I cast a suspicious eye on Toby. He went utterly still, staring back at me with eyes that said I've never been anywhere near that sweater. I swear it.

  Just in case, I found a roll of tape in my kitchen junk drawer, ripped off a length, and pressed it over every reachable inch of myself to remove all hairs of any origin. Possibly I was taking things a little too far, but people had gone to prison for life due to some small overlooked detail. I didn't know the sentencing guidelines for what we were about to do, but I didn't intend to find out.

  I poured some dry food into a bowl for Toby, gave him some fresh water, slipped my smallest cross-body bag over my head, and headed for the door, unable to put it off any longer.

  As soon as I opened my door, my heart jumped, and I let out a little yip.

  Wiggins leaned against the wall in the hallway, munching on a sugar cookie, the very picture of the casual stalker. He still had that windblown, slightly-too-long hair, curling at the ends as it brushed the shoulders of his black hoodie. Broad shoulders, I noticed. Wider and stronger-looking in the light than they had appeared as shadows in the park the day before. Geek Chic frequented the gym?

  "Good," he said, ignoring my surprise at seeing him. "You're home. Got a minute?" He brushed past me into the apartment without waiting for a response.

  Toby stuck his head around the corner, growling low in his throat.

  "Good boy," I told him.

  Toby gave me a no problem, I got your back look and went back to his snack.

  "Nice building. Love the neighbors." Wiggins popped the last of his cookie into his mouth. "Lady down the hall said she baked these cookies for your date tonight, but he never showed." He paused. "You get stood up?"

  I glared at Wiggins. "What are you doing here?" I demanded. "I told you to stop following me. How did you find out where I live?"

  He grinned. "You're not exactly hard to find." He glanced around. "I've got to be honest, though. I figured your place would be a lot nicer. Sherlock doesn't pay much, huh?"

  "What do you want?"

  "What's that smell?" he asked, ignoring me.

  Mr. Bitterman. I hadn't even noticed the aroma seepage through the wall or under the door or however it had oozed into my apartment.

  "Never mind," I snapped. "I'm not giving you a story."

  Wiggins cocked his head at me. "You know, I'm having a hard time figuring why."

  "'Why?'" I blinked at him, not understanding the question.

  "Yeah, why doesn't Sherlock Holmes want the press? I mean, the guy is taking on new clients, right?"

  "Um, I guess…" I hedged.

  "And I haven't exactly given him bad press in the past, have I?"

  "Well, not exactly…"

  "In fact, I'd venture to guess his name is a whole lot more well known now than before my article."

  "Maybe…"

  "So, why doesn't he want the world to know more about him?" Wiggins crossed his arms over his chest, the last sentence more of a dare than a question.

  I licked my lips, choosing my words very carefully, lest they go viral by morning. "He…uh…doesn't like to comment on a case before it's closed."

  Wiggins stood very still, and I couldn't tell if he believed me or was waiting for me to crack and spill more. "You mean the Disappearing Diva?" he finally asked.

  I nodded. "Yep. We're, uh, still working on it."

  "So, when it's finished, he'd happily give me an interview then?"

  "Oh, wow, well, gee, I'd have to check his schedule…"

  He pursed his lips together, arms still crossed. "Huh."

  I swallowed hard. This guy had a way of saying a thousand words with just his myopic stare.

  "Alright," he finally said, pulling out a chair at my kitchen table and sitting himself down. "Sounds like we better solve this case quickly so I can get my story then, huh?"

  "Uh…we? No, no, no. We are not a we."

  "We could help each other."

  "I work alone."

  "What about Irene?"

  "We work alone."

  "With Sherlock Holmes."

  "Right. With him too." I paused. Why did I always feel like I was saying more than I meant to around this guy? "Look, I'm on my way out," I told him.

  "Yeah, you look nice." His eyes drifted from my head to my feet. "Black looks good on you."

  I blinked. Was that compliment or another dare?'

