Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3) by Gemma Halliday (books for students to read TXT) 📕

of potted plants?" Irene whispered into the roaring silence. "Maybe brighten up the place?"

"Guess they don't get many visitors," I whispered back.

"Not vertical ones anyway," Irene agreed. "That's probably why they hid it away in a basement."

I shifted in my seat. My discomfort wasn't due entirely to the inhospitable seating. This place gave me the willies. There wasn't a speck of color or natural lighting. We were sitting just inside the door, but if the lights went out, I wasn't all that sure I'd be able to find my way out again. Everything seemed cold, sterile, and slightly perfumed with disinfectant.

"What do you think is taking him so long? That woman said he'd be right out."

"Be patient," Irene said. "It hasn't been that long." She looked at her white gold watch and blinked. "It's been fifteen minutes! What's taking this guy so long?"

"Hello, ladies. I'm Dr. Watson."

I looked across the room and felt myself blink in disbelief. Dr. Watson belonged on the cover of People's Sexiest Medical Examiners issue. Very blue eyes, very thick blond hair, very broad shoulders. And a slightly pouty lower lip that made his mouth hard to ignore. It was a crime that with those looks, he spent his days in the basement with cadavers, when he could have been spending them above ground, with me.

I lost myself in that thought for a second. What a waste. Maybe I could work on that.

Irene hauled me to my feet and shoved me in his direction. "Doctor, this is Marty Hudson."

His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when he smiled. Starter crinkles that a 30-something-year-old doctor who smiled a lot would get. So he had a sense of humor. A sense of humor was good.

"Miss Hudson," he said. He looked over at Irene. "And you are?"

She flapped a hand. "Not important. Marty here has something to discuss with you."

Right. Like hot tubs and fireplaces on wintry nights. Or—

"Speak," Irene spat at me.

"How did Kate Quigley die?" I blurted.

Silence.

"Smooth," she whispered.

My face felt hot with embarrassment. I wouldn't win any awards from Toastmasters, but I wasn't that inept at conversation. I'd been around 2B for too long. I'd forgotten how to talk to a hottie like Dr. Watson. I'd never seen a hottie like Dr. Watson.

"Marty!" Irene hissed.

I cleared my throat. "What I mean is, Kate's my great-aunt. I didn't actually know that until very recently. I mean, I didn't even know I had a great-aunt. But I do. Well, I did, before she died, and she left me her house and—"

Irene coughed sharply.

I blinked. "How did Kate Quigley die?"

Dr. Watson just stared at me. And not in a good way. Like not in a you're-so-beautiful-you-take-my-breath-away way. More like a you-need-medication-right-now way.

"What my eloquent friend here wants to know," Irene said, "is how—"

"Did Kate Quigley die," I agreed.

Irene sighed.

Dr. Watson shook his head. "I'm sorry for your loss, Miss Hudson, but I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

"Why not?" Irene asked. "You performed the autopsy, right?"

"I did," he said. "What I mean is I'm not at liberty to divulge any information until all tests have been run and an official report generated. That will be released in four to six weeks."

"I don't need the official report," I said. "I don't need the report at all. I just want to know how she died. She was my great-aunt."

"Yes, you've made that clear," he said. "And I'm sorry, but it's out of my hands. If you want to leave your contact information, I'd be happy to ask my assistant to send you a copy when policy permits."

Policy. I was coming to hate that word. "Thank you. I appreciate that. But can't you just give me a hint? I mean, was she sick? Was it quick or drawn out? Was it—" I paused, my mouth a little dry. "—hereditary?"

"I'm sorry I can't—"

"Was it bad?" I asked. "It was something awful, right?" I thought I felt Irene roll her eyes beside me, but I figured there was no turning back now. "Please can you tell me now? I mean, I know you've already determined manner of death. Detective Lestrade told us it was natural. So you know it wasn't homicide or suicide. So she died from some horrible disease, didn't she? Something awful must run in my family. I'm probably a carrier, and I don't even know it." I coughed once, pointedly.

He took a tiny step back, glancing at Irene with a degree of alarm.

Irene looked back without expression. She knew that jumping to conclusions was a form of exercise for me.

"Four to six weeks, Miss Hudson," he said. "Unless you're an investigator with an official reason for needing preliminary reports." He made a half turn toward the door. "Was there anything else?"

I gave Irene a helpless look.

He opened the door.

"We are investigators," Irene shot out.

The doctor turned, frowning. "I beg your pardon?"

I felt the same way. I blinked at Irene.

"I should say, we work for a private investigator," she continued. "We didn't mention it up front because we don't like a lot of people to know."

We all glanced around the empty room.

"Not that that's a problem here," Irene added. "It's not like your patients are big talkers."

My turn to roll my eyes.

"You two are private investigators?" he repeated with clear skepticism.

Irene shrugged modestly.

"That's what she said," I agreed. "Does that mean we're entitled to the preliminary report?"

"What kind of case are you working on here?" he asked.

"I'm afraid we can't tell you that," Irene said. "Client confidentiality. You understand."

He turned to me. "I thought you said she was your great-aunt."

"I…did. Yes." I licked my lips, stalling. "Uh, but, you see…"

"It's a family case," Irene jumped in. "Marty here