I'd never stand up to analysis. My pucker was exhausted.

  "Thank you for dinner," I said. "I'm sorry about the rest of the night."

  "Don't be sorry. I'm glad I was there. And I needed the workout." He looked at me hard. "Are you sure you're going to be alright here?"

  I nodded. "It's safer than it looks."

  "Hey, Marty."

  Oh good. 2B. I swallowed a sigh and turned wearily. "What, Ed?"

  "Some guy was here looking for you today."

  I froze, my mind immediately going to whoever had broken into 221 Baker Street. Had they found out where I really lived? Had they been stalking me?

  "Who?" I managed to squeak out.

  "I dunno. He didn't leave a name, but he said something about back rent."

  Oh. Great. Bill collectors.

  Watson raised a questioning eyebrow my way, but I chose to ignore it. I was sure there were plenty of PIs who drove Porsches yet couldn't pay their rent on their crappy apartments.

  "Hey, you hear that Mrs. Strum is threatening to sue Mr. Bitterman?" 2B asked. "She claims he was trying to poison her. Funny, huh?"

  Hilarious.

  Watson raised the other eyebrow at me.

  I shook my head. "It's a long story."

  2B leaned against his doorway in baggy jeans, a Jethro Tull T-shirt, and bare feet. "She showed up at his door with some fudge brownies, and Mr. B invited her in. Next thing you know, she's running out of there holding a hand over her mouth. I think they were knocking dentures, and he got a little too frisky."

  I felt my face get warm. I didn't want Watson to hear this conversation. I didn't want to hear this conversation. Mr. Bitterman and his denture-knocking were none of my business.

  "He's writing a cookbook," I told him. "He probably needed a taste tester."

  "Seriously?" 2B pushed himself upright. "He found someone willing to eat that stuff?"

  Apparently not.

  "You should've heard her," he said. "Threatening to throw his pots in the dumpster. Yelling about poison and calling her lawyer. Believe that?"

  What I couldn't believe was that this conversation was happening in front of Watson.

  "Cookbook. Huh. And here I thought he was finally making his move on old Strum," 2B said.

  At least his move hadn't included cabbage or broccoli. Bad enough Watson could see and hear about the decrepitude. He didn't have to smell it too.

  2B looked at my feet. "Nice shoes, by the way."

  "It's a long story," I said again. Long story covered a lot of ground. And bonus, it wasn't a lie this time.

  "Looks like Mr. B wasn't the only one with a hot date," 2B said. He stuck out his hand. "Name's Ed."

  Before I could warn him not to touch, Watson shook it. "John."

  2B glanced at us in turn. "Did I interrupt something?"

  "No," I said.

  "Yes," Watson said. "Good night." He steered me into my apartment, closing the door firmly behind us.

  My heartbeat kicked up a notch. "Was he interrupting something?" Like that good-night kiss, maybe? My pucker might be perking up. Watson's feats of fearlessness and newly realized sense of humor made a good-night kiss seem pretty appealing. Maybe he wasn't the rule-worshipping stuffed shirt I'd thought he was. Maybe his shirt was stuffed with six-pack abs and a nice manly chest. Probably with just the right amount of chest hair, begging for my fingers to run through it and…

  I should probably be listening.

  "…I wanted to make sure you felt safe," he said. "Sounds like you have a possible felon on the premises, with that Mr. Bitterman. Should I be worried about you?"

  "Oh, he's not—" I began. Then I saw his grin and relaxed. "It's an interesting building," I admitted.

  "You're an interesting woman," he said.

  Oh, was I? Interesting was much better than nice or even great. I'd take interesting every time. Interesting lasted a lifetime. Nice only lasted until the lipstick wore off.

  So this was it. It was a sure thing. He was going in for the good-night kiss. He was leaning closer by the second.

  My breath caught in my throat. I let my head fall back just a little, and my lips parted, and my eyes fluttered shut.

  He reached past me to open the door. "Good night, Miss Hudson."

