I took one look at the screen and thought a really dirty word. I'd know that self-confidant grin, taunting me from next to the image of Pam leaning over the pastry case, anywhere. Wiggins.

  "That is not a nice guy, Pam," I told her.

  "You know him?" She blinked at me.

  "I know he's bad news."

  She looked at the photo. "Come on. He's so cute. How could he be bad news?"

  I thought about telling her, but knowing Pam, it was best to just let this crush play out. Chances were by nightfall she'd be in love with another guy anyway.

  "Just do me a favor. If he comes back, don't talk about me." I paused. "And don't tell him where I live!"

  She grinned and rolled her eyes. "Give me some credit, Marty."

  I tried on a daily basis, but it usually boomeranged back.

  While she took over refilling the napkins and swizzle sticks, I took the moment of quiet to check my phone. Five more texts from Watson had silently come in since I'd shut off the ringer. Two telling me to stay away from Dominic. Two had come in while we were at Bryan Steele's place, asking what was in the Richmond District. And one asking me if I was ignoring him. The boy caught on fast.

  As much as I liked having wheels—and precision performance ones at that—it was time to ditch the GPS babysitter.

  I sent off a text to Watson. Car is at Stanford.

  A minute later his response came in. I know.

  Duh. GPS monitor. I can drive it to you after work.

  It took a couple of minutes for the response to pop in this time. Don't bother. I'm already here.

  Here? As in, here here?

  That question was answered as I looked down to find Watson on the ground floor of the bookstore, making his way up to the coffee bar. And, from the looks of the tension in his shoulders and set of his jaw, he wasn't happy.

  I did a little one-finger wave in his direction as he approached.

  "Hey," I said.

  "Why have you been ignoring me?"

  Wow, cutting right to the chase, huh?

  "I haven't been ignoring you. I've been…busy."

  He glanced around at the empty coffee bar and raised an eyebrow my way.

  "Well, I was busy. You know, investigating stuff. And then here. When there were customers here. But there are not now, clearly. Which is why I got back to you." I held up my phone, as if the text thread proved my point.

  Watson sighed, running a hand over his jaw. Unshaven, I noticed. As if he'd been up too late last night thinking about a certain blonde who kept getting herself into trouble and making him hot under the collar. Or maybe I was reading too much into it.

  "What were you doing at Dominic Gordon's mortuary again today?" he asked.

  I bit my lip. "Investigating."

  "I thought we agreed to leave that up to Sherlock Holmes."

  "We didn't agree on anything. You asked me to leave it to Sherlock. I said I'd talk to him."

  "Did you?"

  "Yes?" Only it sounded more like a question.

  He shot me a hard look. "Did you at least call Lestrade to report the attack?"

  "Sort of?"

  "How do you sort of call someone?"

  "Fine." I threw my hands up. "No, I did not call Lestrade, and, no, I did not talk to Sherlock Holmes," I said, spitting the hated name out a little harder than I'd meant to. "And you want to know why?"

  Watson crossed his arms over his chest. "Why?"

  "Because I'm not some damsel in distress. I am a private investigator. And I know what I'm doing." Big words from someone who (a) was not an investigator and (b) had no idea what she was doing. But I stood my feminist ground anyway, matching his crossed arms with a mirrored posture of my own.

  "Marty, you're being ridiculous."

  "Really? My job is ridiculous?"

  Watson shook his head. "No, I'm not making any comments about your job or your abilities. And," he added as I opened my mouth to protest, "before you get the wrong idea, I'd be giving the same speech to you if you were a man."

  I snorted. "I doubt that."

  Watson frowned. "Okay, fine, I probably wouldn't be quite as personally invested in your well-being if that were true."

  I paused. Was that a roundabout way of saying he liked me?

  "But, I'm just asking you to be careful," he added. "Take proper precautions. Don't go running around town accusing people of crimes that may or may not even exist."

  I bit my lip again. He had a good point. We were running down a supposed killer for a death that very well might have been an accident after all.

  "Fine," I conceded. "I'll be careful."

  "Thank you," he said, his voice softer. More tender. He took a step toward me, and suddenly all I could focus on were his pouty lips inching toward mine

  "Hey, Marty!"

  Watson took a step back, suddenly creating a void between us. I reluctantly swiveled to find Pam hailing me from behind the counter, where a line had formed.

