Empty.

  I let out a big breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

  "One down and five more to go," Irene said on an exhale that matched mine.

  We did a repeat on drawer number two and came up with the same results.

  I did a quick eeny-meeny-miney-mo to pick the next drawer and opened.

  "Eww!" Irene jumped back.

  I'll admit, I might have jumped as well. In drawer number three lay an older gentleman with wispy white hair and a serene smile on his face. He might have just been dreaming peacefully had I not just pulled him from a human Sub-Zero.

  "Not Rebecca," I said, quickly closing the drawer again, feeling like I'd interrupted the mother of all naps for the poor guy.

  "This is freaking me out," Irene admitted. She held her phone in front of her as if to ward off spirits with her power of technology.

  "We could leave now," I offered, kinda liking the sound of it.

  But Irene took a deep breath, steeled her spine, tossed her ponytail over one shoulder, and said, "No. I can take it."

  That made one of us.

  I cracked my knuckles, shook the nervous energy out of my hands, and grabbed the handle of cupboard number four. I gave it a yank.

  And both Irene and I gasped as one.

  In the metal drawer lay a thirtysomething blonde woman who exactly matched the picture Barbara Lowery Bristol had shown us in my living room four days earlier.

  Rebecca Lowery might have been missing in action, but one thing was certain—she'd never left Gordon's Mortuary.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  After indulging in a couple of really girlie screams, a few near-hyperventilation deep breaths, and running from the scene of our sorta crime as fast as our black-boot-clad feet could take us, Irene and I huddled in her car a block down the street, still checking the rearview mirror, as if expecting Rebecca Lowery to come loping after us, Walking Dead style.

  Once we had our breathing under control, Irene pulled out her phone and dialed 9-1-1 on speaker. After semi-coherently telling the dispatcher that we had a body we needed to report to Detective Lestrade, and waiting on hold for so long that any real emergency would have passed (or killed us), we were finally connected to a bored sounding desk sergeant at the local precinct.

  "This is Sergeant Claiborne. How can I help you?"

  "We'd like to report a body," Irene told him.

  "A body?" I could hear papers rustling on the other end as he grabbed a pen. "You have a deceased person?"

  "Yes." Irene nodded emphatically in the dark car interior. "A missing body."

  "Wait—a body's missing?"

  "Well, no. We found the missing body."

  "So, a body was missing, but it's found." He paused, the edge of urgency leaving his voice as he tried to process our situation.

  "Right. We found her," Irene repeated, a hint of pride in her voice.

  I had to admit, I was a little surprised we'd actually done it too.

  "Where did you find this body?"

  "At Gordon's Mortuary."

  "You found a body at a mortuary." He paused. "Gee, how odd." All concern had left his voice, now replaced by pure sarcasm, as if he was being prank called.

  "Look, it was missing from the mortuary. And now we found it."

  "At the mortuary."

  "Right."

  "So, it's not missing. It's exactly where it should be."

  "Um…I guess…kinda…"

  "Look, kid, I have real calls to take."

  "Wait! This is a real call! I'm not kidding. Ask Detective Lestrade."

  "Detective Lestrade is gone for the day."

  "Well, call him at home!"

  "You want me to bother the detective while he's at home with his wife to tell him that a missing body isn't missing and it's right where it should be?"

  Well, when he put it that way.

  "Can we leave him a message?" I jumped in.

  Irene shot me a look like I was giving up too quickly. I shrugged. Clearly Sergeant Claiborne wasn't sending the cavalry tonight.

  "Sure. I can take a message."

  "Can you tell him to call Martha Hudson first thing in the morning?"

  "He has your number?"

  Regrettably. "Yeah, he does."

  "I'll leave him the message."

  I was about to offer a halfhearted thank-you when the dial tone in my ear told me he'd hung up.

  "Well, that was a bust," Irene huffed, shoving her phone into the holder mounted on her dash and turning on the car.