  My eyes opened at the same time the door closed.

  He was gone.

  Leaving me feeling incredibly stupid. I'd read him all wrong. I hoped he'd read me all wrong. He'd even called me Miss Hudson. You didn't kiss someone you called Miss Hudson. You checked out library books from her.

  I pressed my hand to the door to keep from banging my head against it.

  My cell phone buzzed with an incoming text message. Irene. How'd the date go, or should I ask you tomorrow?

  Ask me tomorrow, I texted back. And it wasn't a date.

  Thirty seconds later, Irene texted: There's something wrong with that man.

  Not from everything I'd seen.

  You were smoking hot tonight.

  Not based on results, I wasn't.

  Maybe he's married, she added. I'll look into that.

  I shut off my phone and went to bed.

  * * *

  I woke up the next morning with a new perspective. I couldn't worry about Watson and his marital status and his obvious and tragic lack of a sex drive. I had more important things to think about. I was determined to find out who had broken into the house. Deep down, I knew it wasn't a random petty thief. It was someone with a purpose, and I was going to find out what that purpose was. And I was going to start in the park Kate had thought was filled with "criminal" activity. While I hadn't seen the signs on my last visit there, maybe I hadn't been looking hard enough. There wasn't a better location to hide in plain sight and keep an eye on the place at the same time. Someone could go completely unnoticed while sitting on a bench right out in the open. As far as plans went, it was diabolical in its simplicity.

  I fixed myself a bowl of cereal, took a quick shower, and got dressed while listening for the sounds of Mrs. Strum's knives being sharpened in the hallway outside my door. I didn't hear anything, so I slipped out of my apartment and headed for the Porsche. The fog hadn't burned off yet, and it was typically windy, but I didn't think conditions were harsh enough to keep people indoors. I circled the block twice before finding a parking spot around the corner from the house. I didn't want my connection to the place to be obvious. Maybe it was too late for that, but it made me feel better to take precautions.

  I could hear the skateboarders on the other side of the park as soon as I crossed the street. That was as good a place to start as any. It might not be fair of me to consider them potential burglars just because they were young, male, and reckless, but I couldn't see the carriage-pushing, toddler-towing moms breaking into houses and killing grouchy old ladies.

  I stood near a railing that one of the potential criminals was trying for some insane reason to skateboard down. It seemed like an impossible task, and judging by his results, it was. He kept veering off and splashing down on the concrete steps served by the railing, which explained the holes in his jeans and his sour expression. Also his broken finger.

  Hmm. I wondered how easily someone with a broken finger could manipulate a crowbar or whatever tool had been used to break into the house. My guess was not all that easily. Working with nine fingers would be clumsy. Maybe I was looking at the person who'd gouged the frame and scarred the door and given me an up-close look at Watson in action.

  Okay, that last part hadn't been so bad.

  Except I wasn't thinking about Watson today. Today I was going to carry myself like the private investigator I was supposed to be. I was strong. I was fearless. I was determined.

  "Hey!" I practically shouted at the kid. Unfortunately, I did it while he was trying to ride the railing again. His head jerked up, and his body torqued sideways. The board went flying one way, and the rest of him went the other. He landed in a heap, all the air rushing out of him in a loud grunt. The skateboard rolled a couple of feet in the other direction before it stopped and sat there, a mobile testament to stupidity. Whether mine or his remained to be seen.

  "Dude!" Another skateboarder rolled to a stop a few feet away.

  Dude waved him off without looking at him, and the skateboarder shrugged and pushed himself away. Then Dude sat up, swaying a little and grabbing his hand. "What's wrong with you, lady? Didn't you see I was trying to do a railslide?"

  "I want to talk to you." I tried to inject some sternness into my voice, like my mother used to do when I'd done something lecture worthy, like trying to feed the dog my broccoli. "What's your name?"

  He practically curled up, still rubbing his hand. Great. Now he'd probably broken that too, because of me. That hadn't been my intent, but I refused to feel guilty about it. In the war on crime, there were bound to be casualties.