  I turned an apologetic gaze back to Watson. "I have to go."

  He nodded. "Duty calls" was his rueful reply.

  "Thanks." I paused. "But take your car back. I'll be fine."

  The look on his face said he didn't 100 percent believe that. Truth be told? Neither did I. But I wasn't about to confess that to him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After my shift, I grabbed an Uber to 221 Baker Street. Not that I was looking forward to hanging out in the cold, dark death trap, but the sky looked like it was threatening rain again, and I wanted to make sure my tarp had held after last night's downpour. The last thing I needed was a swimming pool in my master bedroom. I'd just tossed my bag down on the Victorian's entry table, when my cell vibrated with a call. I fished it out of my pocket, expecting to see Watson's name again, but when I checked the ID, I did a surprised double take.

  "Mr. Bitterman? Are you alright?" I asked, quickly answering it.

  "Martha Hudson?" He was using the senior citizen whisper, which was loud enough to be heard in the next room at Windsor Castle. "Where are you? You have to come rescue me."

  Fear ran an icy hand down my spine. I'd meant to check on him earlier. Had something happened? "Did you fall? Are you hurt? You need to call 9-1-1."

  "I'm not going to die in some hospital," he whisper-shouted. "All they want to do with us old folks is give us pills and enemas. I've got some good years left in me, as long as I stay away from doctors."

  "But if you fell—" I began.

  "Martha Hudson, will you listen to me?"

  Like I had a choice. If I put my phone on speaker, the whole block could listen to him.

  "It's that old bat, Edna Frist," he said, his so-called whisper now tinged with irritation. "She's gone and parked her liver spots in front of my door like some dusty traffic cop. She's got me trapped in my own home!"

  "Is that all?" I felt my shoulders sag with relief.

  "Is that all?" he shouted. "I'm supposed to be taking my fish eye casserole up to Mrs. Streelman's for dinner. It's a dish that can't be served cold!"

  My eyes closed, my nose wrinkled, and my stomach turned all at the same time. "Fish eye…?" I swallowed the bitter taste that crawled up my throat. "You just call it that, right? You don't mean real fish eyes."

  "Sure I do," he said. "I just discovered them. It's amazing what you can find in Chinatown. It doesn't smell too good, but with all those eyes looking back at you, you hardly notice that."

  I was fairly sure I'd notice.

  "What do you want me to do?" I asked. And please don't let it be taste testing the casserole.

  "I want you to dial Edna's phone number," he said. "When she leaves to answer it, I'll be able to make my escape."

  This almost made me wish I was home, with a front row seat. "Two problems," I said. "What if she doesn't hear it, and what if she doesn't want to answer it?"

  "She'll hear it," he said. "She's got the darned thing set so loud that Abe Orgeron hears it downstairs. And she'll answer it because she can't stand not knowing something."

  "What am I supposed to say to her?"

  "Don't ask me," he said. "Talk about your fingernails or brassieres. You know, girl talk."

  No wonder all the old ladies had their eyes on him.

  "Okay, give me the number," I said. "And just so you know, I'll do my best to stall her, but I won't be held responsible if she catches you."

  "I'm way ahead of you there," he said. "I can move like quicksilver in these new running shoes. I got gel insoles. Hold on. Where'd I put it?" I heard papers rustling. "It's 1-800-Old Biddy," he said and let out a cackle that dissolved into a coughing fit.

  "Your casserole is getting cold," I told him.

  "What? Oh." More rustling. "Here it is." He read it off. "Give me three minutes to pack up the casserole. I owe you, Martha Hudson."

  Just so long as he didn't pay me back in food.

  I disconnected but kept my phone out as I made my way upstairs to the master bedroom, praying my tarp had staved off most of the recent rains. The room was damp but not bad. The ceiling looked a bit soggy, but the wood floors seemed to be damage free. It wasn't as if the plaster walls could get any flimsier. I gingerly touched the far one. It crumbled in my hand like papier-mâché. Okay, I stood corrected.

  I checked my phone and saw that five minutes had passed since Bitterman's call. I dialed Mrs. Frist's number. It rang, and rang some more, and just when I was ready to give up, her impatient voice shrilled in my ear. "Yes, who is it?"

