"She'll be the first one you think of, alright," I told him.

  "Is she always like that?"

  I shook my head. "Sometimes she's man-hungry."

  He chuckled. "Can I make you something hot to drink?"

  "You don't have to do that," I said. "I can make myself a cup of tea."

  "I'm sure you can." His smile faded as he looked down at me. "Indulge me. You've been through a real ordeal tonight, and I'd like to know you're okay before I leave you alone."

  "I'm fine," I told him. "But if you insist, I guess I can put up with being catered to. First I'm going to get out of this filthy dress, if you don't mind."

  He was much too polite to offer his help with that task, which was a shame, so I did it myself, leaving the heap of dirty clothes on my bedroom floor and slipping into a thick, fluffy robe and warm woolen socks. I pulled my hair up off my neck, securing it with a tortoiseshell clasp, all too aware that my hair, too, was dirty. It would just have to wait until I was alone.

  I chose to believe it was Watson's medical training that led him to have no reaction to my wardrobe change when I led him into the kitchen, where he insisted I take a seat while he found a spoon, a teabag, and a few sugar packets I'd squirreled away in the utensil drawer, setting them in front of me before putting a mug of water into the microwave to heat. While the timer ticked down, he gave Toby a treat from the bag on the counter. "How are you feeling?"

  I shrugged. "I'll be alright. I'm not sure I could say the same if you hadn't come along."

  "I can't imagine…" His voice trailed off without finishing the thought.

  Neither could I, and I didn't want to.

  He reached out a hand, his fingers gossamer soft as he felt the bump at my temple. I sat very still, barely breathing, although my heart rocketed into the red zone. His practiced fingers gently explored the lump on my head while I was distracted by his nearness and his warm, enticing scent. My eyes fluttered shut, basking in the sensory overload. If I'd have known this was coming, I would have wandered alone at night in a dark park in ridiculously high heels long ago.

  The microwave let out its jarring beep. I opened my eyes in time to see him retrieve the mug of hot water and place it on the table. "Need anything else?"

  I shook my head. "Thanks. You've been great."

  He stood there looking at me, saying nothing, his expression thoughtful. I'd never wished so hard that I could read minds.

  "You should get some rest now," he said finally. "I'll give you a call tomorrow to see how you're feeling."

  Leaving my tea to steep, I got up to see him out, ignoring the throbbing ache in my head and the dull disappointment in my heart, which I couldn't understand. It wasn't like I'd expected him to stay. I wasn't even sure I wanted him to. I planned to do just as he suggested and go to bed after I soaked in a nice hot bath. Assuming I had some nice hot water, which was never a given.

  At the door, he turned to me. "Marty, promise me you'll let Mr. Holmes handle the heavy lifting from now on."

  A little sexist, but I was too tired to argue with him at the moment. "I'll talk to him about it."

  "Thank you." He gave me another mind-melting smile that faded when our eyes met and held.

  Again I tried to decipher his thoughts, but a second later, I no longer had to. He leaned forward to brush his lips against mine, so softly I wasn't completely sure it wasn't a figment of my imagination. Then he was gone.

  And so was I.

  * * *

  I had a restless night—due more to thoughts of Watson than the unrelenting aching from my head—and woke up angry—due more to the unrelenting aching from my head than thoughts of Watson. The idea that Tara might have set a trap for me at worst, or at best, left me alone and vulnerable in the park when she'd stood me up, put my blood in a low simmer. I might have been inclined to be gentler with her under different circumstances, but no more. Now I wanted answers, and I wasn't willing to wait for them. I planned to be at her front door before she could even think of heading for the Bayside Theater.

  But first I needed to know where her front door was. I reached for the phone and called Irene. "Can you find out where Tara Tarnowski lives?"

  "Sure." As usual, she was wide awake and unfazed by the request. "Something come up?"

  I touched my head, where at least the throbbing had stopped even if the growth of the lump had not. "You could say that." I gave her a CliffsNotes version of my night, minus that insomnia-producing kiss and Mrs. Frist putting the geriatric moves on Watson. "I'll have your dress dry-cleaned right away," I finished. "I don't know if the shoes can be saved. I think I chipped a heel when I fell."

