* * *

  I walked back to Rebecca's apartment building to pick up the Prius and drove to the Tenderloin district, munching on my research cupcake. I found Lucky's Deli on Leavenworth without too much trouble, but I wasn't sure I'd want to shop there, let alone park a Prius in the open. While Hayes Valley was an up-and-coming neighborhood full of trendy bars, boutique restaurants, and high-rise apartment and condo buildings, its neighbor, the Tenderloin, was full of drug dealers, overflowing dumpsters, and crumbling tenements and liquor stores. And Lucky's Market and Deli didn't look like the exception. I tentatively parked on the street and beeped the car alarm on, glad I was making this visit in broad daylight. Not that I was sure that meant the Prius would still be there when I got back. I crossed the street and pushed through the glass doors of Lucky's. The same pungent smell of cold cuts and dill pickles that perfumed every deli in America hung thick in the air, but this one had an underlayment of something else. I sure hoped it was garden variety dust and grime, and not dead bunnies.

  The interior was one narrow aisle. On the left was a floor-to-ceiling shelf full of dusty canned goods—mostly dented—and a variety of ethnic foods ranging from jars of kimchi to pickled jalapeños. On the right sat a glass deli case featuring gray-looking chorizo and sliced meats along with a variety of cheeses growing mold that spoke of long past expiration dates. As icky as it was, I couldn't imagine how anything about this place would incite an argument between Rebecca and Tara. Unless Tara had refused to eat here.

  I stepped up to the counter and was met with burly crossed arms and attitude from a fireplug of a man in a filthy white apron, his stare openly suspicious. Maybe he thought I'd come to steal a can of Cheez Whiz. His face had the bloated, flushed look of an experienced drinker. The hair missing on the crown of his head had moved to his arms and the open collar of his shirt. A soggy toothpick protruded from the corner of his mouth.

  Suddenly I lost all appetite I might have had.

  Knowing Irene's Prius was on borrowed time, I pulled out my most friendly smile and shoved it his direction. "Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?"

  "Yeah, I'd mind," he snapped. "This ain't no information booth. Order something or get out."

  With customer relation skills like that, he'd go far.

  My smile dissolved. I took a deep breath. Might as well go for broke…

  "I'll take a fluffy bunny, please."

  His eyes narrowed and raked across me with excruciating slowness. Just when I'd decided that the newsstand clerk had played some kind of weird joke on me, he said, "Stay there," and stomped off into the back.

  Where did he think I would go? I stood there inhaling mingling scents of pungent cheese and sliced salami, wondering what I'd just ordered. Could it be they really made sandwiches out of bunnies? I shuddered, the cupcakes in my stomach lurching.

  I didn't have to wait long before the guy came back with a brown bag in hand. "A hundred bucks."

  I tried to hide my surprise. I think I failed.

  "Cash," he added.

  I could buy a warren of rabbits for a hundred bucks. Or pay my phone bill. I dug in my purse. Normally, that number was way more cash than I carried around. Luckily, I'd emptied my coffee can savings this morning on the off chance I'd need to grease some palms. I just hadn't expected them to be this greasy. Reluctantly I counted off twenties until I had enough to hand over. He traded me the bag for them, and I hurried outside, anxious to escape from his gimlet-eyed scrutiny and to breathe fresh air again. I practically dove into the Prius (Still there. Yay!) and squealed off down the street, forcing myself to wait until I was well out of sight a few blocks away to reach into the bag.

  Inside was a clear baggie containing four little pink pills.

  I stomped on the brake, and the car swerved to a stop at the curb. I sat there staring at the baggie.

  Pills? Drugs? Fluffy Bunny was code for some sort of drugs? Rebecca Lowery had been buying drugs. Barbara was right about her sister. If the diva had gotten clean in the past, she'd clearly fallen off the wagon again. Had her sister found out and killed her for it? Had Rebecca had some falling out with Tara over her use…and had Tara killed her over it? Or had her death been about a drug deal gone wrong after all?

  A guy walking his dog moved down the sidewalk toward me, and I shoved the pills back into the brown bag, suddenly feeling guilty. I rolled up the bag again and stuffed it deep under my seat, out of sight of the dog walker or any police officer who might pull me over for reckless driving or speeding or running a stop sign or driving while petrified.

  It took me almost half an hour to drive the three miles back to the Bayside Theater, since I drove at about ten miles per hour, obeying every light, stopping at every stop sign long enough to eat a three-course meal, and wondering the whole time what exactly I'd brought along with me for the ride.

  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.

 

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