CHAPTER EIGHT

 

Unlike my first visit, when I'd been to the Bayside with Irene, this time PS Rossi greeted me with open suspicion mixed with the slightest hint of hostility. "Miss Hudson, you're here. Again."

"Don't look so happy to see me."

He shook his head. "I'm sorry. It's just…this whole unpleasantness is making our backer very nervous. We open in less than two weeks."

"I understand," I told him.

He nodded. "What is it I can do for you?"

"Actually," I said, "I'd like to speak with Tara, if she's available."

"I'm afraid she's not here. She's left for the day already."

I checked the time on my phone. It was just past one. "Short day."

"We're rehearsing the male lead's part this afternoon," Rossi explained. "Can I help you with anything?" he asked, looking as if the only thing he wanted to help me with was finding the door.

I hesitated, unsure if I wanted to cast aspersions on his new prima donna. But I needed information that he wasn't likely to give without good reason. "You'd mentioned suspecting Rebecca of dealing with substance abuse in her past," I said slowly, watching his reaction.

He nodded. "Yes, but as I said, it was only a guess."

"Do you think it's possible she might have relapsed?"

A frown formed between his eyebrows before he shook his head. "No. Absolutely not. She was a professional—she never would have done anything to jeopardize this tour."

"I have reason to believe that might not be totally accurate."

The frown deepened. "What do you mean?"

Again I hesitated, not sure how much to say before talking to Tara. "We have received information that leads us to believe Rebecca was using again." I paused. "And we believe Tara might have been aware of it."

His whole body was suddenly tense, a flat coldness hitting his eyes. "That's a serious accusation, Miss Hudson. Are you sure about this?"

I nodded. "My source is credible."

He traced both hands across his jawline. "Are you telling me that Tara is using—"

"No," I said quickly. "I have no reason to think Tara is on any substances. None of my information suggests that. Just the opposite, actually."

His arms dropped to his sides. "Then why do you say she was aware of it?"

"The two of them were seen together outside a location where…" I paused, choosing my words carefully so as not to incriminate myself. "Where we're fairly certain illegal pills are being sold. And Tara was heard arguing with Rebecca before she went inside."

"To buy drugs," he said grimly.

"It looks that way."

"Did Tara go inside with her?"

"I don't think so."

His eyes narrowed. "You don't think, or you don't know?"

"My source didn't specify. Only that Tara was overheard arguing with Rebecca about the pills."

"This is just great." Rossi punched a fist into his palm, squeezing his hands together so tightly his knuckles whitened. "My backer is already angry at the delays. The last thing he needs to hear about is some drug scandal with my diva."

"It may not become public knowledge," I told him. "If it's any reassurance, there won't be a leak coming from our office." There weren't enough leakers. Or an office. Of course, the wild card just might be if that enterprising Irregulars reporter caught wind of a potential drug correlation to Rebecca Lowery's death and disappearance. If that happened, the whole sordid story would break overnight, shining an even brighter spotlight on Sherlock Holmes and potentially dropping the final curtain on Ethereal Love before it had even opened.

"It's important that I speak with Tara as soon as possible," I said. "To clear this whole matter up quickly," I added.

He nodded, clearly liking that idea. "As I mentioned, she's gone for the day, but I can give you her number." He scrolled through his contacts list and read it off as I entered it into my phone. "I appreciate your discretion in this matter," he implored.

"I'll do my best," I promised him. Which wasn't saying all that much, but I could hardly tell him that my grip on the case was as tenuous as my ability to pay my rent.

We exchanged a few rote pleasantries, I assured him again of Sherlock Holmes's discreet reputation (hard for the guy to talk to the press when he didn't exist), and he disappeared backstage, muttering to himself, clearly burdened by the information I'd imparted.

Once I'd returned to the relative privacy of the lobby, I dialed Tara's number. After a few rings, the call went to voicemail, and I left a message. I jumped into my car and waited a full twenty minutes before sending her a vague text about needing to ask a few quick questions, leaving out any reference to fluffy bunnies and grungy delis.

No reply. Maybe her phone was dead, or turned off, or buried in her purse. I was sure she'd get back to me.

