Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Disappearing Diva Page 2

  "It sounds morbid, I know," I agreed.

  "That's one word for it," he replied.

  "Her name's Rebecca Lowery," Irene piped up beside me. "She's a blonde. Well, a dead blonde."

  I would have rolled my eyes, but I was too busy using them to stare at Watson. Not for the first time, it occurred to me that the man had picked the wrong profession. He was doing a total disservice to female humanity by hiding those looks in a basement every day. His thick blond hair gleamed even under the crappy fluorescents, his pouty lower lip looked practically nibbleable, his startlingly blue eyes, with their feathery little laugh lines, were complemented by a crisp blue chambray shirt that enhanced the muscular lines of his chest and shoulders. His black slacks, while not tight, suggested strong legs. I'd seen those legs in action, chasing an intruder through the backyard of the Victorian. I'd pay to see that again. If I had any money.

  I struggled to bring my concentration back to the case. "She's an opera singer."

  "Was," Irene added.

  "A coloratura soprano," I said.

  He nodded. "I'm familiar. She came through here on Monday, and we released the body to the mortuary the next day. Gordon's, I believe it was." He slipped a folder from one of the piles in front of him and flipped it open.

  "That's right," Irene said. "Only it wasn't Rebecca at Gordon's when her sister arrived to pay her respects."

  Watson frowned. "I'm not sure how that could be."

  "Who identified the body here at the morgue?" I asked.

  "Her director. She had missed a rehearsal, and when he went to check on her at her home, he found her deceased. He's the one who positively IDed her here." Watson checked the file of papers in front of him. "Phillip Sterling Rossi."

  "And you're sure the right body was released the next day?" Irene asked.

  He looked up, a shadow darkening his face.

  "Never mind," she said quickly. "No offense. We're all professionals here, right?"

  His expression suggested he had his doubts about some of us.

  "What about the other…decedent," I asked. "The woman at the mortuary who wasn't Rebecca Lowery."

  "What about her?" he asked.

  "Do you know who she was?"

  "No, she didn't come through my offices. Though, unless there had been something odd about her death in the first place, she wouldn't have. You'd have to ask Gordon's who she is."

  "What was the cause of death?"

  "For Rebecca?" He referred to his notes. "Occipital blunt force trauma. According to the police report, she slipped and struck her head on the corner of a granite countertop."

  Granite countertops were the holy grail in my own fantasy kitchen, along with cherry cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and a gorgeous natural stone floor. But death by granite countertop was a new and tragic possibility I'd never considered. One small vote for keeping the chipped Formica.

  "So it was accidental," Irene murmured.

  He gave a single nod. "I explained to the sister"—he referred to his notes again—"Barbara Bristol, that Ms. Lowery hadn't been the victim of foul play. I'd assumed that was understood when she left."

  "It was," I assured him. "She hired us to locate her sister's remains, nothing more."

  "Did you do an autopsy?" Irene pressed.

  I shot her a look.

  Watson paused. "Partial. We did an external examination, drew bodily fluids, and ran a tox screen. But based on the obvious injuries and my discussion with the detective involved about how the deceased was found, we determined a full autopsy wasn't warranted."

  "How was she found?" Irene asked.

  "In a position consistent with a fall. If you want more details, you'll have to ask Detective Lestrade," he offered.

  I shuddered at the idea. Lestrade was an SFPD detective with a long case list and a short temper. While his office rivaled a tornado in terms of organization, I knew he wasn't as dumb as he looked. The farther we kept "Sherlock Holmes" from Lestrade, the better chance Irene and I had of not ending up in a jail cell.

  "Do you know how long she'd been dead?" I asked, trying to construct a timeline.

  "Hard to pinpoint exactly, but based on liver temp, I'd say she'd died sometime late Saturday night or early Sunday morning."

  "And you're positive the same body that came into your morgue left to go to Gordon's?" Irene pressed.

  Watson closed his notes with a little more force than was strictly necessary. "Yes, as I've told everyone, Rebecca Lowery's body was properly tagged when it left this office."

