We did? But I followed her lead, that nervous energy forcing words from my mouth before I had time to stop them. "Not that she needs it. Like I said, she's ninety-three already. We're just looking for another couple of months, really." Unless it was our longevity Irene was talking about. That seemed to be up in the air at the moment. And I kind of had my heart set on my own longevity.

  Silence.

  "She loves her tea," Irene said. "Drinks it all the time. Her daughter used to come here to Chinatown a couple times a week to buy it for her. Maybe you remember her. She lived on Baker Street by the park. Name was Kate. Blonde, in her seventies, had a little white and tan basset hound?"

  This time the quick glance he sent toward Heckle and Jeckle was unmistakable. Their expressions were unchanged, but a silent message seemed to pass between them.

  I felt myself bouncing from one foot to the other, suddenly antsy to get out of there.

  "I don't know your aunt," the man said, his voice deadpan.

  "No, of course not. Why would you?" I said, that nervous giggle escaping me again.

  Irene shot me a look. Heckle and Jeckle took a step closer.

  The old man walked to his right and brought a jar with Chinese characters written on it down from a shelf. "How much tea do you want?" he asked.

  Bingo. They did carry it.

  "Just a few pots worth," Irene said quickly.

  He nodded and pulled a plastic baggie from behind the counter then slowly proceeded to fill it with the white, dried leaves. I silently willed him to hurry up. With each passing second I could feel his goons staring a hole deeper into us. It took all I had not to glance up at the cameras. My palms were sweaty, and the cloying sweetness of the mingling tea smells was suddenly suffocating.

  Finally he attached a twist tie to the top of the baggie and pushed a couple of buttons on the ancient cash register. "That will be $27.50."

  I did a double take. There was barely a few ounces in the bag.

  Luckily, Irene didn't bat an eyelash, quickly handing him a couple of bills. As soon as he made our change, I grabbed Irene's arm, and we rushed toward the door.

  Though not before I saw the man send another silent message toward Heckle and Jeckle.

  I felt them moving toward us again as we pushed out the door and out onto the street. Crowds of people flowed past us on either side. Delectable scents from nearby restaurants lingered in the air. A few blocks away, a car horn blasted.

  And behind us, a tiny bell tinkled as the door to Albert Fong's tea shop opened.

  Irene and I looked at each other. She'd heard it, too. I could tell from the paleness of her face. Without saying a word, we broke into motion, not quite running but not strolling either, in the direction of the biggest crowd. Because if we were going to lose our longevity, I wanted there to be witnesses.

  "Don't look back," Irene said. "Remember, we're just two tourists buying a birthday present for an old lady. There's no reason at all two mobsters would be following us down the street."

  Somebody should have told the two mobsters that. Every nerve ending on my body was quivering. It took everything I had not to break into a dead run, all the way back to my apartment and beyond—to Portland, if necessary. I usually faced threats head-on. But the threats I'd faced in my life involved things like bill collectors. Heckle and Jeckle were different. They were the Mt. Everest of threats.

  "All we did was ask for tea," Irene muttered. "Goes to show you that place is just a front, like we thought."

  At the moment I agreed with her logic. "Maybe we shouldn't have mentioned Kate from Baker Street," I said. "Did you see the way the old man reacted when you mentioned her?"

  Irene nodded. "He knew her, alright. The only thing is did—"

  Someone laid a hand on my shoulder from behind. Images of Heckle and/or Jeckle tearing me limb from limb raced through my mind, and I let out a shriek and bolted like a spooked horse. I heard Irene yell, "Marty?" but I could hear footsteps pounding after mine, and imagined Heckle or Jeckle closing the distance with a grin on his face and some hideous instrument of death in his hands.

  I tore around the nearest corner, intent on ducking into the nearest doorway, and ran straight into someone wearing a leather jacket. With blond hair. And Caribbean blue eyes.

  Dr. Watson.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Whoa!" He grabbed me by the upper arms to steady me. "Are you alright, Miss…" He drew back to get a better look at me. "Miss Hudson?"

