"They're regulars. Been bringing their kids here since they were in strollers." A man across the table pointed at the mothers. He was chunky, pink, and round with an astonishing head of hair and a slight overbite. He stood up and stuck out his hand. "Louis Chu."

  "Any relation to Lucy Chu?" I asked him.

  His smile grew. "She's my wife. You know Lucy?"

  "We met when she brought me some of my aunt's mail," I told him. "Do you know many of the people here in the park?"

  He nodded. "Most of them live right here in the neighborhood. Like her." He pointed at the yoga teacher. "She has a studio two blocks up that way. But she teaches classes here almost every day. Likes the feel of the earth under her feet. Or so she says." He nodded toward the skateboard park. "And those kids, they're here all the time too, trying to kill themselves with those things." He waved across the table. "We're here every afternoon, playing chess and staying out of our wives' way."

  "How long have you been doing that?" I asked.

  "Since we got married." He chuckled. "What do you think, Albert?" he asked Mr. Happy. "Two years or so we've been coming out?"

  Albert gave a noncommittal shrug. It wouldn't have surprised me if Albert denied being there at that very moment. The mention of Sherlock Holmes had spooked him in a big way.

  "That's what I thought," Louis said, although Albert hadn't said a word. "About two years. I'm semiretired now, so I take it easy in the afternoons. So is Albert. He was in sales."

  Probably used car sales. The kind with doctored VIN numbers.

  "I spent forty years in the souvenirs business," Louis went on. "Little bamboo fans, paper lanterns, silk kimonos…you name it, and I've sold it." He chuckled again.

  "Yes, your wife mentioned that to me," I told him. "I wonder if you knew your neighbor Kate Quigley well?" I asked, steering the conversation back on track.

  Heads raised around the table again.

  "Kate Quigley?" His smile fell away slightly. "What about her?"

  "She was my great-aunt," I said.

  "I'm sorry for your loss."

  That didn't sound genuine at all. It sounded like one of those wooden sympathies you expressed out of rote, but I didn't press it. Given Kate's knack for complaining, Louis might well have been the target of her vitriol at least once, so I couldn't blame him if he wasn't brokenhearted at her loss.

  "I'm curious if you saw or heard her receiving any visitors lately?" I asked, repeating the question I'd already asked his wife.

  Unfortunately, his response was much the same. "No. Sorry." He shook his head. "I don't remember any visitors."

  "I remember Kate," another man said. He was round like Louis, but looked a bit older with lots of gray hair sticking out in all directions. "Blonde lady. Brash personality. Always complaining." He paused. "Sorry."

  I waved him off. That sounded accurate so far.

  "I used to see her walking her dog along the path. I think she'd rather he did his business here in the park instead of her yard."

  Irene and I exchanged a look, her surprise mirroring my own. "Her dog?"

  He nodded. "It was just a little bitty thing with short, little legs. Maybe part basset hound? She called him Toby. Talked to him like he was a kid. Even had him in a little sweater on cool days. Dogs in sweaters. They're born in sweaters." He shook his head at the absurdity of it.

  I hadn't seen any trace of a dog living in the house. No bowls, no leashes, no dog food.

  "She had a dog," I said to Irene.

  She gave a slight nod, her expression bewildered.

  I wondered what had happened to Toby and made a mental note to ask Lestrade about that.

  "When was the last time you saw her walking the dog?" I asked.

  "Well, let me see, now." Louis stared up at the sky, thinking. "I think it might have been around the 10th of the month, because I remember I had to take Lucy's home-shopping order back to the post office—she's always buying, buying, buying—and I seem to recall being told it'd be there by the following Wednesday, and that would have been—"

  "The 19th," the other man cut in. "She was here on the 19th."

  Irene blinked. "Are you sure about that?"

  "I'm sure," he said. "She was here on the 19th. I remember because it was my wife's birthday, and I had to leave early to pick up flowers."

  My pulse ticked up a notch. Kate had been there in the park the day before she'd died. I glanced at Irene, and I could tell she'd realized the significance of the date too.