  I jumped on that first part of the sentence. "Everyone? Has someone else contacted you about Rebecca Lowery?"

  He paused, shooting me a look that said he'd be watching his wording around me in the future. "Yes," he admitted. "A reporter."

  I felt my eyebrows rise. Had Barbara Bristol been contacting the press as well as engaging a private investigator? "What did he want?"

  Watson pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "A story, I guess. He showed up here yesterday with a lot of questions about how we could lose a body."

  "What did you tell him?" Irene asked.

  "Nothing at all," he said. "Just that Rebecca's body left here, and what happened to it after that is out of my hands. But he made threats of a coming FOIA request."

  "FOIA?" Irene repeated.

  "Freedom of Information Act," I supplied. "But your records wouldn't fall under FOIA, would they?"

  "Doubtful," Dr. Watson said. "HIPAA privacy rules extend fifty years past date of death, but there have been rulings that records requests supersede HIPAA. I would consider it an invasion of personal privacy, but of course, I'm bound by the law." He stood. "Was there anything else?"

  "One thing," Irene said. "What kind of window are we talking about between the time Rebecca's was positively IDed here and when her sister saw Not-Her at Gordon's Mortuary?"

  He steepled his hands. "The decedent was received at this office on Monday, positively identified by Mr. Rossi that evening, released to Gordon's Mortuary on Tuesday morning. That's all I know."

  "Which means," Irene said, "Gordon's lost her." She paused. "Unless the hearse was carjacked after they picked her up and Rebecca's now doing a Weekend at Bernie's thing on Venice Beach."

  Watson stared at her. "That ghoulishness must be such a comfort to your clients. But I highly doubt that's what happened."

  "Agreed," Irene said. "Who'd carjack a hearse? Not a big market for parts there."

  I resisted the urge to kick her in the shin.

  "You know," I said, more to myself than anyone else. "A body is a pretty big thing to just lose. I mean, it's not like car keys."

  Irene turned to me, one eyebrow raised. "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying, I can see maybe accidentally mixing two bodies up and thinking the other woman was Rebecca…but in that case Rebecca would be where the other woman is supposed to be now. And presumably she's not. How do you accidentally lose a body altogether?"

  "You think someone took Rebecca Lowery?" Watson said slowly.

  I shrugged.

  "But why would someone steal a dead body?" Irene asked.

  "I can't imagine." His gaze remained steady. "That's where Mr. Holmes comes in, right?"

  Right. If only he would.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Promise me that if I die, you won't bring me here," Irene said an hour later as we stood in the lobby of Gordon's Mortuary. "Freeze me cryogenically, or just prop me in the corner like a broom. Anything but this. What was Barbara Bristol thinking?"

  "Give her a break. She doesn't know the area," I said. "She probably picked it out online."

  "You're being too kind," she said. "There isn't enough photoshopping in the world to make this place look appealing."

  The dim lighting in the lobby was a blessing, given the dingy wallpaper and mismatched furniture. A grandfather clock stood silent to our right, having long ago stopped keeping time. A rickety side table practically creaked under the weight of a
stack of generic Scenes Across America calendars, bearing the funeral home's imprint, and a few pamphlets, exhorting well-organized people with disposable income to preplan their "life celebration." A cheap-looking accordion style folding door stood latched closed to our right, probably concealing a viewing room. Across the lobby to our left was a closed door with a tarnished gold nameplate reading Private. No soothing background music, no hushed voices, and no evidence of good taste.

  "Décor by flea market," I muttered.

  "No kidding." Irene glanced around. "Where is everybody? This place is quiet, even for a funeral home. You'd think they'd at least be playing Muzak or something."

  "Guess they didn't hear us come in," I said.

  "They who?" she asked. "There doesn't even seem to be a staff. You could walk right in and steal the furniture, no problem."

  We looked at the two ancient wing chairs pushed against the wall. Dust powdered the arms and lined the butt-shaped concavities on the seat cushions.

  "Who'd want to?" I asked.

  She smirked. "Okay, then you could walk in and steal a body."