  "Throw them out," she said. "Shoes aren't important."

  "I'm sorry," I said. "Shoes aren't important? I must have the wrong number. I meant to call Irene Adler."

  "Seriously, Marty, I'm with Watson on this one. Why on earth would you go to that park alone at night to meet Tara Tarnowski?"

  "I didn't pick the place or the time," I said.

  "You could have called me."

  "It would've taken you too long to get there."

  "Then we would have set it up for another time."

  "And risked Tara changing her mind."

  Irene sighed. "Fine! But just don't go alone to any more late-night meetings with possible killers, okay?"

  Well, when she put it that way, I had to admit it did sound a little foolish. In my defense, I'd only thought Tara would be at the park—who was smaller than I was, slimmer, and hardly threatening—and not an entire parade of people following me.

  "Okay," I agreed.

  "Thank you." Irene was quiet for a second. "You think Tara set you up?"

  "I haven't ruled it out."

  "Or maybe it was Wiggins," she said.

  "That was Watson's first thought too."

  "It's pretty creepy that he's been following you around like that. Who does he think he is?"

  "He's convinced he's on the trail of a hot story," I said. "Apparently he's doing a whole series on Sherlock Holmes's latest case."

  "I don't like that guy. Even if he wasn't the one who attacked you, he sure didn't show up to help you, did he?"

  I paused. "Watson said he saw Wiggins kneeling over me."

  "What?! As in, after he knocked you out?"

  "Or, to try to help me," I said, wondering why I was defending the guy. "I think all he wants is a story. And I don't plan to give it to him," I added.

  "I'm glad to hear that," she said. "Did you go to the hospital?"

  I shook my head even though I knew she couldn't see me. "I'm sure Watson would have taken me if he thought I needed to go."

  "Marty." The single word was a rebuke.

  "Honestly, besides the lump on my head, I was just muddy and cold and mad. Besides, Watson examined me when he brought me home."

  "I bet he did."

  "Not like that," I snapped. "He was"—tender—"very thorough. He even made me tea before he left."

  "Oh, he left?"

  "Sorry to disappoint you," I said. "But yes, he left."

  "Oh. Well, there's always next time," she said.

  I wasn't so sure there'd be a next time after that disaster of an un-date. "Got Tara's address yet?"

  "Here it is." She read it off while I wrote it down. "If you want me to come with you, you'll have to wait until after eleven. I've got a meeting with a baby entrepreneur at ten."

  "What is it this time?"

  "A couple of guys in San Jose with a Chinese takeout business."

  I frowned. "That doesn't sound like your usual investment."

  "They deliver the takeout via drones."

  There it was. "Thanks, but I'll be alright by myself," I assured her.

  "That's what you said last night."

  I rolled my eyes. "It's broad daylight. And I'm guessing Tara lives near other people. Aka witnesses."

  "Fine. But keep me in the loop," she said. "And remember, you've always got Wiggins as backup."

  I hung up on her.

  A half hour later, after sharing a toasted English muffin with Toby, I grabbed my purse and Irene's muddied dress, hoping I wouldn't be waylaid by Mrs. Frist, 2B, or Mr. Bitterman on my way out.

  Instead, I was waylaid by something else: a note taped to the outside of my door.

  Check with Mrs. Frist.

  I didn't want to spare the time, and I really didn't want to listen to any more lectures about my grooming, but if she had some information for me, I was definitely interested. Maybe she'd spotted someone lurking around my door, like Wiggins. If that was the case, I'd want to know about it for the restraining order I'd file. Besides, this morning, my clothes were clean and my hair was brushed. If that didn't make her happy, there was no pleasing her.

  I locked up and hurried down the hall to her door. She answered as quickly, as if she'd seen me coming, and she probably had. It was a wonder she didn't just drag a chair into the hallway and sit there with a clock and a notepad.

  Subtle as always, her eyes flicked to the dress draped over my arm. Maybe I imagined it, but I thought her nose wrinkled slightly.

