care that we were standing in the busiest tourist attraction in the city and that people were gawking.
I didn’t care about any of it; I wasn’t afraid.
I didn’t have to count my fingers; I was awake.
I didn’t have to track down any clues; I’d already solved the mystery.
I’d never been so sure of anything in my life.
He hugged me tight. I pressed my face into his neck and my palm against his chest to feel his heartbeat, strong and confident: Thump, thump. Thump, thump. And my own heart bounded to meet it.