  I almost rolled my eyes at myself.

  "Your name," I repeated.

  He glared up at me. "Rabid. What's it to you?"

  I stuck my hands on my hips. "Your name is not Rabid."

  He shot a glance to either side. "It's Steven Sanders," he said in a low voice. "But everybody calls me Rabid."

  "Okay, Steven." I squatted down beside him. He recoiled a little, as if I'd invaded his space, and he wasn't sure of the appropriate reaction. "Were you here railsliding last night, around eight o'clock?"

  "No, I wasn't here railsliding last night around eight o'clock," he shot back, trying to mimic me.

  I sat back, disappointed.

  "I was practicing my nollie nightmare flip," he said. "What's it to you?"

  It was plenty to me. He'd just admitted to being in the area when someone had broken into my house. That sounded like opportunity. I just needed motive. I pointed at the Victorian. "Did you ever see the woman who lived in that house over there?"

  He squinted down the street and shrugged.

  "Think about it," I said. "It's important. She was in her 70s and had a dog that she walked here in the park?"

  His expression changed, becoming a mixture of recognition and disdain. "Oh. Her. Yeah, I seen her here." He snorted.

  Now we were getting somewhere. Clearly there was no love lost between him and my aunt.

  "Sounds like you weren't a fan?" I asked.

  He glared at me. "Would you be a fan if she called the cops on you?"

  "Why did she do that?" I asked.

  "Said we were making too much noise. Said we ought to do this on the grass. Like that's possible." He snorted again.

  "I bet that got you angry," I said.

  "Yeah. So? Lots of people get me angry. That's why they call me Rabid."

  Right. Like it had nothing to do with the hair falling into his eyes or the canine tooth poking through his lips when he closed his mouth.

  "She was all the time complaining about everyone," he said. "I never seen such a miserable old—" He stopped short, glancing at me from under a thatch of hair. "Anyway, the cops gave me a ticket for being a public nuisance. Me! Can you believe it?"

  It wouldn't have been polite to say I could.

  "So what did you do?" I asked, watching his reaction closely.

  "What could I do?" I could see the color rising in his cheeks, the veins starting to pop out on his neck. No doubt about it, he'd been ticked off at Aunt Kate.

  "Get revenge?" I asked.

  He gave me a funny look. Had I pushed too much? I cleared my throat, trying another tactic. I could see him eyeing his skateboard, and knew I was losing what little attention span the kid had. "When was the last time you saw her?"

  He held up the hand with the broken finger. "When she gave me this."

  "She broke your finger?" I stared at him. "What'd she do, grab you or something?"

  "You kidding? She couldn't do anything to me. She was older than dirt." Another snort. "That stupid dog of hers got all up in my fakie railslide, and I fell on my—I fell off my board and broke my finger." He paused. "Why you asking me all this anyway? I ain't breaking the law."

  Not at the moment.

  "Because she's dead," I said bluntly.

  "I ain't surprised." He shoved some hair out of his face. "Like I said, she was older than dirt."

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. What was with people? She was a few years past retirement age, but seventy was hardly at death's door. Then again, the kid probably thought I was middle-aged. I shoved that unpleasant thought to the back of my mind and instead asked, "You don't happen to drive a VW Bug, do you?" I asked, remembering the car Lucy had seen parked on the street the night of Kate's death.

  He glared at me. "No! What kind of dumb question is that?"

  It had been worth a shot. "Did you ever see Kate again after her dog made you break your finger?" I asked.

  "Don't ask me," he said. "I don't pay much attention to old women and their dogs."

  I narrowed my eyes at him. It seemed to me he'd paid a lot of attention to her, judging by the shade of angry red his face was going just talking about the incident. I mentally compared his slim build to that of the figure I'd seen leaving my aunt's house last night. It was entirely possible the kid could be my intruder. Maybe he'd decided that just killing her wasn't enough—he'd wanted to steal from her as well.

