Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Wealthy Widow

By Gemma Halliday and Kelly Rey

From New York Times & USA Today bestselling author Gemma Halliday comes a laughter filled mystery about one fake detective, two determined women, and a house full of secrets...

Martha "Marty" Hudson thought her lie about working for a great detective named Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be a onetime thing. Okay, maybe two times, but when her best friend Irene Adler drags Marty along to meet "Sherlock's" latest client, Marty is pretty sure they're in over their heads at playing private eye.

Cordelia Westerbury is a wealthy widow... one who is certain that one of her no-good family members is trying to bump her off for their inheritance. While her evidence is less than convincing, she's willing to pay generously to have the ladies of Holmes Investigations attend a cocktail party where all her "suspects" will be assembled. At first Marty thinks maybe the woman has read a few too many Gothic novels. But when the cocktail party ends in an actual dead body, Marty begins to realize that batty or not, Cordelia is right about one thing: there is a killer in their midst. Is it the pompous nephew with expensive habits and shallow pockets? His gold-digging wife who may be more scheming than her flighty persona suggests? The brooding millennial granddaughter who uses her disdain for just about everything as the perfect cover-up? Or the long-lost cousin who conveniently shows up just as Cordelia's contemplating a change in her will? Marty isn't sure, but the stakes only go higher when a new private detective firm, Moriarty Investigations, sets themselves up as Sherlock's arch nemesis, trying to poach his clients.

Between juggling a family of suspects, the distractingly gorgeous Medical Examiner, Dr. Watson, the annoyingly competent Moriartys, and an investigative reporter bent on outing Sherlock Holmes as a fake, Marty has her hands more than full. But when the killer sets his sight on Marty and Irene, Sherlock's biggest case just may end up being their last...

The Marty Hudson Mysteries:
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Brash Blonde – book #1
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Disappearing Diva – book #2
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Wealthy Widow – book #3

What critics are saying about The Marty Hudson Mysteries:

"This is a terrific new series featuring modern updated Sherlock Holmes characters. I've been looking forward to reading this book as a fan of Sherlock Holmes and I was not disappointed."
~ A Cozy BookNook

"One of the most anticipated of the fall releases happens to be one of THE BEST of the fall releases! Halliday and Rey have joined forces to create a SUPERLATIVE new cozy mystery series that will leave readers clamoring for more."
~ Blogcritics

"Marty Hudson checks all my boxes! A very entertaining book!"
~ Kings River Life Magazine

Rating: This story does not contain any graphic violence, language, or sexual encounters. Its rating would be similar to PG-13 or what you would find on a Hallmark Channel movie or TV series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gemma Halliday
• Release date: Aug 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463247648

Gemma Halliday

Gemma Halliday is the New York Times, and USA Today bestselling author of several cozy mystery and suspense thriller novels. Gemma's books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, two National Reader's Choice awards, a RONE award for best mystery, and three RITA nominations. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her large, loud, and loving family.

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SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE CASE OF THE WEALTHY WIDOW

Marty Hudson Mysteries book #3

by

GEMMA HALLIDAY

&

KELLY REY

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2021 by Gemma Halliday

http://www.gemmahalliday.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

CHAPTER ONE

I don't think we're impressing him, I said.

Are you kidding? My best friend, Irene Adler, pulled two cold bottles of water from my refrigerator. I keep telling you—think positive. She handed over one to me. We're very impressive, Marty.

Easy for her to say.

Irene Adler had the face of an angel, the body of a Barbie doll, and the brains of a rocket scientist. Her willowy size two frame was topped off by silky auburn hair and bright green eyes that perpetually twinkled with mischief. Probably because her brain was perpetually cooking up something mischievous. After starting her career as a computer prodigy at age twelve, when she'd hacked into a government mainframe just because she could, Irene had earned a degree at MIT and then gone on to make a fortune as one of Silicon Valley's youngest venture capitalists. Impressive was kind of her middle name.

I, on the other hand, managed to reach five-five if I stood with ballerina-perfect posture, was an average(ish) weight, and possessed slightly-frizzier-than-average blonde hair that was usually pulled up into a useful ponytail. I worked as a barista at the Stanford University bookstore coffee shop, which was not necessarily anyone's dream job, but it paid the bills. Mostly. That is, until I'd inherited a dilapidated Victorian house from an aunt I didn't even know I'd had. It was still largely uninhabitable, which meant I actually lived in a crappy apartment within biking distance of the campus. All of which was to say, there was little about my life that was going to impress anyone.

Least of all the man sitting in my front room who had hired Sherlock Holmes.