  "It's the best we can do tonight," I sighed. I briefly thought about calling Watson. But since our last conversation was about me being more careful and this one would be about breaking into a mortuary, I wasn't totally sure he'd be more receptive. And, the truth was, he had no reason to take the body back to the morgue. The cop was right—Rebecca was right where she was supposed to be.

  "Let's hope Lestrade has more sense in the morning," Irene said.

  "So, what do we do now?" I asked.

  Irene pulled out onto the deserted street. "Call Barbara Lowery Bristol and tell her we solved the case."

  Technically we had. But something didn't feel right about it.

  * * *

  "Definitely get the roof fixed first," Irene said the next morning. We stood in the Victorian's master bedroom, staring up at the ugly yellow-brown water stain on its ceiling. "There's no point in doing anything else if it's just going to rain indoors."

  "Roofers are coming by tomorrow," I informed her. "And, I've got my electrical guy meeting me here this afternoon to finalize his estimate."

  Irene raised an eyebrow my way. "A roof and wiring that won't burn the place down? How decadent, Miss Hudson."

  I laughed. "Right? Next thing you know, I'll be buying furniture without moth holes in it."

  "Maybe we should let the check clear first," Irene suggested.

  "Trust me—an estimate is all I'm getting." At least for now.

  Downstairs, the front doorbell rang. Toby gave a sharp bark and ran around my feet in circles in case I hadn't heard.

  "Speak of the check…" Irene said, heading to the front door.

  I followed reluctantly. While the idea of a payday wasn't a terrible thing, that niggling feeling that something just wasn't right hadn't dissipated any overnight. And when morning had come and gone without a call from Lestrade, it had maybe even grown a tad.

  Once Irene and I had gotten back to her place last night for a calm-the-nerves pitcher of margaritas, we'd called our client and informed her that we'd found her sister—right at the mortuary where she should have been all along. Talk about an awkward conversation. I wasn't sure how much we could charge her for basically finding something that wasn't missing. Only, clearly someone at Gordon's Mortuary had wanted her to appear missing. Which was why the next call on our list was to Haley's Mortuary—which had the highest Yelp rating we could find for a mortuary in the area and was open 24 hours—and we arranged to have them pick up the untagged body in cupboard number four first thing in the morning. Then Irene texted her pal Shinwell, and sent him Rebecca's picture, and asked him to accompany the people from Haley's just to make sure they got the right body this time. All of which had gone off without a hitch, as Shinwell had reported to us an hour ago. Now all that was left was to collect our payment from Barbara Lowery Bristol and close the case of the Disappearing Diva.

  At least that was what I kept telling that niggling feeling.

  I caught up to Irene downstairs as she met Barbara Lowery Bristol at the front door.

  "I know I'm early," she said, stepping into the foyer. "Is that alright?"

  "Perfectly fine," I told her, meaning it. "Would you like to sit down?"

  "No, thank you," she said. "I don't have much time. I've got another appointment, actually."

  Toby moved in to give her shoes a thorough sniffing, wagged his tail in approval, and wandered off into the living room to take up his usual post at the window.

  Barbara's glance encompassed both of us. "I just wanted to thank you for finding my sister. I can't tell you how much peace of mind it will give me to see her laid to rest before I head home tomorrow."

  "You're not taking her back to Iowa?" Irene asked.

  She shook her head. "I wish I could, but I want to honor Rebecca's wish to stay here in San Francisco. I owe her that."

  I nodded my understanding before it struck me. "Wait—tomorrow? Will they be able to complete a full autopsy by then?"

  "Autopsy?" Another headshake. "There's not going to be an autopsy. In fact, she's due to be laid out and buried tomorrow morning."

  "Tomorrow," I repeated. I'd been sure someone would have insisted on a full autopsy now. I mean, didn't a missing body speak to some sort of foul play? I narrowed my eyes at Barbara Bristol. And even if the police didn't request an autopsy, why wouldn't she? While it was a given at this point that the Gordons had hidden Rebecca, was it possible someone else had put them up to it? They seemed the type to do just about anything for money. Wasn't Barbara just the least bit curious why someone would want to hide her sister's body?

