I was pretty sure you could.

  "Or maybe you want to be cremated," he suggested. "We can handle that too. We'll treat your cremains with white glove service, even put you in a nice box. Gold, bronze, platinum—we've got urns to fit any budget." His gaze flicked to my outfit. "Even ceramic."

  I tried not to be insulted.

  "Oh, I know," he said, snapping his fingers as he took another step toward Irene. "Or you could have your ashes spread over San Francisco Bay. Spend eternity admiring the Golden Gate Bridge. How'd you like that?"

  Irene shot me a helpless look.

  "How about this," I said slowly, my eyes pinging around the room. "You give us the name of that lawyer…and we won't tell anyone you're planning a trip to the Cayman Islands to deposit your clients' hard earned preplanning money in your secret offshore bank account."

  Gordon froze, his gaze turning my way. "What…I…how did you…" he sputtered, his train of thought clearly jumping from rail to rail.

  "I think it's a fair trade," Irene said, grinning like a cat that ate a canary—or at least escaped embalming.

  Gordon's mouth moved up and down without making any sounds. Finally he seemed to find his voice. "I'll get his card."

  * * *

  "That was awesome back there," Irene said a little later, when we were in the elevator ascending to the fourteenth floor offices of Becker, Becker & Becker, Counselors at Law.

  I did a mock bow. "All in a day's work, my dear Adler."

  "So, let me guess." She put her finger to her chin in mock thought. "You noticed that on his suit he had the hair of some rat indigenous only on the Cayman Islands, he had stains on his fingers from counting dirty cash money, and his lack of a tan meant he was planning a trip to the Caymans?"

  I laughed and shot her a look. "Get real. I peeked in the door of his office as we walked in. His laptop was open to his Travelocity account."

  Irene slapped her palm against her forehead. "Genius."

  "And a little lucky guessing. I mean, there are only so many reasons one visits the Cayman Islands."

  "And he doesn't seem the surfing type," Irene agreed.

  I nodded. "Stood to reason he was doing something shady." I only hoped it was the only shady thing he was doing.

  The elevator doors slid open to reveal a swanky lobby filled with lots of dark wood, plush sound-deadening carpet, and an air of rampant self-importance. If Gordon's Mortuary had a polar opposite, the Law Offices of Becker, Becker & Becker would be it. A glass-walled conference room lay behind a horseshoe-shaped receptionist's desk, and door-lined corridors stretched toward the Bay on the right and the Pacific on the left.

  A pretty blonde sat behind the desk, wearing a red wrap dress and a headset. She smiled at us. "Can I help you?"

  Irene passed her a business card. "We're here to see Mr. Becker."

  She glanced at the card before looking up, the smile steady. "Which one?"

  Irene consulted the card Dominic Gordon had supplied. "Anthony Becker."

  "Senior, Junior, or the Third?"

  Irene consulted the card again. It didn't specify. "Senior?"

  The blonde's smile morphed smoothly from expectant to regretful. "I'm afraid he's in trial all week."

  "Junior," Irene said.

  "Again," the blonde began.

  "The Third." Impatience tinged Irene's voice.

  "I'm sorry, but he's out of town."

  Irene blinked. "Then why did you ask which—never mind. Just give me whoever you've got."

  Confusion etched a tiny vertical line between the blonde's carefully groomed eyebrows. "I don't understand."

  "Someone outside the Becker trinity," Irene said. "An associate. A law student. Anyone who has familiarity with Rebecca Lowery."

  "Just a moment please." She turned away, tapped in an extension with long, gray-polished nails, and kept her voice low when she spoke to whomever was on the other end. When she turned back, the smooth smile was intact. "Mr. Becker will see you."

  Irene scowled at her. "But you said—"

  "No relation," the blonde said cheerfully. "Here he is."

  We turned to see another of the firm's complement of Beckers emerging from the Pacific hallway with an aura of impatient busyness riding on his suspenders-clad shoulders. This Becker looked like a testimonial to the P90X workout right down to the aquiline nose and lantern jaw. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Irene. She had that effect on men. Irene was Yowza! by every criterion. "Can I help you ladies?"