  "Uh, thanks. It's slimming."

  He grinned. "Too much fun at that Buttercream bakery?"

  "No!" Hey, I'd only had two muffins today, and they'd both been banana walnut. Fruit and nuts were healthy, right? "Look, I'm late," I lied.

  I walked to the front door and opened it, hoping he'd get the clue.

  He stood and shrugged, a self-satisfied smile still on his face. "Where are you off to?"

  "None of your business."

  "That hot date?"

  "No."

  "I bet it's with that ME."

  "I'm not going on a date!"

  "Secret spy stuff then?" he mocked as I locked the door behind us.

  "Yep. Lots of it."

  "You know I'll just follow you and find out anyway, right?"

  I did, which was incredibly unnerving considering what we had planned.

  A noxious smell wafted our way as Bitterman opened his door.

  "Martha Hudson, I thought I heard you out here! Just in time for a late dinner." He paused, taking in Wiggins. "And you brought a man along."

  "I did!" I responded enthusiastically, seeing a way out. I pushed the reporter forward. "This is Wiggins. He's…a friend."

  I heard a snort from behind Mrs. Frist's door.

  "Well, lucky I made extra!" Bitterman said. "Come on in."

  Shoving Wiggins ahead of me, I made it as far as Bitterman's foyer before I smacked myself on the forehead dramatically. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Bitterman, but I completely forgot. I have an appointment to get to."

  Wiggins shot me a look. "Yeah, and I have to—"

  "He has to tell you how much he's been admiring the smells coming from your place," I jumped in. "Right, Wiggins?"

  "Actually, I—"

  "Well, I gotta run. Enjoy the meal, Wiggins!" I jumped back across the threshold before either man could stop me. As I closed the door behind me, I could just make out Mr. Bitterman's voice.

  "You're in good hands," Mr. Bitterman told him. "My fish eye casserole didn't go over so well, but I came up with a new recipe, and you can be my first taste tester. Do you like eel?"

  Poor Wiggins. I almost felt bad.

  Almost.

  * * *

  "Why did we have to do this in the middle of the night when it's so dark?" I whispered, kneeling at the mortuary's back door, beneath the unnecessary added shade of a portico. The chill of the damp fog curled around me like tentacles. While I'd been dressing myself up like the angel of death hipster, I'd forgotten a jacket.

  "It's barely eleven o'clock, Marty." Irene glanced over her shoulder. She'd gone with black sweats and running shoes and still managed to look chic. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. No earrings or makeup. She looked stunning. "But you're right," she added. "It is dark."

  "Unnervingly dark." We'd been afraid to turn on our flashlight apps, for fear of nosy neighbors calling the police about prowlers. Which made it all the more difficult to pick the lock. Not that I was an expert in the field, but I had sat in on a locksmith training seminar last year after accidentally locking myself out of my apartment for the third time. If the mortuary had a more sophisticated model, I'd have given up and broken a window. Lucky for me, their security was about as outdated as their decor.

  "How much longer," Irene asked, dancing from foot to foot in the damp.

  "Almost there…" Something clicked, and the door cracked open. Relief surged through me. "Got it."

  Irene entered ahead of me, quickly moving to the alarm keypad, where she used her phone and some fancy app to run a set of numbers on her screen. Then she punched in a key code, and the alarm went into sleep mode. She turned and grinned at me. "Told you this place's security was child's play."

  "I never doubted you for a moment."

  "Come on. I don't want to be here all night," she said, shutting the door behind us.

  I didn't want to be there at all.

  I rested my fingertips against Irene's back as I followed her inside, not breaking contact as we moved through a plain galley kitchen, down a hall beneath the eerie red glow of an Exit sign, and into the foyer, thinking that nothing ever looked the same in the dark. That grandfather clock, stately in the daylight, now loomed as a menacing silhouette. An ordinary coatrack, with its multitude of spindly arms, was now a malevolent War of the Worlds creature.

