I noticed a stack of ancient TV Guides teetering on the end table next to the music box and resisted the urge to sigh.
“So your options are: keep it and drown in ongoing repairs, sell it and level it, or flip it.” She paused. “I still say you’d make a nice profit if it were in the right condition.”
I glanced around. “Okay, I’ll bite. What do you think it would cost to put it in the ‘right’ condition?”
Irene shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe two or three.”
“Thousand dollars?” I asked, wondering where I could possibly find that much.
She snorted. “Try hundred thousand.”
This time there was no resisting the sigh that escaped me.
“You know, I could loan you the money—” Irene started.
“No!” I shook my head emphatically. We’d been down this road before. While Irene was generous to offer, there was no way I wanted her bailing me out of every situation that my barista income stuck me in. She was my best friend—I refused to look at her like a bank. Besides, despite Irene’s idealism, I knew flipping houses was risky business. A house this old could easily eat away profits with one faulty pipe or hungry termite family. I wasn’t willing to risk Irene’s money like that, let alone our friendship. “Thank you, but you know I can’t accept that.”
She shrugged again. “Suit yourself. But this place looks one stiff breeze away from being condemned.”
I wished she wasn’t right so often.
The front door creaked open, and someone called out “Hello?”
“In the living room,” I called back.
“Sitting room,” Irene yelled.
Seconds later, a chubby Asian woman with a short, blunt haircut and pale pink cat-eye glasses hustled in flapping an envelope at us. She hardly seemed to notice the mess as she stopped in front of Irene and peered at her through thick lenses. “My name’s Lucy Chu. I live next door to this…” She rolled her gaze around the room. “…house. The mailman misdelivered the mail again.” She waved the envelope in front of Irene’s nose. “I swear that man can’t read. Look: 2-2-1. It’s as clear as day. Here. Take it.”
Irene pointed to me. “You want to give that to her. That’s Kate’s great-niece, Marty Hudson.”
“Oh?” Lucy Chu swung around to peer at me. “You’re a girl. What kind of name is that for a girl?”
I felt my smile waver. “It’s short for—”
“I didn’t know Kate had any family,” she cut in. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I didn’t know I had her for family either,” I said, taking the envelope. “Thanks for bringing this by. I hope it didn’t inconvenience you.”
“If it did,” Lucy said, “it’s not the first time. At least once a week, the mailman misdelivers the mail. I swear that man can’t read. Look, it says 2-2-1. It’s as clear—”
“Thanks again,” Irene said. “It was good to meet you, but we’re a little busy here.”
“I can help,” Lucy said. “I offered to help Kate before. I’m happy to help. Last month I helped 215 box up old coats for charity. You have old coats?”
I stared at her. “I don’t—probably?”
“Everybody has old coats,” Lucy told me. “They’re like old magazines. They multiply.” She glanced around. “But you already know about that. Anyway, you want my help, I’m happy to help. I have boxes.”
Irene grinned at me over Lucy’s shoulder. “She has boxes, Mar.”
“Thank you for the offer,” I said. “I’ll keep it in mind. But I’d like to take my time going through the house before I start throwing out anything.”
“Sure, sure,” Lucy said. “You’ll be seeing more of me either way. The mailman always misdelivers the mail.”
Irene rolled her eyes.
“Did you know my great-aunt Kate well?” I asked.
Lucy shook her head. “Not really, no. She mostly kept to herself. I can’t say that anyone in the neighborhood knew her well. She didn’t have many visitors, and I rarely saw her go out. She just seemed to stay at home.” Another glance around, accompanied by a wrinkling of her nose. “With all this.”
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 b
e 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.
SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE CASE OF THE BRASH BLONDE
available now!
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY STEPHANIE CAFFREY
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