  "Mrs. Frist, it's Marty Hudson."

  "You can come out of there now," she said. "I heard him talking to you."

  "I'm not in the building," I said. "I'm not even in the neighborhood. I wanted to ask you―"

  "He thinks I don't know what he's up to," she groused. "When I heard him perfectly well. He's making fish gut stew for you."

  Somehow, that sounded even worse than the real thing.

  It suddenly dawned on me I had nothing to say to keep her on the line while Mr. Bitterman and his gel insoles sneaked up two flights of stairs to Mrs. Streelman's apartment. Until I had a sudden stroke of inspiration. "Mrs. Frist, could I ask for your help with Dr. Watson?"

  That knocked her right off her rant. "You mean that handsome young man who gave you his car? Is he coming to call on you again?"

  "Around seven o'clock," I said, fingers firmly crossed. "And I may be late. Do you think you could entertain him until I get there?"

  "Well, this is awfully short notice, but I suppose I could." She sounded pleased, and maybe a little excited. "I know. I'll bake some cookies. What kind does he like? Never mind. Everyone likes sugar cookies. But you do know this is very bad form. It's rude to be late when a gentleman calls on a lady."

  "I'm having my hair done," I said. "And I have to pick up my clothes at the cleaner's." I glanced at my watch. By my calculation, Mr. Bitterman had had a nine-minute head start. If she caught him on the landing, he had no one but himself and Dr. Scholl's to blame.

  "…will teach the old goat," Mrs. Frist was muttering, mostly to herself.

  Uh-oh. I had the feeling I'd just missed something important. "What will you teach the old goat?" I asked. "I mean, Mr. Bitterman?"

  "Seeing me on the arm of a younger man. That will teach him not to take me for granted."

  My romantic life flashed before my eyes, and it was less exciting than Mrs. Frist's. If she were sixty years younger, I'd have a real fight on my hands for Watson.

  "Please don't go out of your way," I told her. "It's possible Dr. Watson will have something come up at work and have to cancel at the last minute. He has a very demanding job."

  "You young people." She tsked in my ear. "You never slow down. We're not here forever, Martha. Stop and smell the—what was that?" A beat of silence pulsed through the line. "I hear voices in the hallway. The old goat might be trying to give me the slip. Don't worry. Your young man will be in good hands." She hung up on me.

  That was what I was afraid of. While I was standing there wondering if I should ask Watson to avoid my apartment for the foreseeable future, a text buzzed through my phone. Irene had finished her meeting.

  Perfect timing. I couldn't take much more of the humiliation of not measuring up against an octogenarian in the romance department. I told her to meet me at the Victorian.

  * * *

  "You look worried," Irene told me as she sank down into a wooden chair in my kitchen twenty minutes later. "What's going on?"

  I handed her a cup of tea (I was proud to say I'd acquired tea bags in my kitchen!) and gave her the abbreviated version of my participation in Mr. Bitterman's great escape. "I'm afraid he didn't make it," I said.

  She laughed. "Worried you'll get home to find Mr. Bitterman missing and fish eyes all over the stairs?"

  "Or Mrs. Frist trying to seduce Watson with sugar cookies," I said.

  Irene snorted. "I'd almost pay to see that."

  I shot her a look. "What I want to hear is Barbara Bristol paying us for finding her sister." I paused. "If it rains inside my house again, I'm afraid the walls might just give up in surrender."

  Irene cast a glance at the ceiling above her. "Comforting," she mumbled.

  "Look, I agree there were people in Rebecca's life who might have wanted her dead."

  "A lot of people," Irene mumbled again.

  "A few people. But right now they're all irked at us, and we're no closer to finding Rebecca's body. Which is what we were really hired to do."

  Irene nodded. "Agreed. Okay, so where do we look?"

  I looked down into my teacup. "Well…"

  Irene narrowed her eyes. "Oh no. Don't say it."

  "Gordon's is the last place she was seen."

  Irene closed her eyes and said a bad word. "I told you not to say it."

  "It only makes sense," I argued. "Trust me. I do not want to go back there any more than you do—"

  "I doubt that."

  "—but the Gordons are definitely crooked—"

  "That I don't doubt."

  "—and she definitely disappeared under their watch." I paused. "Plus, there's something else that I've been thinking about since we left Bryan Steele's place."