  I held up the note. "I found this taped to my door this morning."

  She squinted at it, and her nose unwrinkled. "Oh, yes. That nice young man left it last night."

  Nice young man? Wiggins? There was nothing nice about Wiggins. Why was he still following me? Did he think Sherlock Holmes lived in my apartment? How fast could I get that restraining order?

  Mrs. Frist dug a key ring from her pocket and waved it at me. "He said you should use his car. He said it has GPS tracking so he can keep an eye on your whereabouts. He said to make sure you knew he meant that in a good way. He told me to smile when I said it." Her lips stretched obediently over her teeth.

  Not Wiggins. Watson.

  Conflicting emotions warred in me. While the thought that Watson was so concerned over my safety that he'd lend me his BMW, made a flood of warmth pool in my belly. On the other hand, the idea that he had "to keep an eye on me" was insulting enough that I almost wanted to tell him where he could stick that key ring, with a smile when I said it.

  Almost.

  No matter the circumstances, having free use of a BMW for the day was much better than Uber. Plus, I was broke.

  I took the key ring from her. "Why didn't he just leave it with me last night?"

  She shrugged. "He said he thought you'd think it was sexist and refuse. That's why the smile." She flashed her forced grimace at me again.

  I couldn't help grinning back. Watson was a smart man.

  "Besides, he saw my light was on. I'm a bit of a night owl, you know. Three hours of sleep, that's all I need."

  That explained a lot.

  "I enjoy those infomercials they show in the wee hours," she went on. "You can get some real deals at two a.m., in case you didn't know. Anyway, he said he didn't want to disturb you. That you needed your rest. If you ask me, that young man's a keeper."

  One had to get a man before she could keep him.

  "Is Isaac awake yet?" she asked me.

  I dragged my thoughts away from Watson. "I wouldn't know, Mrs. Frist. Why don't you knock on his door and see?"

  "I did. He didn't answer. But I know he's in there." She narrowed her eyes at Mr. Bitterman's apartment.

  I had a brief moment of concern. Mr. Bitterman hadn't answered his door? I tried to remember if I'd heard the rattling of pots and pans or other signs of life coming from his place.

  "I thought he might have invited you to breakfast," she added. "I hear you favor his cooking."

  She'd heard wrong, but given how Mrs. Frist liked to talk, I wasn't about to tell her that. I was too fond of Mr. Bitterman to risk hurting his feelings. I made a note to set aside some time later to check on him, even though the chances were good he was just hiding from Mrs. Frist.

  "I'm running a little late." I held up the key ring. "Thanks for holding on to this for me."

  "You can return the favor," she said. "Put in a good word for me with Isaac."

  I was too fond of Mr. Bitterman for that too.

  * * *

  When the door to Tara Tarnowski's tiny row house in the Outer Mission opened forty-five minutes later, I thought Irene had given me the wrong address. The woman in front of me wore a knee-length terry robe and fuzzy pink slippers. Her hair hadn't yet seen a flat iron or hot rollers but was pulled back in a ponytail, with frizzy tendrils haloing her head. The absence of makeup betrayed dark shadows smudging her eyes. Hard to reconcile this mere mortal with Rebecca's glamorous understudy we'd seen onstage.

  She sent me a flash of recognition followed immediately by surprise. If she'd answered the door expecting a visitor, she clearly hadn't expected it to be me.

  "What do you want?" she asked, glancing around as if checking to see if I'd brought an entourage with me.

  "I want to talk to you about last night. Can I come in?"

  "No." She stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind her.

  "Fine. We can chat out here in front of all of your neighbors."

  She crossed her arms over her chest, clearly not caring about that threat.

  "Do you have any idea what happened to me last night?"

  She clutched the robe tightly around herself, as if warding off my anger. "Hey, what you do at night is your business. Why would I care?"

  "I was attacked."

  If she was surprised, she didn't show it. "Sucks for you."

  "In the park. Where you were supposed to meet me."

  "You should be more careful. We done here?"

  "No, we're not. I still have some questions to ask you about Rebecca Lowery."