 

*   *   *

 

I sent Tara two more messages as I grabbed lunch and picked up my mail at the Victorian while ignoring the holes in both the ceiling and wall that I could not afford to fix. I also did not turn on the lights, figuring I wouldn't tempt fate with my ancient wiring. Instead I pulled back the musty curtains in the guest room (thankfully, one room that was fully intact, if dark) and set about trying to remove some of the floral wallpaper while trying not to check my phone. Which remained silent. I was beginning to think Tara was ignoring me.

A thought echoed by Irene that evening as I stood inside her cottage-sized walk-in closet looking for something I could wear to my dinner un-date with Watson.

"She's probably ignoring you."

"Gee, you think?" I asked. "I don't know why though."

"Unless she's guilty," Irene pointed out.

"Of buying drugs or killing Rebecca?"

"If we're lucky, both. Here, try this on." Irene held up a designer dress made for seduction, or at the very least, a night of slow dancing. "You look fabulous in black," she added.

While the dress was fabulous, I was fairly sure neither seduction nor slow dancing was in my future. This was a business meeting. And the hem of the fabulous dress was just a couple inches short of business. "It's a little short."

"That's the point." Irene waggled her eyebrows at me.

"Next," I said as I ran my fingers down an exposed silky red sleeve wedged in on the packed rod. Irene's closet was less actual closet and more department store. Twenty outfits for every occasion, with fifty more thrown in for good measure along with handbags and shoes and scarves and belts. It was the only thing in the whole house that carried a vibe of excess. The rest of Irene's house was a monument to simplicity and high tech at the same time: open and bright, with lots of glass and marble, the house was a smart home in every way. Sometimes I swore all I had to do was just think about a grilled cheese and some hidden wireless smart device would make it appear from her pristine kitchen.

"You're thinking red?" She yanked at the sleeve, and a whisper-soft silk blouse slid off its hanger. "I've got a pencil skirt that'll look great with this."

"I don't know. It's pretty, but…" I shook my head. "Too risqué."

"It's a blouse with long sleeves, Marty." She shook it at me like a threat. "How can a blouse with long sleeves be risqué?"

"I need something bland." I kept looking. "Brown, maybe."

"Oh, yawn."

"Okay, blue."

"You're a real wild child," she muttered. "Just put yourself in my hands, okay? I promise, you'll look fabulous."

"I don't want to look fabulous," I protested. "I want to look professional. Dignified."

"And sexy. Sexy never hurts." She held up a cobalt blue wrap dress. "I've got Louboutins that'll be killer with this."

"I feel like such a phony wearing your clothes." I took the dress from her anyway and held it up to myself. It was soft and gorgeous and would cling in all the right places. Plus the hem was long enough to almost qualify as dignified.

Irene rolled her eyes. "You're not a phony by any definition of the word."

I could think of one definition. The one that included Sherlock Holmes.

She cocked her head, assessing. "You'll look like a million bucks in that." She looked over her expansive shoe display and selected a pair with distinctive red soles. "Try these."

"He's seen my apartment," I reminded her. "He knows I can't afford Louboutins."

"He's a guy," she said. "He doesn't know Louboutin from Payless. Try it on. I've got a little silver clutch that'll go great with this outfit. I'll be right back."

I stepped out of my jeans, shucked my sweater, and let the dress float over my head and across my skin like a warm spring breeze. Twisting and turning to appraise my reflection from every angle, I had to admit Irene was right. This was the dress.

"So, you said you had a line on the fluffy bunnies?" Irene called from the depths of her handbag collection.

"I do," I agreed, happy to shift the conversation away from my wardrobe. As soon as I'd come to the conclusion that the wallpaper in my guest room was the only thing actually sturdy in my house and it would take much more than sheer determination to pull it from the guest room walls, I'd abandoned home improvement projects for a little research project instead. I'd grabbed the bag of pills from my car and done some digging online to see what, exactly, I had purchased. It had taken the better part of the afternoon, but I'd finally hit upon something that looked similar.