As in, Sherlock Holmes Investigations, the private inquiries firm headquartered in my Victorian at 221 Baker Street in San Francisco. So far we'd had a couple of cases come our way which, somehow through the grace of fate and a little luck, we'd managed to solve. Okay, it was mostly luck. But our clients didn't know that, and they'd been happy enough to fork over cash for a job well done, which was currently keeping the holes out of my roof.

There was also another thing our clients didn't know.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't real.

Irene had made him up months earlier to facilitate the release of the medical examiner's report about my aunt's suspicious death. It had been a spur-of-the-moment thing and intended to also be a onetime thing. But, well, Sherlock has basically never gone away. And since he'd gained some notoriety during that investigation, it looked like he'd be sticking around, in the guise of two twentysomethings with too much imagination.

A pipe banged in the basement. I barely noticed it, since pipes had been banging, pinging, or crashing for the past week as the steady parade of contractors had made its inevitable way to my ancient plumbing system. I didn't even flinch anymore when I opened their bills. And the nausea had almost gone away, too.

Besides, Irene went on, that's Grady Poole sitting out there. Do you know who that is?

I nodded. A guy who thinks his wife is cheating on him.

"A very wealthy guy who thinks his wife is cheating on him, she corrected me. And he came to us to find out for sure. Well, to Sherlock Holmes, but it's the same thing."

I doubted it. Sherlock Holmes would probably have enough money to rent an office and hire actual detectives to work his cases. If he was real.

He hired us two weeks ago, I said. And what have we found out?

Irene shrugged.

Nothing. My voice rose a little. We've found out nothing!

These things take time. She peeked around the doorway into the sitting room, which sounded cozy but wasn't, since it still held Aunt Kate's fussy furniture and ancient drapes. Okay, he's finished with his phone call. Time to go fill him in.

On what, exactly? I whispered harshly as I trailed after her.

Follow my lead, she whispered back. Grady! She graced him with a megawatt smile that usually rendered men mute.

Unfortunately, Grady Poole wasn't most men. He was an uber-sophisticated Silicon Valley exec who flew on private jets and ran in exclusive circles. Or so Irene had told me. I'd had no clue who Grady Poole was before he hired us. My universe didn't include silk shirt types. Well, there really were no men in my universe. Except maybe the city medical examiner, Dr. John Watson, but I wasn't at all convinced that we were on the same glide path.

Anyway, Grady Poole was a fortysomething with a goatee and wire-rimmed glasses and a great big chip on his shoulder. His irritation was obvious from the set of his jaw. The metallic crash that echoed up through the heating vents did nothing to improve his mood. What on earth is going on in this place? he snapped. I've been in quieter grade school cafeterias.

This guy had reproduced? I pictured a toddler in a three-piece suit and tiny wingtips. And a sign on his back reading Kick Me because who liked a toddler in a three-piece suit and tiny wingtips?

Ignore that, Irene said with a dismissive wave. Mr. Holmes is renovating his office downstairs. You know how disruptive that can be.

Maybe I could meet the man, Grady said. Implicit in that statement was Since you two can't do my simple job. Or maybe I was just being sensitive since we hadn't done his simple job.

Irene didn't hesitate. He's not here. Her smile was relentless, if ineffective. He couldn't stand the noise. He's working out of our London office for a few weeks.

I should have been used to Irene's embroidery, but I tried to keep my eyes from widening at that.

I see. Can we get down to business, then? I've got an important meeting in an hour.

In an instant, her happy hostess demeanor morphed into pure professionalism. Of course. Please, have a seat. Marty, why don't you begin?

Grady crossed his legs, adjusted his glasses, intertwined his fingers on his knee, and glared up at me.

I cleared my throat. Mr. Poole, over the past two weeks, we've followed your wife to a number of places, and I have to say, we found no evidence—

For example, he cut in.

I blinked. I'm sorry?

What places? he asked.

Irene and I traded a glance. We emailed the report to your office, Irene began.

I'd like to hear it, he said. Humor me. I'm not an email kind of guy.

He was also not a likable kind of guy, but he was our only client at present, and that singular status seemed to demand a bit of deference. Irene flipped through his file, which was comprised largely of blank sheets of paper for appearances. She extracted the one-page report. In truth, if she'd used wider margins and a smaller font, it would have been only a half-page report. Maybe even a single paragraph.

But in our defense, her Sherlock Holmes Investigations logo was a work of art.

Well, she said, "on Monday afternoon, she went to a Royale film festival showing of The Point of it All."

She sat in the third row, I added. Alone. I'd memorized the report over a muffin at work a few nights earlier.

And I have to say, Irene said, we didn't see the point of it all.

It wasn't a very good film, I agreed. "She should've stuck with The Last Jedi."