  "Sorry, not interested." She turned to go back into the house, but I sidestepped to the right to block her way.

  "Listen, you're going to answer some questions, or I'm going straight to the police station to file an assault charge against you for attacking me last night." It was a total bluff, of course, since I hadn't even seen my attacker, but I was willing to gamble that she didn't want the negative publicity. I knew PS Rossi certainly didn't.

  "Assault charge," she repeated. "Are you joking?"

  I tightened my lips and squinched my eyes into my best I-am-dead-serious expression. The same expression I used whenever Toby stole food off my plate, only hopefully to better effect.

  We stared at each other—well, she stared; I squinted—while I could practically see the do-I-or-don't-I-cooperate battle warring in her eyes.

  Finally, she relented with a dramatic huff. "Fine, but I haven't got all day. What do you want to know?"

  Gracious in victory, I unsquinched my eyes. "Tell me about Lucky's Deli."

  "Don't eat the knockwurst."

  I ignored the sarcasm. "So you know it."

  She shot me a murderous look. "So I know a deli. So what?"

  "It's a deli that sells illegal drugs practically next to the bologna. And you were seen with Rebecca Lowery. Shall I connect the dots, or would you rather do it?"

  "I don't do drugs," she said.

  "That's not the way it looks from here," I told her.

  "I don't know where you get your information," she said with a sniff.

  "But you do know it would be damaging for your reputation if my information got out, don't you?"

  She shot me a look of pure venom. "Fine. Yes, I was with Rebecca at Lucky's. I overheard her on the phone talking about something that sounded shady, so I followed her. But I told you, I don't do drugs."

  "Then why follow her?" I asked.

  "Haven't you ever heard the saying 'information is power'?"

  "But you already had the information," I said. "You overheard her on the phone."

  She didn't say anything.

  "Did you think you could stop her?"

  Her stare was incredulous. "Do I look like Donna Do-Gooder to you?"

  Hardly. And she didn't sound like her either. Suddenly an ugly realization struck me. "You were blackmailing her, weren't you."

  Her chin lifted in defiance. "You don't have to say it like that."

  The woman was shameless. "How should I say it?"

  "I was executing a career plan," Tara said. "I'm no different than any other performer. I want exposure and publicity, the kind of publicity you can only get during opening week, when all the reviewers are in the house. I simply suggested that she call in sick just for one night so the world could discover Tara Tarnowski, the next great talent."

  Great ego was more like it. "Or?"

  "Or I'd go to Rossi about her unfortunate little drug problem." She shook her head with bogus sympathy. "A thing like that might have even cost her her career."

  I thought about the newsstand clerk's claim that he'd seen the two women arguing. "That's what you and Rebecca fought about? She didn't want to give in to your blackmail?"

  She didn't even have the grace to flinch. "Rebecca just laughed at me. She was selfish enough that she didn't want to give up any performances. Not even one! She told me to go ahead and try it."

  "Except you didn't have to," I said slowly. "Because she conveniently died."

  Her smile was humorless. "Good word, convenient."

  A shiver ran up my spine at her coldness. Considering her obvious thirst for fame, it wasn't hard to imagine she'd been involved in Rebecca's death. She could have removed her competition and ignited her career at the same time. It was despicable but conceivable, given her complete lack of remorse.

  But why would she have stolen the body? It was hard to imagine her slinging a corpse over her shoulder like a handbag and spiriting it away to its hiding spot. Tara didn't seem like a heavy lifting kind of girl. But the obvious answer was that if she was capable of murder, she was capable of anything. Once you got past the…what was the phrase, moral turpitude—it would have been just a matter of the mechanics.

  "Why didn't you show up at the park last night?" I asked her.

  "Oh, that." Her hand fluttered dismissively. "My driver was late. By the time I got there, you'd already hooked up with some hot blond guy. I figured you weren't interested in talking to me anymore, so I went home." She paused. "Actually, it's too bad I didn't see him first. I could have used the entertainment. Be a doll. When you're done with him, let me have his number. He looks like the type of man who'd be able to handle me."