  I didn't seem to be included in that offer, which also happened a lot when I stood next to my best friend. Because of his focus on Irene, I let her take the lead.

  "Don't you think it would be better to talk in your office?" she asked him. "This is a confidential matter."

  "I've only got a moment," he said with insincere regret. "I'm afraid I'm already late for another obligation."

  Irene shrugged. "Have it your way." She flashed another business card. "We work for a private investigator named Sherlock Holmes. We'd like to ask you a few questions about Rebecca Lowery. I understand she was represented by this firm and that you're handling the matter of her estate."

  He didn't look at the card. "I'm sure you understand I'm limited by the attorney/client privilege."

  "We won't impinge on the privilege," I assured him.

  "We'll be general," Irene agreed. "Was Miss Lowery suing her sister, Barbara Bristol, over a house that became part of their parents' estate?"

  A tiny grin chiseled itself into his humorless expression. "General," he repeated. "That question sounds rather specific."

  "Don't be a lawyer about it," Irene told him with a flirtatious smile. "It's a simple question."

  "As I said, the attorney/client privilege—"

  "Nod once for yes, twice for no," she cut in.

  He considered for a long moment before nodding once. "Miss Lowery had contacted us to initiate that paperwork. I'm afraid I can't go into details beyond that."

  "We understand," I said. He didn't have to. Filed complaints would be accessible as public records anyway.

  "Let me ask you a hypothetical question," Irene said. "If two siblings—let's call them Dick and Jane—inherit a house, and Jane dies, doesn't that mean the house passes entirely to Dick?"

  "I don't deal in hypotheticals," he said.

  She let out a short laugh. "Seriously? I thought lawyers took a whole semester in hypotheticals."

  I was surprised, and relieved, when his tiny grin returned. He probably found her charming and insouciant. Something I couldn't pull off.

  "Let me rephrase," he said. "I don't deal in hypotheticals for less than $500 an hour."

  For a second, I expected her to call his bluff, since she probably walked around with four times that amount in her purse on any given day.

  "Doesn't matter," she said instead. "We know that Dick would take the house whether he was entitled to it or not."

  "But can he stay there." His grin graduated to a smile. "That's the question. Maybe we can address that on your next visit."

  Irene smiled back. "I do love a cliffhanger," she said.

  * * *

  "I was not flirting with him." She angled the Porsche to the curb at 221 Baker Street. "It's just my experience that charm takes you further than frost."

  I had to agree. Unfortunately, as Irene had found out as she'd accessed the public records after our visit with Mr. Charm, there was nothing for Rebecca. Whoever had killed her had done it before any of her initiated paperwork had been filed. And, flirt as she might, Irene had been unable to get anything out of Becker about Rebecca's will. Though, without any other next of kin, unless she'd specified who would get her half of the inheritance she'd yet to receive, it would revert to Barbara. Even if she had specified, it was a sticky situation in legal terms—one that I could easily see Barbara coming out victorious in, being that all other parties were deceased.

  Irene killed the engine and glanced at the Victorian. "You sure you want me to drop you here? It looks like rain," she said, her gaze going to the gathering clouds above us.

  I nodded. "The roofers are coming to put a tarp up."

  "A tarp?"

  "It's all I could afford." I paused. "Plus the lights keep flickering, so I wanted to get an electrician to check it out. He's coming to give me an estimate I probably can't afford. But at least I'll know how in debt I'm going to be."

  "Electrical is nothing to mess with. You know I can cover it. Or I can lend it to you. Whatever you want."

  I shook my head. "Thanks, but you know I'm not comfortable borrowing money from you all the time."

  "Marty, you never borrow from me. You're the only person I know who doesn't borrow from me."

  "And I want to keep it that way."

  "Then we'll cash Barbara Bristol's check," she said firmly. "I can take a few dollars of it if it makes you feel better, but the rest is yours."

  I knew a few dollars to Irene meant just that. And it was tempting, since that would more than cover any deposit I might need for repairs. Still…

  "I'm not sure I want to do that yet," I said. "Not until we know she's innocent."