  "How did she look?" I asked him. "Did she seem okay on the 19th?"

  He shrugged. "As good as she ever seemed."

  Whatever that meant.

  "Did she look sick?" Irene asked. "Nervous? Afraid?"

  "I'd appreciate anything you can tell us," I added.

  He glanced up from his chessboard, his expression softening. "You're concerned about your aunt. You're a good niece. Did she have the dementia?" He tapped his temple and rolled his eyes and wobbled his head back and forth.

  "I don't think she had anything," I said. "In fact, I don't think she died of natural causes. I think someone must have wanted her dead."

  That got their attention. They all stared up at me with slack jaws and wide eyes. But no guilty expressions, except for maybe Mr. Happy. I couldn't see his expression because his head was turned toward my great-aunt's house down the street. Did he know it was her house?

  "That's why Sherlock Holmes has been hired to look into it," Irene said. "Now does anyone have any information that might be helpful to us?"

  Lots of blank expressions. No one said anything.

  Louis cleared his throat. "Why don't you let us think about it? Maybe we'll remember something if we talk it over. Like I said, we're here every day."

  "Think about it," Irene agreed, her tone suggesting they might want to get to it. "We'll be back." She looked at me. "Come on, Marty."

  "'We'll be back?'" I repeated when we were out of earshot. "What was that about?"

  She grinned. "I watched Terminator last night. What a weird group, huh?"

  "They knew Kate's name," I said.

  "I noticed that. Albert was the only one who didn't react when you said someone had wanted Kate dead."

  "He was looking at the house," I said.

  "He sure was." She shook her head. "Something about him felt off, don't you think? He's the only thing in the whole park that did. Although I don't see him making enough noise from down the street to draw Kate's attention. I don't see him making enough noise from across the room to draw her attention."

  "Unless that was just an excuse Kate used to get the police to come out," I said. "I could easily see Mr. Happy engaging in criminal activity of some sort."

  "Yeah," Irene said. "Maybe. We just don't know enough about her."

  I glanced over at the house. "For now. That may change. I think I'm going to stay here tonight."

  Irene blinked. "Really? Do you think that's safe?"

  I nodded. "If she was killed for something she had in the house, that something is probably gone. If she was killed for something she saw or heard or knew, well, she's gone now too. There's no reason I'd be in danger."

  "I guess," she said doubtfully. "Do you want me to stay with you?"

  I shook my head. "Thanks, but I'll be fine. I'll catch up with you tomorrow, okay?"

  Irene glanced over her shoulder as we stepped off the curb. "Why don't you go in the back door? We have an audience, and I don't want him to know you're staying here alone if we can help it. Just in case."

  I looked back to see Mr. Happy watching us. Although I was pretty sure I'd be perfectly safe staying in Kate's house overnight, a chill shimmied through me. Something about him made me very uneasy.

  We made our way around the corner and up to the back of the house, where we said our good-byes, and I let myself in through the kitchen door. The place was still a dumpster fire, but it was starting to feel familiar and comfortable in its own way. I locked the door behind me and started closing blinds and drapes, pausing in the living room to peek over into the park.

  The picnic tables were empty.

  I couldn't help but wonder if the match had ended or if Irene and I had broken up the party with our questions.

  I closed the drapes and went back to work.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Someone was knocking on the door.

  I stuck my head out from beneath the comforter to check the bedside clock. Seven thirty. Who would have the nerve to knock on anyone's door at seven thirty in the morning? Especially when the knockee had been up past two in the morning trying to put the living room in some kind of order.

  Well, just because they were knocking didn't mean I had to answer. I dove back beneath the comforter and closed my eyes, willing myself back to sleep. Which didn't work, because I was irritated that someone would knock on the door at seven thirty in the morning.

  On cue, just to aggravate me, another knock sounded.