"Fluffy Bunny's the nickname for this new synthetic amphetamine created by the replacement of a hydrogen atom with a fluorine atom on the aromatic ring to facilitate passage through the blood-brain barrier."

Irene pulled her head out of Handbagland to stare at me. "In English, please?"

I grinned. "Basically, it's a designer stimulant drug."

"Stimulant—like cocaine or meth?"

I nodded. "The user gets a similar high."

Irene pursed her lips as she turned back to the bags. "So, useful for someone who, say, has a hectic rehearsal and performance schedule?"

"I would imagine it would have been very tempting to Rebecca. Especially if she had a history of drug abuse in the past."

"The name's too cute for such an ugly thing," Irene said. "I wonder what made Rebecca fall off the wagon this time. I mean, with the lead in the opera, it seems like she had everything going in the right direction for her." She appeared in the doorway holding the clutch. "What do you think?"

I nodded my approval. "They say appearances can be deceiving, right?"

"That's true." She grinned. "Mr. Bitterman looks like an innocent grandfatherly type. You'd never know he's a culinary assassin."

I laughed. "His cooking's not that bad."

"His vichyssoise made your spoon melt," she reminded me. "And didn't his stink bomb cabbage dish destroy your microwave?"

Alright, so maybe his cooking was that bad.

"I get your point," I said. "And I agree, Rebecca's life did seem to be in a good place. But that's just on the outside. You know she'd had her problems in the past."

"She had a problem in the present, too," Irene said. "Its name was Bryan Steele."

"Two problems," I said, thinking of Fluffy Bunny. "Which just goes to show, you never really know what people are dealing with."

Irene cocked her head at me again. "That dress looks better on you than it ever did on me."

I doubted that. Irene would look better than I did wearing a steel wool bathrobe.

"So, where do you think Tara fits into all of this?" she asked. "I mean, the fact that she and Rebecca were fighting outside of Lucky's Deli implies that she was against the idea of Rebecca buying drugs?"

I nodded. "Maybe Tara confronted Rebecca about the use again later, like at her apartment. They fought, things got out of hand, and Rebecca winds up dead."

"That sounds more like an accident than a murder you'd steal a body to cover up," Irene reasoned.

"If Tara was afraid it might jeopardize her new lead status, she might have been desperate."

"Or, maybe Tara was into the drug scene herself," Irene offered. "We don't even know if it was Rebecca or Tara who was the regular at Lucky's."

"Or maybe Tara was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Rebecca's death was all about a drug deal gone wrong." I thought back to the hairy stump of a man at Lucky's and could easily see him disposing of an incriminating body.

"Well, one thing's for sure," Irene decided.

"Yes?"

"We need to talk to Tara."

I groaned and checked my phone for the umpteenth time. No messages. "You know, I could always cancel with Watson, and we could take a little trip to Tara's place and—"

"No way!" Irene shook her head. "No way you're getting out of this date, missy."

"Business dinner," I shot back lamely.

"Look, you go schmooze Watson, and I'll look into the Lucky's angle. Maybe I can find out who owns it. If we can get a name to go with the place, maybe we'll have a lead on who might have wanted Rebecca out of the way enough to dispose of the body."

"You're not going down there?" The place was slimy enough in the daylight—I couldn't imagine what manner of creeps came out at night.

Irene shot me a look. "Online, Marty. I'll look into it online. Geeze, what do you take me for?"

"Oh. Right." Of course she meant she'd dig into the place on the computer. In fact she'd probably find out more in five minutes online than I had all day.

"Want to use the Porsche tonight?" she offered.

"Thanks, but Watson's picking me up."

She pinned me with a look and a sly smile. "You know, business associates don't usually pick you up for a date."

"Good thing this is a dinner and not a date then."

"Right. Call me after," she said. "I don't care what time it is. I'll be up. Unless Watson spends the night. Then you can wait till the morning."

I rolled my eyes. "I'll call you before midnight," I told her.

Her nose wrinkled. "That would really disappoint me."

