Suddenly I was more forgiving of the early wakeup call. "You're not?"

  He shook his head. "No. After looking back at my original autopsy notes, there are a couple of thing that I'd like to discuss with Mr. Holmes. So if you'll just let me have his number, I'll be on my way." His gaze flickered to my robe and back to my face. I could practically read his mind. And let you get yourself together.

  That was it. He'd insulted me for the last time. If I was going to stay at the house any longer, I'd be sleeping in a cocktail dress and full makeup.

  Meantime, he was waiting for the phone number that I didn't have.

  "Tell you what," I said. "This is too important for a phone call. Why don't you let me arrange a dinner meeting between the two of you?" I wasn't sure where I was going to find a fake Sherlock, but it was either that or give him a fake number. And since it sounded like he had real information about my aunt's death, I had to go all in. "What nights are you usually free?"

  He hesitated. "I could arrange to be free any night, but I really think a phone call would—"

  "Settled, then." I sprang off the sofa. "I'll be in touch as soon as I can set it up. Mr. Holmes has a very busy schedule today, so it may take me a while to reach him."

  "A phone call would be sufficient," he said. "You really don't have to do that."

  "Yes," I said. "I really do." I took his sleeve and turned him toward the foyer. The leather was soft and supple. Up close, I could smell either a really pleasant, understated cologne or an abundance of pheromones swirling around him. Either way, it was making me a little dizzy.

  He did an unexpected 180, leaving us almost chest-to-bathrobe. "Let me give you another card." He pressed it into my hand. "Again, I'm sorry about my initial oversight."

  I watched him leave, thinking I was sorry too. Sorry to see him go.

  * * *

  The coffee bar was packed with caffeine-hungry co-eds either gearing up for or coming off a night of studying. I spent the next few hours cleaning, pouring, blending, and hardly thinking about Dr. Watson at all. Although I couldn't help but wonder what information he wanted to share with the nonexistent Sherlock Holmes. And how I was going to facilitate his sharing it.

  And still nagging at me was what could have happened to Toby the basset hound? I'd done another run through the house that morning for anything that related to dogs, and sure enough, I'd found a bag of food in one of the lower cabinets in the kitchen. It was easy to miss among all the other miscellaneous bags and boxes shoved into every corner, but it was proof enough to me that my aunt had had a pet. And enough to make me have a vision of the poor little guy alone in some pound. I really needed to talk to Detective Lestrade about that. I was sure he'd be delighted to hear from me again.

  "…don't you think?" Pam nudged me. "Where are you today, Marty?"

  I blinked. "Sorry. I was just thinking."

  "No kidding. What's his name?"

  Dr. By-the-Book. But I caught myself just in time. "It's nothing like that."

  Nothing at all, I decided. I did not have a crush on Dr. Watson. That would be embarrassing since I wasn't an 11-year-old girl with One Direction posters on my bedroom walls. Besides, for all I knew, he was married to a former Miss Universe with six kids in private school and a house in a gated community. He didn't wear a ring, but that wasn't a sure thing anymore.

  Neither, apparently, was my focus.

  "Marty!" Pam was tugging at my sleeve. "That guy's pretty cute, don't you think?"

  That guy was a stringy grunge rocker type with long hair, tattooed arms, and too many rings, slouching in front of a caramel macchiato, his eyes half closed.

  "He's adorable," I told her. "Go ask him out."

  Her eyes went wide. "I can't ask him out. I'll just admire his good looks from afar."

  That wouldn't take very long.

  "Wonder what his major is." She wiped down a spot on the counter that allowed her to face the guy. She'd wiped down that same spot seven times already. "I bet it's business. He's got MBA written all over him, don't you think?"

  I stared at her.

  She shrugged. "Maybe he's a theater major. That'd be okay. I mean, we'd probably go hungry a lot, and we'd live in a studio apartment in someone's basement, but love conquers all, right? I'm going to go see if he wants another macchiato."

  It didn't look like he wanted the one he had. It didn't look like he knew he had one.

  "Keep an eye on things for a couple of minutes," I told her. "I have to make a phone call."