  My swallow was audible. "I don't think I can do this," I whispered. "This place is spooky."

  "Don't be silly," she said. "Remember, it's just an office. Now where does he keep the dead people?"

  That made me feel much better.

  We left the foyer for another even darker room, one without windows and (maybe it was just me) oxygen. It felt increasingly harder to fill my lungs with anything other than dust and mustiness.

  "Listen," Irene said suddenly. "What is that?"

  A spear of panic shot through me. "What? What do you hear?"

  "I think it's the Addams Family theme."

  "Seriously?" I snapped. "Is this situation not ridiculous enough for you as it is?"

  Irene giggled. "Lighten up, Marty. It could be worse."

  "We've broken into a funeral home," I told her. "How could it be worse?"

  "It could be a cemetery."

  I didn't even want to go there.

  "I can't see a thing," I whispered. Irene had moved beyond the reach of my groping fingers, so I stretched my left arm to the side and touched a cold, hard surface. With…was that a lock?

  Oh. No.

  "Irene!" I hissed. "There are caskets in here!"

  "There are?" Her voice was disembodied, floating from somewhere ahead of me. "That's really strange—caskets in a funeral home."

  I rolled my eyes, not that she could see me.

  "Don't worry, Marty. They're empty." She paused, shining the flashlight app on her cell phone under her chin, transforming her face into a ghoulish mask. "Or are they?"

  I looked away. "Very funny."

  "Hey." Suddenly she was next to me. "You're really spooked, aren't you."

  "Let's just get this over with, alright?"

  She swept the light from side to side, revealing a nightmare. We were in a casket showroom. They ringed the walls, sitting both on the floor and on biers. Just looking at them made me shiver, even if they did come with sanitized curb appeal names like Bronze Eternity Cushion and Platinum Slumber Pillow. I didn't want to even think about my earthly remains spending eternity in a box named after a cheap mattress set.

  Suddenly Irene doused the light. "Did you hear something?"

  "No, I don't hear the Addams Family theme," I said impatiently.

  "I'm not kidding this time," she whispered.

  I strained to listen, hearing only oppressive silence. Except for…what was that exactly?

  "There it is again!" she whispered. "It's really faint. Hear it?"

  "A kind of scratchy sound? I think it's coming from the kitchen. You don't suppose Gordon lives here, do you?"

  "There's apartment space upstairs," Irene said. "But…"

  But? But what? But it was vacant? But it was soundproofed?

  A very faint tinkling sound came from the hallway. The sound of keys, or loose change in a pocket?

  "It's getting closer," Irene hissed. "Hide!"

  Hide where? Where did she think we were? There was nowhere to hide.

  "Do it!" She gave me a shove before leaping into the nearest casket and lowering the lid.

  Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. There was no way I was…

  Another tinkle, this time just outside the room.

  I dove for the Bronze Eternity Cushion, pulling the lid down after me. It was surprisingly comfortable, if not exactly roomy. I didn't move and barely breathed, eyes squeezed shut because even though I couldn't see the casket around me, I was all too aware it was there. I lay frozen in the utter darkness, listening, picturing Dominic Gordon creeping around in the dark. Imagining him casting his black Prince of Darkness eyes around the room, deducing the significance of the two lidded caskets in a room full of convertibles, and fastening the locks so he could easily deliver us to the police. Or worse. Right at that moment, the police were the best-case scenario. I didn't want to think about the worst.

  Another few seconds passed during which the only sound I heard was my hammering heart. Could I get a signal on my cell phone from inside this— From where I was? I could text Irene, ask if she heard anything. Admittedly, texting wouldn't be the easiest thing to do, since I couldn't lift my arms more than a few inches. Could you text 9-1-1? Maybe it would be better to confess to breaking and entering than to spend the night inside this— Where I was.