  Unless, of course, that someone had been her all along and she already knew.

  "The police didn't request an autopsy?" I pressed.

  Barbara blinked at me. "Well, that detective—Lester?"

  "Lestrade," Irene supplied.

  "Yes, Lestrade. He called me this morning and suggested it. Just to be thorough, I suppose."

  So he had gotten our message last night.

  "But I declined," Barbara went on.

  I shot a look at Irene. Her eyebrows were raised in a way that made it clear she was thinking the same thing I was.

  "You declined," I repeated slowly.

  Barbara nodded. "Yes. Look, I didn't want my sister taken all the way back to the morgue again. I mean, they already determined she died of natural causes. What more is there to see? I just want to lay my sister to rest and put all of this unpleasantness behind me."

  "When is the service?" Irene asked. "We'd like to pay our respects."

  "I appreciate the thought," Barbara said, "but there really won't be a formal service. Just Rebecca and me, a few prayers, and some quiet reflection. You understand."

  Irene's smile was warm with compassion. Or at least fake compassion. "Of course. I hope you'll accept our condolences."

  We spent another few minutes chatting and accepting praise that now rang hollow to me, before Barbara wrote us a check and made her exit.

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Irene turned to me and frowned. "She's hiding something."

  With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I agreed. "I know. She's in a big hurry to get rid of that body again. Without an autopsy." I shook my head. "How can Watson sign off on that?"

  "If Lestrade even consulted him, I'm sure it's not like Watson has much choice," Irene reasoned, flopping down on my sofa, raising little shimmers of dust that danced in the cracks of sunlight coming through the windows. "I mean, if there's still no indication of foul play in her death, he has no official reason to investigate."

  "Stealing a body isn't indication of foul play?"

  Irene shrugged. "I suppose that's all in how hard Lestrade looked into Dominic Gordon, and what kind of story he spun about the missing corpse in his refrigerator," she mused, looking like she really wanted to hear that story.

  I, on the other hand, didn't. I knew whatever he was telling the police was pure fiction. For all we knew, Vincent Gordon could have offed Jane Doe just to have a substitute for Rebecca.

  "Surely someone else is curious why the body was taken?" I pressed. "I mean, you can't tell me that it's just going to be swept under the rug? What about justice for Rebecca Lowery?"

  Irene let out a dramatic sigh. "We're not cashing Barbra Bristol's check, are we?"

  I looked to the peeling paint, the electrical waiting to go up in flames any minute, and the second story that was just one good rain away from melting like the wicked witch of the west. "Not yet," I decided. "Not until we know for sure she didn't hurt her sister."

  "Your conscience is so inconvenient."

  Tell me about it.

  * * *

  We left Toby dozing at 221 and headed to the police station. As soon as we got out of the car, we saw Lestrade leaving the building. I'd like to think it was coincidence and not a sixth sense that told him we were approaching to harass him. His shoulders were hunched against the stiff breeze, eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses as they turned our way. He wore a different suit and tie than the last time I'd seen him, but his attitude hadn't changed. He still wasn't pleased to see us, a reaction I was starting to think he reserved for humanity in general.

  "What are you two doing here?" he demanded.

  Irene planted herself squarely in front of him. "You got our message about Rebecca Lowery?"

  He nodded. "Yes, and I followed up with the next of kin."

  "Who refused an autopsy," I added.

  "And?"

  "And we think there should be one."

  "Sherlock Holmes thinks there should be one," Irene added.

  "Sherlock Holmes," he repeated. A gust of wind rearranged the thinning hair across his scalp and pried opened his suit jacket. He gathered it with an impatient snap. "Then why doesn't he call me himself?"

  I cut a glance toward Irene, hoping she had a story for that one.

  "He tried. Your line was busy," she easily lied. The woman should have been an actress. Her ability was either Oscar worthy or pathological.

  "Why didn't he leave a message?" Lestrade ground out.