  Groaning, I threw the covers back and grabbed one of Kate's bathrobes. Kate'd had good taste in robes. In fact, staying at the house had been kind of like a shopping spree in the women's department at Nordstrom. I'd had my choice of pajamas, robes, socks, slippers, and thick bath towels, most of them brand new with tags attached. After taking a long, hot shower and snuggling into a pair of fleece pajamas and toasty, fuzzy slippers, I'd spent the night boxing up old magazines and newspapers for recycling, going through the rolltop desk, and putting the living room and kitchen into some semblance of order. Which wasn't to say it was neat and tidy. That would've taken a steamroller. Still, it was progress.

  Better yet, throughout the whole time, it had been blissfully quiet, with no noise from the park or anywhere else. Not even a creaking floorboard or drafty, whistling eaves. I'd slept better than I'd expected, probably out of sheer exhaustion. Just not for long enough.

  Which brought me back to the front door.

  Probably Lucy Chu, with another offensive piece of misdelivered mail.

  I rolled out of the bed in one of the guest rooms that I'd hastily cleared off the previous night. I didn't know exactly where my aunt had passed, but on the chance it was in her own comfortable bed, that was the last place I wanted to be.

  I belted my robe and went to answer the door.

  It wasn't Lucy. It was Dr. Watson standing there wearing sunglasses and a halo. I blinked. No, not a halo. The sun glinted off his blond hair, limning his head with gold. With a small, crooked smile, he looked like a naughty angel. The foggy chill of the morning curled around him, seeping into the house and up the hem of my bathrobe. Reminding me I was wearing a bathrobe. In front of Dr. Hottie. Watson.

  Maybe it was a bad dream. No, I'd never wear cotton pajamas and a bulky terry robe in a dream. In a dream, I'd wear a slinky slip of silk and have no bedhead.

  Bedhead! My hand flew up to my hair. I should've looked in the mirror. Why hadn't I glanced in a mirror? I could only imagine what I looked like. No mascara was one thing. Rampant bedhead was another. I should've taken the time for a shower and a blowout. And a manicure. And maybe a little makeup and for sure a wardrobe change.

  But why did I care what I looked like? This was Dr. By-the-Book at the door. At seven thirty in the morning. Unannounced. After ratting me out to Detective Lestrade.

  "Miss Hudson." He had the grace to not look me up and down. I didn't have the same grace, since it was my first chance to see him in civilian clothes. It was worth the wait. Leather jacket over a white button-down shirt and red tie. His chest looked broader. His legs looked longer in navy slacks without the shapeless lab coat hanging nearly to his knees. And strong. I could practically see his six-pack abs right through his clothes. He didn't look like Dr. By-the-Book. He looked like a superhero without the cape.

  "I was hoping I'd find you here. Did I come at a bad time?" he asked. He carried a thin, expensive-looking briefcase with the gold initials J.W. inscribed beneath the handle. A sleek black sedan was parked at the curb. So he had good taste in accessories.

  I suddenly realized I hadn't said a word. I'd just clung to the door like a cobweb, staring at him.

  "I was upstairs," I said. "In bed. Sleeping," I added unnecessarily, even though it was none of his business. I just didn't want him to make assumptions.

  I could practically read his mind: What else would you be doing looking like that?

  He certainly had his nerve.

  "Sorry to wake you," he said. "I wanted to stop by on my way to the office." He hesitated. "May I come in?"

  "I'm not dressed," I said. Also unnecessarily. He was a doctor. He knew undressed when he saw it.

  "You are dressed," he said with a crooked little grin. I could get used to that grin.

  No, I couldn't. This was Dr. Watson.

  That's when it dawned on me. He was probably there because he knew he'd been suckered by the phony license we'd sent him.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "But I look, well…"

  "You look fine," he said.

  I knew it. What did fine mean? Fine wasn't what guys said to women when they wanted to tear off their clothes with their teeth.

  I resisted the urge to bang my head against the edge of the door. This was Dr. Watson, who issued no report before its time, who refused to provide information or answer questions to mere relatives. He probably never ate his dessert before his dinner. Never took a chance on using eggs past their expiration date. Never wore brown shoes with a black suit.

  Well, that one was probably a good idea.