 

*   *   *

 

When I looked at Watson, I saw stability, reliability, predictability. I also saw yummy, but that was just my left brain talking. Either way, I liked looking at him. He'd gone the Casual Stud route with gray slacks and a lightweight black sweater, both of which displayed his athletic build to perfection without being obvious about it. With a body like that, he didn't need to be obvious.

"I hope you like jazz," he said, opening my door for me at the curb in front of a very cool looking club. We found an open table draped with crisp white linen, and Watson pulled out my chair. "I thought it might be nice to have some uninterrupted conversation."

Only if that conversation had nothing to do with my fictitious employer. I had high hopes the intimate setting, complete with deep, plush chairs, flickering votive candles under cut-glass globes, low lighting, and the soft music of a jazz trio, would keep his mind off Mr. Holmes and on more pleasant things. My mind, for instance, was wandering all over pleasant territory as I stared into his clear blue eyes.

Watson repositioned his seat for a clearer view of the stage, which brought him closer, allowing me to bask in the subtle musky scent of his aftershave. I felt my stomach flutter and gave myself a mental down girl. I was here on business. My mission: don't blow Sherlock's cover. Or Irene's and mine, as the case may be.

After a waitress took our drink orders and left, Watson sat back with a smile. "That color suits you."

I smiled. "Thanks. It's Irene's." Now why did I go and ruin a perfectly nice compliment with a line like that?

He raised an eyebrow. "The color?"

"The dress." And the shoes. And the purse. But thankfully I was able to keep those thoughts to myself.

"Well, it looks nice on you."

"Thanks," I said again lamely. Good God, what was it about an attractive man that suddenly made my IQ plummet twenty points?

"So," he asked, watching me closely. "How is Mr. Holmes taking to his newfound notoriety?"

So much for pleasantries. "Uh…notoriety?"

"The Irregulars article."

I suppressed a groan. "So you did read that, too, huh?"

"Wiggins had the nerve to send me a link, thanking me for my help."

"Yeah, well, the publicity is good for our business, I guess," I hedged, wondering where that server was with our drinks.

"I would think so." He studied me for a second, and I prayed he was only enjoying how good I looked in blue.

"It's strange," he said. "No one seems to know much about Mr. Holmes."

So much for the power of prayer.

"That's by design," I said. "He's very private."

"Not even a photograph," he said.

"He's a little insecure about his looks."

"And no mention of where he's from, other cases he's worked, what college he attended."

"He moved around. Client confidentiality. He wasn't a very good student."

We looked at each other.

"I get it," he said. "You don't want to talk about Mr. Holmes."

I laughed nervously. He had no idea.

"Okay," he acquiesced. "How about we switch topics."

No arguments from me there!

"Have you made any progress in finding Rebecca Lowery?"

Oy! From one sore spot to the next. Suddenly I was really wishing I'd ordered a shot of tequila instead of a dry white wine. "I'm not sure," I told him. "Maybe. Some. We, uh, are looking into several leads at the moment."

"So she's still missing then."

I nodded. "We know her body made it safely from the morgue to Gordon's Mortuary, but it seems to have disappeared from there."

His lips tightened. "You talked to the mortician." It wasn't a question.

I nodded again. "Although I'm not sure I believe him. Setting foot in that place makes you want to take a bath with bleach."

"That doesn't surprise me. I've heard it's not exactly a class operation."

"You wouldn't recommend it to anyone then?"

He looked at me. "I don't make those kinds of recommendations. That's not my business."

"I thought maybe since our client is from out of town…" I let the thought trail off.

Watson stepped into the silence. "When you do find whoever is responsible, he'll face serious charges." Anger and disgust sharpened his voice to a knife's edge. "No one deserves the indignity of this treatment. Rebecca Lowery should be properly laid to rest."

My heart went pitter patter at the passion mixed with compassion in his voice. "We'll find her."

"I know you will."

Then he knew more than we did. Still, I appreciated his confidence in us, even though I wasn't at all sure of its origin.

I nodded to the band. "They're really good."

To my relief, his expression brightened. "Aren't they? The Matt Bernard Trio. They perform here a few times a month."

Was that an oblique invitation?

Focus, Marty.