  "He's hard to get a hold of. He'll call again."

  "When?"

  "Soon."

  "Right." He stepped around her to descend the steps to the street. "Well, if there's nothing else, ladies?"

  "There is!" Irene said. Glancing my way, she did a come on tilt of her head before following him at a speed walk. "About the autopsy."

  "I told you. The next of kin refused it."

  "And you're just going to give in to her?"

  "There's no basis to force one," he snapped. "Look, Watson did an examination. No crime has been committed. There's no evidence of foul play."

  "Except that she's dead," Irene said. "A woman in her twenties with suspicious connections."

  "Suspicious connections?" Lestrade eyed us both.

  I paused. It was one thing to tell Watson I suspected Rebecca of buying drugs. It was another to admit to a police detective that the suspicion was based on my own drug buy.

  "She has a boyfriend with a temper who was cheating on her with her understudy who is now the lead in her opera," Irene jumped in, saving me.

  "Great. Her love life's a mess. Join the club," he mumbled, taking the steps two at a time. "That's not evidence of a crime."

  I hurried to keep up with him, fighting against the wind in my face and Lestrade's long stride. "We believe she may have been involved with drugs. Synthetic designer drugs," I added against my better judgment.

  "I don't care what you believe. Her tox screen was negative."

  "What about the fact Gordon had hidden her in the mortuary this whole time?" I asked, just slightly out of breath. "That's got to be some kind of crime. Isn't that called abuse of a corpse?"

  "That's called an honest mistake," he said. "A mix-up. I talked to Mr. Gordon this morning, and he was very apologetic."

  Yeah, I bet he was.

  "I'm sure her sister was relieved to hear it was just a mix-up," I said tartly. I didn't buy it. No reputable mortician would mix up or lose track of bodies. Dominic Gordon was up to something. Possibly for someone.

  "Well, if this is all above board, why would someone hit Marty on the head?" Irene asked.

  Lestrade spun abruptly to face us. "What did you say?"

  "You heard me," Irene said. "She was hit on the head while she was following a lead in this case."

  Lestrade turned to me, something akin to actual concern in his eyes. "Did you file a report?"

  I shook my head. "But I think it was Dominic Gordon."

  "You 'think'? Did you see him?"

  "I was attacked from behind."

  "Recognize his voice?" he asked.

  "He didn't say anything."

  "Did you see or hear anything that indicated who hit you?"

  "Well, not exactly." I felt foolish admitting it.

  "Then what makes you think it was Gordon?"

  "His shoes were muddy." As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how thin they sounded.

  Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. He stared down at me over his hawklike nose, the expression on his face the same one a parent would use on a child who just blamed the crayon covering the walls on her imaginary friend.

  "He had muddy shoes," he repeated.

  Irene stuck her fists on her hips. "Marty knows what she saw, Detective."

  Lestrade shook his head. "Tell me, why is Mr. Holmes so invested in an autopsy anyway?"

  Irene and I shared a glance. This was our one chance. It was now or never to make our case. "We don't think the bodies were accidentally switched. If that had been the case, Rebecca would have shown up where Jane Doe was supposed to be."

  "So maybe Gordon is really bad at organization," Lestrade argued, laying on the sarcasm.

  "So, who is Jane Doe?" I asked.

  Lestrade blinked at me, his eyes blank.

  "And how did she die?" Irene pressed.

  "And who arranged for her to be buried with Gordon's?" I added.

  "And who was paying for Jane Doe's burial?" Irene jumped in.

  "And why did—"

  "Enough!" Lestrade cut in. He sighed and put a hand to his temple, as if we were giving him a headache. "You two aren't going to let this go, are you?"

  Irene and I shook our heads as one.

  "Alright. I'll make you a deal."

  That sounded promising. A deal was better than the cold shoulder we'd been getting.

  "I promise I'll talk to the ME about an autopsy. Just talk, mind you. If"—he held up a warning finger—"you promise me I'll get a call from Sherlock Holmes by the end of the day."

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Irene was quicker.