  "What?" Irene asked, toying with her teabag.

  "Well, Bryan said he knew Rebecca was cheating on him. What if the guy she was seeing was Vincent Gordon?"

  Irene blinked at me. "Wow. That would be a twist."

  "But it's possible. I mean, we know she was at Lucky's Deli. Maybe it wasn't for the Fluffy Bunny after all but to see Vincent."

  "So, she gets in an argument with Vincent at her place," Irene said, following my train of thought. "Maybe over her ex, Mr. Bad Cop."

  "Or Vincent's drug dealing," I added.

  "The argument gets out of hand, and Vinny pushes her into the countertop. To make sure it goes down as an accident, he gets his brother to contact the next of kin and plans to cremate the body."

  "Only when he finds out Rebecca wanted a real viewing, he panics, worried some evidence of his crime might be on display."

  "And he has Dominic switch her out," Irene finished.

  "So where is the body now?"

  Irene pursed her lips together. "You know, we never actually searched the mortuary for Rebecca's body."

  I was loathe to admit it, knowing where she was going with this, but…"No, we didn't."

  "I doubt Barbara Bristol did either."

  "Why would she? At the time she believed the worst thing Dominic could have told her was that her sister was missing from the mortuary. She had no reason to suspect he was lying."

  "Neither would the police," Irene reasoned. "I mean, Barbara said they didn't sound like this was a high priority for them. Chances are, not high enough to do more than call and take Dominic's word for it."

  "Everyone has been relying on his word," I mused.

  "Which doesn't seem all that reliable to me."

  "Agreed." I paused. "But please don't tell me you're thinking what I think you're thinking."

  Irene cocked her head at me and frowned. "Hey, you're the one who said it was the last place she'd been seen."

  "Me and my big mouth."

  "And what better place to hide a dead body than among dead bodies?"

  I hated to admit she had a point. "How would we even get in?"

  She grinned. "Leave it to me."

  "Breaking and entering a mortuary." I shook my head. "How has my life come to this?"

  "Relax. It's really just an office building."

  "With dead people in it!"

  "Think of them as sleeping."

  "This just feels wrong."

  "Lots of things feel wrong until they feel right," she said. "Look on the bright side. We could earn Barbara's check tonight."

  As if on cue, I felt raindrops start to come down from that threatening sky. Only I was inside. And on the first floor.

  Irene and I both looked up to see a new leak had formed around the glass light. Well, that couldn't be good for my ancient electrical.

  I sighed. "Fine. You win. Pick me up at ten?"

  "Just think—it'll be a story for your kids someday," Irene said.

  As if I'd ever speak of this night again.

  * * *

  Surprisingly, there were no fish eyes scattered on the landing when I got home to change into what Irene had called "inconspicuous black." The lack of fish parts could only mean Mr. Bitterman and his toxic casserole had made it safely up to Mrs. Streelman's apartment. And the hallway outside his apartment was clear, which could only mean Mrs. Frist had packed up her folding chair and gone home to bake sugar cookies for Watson. I managed to slip into my apartment without alerting her or attracting 2B, which seemed like a promising start to the night.

  I rummaged in the near-bare cupboards and managed to find bread and peanut butter, which coupled with a diet Coke (for me) and a can of Alpo (for Toby) made for dinner. I tried to watch a couple of DVRed shows to pass the time, but all I could find were crime dramas, which only managed to ratchet up my nerves even further.

  By the time ten o'clock rolled around, I was strung more tightly than the Union Square Christmas tree as I assessed my reflection in the mirror. Black jeans, black sweater, and black low-heeled boots. I looked ready for a hipster coffeehouse or a breaking and entering. I really wished my evening plans included the first one. I might talk a good Sherlock game, but I wasn't sure I could walk it. Especially if that walk included lock picking. I swept some blusher on my cheeks and a single coat of mascara, just in case I had to look presentable for a mug shot. I considered the flat iron before deciding to go full-on ninja with a black knit cap, pulled down low. Hat head wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Besides, a hat meant less chance of shedding hairs whose DNA could later be used to identify me. That sort of thing happened all the time on TV. It would have been the perfect crime, if it hadn't been for that single dog hair found at the scene, tracked back to the perpetrator, whom witnesses reported seeing walking her dog in the vicinity.