Grady Poole wasn't amused. What else?

There was the drycleaner's, I said. She dropped off two blouses and a skirt.

About that, Irene cut in.

He stiffened, clearly expecting bad news.

She should use the cleaner's on 72nd Street instead, she told him. They can get out any stain.

His sigh was audible.

And then she went to Golden Gate Park, I said.

His eyes narrowed. The park.

I nodded. She didn't seem to be there to meet anyone. She just sat alone on a bench for a while. Watching the joggers in their tight shorts and ambling dog walkers and tourist types who passed. Marilyn Poole was a top-notch people watcher, especially if those people were men. Still, she hadn't interacted with a soul, unless you counted her polite nod to the white-haired gentleman who'd shuffled past with his walker. After about forty-five minutes, the fog started rolling in, I went on. And she must have been getting chilly, because—

You're fired, he said.

My mouth snapped shut.

Excuse me? Irene looked stunned.

I see no point in dragging this out further when Shylock Holmes clearly can't get the job done.

Sherlock, Irene automatically corrected. And he can get the job done, it just takes time.

Sorry, but I'm taking my business elsewhere, he replied. I've decided to engage Moriarty Investigations instead.

Moriarty, Irene repeated. The new place that guarantees twice the results in half the time?

Exactly.

But they've only been in business for three months. They're hardly qualified.

I assumed she recognized the irony in that statement.

"They guarantee results," he repeated.

How can they possibly guarantee that your wife will cheat in half the time? I asked him.

They've promised to employ a decoy, he said. A young, muscular, handsome type to tempt her.

But that's entrapment! Irene protested. Right, Marty?

I dragged my imagination away from the image of a young, muscular, handsome decoy. Huh? Oh. Yes. That's cheating, Mr. Poole.

His smile was thin as he uncrossed his legs and stood. That's the point. And it's all my prenup needs. Thank you for your rather weak efforts, ladies.

Wait. Irene moved fast to block his path to the door. We'll make a deal with you. How about this: If we find proof of your wife's infidelity before Moriarty does, you'll agree to honor our contract.

He crossed his arms, bemused. And if not?

If not, we bow out graciously. Irene gritted her teeth. With no hard feelings. You won't even have to pay us for the time we've spent on your case so far. What have you got to lose?

About seven million dollars.

Holy cow. I suddenly understood what Mrs. Poole had seen in her husband.

Just give us a chance to beat Moriarty, Irene added.

He appraised Irene for a few moments while he thought about it. Alright, he said finally. I'll agree to that. But you'd better hurry. I suspect you don't have much time. Half as much, in fact.

We appreciate your confidence, Irene said flatly. Let me show you out.

I watched Irene escort him to the door and out into my pocket-sized front stoop, a little surprised she didn't assist him with a firmly planted Jimmy Choo to his fanny. I'd known Irene for years, since I'd crashed the lecture she'd given at Stanford on social media's impact on political and economic culture, and I knew she didn't like to have her competence questioned.

Her lips were pursed when she returned to the sitting room. Can you believe the nerve of that guy?

I dropped onto the sofa, trying to ignore the racket in the basement. What do you think he meant: it's all he needs for his prenup?

Sounds like Mr. Poole is looking for an excuse to divorce his wife on the cheap, she said. This is a community property state, after all.

What a guy. But you took a big risk. How are we going to do better than real detectives like Moriarty?

We're real, she said. And it wasn't much of a risk. She settled into a wing chair, blowing her auburn bangs out of her eyes. It's not like we'll be in breach of contract. If we can't do the job, we won't get paid. Simple.

Not for me, I muttered, wincing at a metallic crash, knowing it was the sound of my anemic checkbook being crushed further under the weight of the needy old Victorian.

Irene gave a start. What are they doing down there, anyway?

I sighed. Depends. What day is it? This place felt like the fabled Winchester Mansion—the work never stopped. Although in my case, the constant construction work was less about fear of ghostly retribution and more about the earthly fear of being stuck in my current apartment forever. It had started out with a few replacement windows, moved on to a new water heater and a patched roof, admittedly all paid for thanks to Sherlock Holmes and his newfound fame. But in a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately world, fame really was fleeting, and now we were left with Grady Poole as our sole client. Which meant I now had to rely on Mr. Poole's case to replace the pipes that had been described to me as delicate as Queen Anne's lace.

Sympathy flashed on Irene's face, making me wonder if she'd read my mind. It'll be okay, Marty. We'll get the job done. It's what we do. And then new clients will be lining up to hire us.

How are we going to do that? We already tailed Marilyn Poole through two weeks of her life to no avail.