The server finally arrived with our drinks, and I took a grateful sip of my wine, hoping it didn't go straight to my head. I hadn't eaten since lunch, and that had been a drive-through burrito.

"I apologize," Watson said.

My eyes shot up. "For?"

"For getting a little heated just then." The corner of his mouth ticked up in an adorable little half smile. "I can't help taking it a bit personally that one of my cases is missing."

"No apology necessary," I told him, waving it off with my free hand. "I totally get it. A missing body is disturbing any way you look at it." I paused, thinking about our current theory as to why she might be missing. While I was 99 percent certain Watson hadn't missed an obvious sign of foul play, I had to ask…

"I'm curious…nothing stood out to you as odd during your examination of her, did it?"

The apologetic smile disappeared. "What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing, nothing," I assured him, taking another fortifying sip of my wine. "I guess I'm just grasping for why someone would want her body." Or want it out of the way.

He relaxed a little. "No. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary about her. And nothing was incongruent with a slip and fall," he added, clearly knowing where my line of questioning was headed.

"You said you ran a tox screen?"

"What does Mr. Holmes suspect?" he asked instead of answering.

Mr. Holmes? Nothing. But Irene and I had all manner of harebrained theories.

"I'm not entirely sure what his working theory is." I blinked at him, hoping the color of my dress looked good enough on me for him to buy the dumb blonde act I was currently selling.

It might have been the dim lighting, but I could have sworn his eyes narrowed just that much at me.

I took another sip—oh, who was I kidding? It was a gulp—of wine, cutting my own eyes to the stage so that Watson couldn't see the deception that was surely imprinted in them. I hated this charade. I couldn't pull it off as smoothly as Irene. And when it came to Watson, I really didn't want to.

I slid a glance at him, at his startling blue eyes with their tiny laugh lines, at his mouth, with its pouty lower lip just begging to be kissed. If only I wasn't lying to him about, well, everything. I wasn't even wearing my own clothes. Or carrying my own purse.

"I'm hoping to meet him some day. He seems like an interesting man."

I set my glass on the table with an unladylike thud. "Excuse me?"

"Your boss," he said.

Him again. "Yes, he is," I agreed. "Interesting and very busy. That's why he lets Irene and me do much of the legwork. In fact, lately he's been mentioning bringing someone else on board too. You know, to run background checks and things like that. The mundane work."

What? What was I saying? I was worse than I thought at this lying thing. I had to stop talking, right now.

Watson's smile reached beyond his eyes straight into my fantasies. "I'm not complaining, Marty. My life would be much less interesting if he kept you behind a desk. And you can tell Mr. Holmes that the tox report was negative for all illegal substances."

The second most important thing he'd just said almost slipped right past me unnoticed, thanks to the first most important one. "Negative?" I repeated. How could it have been negative given Rebecca's purchase of Fluffy Bunny?

"You sound surprised." Watson frowned. "What's going on, Marty? Do you have information I should know?"

Probably. But the truth was if I told him about Fluffy Bunny, I'd have to tell him where Rebecca had gotten it. And how I knew about it. Which just happened to be from yours truly purchasing it. I was no lawyer, but I was pretty sure the law frowned upon buying illegal drugs.

I shook my head. "Nope. Not a thing."

"Hmm." He didn't seem to believe that any more than I did. Thankfully, though, he let it go, his attention focusing on the Matt Bernard Trio.

We listened to the band for a few minutes while I waited for my heart rate to normalize and my suffocating guilt to dissipate.

"You should probably be aware of something," Watson finally said, breaking the silence. "When Detective Lestrade came in to observe an autopsy this morning, he told me that Barbara Lowery Bristol has been calling him every day about her sister. Sounds like she's demanding he put the entire department on the case."

"I don't blame her," I said. Even though I did, just a little bit, because it meant she didn't have faith in Sherlock Holmes's ability to do the job. On the other hand, if she'd hired us solely as a red herring, it was possible her badgering of Lestrade was the same thing. Did she really expect Lestrade to divert resources away from his murder caseload to find a missing accidental death? Or was she playing a game with us—hiring Sherlock Holmes and badgering Lestrade to solve the case that she knew neither of us would in order to deflect suspicion from herself?