  "Touché." I paused. "Although, again, I still can't imagine why anyone would."

  "Black market organs?"

  "Those have to be harvested soon after death to remain viable," I said.

  Irene shot me a look.

  "What? I sat in on a class about transplant hepatology last month." One of the perks of my job as a barista on the Stanford campus was easy access to some of the world's brightest minds. Which I took full advantage of on a regular basis, even if crashing classes meant I didn't pay full tuition.

  She wrinkled her nose. "Why would you do that?"

  "One can never be too careful about one's liver," I told her. Especially when one, like me, enjoyed her occasional cocktail.

  Irene shrugged. "Okay, well, maybe someone wanted Rebecca's liver."

  But I shook my head in the negative. "Watson said he received Rebecca's body on Monday and it—she—had likely been dead at least 24 hours by then. Too much time had passed."

  "Oh, right. So forget that angle. By then her organs would have spoiled like day-old fish."

  I stared at her. "Maybe we could try to be respectful?"

  She shrugged. "Just trying to lighten the mood. You think I don't know this is spooky stuff?"

  It was hard to tell sometimes. I looked across the lobby. "Do you think we should knock on that door?"

  "I think we should leave and never come back," Irene said. "Rebecca Lowery probably jumped out of her casket and ran off by herself when she got a look at this place."

  "Can I help you ladies?" boomed a voice behind us.

  Irene and I spun around as one.

  Then I froze. I was pretty sure my mouth was hanging open like a cartoon character as I stared at the man in front of me. He could have been an extra in a vampire movie. Black hair accentuated a pale, gaunt face with sharp cheekbones under intense black eyes. A chilly smile emanated from his lipless mouth. His black suit, draped on a skeletal frame, was standard issue mortician wear, as were the shiny black wingtips. I was fairly sure I'd seen an animatronic version of him holding a butler's tray in the local Home Depot Halloween display.

  He extended a heavily veined hand. "Dominic Gordon. And you are?"

  Terrified. "Martha Hudson," I said. His hand was dry and cold, as you would expect from a cadaver. I tried not to meet his eyes. Their blackness was unnerving, almost soulless.

  "Charmed," Gordon said, completely without charm. He turned to Irene with a raised eyebrow.

  "Uh, this is my partner, Irene Adler. We're private detectives investigating Rebecca Lowery's disappearance."

  A little vertical crease appeared between his eyebrows. "Private detectives? I don't understand."

  "Then you have something in common with our client," Irene said, having taken a moment to find her voice. I was pretty sure she was imagining him turning into a little bat and flying away, just like I was. "Ms. Lowry's sister doesn't understand either. She doesn't understand how her sister's body vanished from your funeral home."

  His eyebrows shot up in alarm, and he did a not so loud gesture, patting the air with both palms. I couldn't imagine who he might fear would overhear us. His clients weren't the listening type.

  "Maybe we should step into my office." He gestured toward the Private sign.

  "I'm comfortable right here," Irene said.

  Which was more than I could say, though standing out here was preferable to holing up in a small office with the Vampire Lestat.

  "What can you tell us about Rebecca Lowery?" she asked.

  He stroked his chin, thinking. "Redhead, rather corpulent, died in a car accident?"

  "Blonde, thin, died from head trauma," I said. And I couldn't imagine what he considered corpulent, given that he probably topped the scales at 150, even with his pockets full of embalming fluid.

  "Yes, of course." He smiled fleetingly. "Lovely woman."

  Nothing creepy about that. My skin prickled like it was getting ready to crawl off.

  "Are you sure about that?" Irene asked. "You might be thinking of the Jane Doe you tried to pass off as our client's sister."

  His eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure insults are called for, under the circumstances."

  "Mr. Gordon," I cut in, "Rebecca Lowery's body was positively identified at the medical examiner's office on Monday evening. We understand the body was released to you the following day."

  He nodded. "We picked up the deceased at Mrs. Lowery Bristol's request and scheduled the cremation."

  Irene gave a start. "Cremation?"

  Another nod. "That's right. Her sister specifically requested that cremation be carried out as soon as possible."