  She waved me off, her eyes never leaving the guy at the table.

  I grabbed my cell phone and went downstairs to a quiet corner of the bookstore.

  Lestrade picked up after I'd spent a good three minutes stewing on hold. I'd barely gotten my name out when he replied with an "I don't have anything new to report, Miss Hudson."

  I forced myself to take a deep breath before I reacted to his rudeness by lobbing it back at him. "I wanted to ask you what happened to Toby," I told him.

  Silence.

  "The basset hound," I prompted.

  "Toby the basset hound?" he repeated. "If this is a joke, I don't get it."

  A couple of giggling girls rounded the shelves to my right and stood there chattering. I moved away from them, sticking a finger in my ear to block the noise. "I found out that my aunt had a basset hound that she used to walk in the park. But there was no dog in the house."

  "I can't help you," he said. "I didn't see a dog there."

  "Maybe in the yard?" I asked. "Is it possible that he could have gotten out of an open gate in the back with everyone coming and going?"

  "I didn't see a dog," he said again. "But no one would have had reason to be in the backyard. I can't help you, Miss Hudson."

  He disconnected, leaving me more confused than I'd been before the call. And more worried for Toby as well. Had the killer kidnapped him…or worse? I couldn't think about worse. Maybe Toby had slipped out unnoticed and been picked up and taken home by some animal-loving Good Samaritan. I didn't want to consider the alternatives. I'd have to look for some photos of Toby in the house, maybe knock on a few of the neighbors' doors, check the local shelters. I had to do something to try to find him.

  * * *

  "You have a date with him?" Irene's face lit up. "I leave you alone for one night, and you hook up with McDreamy?" She held up her glass in a toast. "Well done."

  "I'm not hooking up with him," I told her. "He has information for Sherlock Holmes, so I've arranged a dinner meeting between the two of them. I have nothing to do with it."

  "You have something to do with it," Irene said. "There is no Sherlock Holmes."

  She should have thought of that sooner, before she started handing out business cards and dropping names. Now it was a minor stumbling block.

  I hoped.

  "That's where you come in," I said. I looked out of the open glass pocket doors into her backyard. The grass was emerald green and perfect, surrounding the concrete apron of the turquoise blue swimming pool. An outdoor kitchen was nestled into the near corner, with a glass-topped table and lots of overstuffed outdoor furniture. I'd never figured out why Irene needed two kitchens. She already had a fully equipped quartz-and-steel chef's kitchen on the inside that she didn't know how to use. Those gilt-edged gourmet cookbooks looked impressive on the shelves, but I knew they were strictly for decoration. Irene's crowning culinary achievement was PB&J sandwiches.

  Of course, I'd never figured out why she needed hard-wired speakers in the ceilings throughout the house that played music at her whim, either. Or a gym big enough to accommodate an entire professional sports team. Or wall-mounted flat screen TVs in every room, including all five bathrooms, each of which had a jetted soaker tub almost as big as the pool and waterfall showers and heated floors and towel racks. If I wanted hot towels, I had to take them into the shower with me and hope for the best.

  "Lucky for you," Irene said, "you know me. And I know just what you should wear."

  "I'm not going," I said. "You got us into this mess. You have to find a Sherlock Holmes."

  "This is not a mess," she said. "This is a golden opportunity. All you have to do is tell McDreamy that Holmes got called away on urgent business, and you're standing in for him. I'll print up a business card for you. Make you look like the real deal."

  "I'd rather you print up a Sherlock Holmes," I said. "I can't carry that off. I can't lie to him like that."

  "Sure you can," Irene said breezily. "You already did."

  "That wasn't lying," I protested. "That was me standing there in my bathrobe, panicking."

  Irene's eyes got big. "In your bathrobe? I think you skipped a few parts, Mar. So is he a briefs or boxers man?"

  "It wasn't like that," I told her.

  She fanned herself with one hand. "He goes commando? I didn't see that coming. Hello, Doctor."

  "He could wear women's panties for all I know," I snapped. "I haven't seen him naked."

  "So he's into blindfolds," Irene said. "Kinky. Although the women's panties thing…" She shrugged. "But to each his own."