  I bit off a groan, unsure which of us had the worst timing. He had a knack for catching me at my worst, and I had a knack for being caught. But I didn't have time to worry about that when I was being run down by a homicidal maniac dressed like Johnny Cash.

  "Dr. Watson." I ran a casual hand over my hair. I could practically feel the frizz. That's what I got for rolling out of Irene's nice comfy king-sized guest bed and doing wind sprints. "Sorry to run into you like that."

  "Literally," he said. "What's wrong?"

  I shook my head. "Nothing. Why would you think there's something wrong?"

  He gave me a disbelieving stare. "Are you running away from someone?"

  "Of course not." My grin was shaky and unconvincing even to me.

  He crossed his arms. "What exactly are you up to, Miss Hudson?"

  "Up to?" I made my eyes wide and innocent.

  Irene appeared beside us, unflappable as always. "Don't mind her. Someone told us there was a designer handbag sale up this way. Hello, Dr. Watson."

  He nodded in greeting. "A handbag sale," he repeated. "That's why you were racing up the street like a crazy person?"

  "I love a good handbag sale," I said.

  His lips pressed together for a moment. "There are only restaurants on this street."

  I shrugged. "That's what I get for listening to tourists. I should go give them a piece of my mind." I looked at Irene. "Are those tourists still back there?"

  She shook her head. "Only the old woman who saw you drop these." She held up my key ring.

  Relief swept over me, nearly making me weak. "I dropped my keys?"

  "She tried to tap you on the shoulder to return them to you, but…" She glanced at Watson. "You heard about the handbag sale, and off you went."

  I did a mental sigh of relief. The hand I'd felt had been a helpful old lady and not a pair of goons intent on helping me to that big handbag sale in the sky.

  "Ladies." Watson moved aside to let someone pass, which brought him a step closer to me. Close enough to smell a very nice aftershave. "I don't believe for a minute that you were chasing after a sale." He looked at me. "Does this have something to do with the break-in? Were your keys stolen?"

  I bit my lip. Well, now I felt guilty. His concern was obvious. He'd run off an intruder for me. He'd followed me home and endured a conversation with 2B for me. And here I was, not exactly lying, but not being truthful either. I wanted to tell him about Heckle and Jeckle, but I was afraid he'd go all alpha male again and try to confront them. I didn't want that. I liked Watson's body parts exactly where they were.

  "You caught us," Irene told him. "I guess we might as well tell you."

  I frowned at her. "I don't think we should."

  "Sherlock Holmes sent us here," she said. "But we're undercover, so keep it to yourself."

  I rolled my eyes.

  "Undercover," Watson repeated. He had a way of doing that that implied disbelief. Not that I blamed him. I couldn't believe it myself. Well, of course, I knew Sherlock Holmes wasn't real, so if I did believe it, I had worse problems than Heckle and Jeckle.

  Irene nodded. "We were meeting with an informant."

  "And what kind of case would this be?" he asked. "Generally speaking, of course. Client confidentiality and all that." He said the words as if he didn't believe there were any clients at all. Smart man.

  Irene didn't hesitate. "Money laundering."

  "I see."

  No, he didn't. He couldn't, because there was nothing to see.

  Watson glanced at me. "And your Mr. Holmes sent you?"

  He wasn't my Mr. Holmes; he was Irene's. Only now I was stuck with him.

  "Yes," Irene answered for me. "He'd have come himself, but he was unexpectedly called out of town."

  "I know. I got his email." The way he looked pointedly at me had a flush creeping up my neck.

  "Yes, well, unavoidable," Irene said as breezily as if she were still talking about nonexistent handbag sales.

  "He seems to do that a lot."

  No kidding. Sherlock Holmes seemed to go out of town more often than the US mail.

  "Yes, he does," she answered easily.

  "I'd still like to talk to him."

  "I can set up an online chat, if you'd like," Irene offered.

  I shot her a look. She could?

  "Like a Skype call?" Watson asked.

  Irene shook her head. "Sorry, he doesn't do cameras. You know—has to keep a low profile in his business."

  Watson sent her a deadpanned look like he definitely didn't know.