Funny you should ask. She smiled. I've got the perfect plan. If the Halftimers are going to use a decoy, then we can, too. I have a few names in mind.

I frowned. I'm not sure I like that idea. It feels sleazy. Like, I don't know, an episode of Maury Povich or something.

Don't think of it like that, she said. A fresh round of banging punctuated her sentence, making her wince. Again. Think of it as new plumbing, she added.

On cue, another crash.

I sighed. Again. I'll try.

If that doesn't work, she said, you might want to think about hiring a different plumber. A quieter one.

I couldn't afford a different plumber, quiet or not. I couldn't even afford the one who was deconstructing my basement right now, and I'd gotten him at a steep discount because he was a friend of 2B, the stoner who lived in the apartment across the hall from mine. 2B's real name was Ed Something-with-no-vowels, and as far as I could tell, he was unemployed and seemed to have an unsettling familiarity with everything that went on in my life. Still, I was pretty sure he was harmless. He'd certainly scored some good neighbor points when, after I'd vented about my new home's voracious appetite for repairs, he'd offered to negotiate a steep discount with his not-quite-licensed plumber's apprentice buddy, Andy, in exchange for two free months of lattes. Unfortunately, it seemed I was getting what I hadn't paid for.

Irene glanced at her watch before pushing herself out of the chair. I've got to run or I'll be late for a VC meeting. This should be a good one.

Who is it this time? I asked. Another twelve-year-old robotics genius?

She was fourteen, Irene said. And be nice. Her robots might be taking over your job one day.

They can have it, I groused. The best part of my day job was the access it provided to classes I couldn't afford to attend for credit. Robot baristas could only improve my life. Not that I felt sorry for myself—truth was, while my high school grades might have been enough to get me into Stanford, I hadn't dedicated my teen years to padding my résumé enough to earn a scholarship. And I didn't have the heart to guilt my single mom into taking on a fourth or fifth job to pay for tuition. I'd briefly thought about taking out a student loan, but since I'd had no idea what I'd actually major in, let alone get a job in once I graduated to pay back said loan, in the end I'd opted for being academia adjacent. Let's face it—until they figured out a way to keep me from sneaking into classes, I had access to all the eclectic education I wanted. Just minus the fancy degree.

Irene cocked her head. Are you going to be okay?

Oh, sure. I let my gaze drift to the heavy insulated drapes, and downward to the tiny flakes from their dry-rotted lining on the floor beneath the window. I love this place, I murmured. Which I did. While the truth was I could easily sell and purchase myself a shiny new condo with the proceeds, something about the character of the old building, the history, the architecture, and, the anti-sentimentalist in me hated to admit, the connection to my family who had passed on, all prevented me from placing a For Sale sign in the yard.

Though some days, just barely.

That's the spirit. Irene hugged me. We'll talk later. She grabbed her bag and hurried out of the house. Seconds later, I watched her latest toy, a brand new electric blue Tesla, pull away from the curb.

Miss Martha?

I turned to find Andy the un-plumber standing there clutching a piece of pipe that looked like Swiss cheese. This couldn't be good. Andy stood nearly six feet tall, and would be a lady killer when he got a little older, instead of a budget killer now.

He waved the pipe in front of me. I'm going to need to replace this, but I can't do it today. Got to make my weekly appointment with my PO.

PO? I asked, a little distracted by the no-doubt expensive piece of pipe in his hands.

Parole officer.

I blinked at him. That was a nugget 2B had neglected to mention. I silently wondered what he'd done to deserve parole. Or worse—prison then parole.

You'll be okay without water, right? he asked.

Oh, sure. Who needed to take a shower or brush her teeth, anyway? But I wasn't about to argue with a guy who had a record.

It's fine, Andy. I'll be staying at my apartment, anyway.

Good. He gave me a lopsided smile but didn't move.

Well, I said, see you tomorrow?

Uh-huh. He scrubbed his hands on his jeans. And didn't move.

Andy? Didn't you say you have an appointment?

Yeah, but… He hauled in a deep breath. I'm going to need to buy some pipe to get this job done. And pipe costs money.

He wanted money. If I had money, I wouldn't be standing there talking to an unlicensed plumber's apprentice. My cheeks grew warm. Tell you what, I said. Why don't you hold off a day or two on the pipe? Come by on Thursday, and I'll set something up for you then. Like a printing press. Or a bank heist.

A flicker of sympathy crossed his face. It's only a couple hundred bucks. I can advance you the money if you want. I mean, I have my job at the car wash and all, and I'm kind of a saver. I'd be happy to help you out.

Thank you, but I don't think so, my pride said. I gave him a gentle push toward the foyer. I'll see you on Thursday.

