Killer Among the Vines (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 7)

by Gemma Halliday

"And you don't want to wait, right?"

  "Yes."

  "And saying we work for a PI was pretty quick thinking, right?"

  "Yes! Okay, fine. You're right."

  Irene grinned. "Besides, that doctor was pretty good looking, right?"

  This time I shot her a look instead of answering.

  "It wouldn't be a terrible thing to see him again, would it?"

  "He's not my type," I argued.

  Irene arched one perfectly threaded eyebrow at me. "Oh really? You're not into hot doctors?"

  "He's…" I paused, struggling for the right words to describe him. Gorgeous. Drool worthy. Lava flow hot. "…completely inflexible," I finally settled on. "He's like an 80-year-old man trapped in a…" I trailed off again, biting my lip.

  "Hottie's body?" Irene suggested.

  "I didn't say that."

  "You didn't have to. Your tongue practically hit the floor when you saw him."

  "It did not," I said. "He's not that good looking. And stop trying to hook me up, will you? All I want from Dr. Watson is information."

  "And that's what you'll get." Irene pulled out of the parking lot and up to a red light. "Just as soon as we get Sherlock Holmes to send over his credentials."

  I slid down in my seat with a groan. "How are we supposed to do that? Shylock Holmes doesn't exist!"

  "Sherlock," she corrected again. "And yeah, that could be a slight problem."

  I shot her a look again. "Only a slight problem?"

  Irene grinned. "We have the will. I think we should go out for drinks and work on the way. I've got an idea."

  I grimaced. "You always do."

  Fifteen minutes later, we pounced on an open table at the Cavern, a trendy gathering spot for twentysomethings on the waterfront. There was a huge circular bar dead center of the room, floor-to-ceiling windows with remote darkening shades facing the bay, and enough vibrations from gigantic speakers to rearrange internal organs.

  I stared at the fake candle on the table shooting a flickering fake flame that neither warmed nor brightened. My jaw hurt from gritting my teeth. I didn't take rejection well, and I'd been rejected twice in the same day when all I'd wanted was information. Not like I was asking for state secrets. Those I could probably get.

  "I can't believe he wouldn't tell family how she died," I groused into my martini. "Who does that? Don't you think he could have just given me Kate's cause of death?"

  "Uh-huh." Irene pulled her tablet from her bag and began typing.

  "I mean, it could be important information." I watched her. "It sounds like she had some health problem that could be hereditary. I don't know much about my dad's side of the family. Don't you think it would be important for me to know that?"

  "Uh-huh." The typing stopped for a second while Irene read something. "It wasn't necessarily something hereditary," she said. "She could have had pneumonia or something. That house is sure drafty enough to catch pneumonia." She started typing again.

  "What are you doing?" I asked, irritated. "Am I boring you or something?"

  "I told you I had an idea," Irene said. "Ideas take work."

  "If you say so." I drained the glass and stood. "I'm going to get a Coke. Want anything?"

  "Nuh-uh."

  It was almost ten minutes before I dropped back into my chair again with the soda and some more grievances. "It's just so frustrating to find out I have this relative I never knew, and now I can't find out anything about her." I noticed a business card lying on the table. "Is that the doctor's?"

  "Uh-huh." Irene turned the tablet sideways and assessed.

  "I don't know why you took it. It's not like we actually need Dr. Watson's contact information." I took a sip. "And by the way, you weren't much help. Why would you tell him we were private investigators? Don't you know it's a crime to lie about a thing like that?"

  "Only to a police officer, maybe," Irene said. "Not to a doctor. Besides, I didn't lie." She held up the tablet with a triumphant grin. "Voila."

  I stared at the screen. "Impressive. Is this what you do for a living?"

  "Yes." Irene made a face. "I falsify government documents. What do you think?"

  "You don't have to be snarky about it." I took another look at an official-looking license with the words Department of Consumer Affairs, Bureau of Security and Investigative Services. And below that was the name Sherlock Holmes.

  I looked at her. "What is this?"

  "That," Irene said, "is the answer to your prayer."

  "That," I said, "is forgery."

  Irene cocked her head, appraising the screen. "Huh. Never considered myself a forger before. I think I'm kinda good at it."

  I tried not to roll my eyes as I imagined her adding that to her resume. Hacker Entrepreneur, Fake PI, Forger.

  The tablet chimed softly, and her grin widened. "I think I hear the medical examiner calling."

  "You actually sent that to him?" My hand was shaking on the glass.

  "Kind of the point, Marty." Irene swiped away the fake PI license and opened her email with a smile. "I've got to hand it to him. He's true to his word. That's a good quality in a man, don't you think?" She handed me the tablet, where Dr. Watson's prelim report was open to page 1.

  My eyes widened. "We shouldn't read this. We got it under false pretenses."

  "We should read this," Irene insisted. "We didn't steal state secrets. It's a report. She's your family."

  Right. Family. Family trumped forgery, right? Not like Dr. Watson would be likely to look into the authenticity of Sherlock Holmes's license. Why would he do that? He'd asked for credentials, he'd gotten credentials, and he'd sent over the report, one of hundreds that he sent out every year. He'd probably already deleted the phony license and put the whole transaction behind him. He'd never be able to describe me to, say, the Department of Homeland Security. As painful as it was to admit, I was pretty sure I hadn't made much of an impression. And that was okay, because I wouldn't be able to describe him either. I'd forgotten all about the broad shoulders, the blond hair, the blue eyes, the pouty lips. Especially the pouty lips.

  There. I felt better already.

  Since Irene had gone to all that trouble, and since the report was right in front of me, I scanned the first few lines. Since it was only preliminary and only meant for internal distribution, a lot of the findings were bare bones. But if there was such a thing as medical examiner boilerplate, that was it. The language was so clinical and nonspecific, it could have been referring to anyone.

  Except it wasn't. My throat caught as I read on, glossing past the unsettling particulars of the autopsy itself. Organs had been average sized. No signs of recent trauma on the body. According to stomach contents, her last meal had been a pasta in an alfredo sauce followed by a glass of red wine. Cause of death: Dr. Watson had determined that my great-aunt Kate had suffered sudden cardiac death.

  My eyes welled, imagining Kate alone in that house, hoping she hadn't suffered, hoping she hadn't even realized what was happening, that she'd been asleep in her bed when she'd passed.

  Silently, I pushed the tablet across the table.

  Irene picked it up and read over the report. "So natural causes," she said. "At least Lestrade was honest."

  For what that was worth. At the moment, it didn't feel like much.

  "I'm sorry, Mar." Irene shut down the tablet and dropped it back into her bag. "Does it help at all to know?"

  "Yes." I shook my head. "And no. I just wish I had known her—even known about her—before now."

  "Maybe clearing out the house will fill in the gaps," Irene said. "Do you want me to help?"

  "You already have," I said. "Thanks, but that's something I should do myself."

  Irene nodded. "Just call if you need me to whip up any more phony records." She held up her own virtually untouched martini glass. "To new beginnings."

  I touched it with the rim of my own glass, suddenly melancholy. "And old friends," I said.

  SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE CASE OF T
HE BRASH BLONDE

  available now!