  "Anyway, we can use the private messaging on his website and chat in real time. Just as good, right?" She sent him a big toothy smile.

  I shot Irene a look. Website, really? This was getting way out of hand.

  "Right," he said, still not sounding totally convinced. "Can you have him email me to set up a time? The sooner, the better."

  "Consider it done." Irene beamed at him.

  I turned my face away from Watson and mouthed Seriously?

  Irene smiled angelically. She was enjoying herself. Easy for her. She didn't have to come up with an endless array of excuses for why Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes couldn't get together for a simple conversation when everyone older than an embryo carried a cell phone with them everywhere.

  "So what brings you to Chinatown?" I asked him, strategically changing the subject.

  "Lab results."

  Now he had my attention. "The tox screen came back?"

  He hesitated before nodding slowly.

  "And?" I pressed.

  "And I'd rather discuss this with Mr. Holmes directly."

  I stuck my hands on my hips. I cocked my head to the side. I gave him my best steely eyes. "Are you really saying you don't trust me?" I challenged him.

  He cleared his throat and looked at the ground as if he'd rather not answer that question.

  "Look, this is my aunt we're talking about here, my house that was broken into, and my case!"

  Yes, I was using my nonexistent case from my nonexistent job working for the nonexistent Sherlock Holmes to guilt poor Dr. Watson into sharing. I was a horrible person.

  But I still kinda hoped it would work.

  Dr. Watson cleared his throat again before saying, "You're right."

  I was?

  "I am?" I gave myself a mental shake. "I mean, you're darn right I am!"

  "So what did the report say?" Irene jumped in.

  "The substance found in your aunt's system was aconite."

  Irene scrunched her nose up. "What's that?"

  "It's an alkaloid toxin derived from the aconitum plant," I said absently, my mind kicking into overdrive at the mention.

  Both Irene and Watson stared at me.

  "I sat in on a botany class once," I mumbled.

  "Anyway, she's right," Watson said. "It's also known as monkshood, is highly toxic, and can cause cardiac arrest, often mimicking the symptoms of a heart attack."

  "So Kate was killed." I had thought finally getting confirmation might give me some satisfaction, but instead I just felt sad for her. "Does that mean Lestrade is reopening the investigation?"

  Watson paused. "I wouldn't go that far. It's possible she accidently ingested the toxin. It's not often used in doses high enough to kill in the US, mostly only in homeopathic remedies, but it is sometimes used in eastern medicine as an analgesic."

  "A painkiller." I thought back to the prescription that my aunt had for migraines. I suppose it was possible, but…" But we didn't find any monkshood among her pill bottles."

  "No," Watson agreed. "And as I said, it's not very commonly sold in US, so I thought if it was available anywhere, it would be here in Chinatown."

  Where Albert Fong had his tea shop. I hadn't specifically seen a jar labeled monkshood in his shop, but it wouldn't be that hard for him to get his hands on it. Especially if he was mobbed up. I flirted with the idea of returning to the tea shop to check, but the memory of Heckle and Jeckle was still too fresh. I was intrepid, not stupid.

  Okay, I wasn't even that intrepid.

  Watson was watching me closely. "There's something you're not telling me."

  And I'd thought I was the master of inscrutability. Maybe I should fill him in on Albert Fong and his mob connections. It wouldn't hurt to get a third opinion. He was an intelligent man. He might be able to offer something we hadn't thought of. Some pearl of wisdom such as, "Don't go back to Albert Fong's tea shop again."

  I glanced at Irene. Her expression was blank. She was following my lead.

  I took a breath. "As a matter of fact…" I told him about meeting Albert Fong in the park, and his evasiveness, his tea shop, and his goons for hire. And the fact that his shop sold ginger lily tea. I handed him the baggie Irene had just purchased. "This could be what was under Kate's fingernails."

  He took the baggie, the look on his face still harboring heavy doubt. "I can have it tested against the substance we found." He paused. "But what reason would Albert Fong have to kill your aunt?"

  "Kate wrote some complaint letters," I went on.

  Irene snorted. "A lot of complaint letters."