  Suddenly a terrible thought came to me. What if caskets were airproof? I remembered an anthropology class I'd ducked into about burial customs and practices, during which I'd learned that people used to be buried with bells extending from within the casket to above the ground, to forestall the possibility of being buried alive. But what about the air supply for the inhabitant of the casket then awaiting exhumation? How long might that last before the bell ringing became a moot point?

  Oh, boy. That line of thought wasn't doing me any good. In fact, it was making me panic. My heart pounded, and my breathing shallowed, barely expanding my chest with each inhale. If I wasn't careful, I would hyperventilate. I had to think happier thoughts. Warm summer days. Soft cuddly kittens. Sexy hard-bodied medical examiners.

  Well, that wasn't going to slow my breathing.

  I gave myself a mental shake. If I was going to pretend to be a detective, then I was going to have to pretend to be brave. I had no choice. We couldn't stay where we were. If Dominic Gordon was waiting us out, so be it. We'd just have to deal with the consequences.

  Besides, I was uncomfortably hot, which probably meant I was running out of air. These things weren't designed for occupancy. If I didn't do something, Dominic Gordon was going to find two new clients when he got to work in the morning.

  I shoved the lid open with all my force and sat up, gasping.

  A fat black and white cat sat on top of Irene's closed casket, batting a jingly toy mouse around. It paused to turn luminous green eyes on me.

  "Meow," it said.

  * * *

  "A cat," I grumbled as we made our way down the hall. "I jumped into a coffin to hide from a cat."

  "Seriously!" Irene said. Then she paused. "Though, some cats can be really ill-tempered."

  I shot her a look, not sure if she was trying to be funny or save face after I found her nearly hyperventilating in her Platinum Slumber. Clearly the brush with the near afterlife had affected us both. I could still feel the oppressive weight of impending suffocation in my chest. After scaring us half to death, the cat had casually trotted off, toy mouse firmly clenched in his little cat teeth, laughing under his breath. At least, I imagined it was laughing.

  "We were fine," I assured Irene with confidence I didn't feel and was pretty sure I wasn't exuding. "We were nowhere near death. We had plenty of air."

  "So long as we didn't breathe," she mumbled. Then she stopped short. "This door must lead to the basement."

  "Move on," I told her. "Who knows what might be down there."

  "Dominic Gordon told us what's down there, remember?" She sounded suddenly uplifted. "Mortuaries keep all the good stuff in the basement, away from poor old Aunt Lulu, who might stumble into the embalming room by accident when she's looking for the restroom."

  I froze. "Embalming room?"

  "Think of it as a science lab."

  "With dead people!"

  Irene put her hands on her hips. "Do you want to find Rebecca Lowery or not?"

  Less and less with every passing moment.

  "Fine," I huffed. "Let's go. You first."

  We descended the stairs into a stygian basement that grew no more welcoming when Irene shined her flashlight app on it. It was the embalming room, evidenced by the stainless steel table, the drain, the reek of formaldehyde, the…

  "I think I'd rather be in the coffin," I said.

  "This is life, Marty." Irene glanced around. "Pardon the pun. Hey, your Watson deals with this every day."

  "Day being the key word here. He's not sneaking in to disturb the dead at night." I paused. "And he's not my Watson."

  "Yet."

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Irene shouted, "Look!" She pointed to a metal cabinet in the far corner. "What's that? It looks like…an oven." She whispered the last part with a wrinkled nose that said she was thinking about what might be cooked down here.

  I shook my head. "No, not an oven. A freezer."

  She bit her lip then whispered, "Like that's better?"

  "Slightly?" Nothing about this was what you'd call good. I had the heebie-jeebies big time. And all I wanted to do was get out of here.

  We stood in front of a large metal unit with six drawers. It almost looked like an oversized metal dresser, but I had a feeling this season's latest styles weren't being held inside. I grabbed the handle of the first drawer and glanced at Irene. "Here goes nothing."

  I closed my eyes and pulled. I did a two count before opening them and looking inside.