"I don't understand." Dominic Gordon frowned at us over the top of a huge arrangement of pink carnations, baby's breath, and lush greens in a pink vase. The flowers would have been lovely, except he was holding them while standing in Viewing Room Two, beside a pearl gray casket that was presently occupied by a pink-cheeked, white-haired lady who, for reasons I couldn't understand, was still wearing her glasses. "Why do you need to contact Miss Lowery's attorney?" he asked. "I followed all his directives. Do you think I've done something wrong?"
I didn't think it.
"It's routine," Irene said. "We just have a few questions for him."
"Questions about me?" He settled the vase on the floor beside a smaller arrangement of daisies, which seemed incongruously cheerful for a wake. It turned out that Viewing Room Two was no improvement over the lobby. Faded flocked wallpaper, thin dirt-colored carpet, dusty faux crystal sconces. Viewing Room Two made my apartment look luxe. A visitor's book lay open to its first blank page on a podium near the doorway, along with a few pens and a stack of prayer cards. I wished the pink-cheeked lady well in the afterlife. It seemed to me she'd already paid her dues, being buried out of such a bargain basement mortuary.
"Listen." Gordon dropped a thin, cold hand on my shoulder to steer me away from the casket to the rows of folding chairs that faced it. When he sat beside me, I could have sworn I felt a rush of cold air envelop me. Instinctively, I leaned away.
Irene remained near the casket, her distrust evident in her expression.
His long, thin fingers intertwined, dancing like anemones in an aquarium. "I have an idea," he said. "You don't call the lawyer on me, and I'll give you both a 5 percent discount on a preplanned life celebration. How about that?"
I planned to celebrate my life while I was alive.
"To be honest," I began.
"Ten percent," he cut in, clearly not interested in honest. "Ten percent and I'll throw in my top-of-the-line casket, the Sleeping Beauty." He stood and glided toward Irene. "You'll look like a movie star," he assured her.
"I don't think so," she hedged, looking like a trapped gazelle between Mr. Creepy and the occupied casket.
"Okay. Alright." He pressed his hands to his mouth, considering. "How does this sound? Fifteen percent off and free embalming. That's some deal. Don't make the mistake of waiting. You can't plan your life celebration soon enough."
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…