  "Do me a solid," he added, getting to his feet and brushing dirt off his jeans. They didn't look any cleaner for it. "I don't know who the old broad was to you, but leave me and my buddies alone. We put up with a lot from her when we ain't bothering nobody."

  "I can't promise you that," I said. "I'm investigating her murder."

  There. It felt good to say the word finally.

  His eyes got wide. "You mean you think I had something to do with—" He didn't finish that thought, instead clenching his jaw shut tightly. "I got nuthin' else to say to you. Lady, you are certifiable." He rushed over to his skateboard, hopped on, and pushed himself away without looking back.

  I watched him go, thinking I might be certifiable, but he was definitely on my suspect list.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I walked along the small pathway that cut through the park, scanning the landscape. Much the same groups of people were present today as they had been on my last visit. The chess players had been right—this was a neighborhood park filled with regulars. I wondered if Kate had been close with any of them. It sounded like she'd been a regular here too, walking her dog.

  From her letters, Kate had clearly been the vocal type when it came to her grievances. I wondered if maybe she'd shared her thoughts with anyone. I mentally wished she'd been a bit more specific in her complaint. "Criminal" was pretty broad. She could have meant anything from drug deals to littering.

  My eyes rested on the group of men and women in spandex and shoes with separate toe shapes, gathering under a large shade tree for yoga class. The teacher hadn't arrived yet, but I remembered her to be about the same age as Kate had been. Had they known each other? I wondered. If nothing else, Yoga Lady spent a good deal of time in the park it seemed and might have seen the same sort of activity Kate had. It was at least worth a conversation.

  I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Irene's number. "Want to meet me for yoga class?"

  There was a beat of silence. "You don't practice yoga."

  "I've been meaning to start," I said. "And a nice outdoor class under a bright blue sky seems like the perfect time."

  I heard Irene gasp. "You're at the park! Are you investigating without me? Don't do a thing! I'll be right there." She disconnected.

  I sat on an empty bench and didn't do a thing. Except keep an eye on the skateboarders, the mothers and their children, and the chess club, and the small group gathering in the grass off to my right, holding yoga gear and checking their watches. With any luck, the next class wouldn't start until Irene and I were ready to join it. Nobody seemed to notice me, which was just what I'd figured would happen. Sitting on a bench in a park, you became wallpaper.

  A little while later, a Prius rolled down the street and into an empty spot at the curb. Irene jumped out, dressed in leggings and an oversized T-shirt knotted at the waist, carrying a pink rolled-up mat and a blue block. She rushed over to me. "Am I late? Did it start yet?"

  I shook my head. "What do you have there?"

  "These?" She glanced down. "I borrowed these from my neighbor. I wanted to look like a real yogi."

  Pretty sure it took more than some rubber and Styrofoam to do that.

  Irene sat down. "Since we have a few minutes, I wanted to tell you I did a little research last night. You'll be happy to know Dr. Watson isn't married."

  Was I happy to know that? I wasn't sure. As easily as I could picture him chasing down the mystery intruder, I could picture him reaching past me to open my door and leave. While I stood there with my lips puckered like a fish. Even the memory was capable of embarrassing me. I felt my cheeks turning pink thinking about it.

  Irene looked at me. "You're blushing."

  "I am not," I said. "I'm just flushed with good health."

  She narrowed her eyes. "What happened between you two?"

  "Nothing," I said. "We had a perfectly lovely dinner. Thanks for the dress and the shoes, by the way. He thought they looked nice."

  "Nice?"

  "That's not important," I told her. Not anymore. It hardly bothered me at all. First impressions weren't that important, were they? "He told me he found something." I shared Watson's description of the ginger lily under Kate's nails.

  "Any idea where it's from?" she asked.

  I shook my head. "I had planned to look through the house after dinner, but the night got a lot more interesting after we got here."

  "Wait, what?" Irene practically vibrated with excitement. "We? He came back here with you?"