  I rolled my eyes. "Don't you know someone who can pretend for a few hours?"

  "Yes," Irene said. "You. It's the perfect chance to learn more about Kate. Who else is going to ask the right questions?"

  I was about to protest that I wasn't sure what the right questions were, but she ran right over me.

  "Besides, it's not like a dinner date with McDreamy would be such a hardship."

  "Would you please stop calling him that?"

  "Why? Do you like Dr. Stud Muffin better?"

  I glared at her. "Are you going to help me or not?"

  "I'm trying," Irene said, "but you're not making it easy. Here's what I'll do. I have a gorgeous Stella McCartney up in the closet that will look great on you, and you can use the Porsche."

  "I don't want to use the Porsche," I said, even though I kind of did. "I don't want to go anywhere near that restaurant. Sherlock Holmes has a date with Mc—with Dr. Watson, not me."

  Irene shrugged. "You're all we've got. Come on." She stood up and grabbed my hand. "Let's go create a phony email account and phony business card and pour you into that dress."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I had to give myself credit. I certainly knew how to choose a nice restaurant. The silver was polished, the china was gleaming, and the lighting was muted. By the time I had followed the maître d' across the room, I'd realized I owed Irene big-time for loaning me the little Stella McCartney number. It hugged me in flattering places and was absolutely killer with the Jimmy Choos she'd had that were thankfully almost in my size. Okay, they pinched my toes a bit, but they were so worth it. My hair was smooth and glossy. My jewelry was simple but looked like it was worth as much as the Porsche that had brought me there. And my heart was pounding out an anxiety-induced staccato. Acting was one course I'd never crashed.

  I spotted Dr. Watson waiting at the table. He stood when I approached, and I couldn't be sure, but I think I saw frank admiration in his eyes. At least I chose to believe it was frank admiration. He had no idea how much work it had taken to make me look this way. I would never look at an eyelash curler the same way again.

  It had probably taken him a fraction of the time, but the man looked positively edible in a gray shirt, black tie, and black suit that set off his blond hair and made his eyes look like sapphires glowing in a midnight sky.

  "You look nice," I told him. Understatement of the century. I could practically feel my hands twitching with the urge to run my fingers down that tie. That tie led to good things. It even pointed to them.

  He smiled his crooked smile in acknowledgment. "You look…"

  Smoking hot? Irresistibly sultry?

  "…nice, too."

  Nice. That morning, in a bathrobe and bedhead, I'd looked fine. Two hours of hair and makeup, and I'd managed to achieve nice.

  "But I'm surprised to see you," he added. "I expected Mr. Holmes." He glanced behind me as if expecting the man to materialize.

  I wished.

  I sat down, dumped my silverware onto the table with a clatter, and spread the linen napkin across my lap. "He wanted to be here, but he was called away on business at the last second. He couldn't get out of it." I gave him a hard stare, daring him to question me.

  His expression morphed from admiration into doubt.

  It didn't matter. I hadn't wiggled into this dress and these shoes and driven all this way in a Porsche 911 and endured being told I looked nice to back down now.

  "He didn't want to waste your time," I added. "So he authorized me to stand in for him, with strict orders that I bring him up to speed in the morning."

  I could tell he wasn't buying it. He was sliding down the slope from doubt into suspicion.

  "I don't know about that," he said. "Maybe I should reschedule."

  "And waste all this?" I made a broad gesture to encompass the dining room generally and my outfit specifically. My nice outfit. Honestly, had the guy ever tried to walk in almost fitting stilettoes? Another few hours in these shoes, and I'd be hobbling straight to a podiatrist.

  "I wouldn't want to do that," he said with martini dryness. After a pause, he added, "I hate to eat alone. And you do look great."

  There, was that so hard?

  My smile rose up from my toes. So maybe I was just a dinner companion, but at least he was willing to stay for dinner, and he'd finally noticed that I looked great.

  "So what was it you wanted to tell Mr. Holmes?" I asked.

  Watson cleared his throat with a quick glance toward the waitstaff. "Uh, maybe we should order first." He quickly picked up his menu.