  "You and those inconvenient principles of yours," Irene said with affection.

  "Don't pretend you don't feel the same way," I said.

  "Yeah. We'll have to work on that. Won't we?" She smiled. "Good luck."

  My experience so far with the Victorian told me I was going to need it.

  * * *

  "I got good news, and I got bad news." My electrical contractor, Anthony Delvecchio, told me half an hour later. He was fiftysomething with a belly that overhung the waistband of his jeans and a beard that could house a small animal. He also had kind eyes, but those eyes didn't fool me. He was moving in for the kill on my bank account.

  "Let me have it," I said wearily. It couldn't be worse than the ancient roof, the ancient windows, the ancient plumbing, and the ancient HVAC system.

  "You've got knob-and-tube wiring," he said. "Knob and tube's not up to code. The whole place should be rewired."

  I was wrong. It could be worse. "How much would that cost?"

  He scratched his belly. "Place this size? Roughly ten grand."

  I couldn't breathe. "Ten thousand dollars?" There weren't enough extra shifts at the coffee bar to cover that if I worked around the clock. "Can't I just live with what I've got?"

  He shook his head. "You was my daughter, I wouldn't let you do that. It's not safe. You don't want the place to burn down."

  Said who? I looked around, trying to see beyond the expensive repair list to the beautiful bones of the house, the hardwood that could gleam again, the crystal that could sparkle. It could still be the house I'd thought I'd inherited, before I'd seen it for the first time.

  "Can I do one room at a time?" I asked hopefully.

  He scratched his head in puzzlement. "It really don't work like that, Miss Hudson."

  I guessed an interest-free loan for about twenty years wouldn't work either. No point in even asking. He was already looking at me with a deep pity that was embarrassing.

  "Ten thousand dollars," I muttered. Might as well be fifty thousand, it felt so far out of reach.

  "Miss Hudson? You got a minute?" One of my roofers stood on the upstairs landing in paint-splattered coveralls. Even from a distance, his discomfort was obvious. His had nothing on mine. "You should probably come see this," he added.

  The only thing I wanted to see was a pot of gold, but I'd gotten myself into this mess. Well, technically, my great-aunt Kate had gotten me into this mess, but I'd kept myself in it by refusing to take Irene's suggestion to sell the house.

  I glanced at Anthony. "Are we done, or do you have more good news for me?"

  He seemed genuinely contrite. "I'm sorry, Miss Hudson."

  I managed a weak smile. "It's not your fault. Thanks for coming out."

  He nodded. "I'll give you a call soon as I can check my schedule so we can set up a start date."

  Resolving not to answer my phone anytime soon, I saw him out before following the roofer upstairs to the master bedroom, which earned that distinction merely by its proximity to the single bathroom rather than through any actual amenities such as an en suite.

  Rather unnecessarily, he pointed at the wood lathing visible through a gaping hole in the wall next to the gaping hole in the roof. A pile of crumbled plaster lay on the floor like a tiny snowbank. "I just leaned on it a bit, and this happened."

  This was the death throes of my bank account. Repairing the wall wouldn't be nearly as expensive as rewiring the house, but it was the whole straw-and-camel's-back thing. The problems just didn't end, even when the money did. Maybe I could rob a bank. Or sell some blood. How much could you earn selling blood? How many liters of blood did the human body need, anyway? I could even throw in some plasma, or bone marrow. Or hair. People sold their hair, right? I could wear hats or scarves for a few months until it grew back. I'd be helping people and repairing my future home at the same time. It was a win/win.

  I sank down onto the bed, my shoulders sagging. Who was I kidding? My hair didn't grow that fast. And I was fairly sure I needed more blood than I could sell. At the rate these repairs were adding up, I had nothing to sell that would put me in the black, other than the house itself. And that wouldn't even be worth the cost of repairs, the way things were adding up.