  I couldn't help but wonder why Barbara had neglected to mention that. Not that it was any of our business. It was entirely possible the sisters had no living relatives and therefore no need for a formal visitation. Or it might have been Rebecca's wish simply to be cremated. It might have even been an attempt at frugality on Barbara's part. There was nothing wrong with frugality. It was my life's guiding principle.

  "But it wasn't done," Irene was saying.

  Gordon shook his head. "The deceased's lawyer informed me that Miss Lowery's will specifically stipulated a visitation with an open casket and full cosmetics. We immediately rescheduled her for embalming." He drew himself up straighter. "We honor the final wishes of our clients here."

  Clearly Barbara wasn't up on her sister's wishes. Then again, if they'd been estranged, I'd hardly expect her to know what her sister's will said.

  "Regrettably," Gordon went on, "in the exchange of the necessary paperwork, the deceased…well…"

  "Disappeared," Irene said.

  "Quite." He ran a finger inside his collar to loosen it around his neck. "Regrettably," he repeated.

  "Yeah," Irene said. "We got that part."

  "I want to understand the timeline," I said. "You picked up the deceased on Tuesday morning. And you met with her sister when?"

  He ran a hand down the back of his head. "She engaged our services by phone on Monday afternoon. Tuesday we received the body from the morgue. The sister came in on Wednesday to complete the paperwork for the change from a simple cremation to a viewing. And to make the necessary payment arrangements."

  I could practically read Irene's mind. How much do you charge to lose a body? But she managed to stay silent.

  "And did she see her sister at that point?" I asked.

  "Regret—" He glanced at Irene. "Unfortunately, no. I mean, she asked to. We didn't have the body ready, of course, so we discouraged it. Such a shock to see one's loved ones in that sort of state, you know."

  "Almost as much shock as finding out they'd been lost."

  Dominic's eyebrows pinched together. "But she was quite insistent on seeing her sister."

  "And that's when she realized you had the wrong body."

  "Er…quite."

  "Who was the other woman?" Irene cut in
.

  "I'm sorry?" he asked, blinking at her.

  "The body in Rebecca's place. Who was she?"

  "Oh, uh, er…we're not entirely sure."

  I felt my eyebrows rise. "You're telling me that a random dead body showed up in Rebecca Lowery's place?"

  "Uh, yes. I mean, no. She…well, she was tagged as Rebecca Lowery, so we're still trying to find her proper identification."

  "So no other bodies are missing? This wasn't a simple mix-up?" I shot a look toward Irene. Unfortunately, our theory was carrying more and more weight—this wasn't a case of poor filing. Someone had deliberately taken Rebecca Lowery and left a Jane Doe in her place.

  "No one else is missing!" Dominic said, looking over both shoulders as if hordes of prospective clients might be listening. "Look, we'll figure out who the other woman is. I'm sure it's a simple misunderstanding."

  "Age? Coloring?" Irene jumped in.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Of the Jane Doe."

  He paused. "If you're asking if she could be mistaken for Rebecca Lowery, the answer is yes. They looked very similar."

  Funny, Dominic suddenly had an excellent memory when it came to what Rebecca Lowery looked like. I wondered how much of his act was trying to cover up the fact that his mortuary had lost a body.

  "So Rebecca Lowery actually disappeared from this location," Irene said. "Not in transport. Who has access to this building?"

  "No one who doesn't need access." His Adam's apple boomeranged in his throat when he swallowed. "If you're assuming we pass out keys like dinner mints, Miss Adler, you're mistaken."

  "I'm not assuming anything," she said evenly. "Where do you put the bodies when you bring them in? You know, before the embalming and cosmetics?"

  "Downstairs, of course." He plugged a finger into his collar again and yanked it around. "But I couldn't possibly take you there. It would be improper."

  "As opposed to losing a body," Irene muttered.

  If it was possible, Dominic Gordon paled even further.

  She raised her voice. "What sort of security measures do you employ?"

  He stiffened. "I'll have you know, we have a state-of-the-art security system."