If you change your mind, he said on the way out, Ed knows how to get ahold of me.

I shut the door and leaned my forehead against the cool wood with another sigh. A couple hundred bucks. With the rent due in a few days, and Grady Poole having one foot out the door. Well, there was nothing to be done about it at that moment, so I figured the most productive use of my time might be to barricade myself in my apartment and spend the night with a bag of Doritos.

It had started to rain very lightly by the time my Uber pulled up in front of my building. Prior to my life as a homeowner, most of my commute had been spent getting from one end of the Stanford campus to the other, which was most easily done on a bicycle. Not to mention it saved me exorbitant parking fees. And gas fees. And car payment fees. Now that I was traveling back and forth from Palo Alto to San Francisco, Irene had suggested several times that I buy a car. I agreed. A car would be fabulous. So would the money to buy one. Until one of those things materialized, I was keeping the Uber drivers of the world employed.

I paid the driver and stepped into the lobby of my building, where the dim forty-watt lighting tossed shadows across the chipped vinyl flooring and dirty white walls. I retrieved my daily allotment of junk mail from my box and climbed the stairs to my second-floor apartment, where the lighting improved slightly, but the smell did not. Judging from the aroma flowing down the hallway like a stream of sludge, my neighbor Mr. Bitterman was cooking tires for dinner.

Mr. Bitterman was 83 years old and lived on the other side of a very thin, very porous shared wall, which meant I practically got to taste his horrifying culinary creations as they were bubbling in the vat. He'd picked up the art of cooking in his golden years, though unfortunately for him—and me—it was less art and more science experiment. His culinary talent was nonexistent. For one thing, his vision for recipe reading wasn't great, but he could have had the Hubble telescope for glasses and his concoctions still would have been inedible. But that didn't stop the 90-year-old cougars in the building from trying to stake their claim on him and his railroad pension.

I leaned against the wall and was trying to dig out my key when Mr. Bitterman's door flew open and he stuck his head out into the hall. Martha Hudson!

That was another thing about Mr. Bitterman. He always called me by my full name, never Marty or Dearie or even Martha. I forced a smile when he shuffled out into the hallway, taking in his emerald green sweater, tan trousers, and stocking feet encased in one blue sock and one white sock. Hi, Mr. B. Been cooking again?

He beamed at me, showing unnaturally white dentures. How can you always tell?

I don't know, maybe because I practically had to peel the odor off my walls?

It's a new recipe. He shook the Tupperware container in his hands and something dark green sloshed against the side. Been working on it all day. I call it 2D Surprise. I saved you some.

Oh, gee, I'm sorry, Mr. Bitterman. I pulled a prophylactic McDonald's bag from my purse, which contained nothing but a balled-up Big Mac wrapper and a couple of empty French fry sleeves for olfactory verisimilitude. I'd taken to traveling with it after one particularly objectionable tasting experience with Mr. B that had cost me my microwave. I've already had my dinner.

You call that dinner? He regarded the McDonald's bag with disdain as he thrust the Tupperware at me. This is dinner. I even added a bed of blanched Brussels sprouts. A person needs her greens to stay regular, Martha Hudson!

Mercifully, before we could get into a spirited discussion about the vagaries of the digestive process, my ringtone began playing from my purse. I'm awfully sorry, Mr. B. I pushed through the door into my apartment, while my basset hound, Toby, danced and jumped around me, whining with excitement. I really need to take this call. Maybe you should see if Ed's had dinner.

He doesn't appreciate fine cuisine, Mr. Bitterman scoffed. At least let me heat it—

I pushed the door shut with my foot, mentally apologizing to the universe for my rudeness. I'd make it up to Mr. Bitterman somehow. Maybe by throwing his pots and pans out the window.

I swiped my phone on just as it was about to go to voicemail.

Marty! It was Irene, her excitement practically crackling through the connection. Have you checked Sherlock's messages today?

I never check the messages, I told her. Lifting the hem of my shirt, I blotted the raindrops from my forehead. How'd the meeting go?

That's not important right now, she said. We've got a new client request! I already cleared my calendar and set up a meeting with her in the morning. Her name's Cordelia Westerbury. I've got a good feeling about this one, Marty. Sherlock Holmes is still alive and well despite Grady Poole.

Sherlock Holmes is nothing but a ghost, I said.

She was silent for a few seconds. You know, that's a great idea! That'd save us from having to pretend that he's overseas all the time. He could tragically pass away in a baggage carousel accident at Heathrow, and we could say we're carrying on with the agency out of respect for his legacy.

I rolled my eyes. Irene.

She paused.