A sudden thought struck me. "Do you happen to know how she died?"
"I really don't," Lucy said. "I haven't even heard a whisper about it. And that's odd, in this day and age, if you ask me, when everything shows up on the internet whether you want to see it or not. You might ask the police that question. They're the ones who found her body. Got a call about a smell from the neighbor on the other side."
Irene shot me a look. "Another point in the house's favor," she muttered.
I pursed my lips, suddenly sad at the thought of my aunt dying alone, her body being found by strangers and not someone who knew and loved her.
"Well." Lucy backed toward the foyer. "My offer stands. Call me if you need me. Lucy Chu." And she backed out of sight.
Irene burst into laughter.
"Don't," I said. "She was only trying to be helpful."
"She was trying to be nosy," Irene said. "What'd she bring you there?"
I glanced at the envelope. It was an advertisement for a home repair contractor. Considering the condition of the house, Kate had probably gotten a few of those a week.
Irene took a look. "You might want to hold on to that."
I dropped it on the pile of TV Guides. "Maybe I should visit the police. You know, as next of kin. See if she had personal effects to collect?"
"That's a good idea," Irene said. "I could use some fresh air. And so could this house."
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, we were staring at a blue-jawed, slit-eyed chunk of granite standing under a crew cut and wearing a badge that read G. Mulroy.
"You want to know what, now?" he asked for the second time.
"Good thing he's pretty," Irene muttered. "Because he's not too bright."
Ignoring her, I craned my neck to look up at G. Mulroy. "I've inherited the house at 221 Baker Street from my great-aunt, Kate Quigley. I'd like to speak to the detective in charge of her case."
"A house," he repeated.
I nodded.
"Baker Street," he repeated. "221, you say?"
Irene blew out an impatient sigh. "Big Victorian where junk goes to die."
The slitted eyes slid over to assess Irene for a moment before shifting back to me. "You want to talk to Detective Lestrade."
"Great. Good." Irene nodded. "Now we're making progress. Is he here?"
Again the eyes, slow moving and flat but watchful, moved between us. "Take a seat." He tipped his head toward a low-slung bench against the far wall. "I'll call him."
We sat facing a bulletin board plastered with Wanted flyers of hard-looking fugitives glaring insolently into the camera. Lots of tattooed necks and crooked noses to go along with all the bad attitude. It left a lot to be desired as décor, but there wasn't much else to look at. The wall itself was an ugly mix of half off-white, half battleship gray. No art. No magazines. No potted plants. The entrance door across the lobby to the right. A door leading to the inner sanctum to the left. The place was designed strictly for function.
The door on the left swung open, and a thin man wearing navy trousers, a white dress shirt, and red tie stepped into the lobby. His hair was threaded with silvery white, his eyes were black, his nose was thin and slightly hooked, and his Adam's apple was prominent.
"Miss Hudson?"
I stood. "I'm Miss Hudson."
He shook my hand crisply and dropped it as if it burned him. "Detective Lestrade. I understand you're related to Kate Quigley."
I nodded. "That's right. I recently found out I'm her sole beneficiary, and I—"
"All of her personal effects have been forwarded to her lawyer, the city put a new lock on the door to replace the one we had to force open, and any other damages to the place need to be submitted in writing via the clerk upstairs."
I blinked at him. "Uh, okay."
He gave me a curt nod and moved to turn away.
"Excuse me," I said. "Is that it?"
He paused. "You wanted more?"
"Well…I thought maybe you could tell me something about her."
He looked like he'd already spent more time than he'd budgeted on this case. "Like what?"
Good question. "Well, um, for starters, how did she die?"
"How?" he repeated.
I nodded again. "Yes. I didn't know I had a great-aunt Kate, so this has all been kind of a shock."
"I can imagine." His tone suggested he couldn't imagine at all. "I'm afraid I can't tell you much beyond that her manner of death has been officially listed as natural."
"What does that mean?" Irene asked.
Lestrade did the same shifty-eye thing as the desk sergeant to stare at Irene for a moment with no expression. Funny how all cops seemed to do that. "It means," he said, "she died of natural causes, ma'am."
An angry flush spread upward from Irene's neck. Hard to know whether it was because of the sarcasm or the "ma'am." In Irene's youth-centric world, "ma'am" was a dirty word.
I put a hand on her arm before she could say anything to drive Lestrade back into the unreachable back office. "Can't you tell us anything more than that?" I asked. "I mean, she was family to me."
Lestrade's expression remained stolid. "Sorry, ma'am, that's all I can tell you. If you want more information, you'll have to talk to the ME." He glanced at his watch. "Only John's elbow deep in an autopsy right now, so you'll have to come back later this afternoon."