  I sighed. As inconvenient as those pesky principles were, I did have one thing, and it could solve a few of my problems, if not all, with one quick endorsement. Maybe I should be sure I was working for a killer before snubbing my nose at a check waiting to be cashed…

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When I'd had all the good news I could handle from contractors, I took an Uber back to my apartment, where Toby greeted me with slobbery kisses and violent tail wags. While he crunched on his dinner kibbles, I heated a bowl of soup and made a grilled cheese sandwich, which I barely tasted since I was immersed in dreams of winning the lottery or stumbling onto sacks of cash fallen from a Brinks truck. I wasn't greedy; I didn't need millions and millions. Just one sack of cash would do the job.

  When we were each finished eating, I washed all the dishes, gave Toby a dessert bone, and kept the cookie for myself because I needed all the comfort food I could get. Toby was sympathetic enough to my plight to spend the evening beside me on the sofa, although he did it sprawled on his back so that I could rub his belly while I watched television. We went to bed around eleven, and my dreams were filled with half a dozen contractors chasing me down the street, each clutching unpaid invoices.

  The phone rang the next morning while it was still dark. Sometime during the night, Toby had swapped out his doggy bed for the real thing, and he lifted his head from the pillow beside me, looking at me blearily before sagging back into sleep. Toby's day didn't begin until the sun came up.

  Although half asleep myself, I registered the delicious scent of peppers frying. Mr. Bitterman must have gotten to work early, this time with real food. My stomach growled faintly as I reached for the phone.

  "Have you been online today?" Irene asked in my ear.

  I glanced at the bedside clock. Five forty. "It's not today yet." I rubbed my eyes. "What time do you get up, anyway?"

  "Oh, I've been up for hours. You know I don't need much sleep."

  Yet she functioned like an astrophysicist. Life just wasn't fair.

  "I've got a full day of VC meetings ahead of me," Irene continued. "This is my Zen moment."

  Too bad her Zen moment couldn't happen at ten o'clock. "And you're calling me during your Zen moment because…?"

  "We've gone viral!" she squealed, sounding positively delighted about it. "Well, Sherlock Holmes has, anyway. But we're the brains behind him."

  "There is no him," I said automatically, fully awake now. I could think of several different reasons Sherlock would go viral, and none were good. "What happened? Did someone finally find out he's fake or something?" I suddenly thought of the reporter both Watson and PS Rossi had mentioned.

  "You have so little faith in me," she said sadly. "It's just the opposite, actually. Ever heard of an alternative media blog called the Irregulars?"

  "No," I answered, putting her on speaker while I googled it.

  "Someone named Wiggins owns it."

  "Last name or first name?"

  "No clue. Anyway, he wrote a post about Sherlock Holmes. And it's gotten picked up by everyone."

  The Irregulars didn't exactly sound like the ideal place to land publicity-wise. More like a self-fulfilling prophecy. "Define everyone," I said, hoping it didn't include Detective Lestrade. He didn't strike me as an internet surfer.

  "Look for yourself," she said.

  Resigned to the worst, I navigated to the site and its bold headline: Case of the Disappearing Diva.

  "You've got to be kidding me."

  "Isn't it great? Wish I'd thought of it." Irene sounded practically giddy.

  A headache tapped at my temples as I scanned the article.

  New detective in town Sherlock Holmes—he wasn't in town because he wasn't real, but okay, no damage there—has been retained to solve the Case of the Disappearing Diva, also known as Rebecca Lowery, the coloratura soprano in the traveling company of Ethereal Love, which is set to open—

  "Who is this Wiggins character?" I demanded.

  "Who cares?" Irene asked. "You can't buy publicity like this. Sherlock Holmes could be famous nationwide by noon. We could have a new case every week just from this one article!"

  "I don't want a new case every week," I nearly moaned.

  "Sure you do. It'd solve all your problems," she said. "I should send Wiggins a thank-you note. On behalf of Sherlock, of course. Since he's out of the country on another case."

  "Maybe he'll have an awful accident there," I said. "He might even die."

  She laughed. "Sherlock can't die. He's going to make us a lot of money."

  "You already have a lot of money," I pointed out.

  "When I said us, I meant you," she said. "Think about it. You can fix everything that's wrong with the house, and then you could actually move in there. No more 2B. No more Mr. Bitterman. Or Mrs. Frist, the geriatric peeping Tomasina."