  Clothes didn't seem to be an issue for him anyway. Although his outfit lived in the neighborhood of standard office wear, I had to admit he wore it with style. Had to be because of the killer body beneath it.

  Geez. I really had to stop thinking.

  I moved aside, and he took off his sunglasses before stepping into the foyer. His eyes widened slightly when he saw the boxes stacked everywhere. Good thing he hadn't seen it the night before. It wasn't Home & Garden, but it wasn't Waste Management Monthly anymore either.

  He slid the glasses into his jacket. "I looked through your aunt's file, and I'd like to talk to Mr. Holmes, but I wasn't able to find his phone number."

  Every drop of blood in my head plummeted to my feet, making me dizzy. I couldn't think of a thing to say. I wasn't good with lies and deception. I'd known all along that he would look into Sherlock Holmes. He wouldn't send his reports out into a vacuum. And I'd also known that when he did, he wouldn't find anything, because there wasn't anything to find. There was no phone number. There was no Sherlock Holmes. There was only an indictment and a trial and a jail cell.

  "Miss Hudson?" He touched my arm. "Are you alright?"

  Sure, I was fine, as long as he hit his head on the way back to his car and developed amnesia.

  "Why don't you sit down?" He took my arm to guide me over to the sofa. "You look a little pale."

  "I was upstairs," I told him. "In bed."

  "Yes, so you've said." Another little crooked smile. "Can I get you some water?"

  "I was sleeping," I added. I tucked the bathrobe tightly around my legs and clutched its lapels to my throat. I was painfully aware of how I must look. All I needed was a shower cap, and I'd be Granny Clampett.

  He hesitated for a beat. Probably debating whether or not to call 9-1-1. "Why don't I get you that water," he said. He went away, and I heard him moving around the kitchen, opening cupboards in search of a glass. Thankfully, he found a clean one that he brought back.

  "So do you have Mr. Holmes's phone number?" he asked. "Or his email, if that would be more convenient."

  I sipped the water, thinking fast.

  Email. Irene had initially sent the credentials over from her own account. But I was sure she could phony up an email account for the good detective as easily as she had the PI license. Even I could phony up an email account.

  "Although I'd really rather speak to him in person," he added.

  Of course he would. That was how alpha males operated. Well, Irene couldn't phony up a Mr. Holmes. Or could she? She knew a lot of people, in a lot of places, from a lot of professions. Maybe she could hire someone to pretend to be Mr. Holmes. Someone middle-aged, with jowls and reading glasses and a tendency to say, "Oh, and one more thing…"

  "You want to speak to him?" I repeated. My voice sounded faint. "Why?"

  "Because you were very persuasive," he said. "And there's a chance you might be right."

  I froze. "Could you say that again?"

  A wry smile hit his lips. "I said 'a chance.' But I took another look at the preliminary toxicology report, and based on what medications you found in her home, it looks like there may have been another chemical compound in her system. One that we can't automatically account for."

  "What sort of compound?" Ohmigod, had my aunt been poisoned?

  He shook his head. "Too early to tell. I sent her samples to the lab to conduct a more detailed analysis."

  "How long will that take?"

  "I've put a rush on it."

  Which was appropriately vague.

  "I, uh…" He paused. "I apologize for not catching this the first time."

  I wondered if the sentiment was genuine or fear of being sued by the bereaved family member in the bathrobe.

  "And for reacting the way I did when you brought her medications to my attention," he added, pushing my thoughts more in the genuine direction.

  I shook my head. "I might have done the same thing. I mean, you're the doctor, and I'm just a—" I stopped abruptly before I said barista. "—person who works for a private investigator," I finished lamely.

  "Don't sell yourself short," he said. "If you hadn't brought those medications to my attention, I'd have had no reason to revisit my findings." He glanced away for a second, toward the rolltop desk.

  "I wish Detective Lestrade felt that way," I said without thinking.

  "What do you mean?"

  I shrugged. "He blew me off when I gave him the same information."

  "Really." Watson's expression hardened. "I'm not surprised. He's not the type who likes to reopen a closed case. Even though I told him I'm no longer convinced this was death by natural causes."