  I ignored that. "She mentioned criminals being in the park," I said. "We think she was talking about Albert Fong. We think he might have killed her to keep her quiet."

  He nodded. "So you were running away from these goons, as you call them."

  I nodded.

  "Wouldn't you?" Irene cut in.

  "Do you think that was a good idea?" he asked. "Deliberately provoking them?"

  "How did we provoke them?" Irene asked. "By wanting to buy tea in a tea shop? How unreasonable."

  "And it wasn't deliberate," I said. "It just sort of happened."

  "You're lucky they didn't just sort of hurt you," he said.

  I couldn't argue with that. Heckle and Jeckle had caught me off guard. In my defense, though, I didn't have a lot of experience with mobsters. The next time I invaded their habitat, I'd be sure to bring a bazooka.

  "And what if this Albert Fong isn't a mobster?" he asked.

  Irene and I glanced at each other.

  "What if he's just some guy in the park who doesn't want to talk to strangers and happens to own a tea shop in Chinatown?"

  "He's more than that," I said. "You had to be there." I looked at Irene. "Right?"

  "She's right," Irene agreed. "There's something off about that shop. And his minions are off-the-charts weird."

  "Weird isn't criminal," Watson said. "Black socks with sandals is weird. Playing chess in the park? Not so much."

  "How about chasing two innocent female tourists through Chinatown?" Irene snapped. "Is that weird?"

  His lips quirked up into the crooked grin. "Who are the innocent female tourists in this scenario?"

  "Hello?" Irene said. "Undercover?"

  I managed not to roll my eyes again.

  "I'll give you that we don't know if Albert Fong definitely killed my aunt, but he's into something shady."

  Watson shook his head. "I'd be careful about saying something like that. You might find yourself in a courtroom being sued for slander."

  Another snort from Irene. "It's not slander if it's true."

  "You can't prove that it's true," he said. "That's an assumption on your part."

  My hands went to my hips. "What about Heckle and Jeckle?"

  "Heckle and Jeckle?" he repeated.

  Oops. That had just kind of slipped out.

  "She means the minions on steroids who chased us out of the shop," Irene said. "Obviously they have something to hide there."

  "Obviously," Watson said. He sighed. "I know you two think you've got the second iteration of the Godfather on your hands, but I'm just saying be careful." His blue eyes settled squarely on me. "Please."

  Irene's eyes flitted my way, and I could practically read her mind: He's got it bad.

  I watched him walk away, thinking she was wrong. What Watson had was a protective streak. Alpha males had those. They tended not to want to see innocent people in their morgues. It was as natural to them as breathing. I thought it was a nice character trait, like honesty and a sense of humor and a job.

  And the killer rear view didn't hurt either.

  * * *

  "I wish you wouldn't be so quick to use that name," I said an hour later. We were back at the house, and I was making grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch while Irene puttered around on her computer.

  She didn't bother to look up. "What name?"

  "Sherlock Holmes." I dropped two slices of bread into a hot buttered frying pan. "I'm not comfortable with it."

  Her fingers stilled. "Marty. Do you realize that without Sherlock Holmes's help, we wouldn't have ever known that your aunt was murdered? Not to mention you wouldn't have had that dinner date with Dr. Watson."

  I turned away from the stove. "It wasn't a date."

  "Two people plus a restaurant equals a date," she said firmly. "Trust me. I know these things."

  I flipped the bread over. "How do you know these things? Because you go out on so many dates yourself?"

  "Why date a man when I can create one?" She turned her computer around so I could see the results of her puttering. Sherlock Holmes, Private Investigations in a bold forest green banner across the top of the page above a photo gallery pulled straight from the scrapbook of a homicidal maniac. There were pictures of dark alleys, pictures of seedy-looking houses and motels, pictures of bundles of cash hidden in a drawer's false bottom, and pictures of guns. Lots of pictures of guns—some long guns, some handguns, and way down at the bottom, a picture of a garrote.

  I recoiled. "Geez. Could you maybe go a little lighter on the psycho factor?"

  "Too much?" She considered it for a moment. "Maybe you're right." She tapped a few keys. "How's this?"