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AFTER VIRGINIA SHUFFLED off to her bedroom with Baskerville, Auguste Poe unloaded the rifle and set it in an old gun rack near the back door. He then pulled a chair up next to Helene Grey’s. “You should go back to bed,” he said, gently rubbing her bulging belly. “The three of you need your sleep.”

“Not a chance,” she said, propping her elbows on the table. “Not until I hear about this murder Brendan committed.”

Holmes slumped back in his chair, clearly not amused. “It’s too late at night for that kind of teasing, Detective.”

“Murder isn’t a thing to tamper with lightheartedly,” added Marple, “to quote the great Agatha Christie.”

“Sorry,” said Grey. “I’m being insensitive. Probably hormones.”

“A corpse surfaced tonight,” explained Holmes. “With a note pointing to me as the killer.”

“That’s insane!” said Grey. “Who was the victim?”

“A local, a young mother whose body was dumped in the lake months ago,” said Poe.

“Did the police question you?”

“Never got the chance,” said Holmes. “A lawyer showed up out of nowhere to spring me. He said he works for Oliver Paul.”

“Oliver Paul is back?” said Grey. “Why would his lawyer be working on your behalf?” She narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

“Tit for tat,” said Marple. “Paul wants our help getting his wife out of prison.”

Grey sat straight up in her chair. “Agnes Matts? The woman who almost got us all killed?”

Poe nodded. “She’s in a women’s prison down in Westchester County.”

“Bedford Hills Correctional,” said Marple. “Heavy-duty lockup. Exactly where she deserves to be.”

“Right,” said Poe. “But Paul says if we don’t get her out, the killings will start again. Even more of them this time.”

Grey shook her head. “Agnes Matts has blood on her hands, including the blood of children and babies. Who knows how many?”

Poe nodded. He understood. So did everybody else around the table. Agnes Matts was a British-born racist who’d gotten rich running an international child-theft ring. After she married Oliver Paul, he became her technical wizard, while continuing to commit a string of murders on his own. The two psychos seemed made for each other. The only difference was, Paul had gotten away, and Matts had not.

“No way she should be released,” said Marple. “We need to find another solution.”

“And we need to find Paul,” said Holmes. “Before he starts killing again.”

“We’ll do it,” said Marple. “Starting tomorrow.” She pushed back from the table.

“For now, I’m going to bed.”

“I second that,” said Grey, stretching her arms over her head. Poe helped her to her feet and walked with her arm-in-arm toward the stairs. They climbed slowly to the second-floor balcony, pausing every couple of steps.

At the top of the stairs, Poe escorted Grey toward their bedroom in the middle of the hall. Glancing back, he saw Holmes and Marple lingering near the balcony rail. Marple kissed Holmes politely on the cheek, then they headed for separate bedrooms. Still no thaw, apparently.

Who could understand romantic relationships? Not Poe. They were too wild and unpredictable. Sometimes he couldn’t fully comprehend the love he felt for Helene or their unborn twins. It confused and unnerved him. He agreed with his namesake—a man whose moods were a lot like his own.

“I was never really insane, except upon occasions where my heart was touched.”

When Poe walked into the bedroom, Grey was already getting under the covers, her belly forming a mound beneath the quilt. Poe slipped out of his shoes, turned off the lights, and lay down next to her, blinking into the darkness.

Insane love. He had felt it once.

Maybe he was afraid of feeling it again.

CHAPTER 13