My throat felt dry. I didn't want to think the worst of people, but I had the feeling that it just might be a consequence of the job. No wonder police officers always looked suspicious. They had to deal with deceitful people like Barbara Lowery Bristol every day. And I'd only been doing this for a few months. At this rate, I'd come to only trust my dog Toby, and there were a few times I'd seen him look at me sideways when his dinner hadn't met expectations.

My phone chimed at the same time that Watson said, "You know, Marty—"

I held up one finger with an apologetic smile and pulled my phone from Irene's clutch to read the text.

It was from Tara.

"Would you excuse me?" I pushed back my chair and stood. "I should take care of this."

He stood reflexively. "Of course. Take your time."

I hurried into the ladies' room, bypassing the counter to huddle beside the wall-mounted hand dryer.

Got your messages. All of them.

Okay, so maybe I had gone a little overboard there.

What do you want to know?

So many things. How I'd gotten myself involved in chasing another killer. How Rebecca's toxicology screen had come up clean. How women could stand to wear stilettos for more than thirty minutes at a time. I shifted on aching feet.

I typed, It would be best if we could meet.

A stall door swung open, disgorging a plump middle-aged woman who hustled over to the sink then waved her hands beneath the dryer, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. I slid a step to the right. She left before the timer had expired, leaving the dryer running noisily.

My phone chimed with another text. I don't have much free time tonight.

I typed, I only need fifteen minutes.

Another few minutes passed before her reply. Reading it, I could practically hear her impatience. Fine. Meet me at Lampley Park in half an hour. Northwest corner. Do you know it?

I knew the park. I'd have to figure out the Northwest corner part of it, but that was doable. That's why there were compass apps. My bigger issue was meeting outside on a foggy evening (but weren't they all in San Francisco?) in Irene's skimpy dress. And in these killer heels.

Are you sure about that location? I asked her.

I want privacy. I don't want to be seen talking to a detective.

That was a little insulting, but I sort of understood it. PS Rossi had been practically apoplectic at the though of bad publicity to the show. As a recent understudy-turned-lead, Tara was most likely a bit gun-shy of bad press herself.

Of course, if she'd had something to do with Rebecca's death, did I really want to meet her at Lampley Park, alone, in the dark, in Irene's thousand dollar shoes? I wasn't sure which of those three might be worst.

I briefly thought of taking Watson with me but quickly nixed the idea. If Watson went with me, I feared it wouldn't take long for him to realize I was no detective. I wasn't prepared for the big reveal. Besides, Tara might not be willing to talk to me if I brought company, especially if privacy was her chief concern.

I typed I'll be there, tucked the phone into the clutch before I could change my mind, and went back to the table.

"I'm sorry," I told Watson. "Something important has come up. I have to go."

The look on his face made me really sorry. If I didn't know better, it was genuine disappointment. "Duty calls?"

"Something like that." The last thing I wanted to do was have him tempt me into second-guessing my decision not to bring him along.

He stood, dropped some bills on the table, and touched a gentle hand to my lower back, escorting me to the exit. "Maybe I can take a rain check."

Be still my beating heart. "I could be persuaded."

We stepped outside into a chilly evening. Low fog had rolled in thick and heavy, threatening an actual rain.

"Where can I drop you?" he asked.

I'd forgotten I had no car. "Thanks, but I can take an Uber," I told him.

"You don't have to do that," he said. "I'm happy to take you wherever you need to go."

A couple brushed past us on their way into the club, holding hands, relaxed and casual. We stepped away from the door.

"No. Really. It's fine."

A frown formed between his eyebrows again, and I resisted the urge to reach out and smooth it down with my fingertips. And brush that gorgeous blond hair away from his eyes. And kiss those pouty lips, and…wow, the wine had definitely gone to my head.

"I, uh, I'm meeting a potential witness. In another case," I quickly lied. "But I have to protect my sources. I'm sure you understand."

"Sure." Nothing about his tone said understanding.

"I'm sorry," I said again. Truly meaning it.

Irene was going to be so disappointed in me when she heard how this non-date had gone.