"What a poet," Irene muttered.
I had to admit, the phrasing brought up some gross imagery.
"You mean you can't even tell us if the poor lady fell down the stairs or had cancer or what?" Irene pressed.
"Talk to the ME, ma'am," he repeated. "This afternoon."
"Fine," I snapped. "I'll talk to the ME. You've been very helpful, Detective."
"To protect and to serve, ma'am," he said. He turned on his heel and slithered back through the inner-sanctum door.
Irene stared after him. "Is that guy for real?"
I shrugged. "I'm sure he's got rules and regulations to follow. We'll just come back later when the medical examiner is free." I glanced at the time on my phone. "I have to get to the coffee bar anyway."
"Yeah." Irene nodded. "I have a meeting with some guys looking for a VC."
VC was short for venture capitalist, which was what most of Irene's money did for her these days—fund the latest dot-com sensation in exchange for insane returns that kept her in designer handbags and Louboutins.
"What's this one?" I asked as we made our way outside.
"It's called the Boyfriend Babysitter."
I raised a questioning eyebrow her way.
"It's an app that tracks how many times your boyfriend's heart rate spikes when he's around other women."
I barely covered a snort. "Sounds like a winner."
Irene shrugged. "We'll see. All depends on their cost to get the beta ready for market. Anyway, I'll come by the bookshop afterwards, and we can go see if John's elbows have come up for air yet."
Even coming from her, it was still gross.
CHAPTER THREE
The Medical Examiner's office was about as warm and inviting as a penitentiary. The floor was linoleum tile, beige flecked with brown and moss green. The walls were cinderblock. The lighting was fluorescent. The seats were hard, molded plastic.
"They couldn't spring for a couple of potted plants?" Irene whispered into the roaring silence. "Maybe brighten up the place?"
"Guess they don't get many visitors," I whispered back.
"Not vertical ones anyway," Irene agreed. "That's probably why they hid it away in a basement."
I shifted in my seat. My discomfort wasn't due entirely to the inhospitable seating. This place gave me the willies. There wasn't a speck of color or natural lighting. We were sitting just inside the door, but if the lights went out, I wasn't all that sure I'd be able to find my way out again. Everything seemed cold, sterile, and slightly perfumed with disinfectant.
"What do you think is taking him so long? That woman said he'd be right ou
t."
"Be patient," Irene said. "It hasn't been that long." She looked at her white gold watch and blinked. "It's been fifteen minutes! What's taking this guy so long?"
"Hello, ladies. I'm Dr. Watson."
I looked across the room and felt myself blink in disbelief. Dr. Watson belonged on the cover of People's Sexiest Medical Examiners issue. Very blue eyes, very thick blond hair, very broad shoulders. And a slightly pouty lower lip that made his mouth hard to ignore. It was a crime that with those looks, he spent his days in the basement with cadavers, when he could have been spending them above ground, with me.
I lost myself in that thought for a second. What a waste. Maybe I could work on that.
Irene hauled me to my feet and shoved me in his direction. "Doctor, this is Marty Hudson."
His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when he smiled. Starter crinkles that a 30-something-year-old doctor who smiled a lot would get. So he had a sense of humor. A sense of humor was good.
"Miss Hudson," he said. He looked over at Irene. "And you are?"
She flapped a hand. "Not important. Marty here has something to discuss with you."
Right. Like hot tubs and fireplaces on wintry nights. Or—
"Speak," Irene spat at me.
"How did Kate Quigley die?" I blurted.
Silence.
"Smooth," she whispered.
My face felt hot with embarrassment. I wouldn't win any awards from Toastmasters, but I wasn't that inept at conversation. I'd been around 2B for too long. I'd forgotten how to talk to a hottie like Dr. Watson. I'd never seen a hottie like Dr. Watson.
"Marty!" Irene hissed.
I cleared my throat. "What I mean is, Kate's my great-aunt. I didn't actually know that until very recently. I mean, I didn't even know I had a great-aunt. But I do. Well, I did, before she died, and she left me her house and—"
Irene coughed sharply.
I blinked. "How did Kate Quigley die?"
Dr. Watson just stared at me. And not in a good way. Like not in a you're-so-beautiful-you-take-my-breath-away way. More like a you-need-medication-right-now way.
"What my eloquent friend here wants to know," Irene said, "is how—"
"Did Kate Quigley die," I agreed.
Irene sighed.
Dr. Watson shook his head. "I'm sorry for your loss, Miss Hudson, but I'm afraid I can't tell you that."