  I pursed my lips. Okay. I could be patient. I picked mine up as well and studied it quickly. Then almost swallowed my tongue. The prices were higher than I usually spent on groceries for the week…maybe even month. I was going to have to pick up another shift at the coffee bar just to pay for this meal.

  "The risotto here is good." Watson must have mistaken my fear of footing the bill for indecision over the meal.

  "Huh. I would have thought you'd be ordering the salmon," I answered absently.

  "Really?" His right eyebrow rose playfully. "And why is that?"

  Playful looked good on him. I had a feeling it wasn't something he indulged in often, and I took that as a compliment.

  "Just elementary deduction, my dear Dr. Watson," I answered, trying to match his teasing tone.

  "Humor me. What sort of deduction?"

  I set my menu down and gave him my best scrutinizing gaze. "Well, for starters, you strike me as the highly regimented type at work, being the fan of policies as you are."

  The other eyebrow rose at my slight jab, but he didn't interrupt.

  "I would say that same behavior probably extends into your personal life and health regimens as well. I take you as someone who flosses nightly, exercises three times a week, and views food as fuel rather than any sort of gratification. As such, I expect you to go for the most nutrient-dense foods on the menu."

  "You do?"

  I nodded.

  "That all?" he challenged.

  I shrugged. "Well, when you do visit the gym, my guess is you opt for weight training over cardio, based on your physique."

  "My physique?" His mouth quirked upward at one corner.

  I felt a blush creeping into my cheeks. Had I just admitted to checking him out? I tried to ignore the growing heat. "Weight training requires a higher intake of protein, so you probably opt for meat-based meals rather than grain-based."

  "Go on," he prompted.

  "Okay, well, you're a doctor, so I assume you're up on the latest in nutritional science. Being that omega-3 fatty acids are currently being touted as the latest and greatest, I would assume you'd try to fit as many as possible into your diet, leading you to seafood. However, you probably also know about high mercury levels in fish like tuna, meaning you'd probably stay away from the tuna tartar appetizer. Which leaves the obvious choice of the grilled salmon," I finally finished.

  Watson was staring at me with an unreadable expression.

  That blush grew, spreading up my neck. "You know, just a guess," I mumbled, putting my menu back up in front of my face.

  "Are we ready to order?" A server suddenly appeared at my elbow.

  Thankful for the respite from Watson's assessing stare, I let him order us both dry, white wine to start. When the server turned to me, I quickly said, "I'll have the risotto, please." What could I say? It was the cheapest thing on the menu and came highly recommended.

  "And I'll have the grilled salmon."

  I peeked over my menu to find Watson grinning at me.

  That blush was threatening volcanic proportions.

  "You're very observant," he said once the server left with our orders.

  I shrugged. "Irene says I have an overactive imagination."

  "What does Mr. Holmes say?"

  "Huh?"

  "Your boss. I would assume your observations come in handy in your line of work?"

  I bit my lip. Oh. Right. "Uh, yes. Yes, they do." I took a sip of water to cover the lie.

  "So how long have you worked for Mr. Holmes?"

  I hadn't expected questions. I hadn't prepared for them. I was prepared to be asking questions—specifically what it was he'd been so eager to tell Mr. Holmes. Maybe peppered with some pleasantries like: How long have you lived in San Francisco? And You smell very nice for a man who spends his day bathing in formaldehyde.

  He was waiting for an answer that I didn't have.

  I patted my lips with the linen napkin, hoping it didn't smudge Irene's $60 lipstick. "About a year."

  He nodded. "You must have an interesting job."

  Oh, sure: mix, blend, pour. It's fascinating.

  "It has its moments," I said.

  "Tell me about some of them."

  "Tell you…" The napkin slipped from my fingers and fluttered back into my lap. "I'm afraid I can't do that." I smiled apologetically. "Our cases are confidential."

  "Really." His eyes were locked on to me in a way that would be very sexy if it wasn't completely unnerving. I had the uneasy feeling I was being interrogated, which meant he still didn't quite believe me. And me looking great too. "What sort of cases do you handle?"