"Why not?" Irene asked. "You performed the autopsy, right?"
"I did," he said. "What I mean is I'm not at liberty to divulge any information until all tests have been run and an official report generated. That will be released in four to six weeks."
"I don't need the official report," I said. "I don't need the report at all. I just want to know how she died. She was my great-aunt."
"Yes, you've made that clear," he said. "And I'm sorry, but it's out of my hands. If you want to leave your contact information, I'd be happy to ask my assistant to send you a copy when policy permits."
Policy. I was coming to hate that word. "Thank you. I appreciate that. But can't you just give me a hint? I mean, was she sick? Was it quick or drawn out? Was it—" I paused, my mouth a little dry. "—hereditary?"
"I'm sorry I can't—"
"Was it bad?" I asked. "It was something awful, right?" I thought I felt Irene roll her eyes beside me, but I figured there was no turning back now. "Please can you tell me now? I mean, I know you've already determined manner of death. Detective Lestrade told us it was natural. So you know it wasn't homicide or suicide. So she died from some horrible disease, didn't she? Something awful must run in my family. I'm probably a carrier, and I don't even know it." I coughed once, pointedly.
He took a tiny step back, glancing at Irene with a degree of alarm.
Irene looked back without expression. She knew that jumping to conclusions was a form of exercise for me.
"Four to six weeks, Miss Hudson," he said. "Unless you're an investigator with an official reason for needing preliminary reports." He made a half turn toward the door. "Was there anything else?"
I gave Irene a helpless look.
He opened the door.
"We are investigators," Irene shot out.
The doctor turned, frowning. "I beg your pardon?"
I felt the same way. I blinked at Irene.
"I should say, we work for a private investigator," she continued. "We didn't mention it up front because we don't like a lot of people to know."
We all glanced around the empty room.
"Not that that's a problem here," Irene added. "It's not like your patients are big talkers."
My turn to roll my eyes.
"You two are private investigators?" he repeated with clear skepticism.
Irene shrugged modestly.
"That's what she said," I agreed. "Does that mean we're entitled to the preliminary report?"
"What kind of case are you working on here?" he asked.
"I'm afraid we can't tell you that," Irene said. "Client confidentiality. You understand."
He turned to me. "I thought you said she was your great-aunt."
"I…did. Yes." I licked my lips, stalling. "Uh, but, you see…"
"It's a family case," Irene jumped in. "Marty here is related to the deceased, but she's not our client."
I nodded vigorously. "That's right."
"So who is the client?" he asked, crossing his arms over his oh-so-broad chest.
"Sorry. That would put us in violation of a gag order," I said immediately. "It's a very nasty case. But I'm sure we could come back with a subpoena if we have to."
He studied me for a few moments without speaking. I tried my best to look like a private investigator. I could do private investigator. I was the curious type, maybe even nosy, and kind of stubborn. I just hoped he wouldn't ask for a business card. We were in big trouble if he asked for a business card.
"Could I see a business card?" he asked.
I swallowed a sigh.
"They're in another purse," I told him. The one I hadn't bought yet.
"I'm out of cards," Irene said.
"I see." Not judging by his expression, he didn't. "How about the name of your firm?"
"The name of our firm," I repeated. I looked at Irene. "He wants to know the name of our firm."
"Not a problem," Irene said with an easy smile. I didn't know where she got it from. I couldn't have worked up a smile if my life depended on it. "We work for…Sherlock Holmes."
I blinked at her. Again.
"Sherlock Holmes." He rubbed a hand across his chin. I could imagine him committing the odd-sounding name to memory, or maybe recalling the number to the local police department so that he could report us the minute we left. Hard to tell whether or not he believed us, but my money was on not a chance.
"Tell you what," he said at last, just when I'd convinced myself that we'd be arrested for impersonating PIs. "You have Mr. Holmes send over his credentials," he continued, "and I'll release my preliminary report to him. Here, take my card. Deal?"
"I don't know if—" I began.
"Deal," Irene cut in. She stuffed the card into her pocket. "Consider it done. Thanks for your time. Sorry to keep you. We have to be going." She grabbed my arm.
"But I don't know if—"
"We have to be going," Irene repeated. "Let's not take up any more of the nice doctor's time. We'll get those credentials to you right away, Doc," she called over her shoulder.
He nodded once and vanished into the office.
I followed her out, thinking I might as well start preparing myself for the indictment that was sure to be on its way. The only occasion where I was likely to see Dr. Watson again was when he took the witness stand to testify against us.
SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE CASE OF THE BRASH BLONDE
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Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3) Page 21