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Suddenly there was a loud rumble from outside. The hardwood floor of the great room started to vibrate. Baskerville shot out from under the table. Virginia burst out of a back room and followed her dog to the front window.

Holmes turned toward the noise. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s Mr. Poe!” Virginia shouted. “He’s got a new monster!”

CHAPTER 16

VIRGINIA THREW ON a jacket and raced out the front door. Marple hurried out of the kitchen and handed Grey a parka, then grabbed a down vest for herself. Holmes followed the three women out the door and stood with them on the porch as Poe drove up.

It was a monster, all right.

Holmes knew more about weaponry than vehicles, but there was no mistaking this one. Poe was behind the wheel of a massive, tricked-out GMC Hummer, with oversized tires that boosted the passenger seat about six feet off the ground. The body was painted flat black, which gave it a menacing look. The engine growled when it idled, then roared when Poe revved it.

The driver-side window slid down. Poe leaned out. “Like it?”

“Auguste!” Grey shouted. “What in God’s name is this?”

Poe grinned. “The GTO wasn’t cutting it in the snow. I needed more heft. More traction!” He revved the engine again, sending a plume of purple exhaust into the cold air. “This is one of the last gasoline-powered models they made! It’s a classic!”

“It’s a pollution factory!” yelled Marple.

Grey shook her head. “How would I even climb into that thing?”

Virginia bounded off the porch and hopped onto the running board. She nodded toward the hood. “How many horses?”

Poe said, “300. A 5.3-liter V-8. Custom-built transmission.”

“Awesome!” replied Virginia, visibly thrilled.

Holmes knew that Virginia was Poe’s match when it came to arcane automotive knowledge. She had hands-on experience with trucks, tractors, and high-powered muscle cars. She once confessed to competing in illegal street races as a teenager. From the few times Holmes had ridden with her, he didn’t doubt it. She had the reflexes of a NASCAR driver.

Holmes glanced at Grey as Virginia ran her hands along the Hummer’s squarish body. At moments like this, Poe and Virginia seemed like kindred spirits. Grey definitely noticed. Holmes could see it in her eyes.

Grey turned abruptly and walked back toward the porch. “I’ve seen enough,” she muttered. Marple hurried over to help her negotiate the steps. Virginia hopped back down onto the driveway as Poe pulled the rumbling Hummer up next to the porch.

Holmes was halfway up the steps when he heard an anguished cry from the kitchen. It was Marple.

“Dammit! Poe, that thing collapsed my soufflé!”

CHAPTER 17

A FEW MINUTES after midnight, Holmes emerged from the upstairs bathroom in a cloud of fragrant steam. He’d just taken his third shower in twelve hours. It was one of his many habitual quirks, and it severely taxed the lodge’s ancient water heater. After complaints from his housemates, he’d agreed to delay his final shower of the day until after everybody else was in bed. With luck, the heater would recover by morning.

He walked down the hall to his bedroom, then hung his robe on a hook and slipped into his pajamas—pure silk, and monogrammed with his initials. Another quirk. Or indulgence.

Dinner had been amazing. Even slightly deflated, Marple’s initial soufflé had been so delicious at breakfast she’d made a savory soufflé that afternoon, which was served accompanied by a green salad and followed by Virginia’s homemade pumpkin pie. Holmes had longed to open a bottle of Chablis, but he knew that it would compromise his recovery from mind-altering substances. And of course Poe and Grey were both abstaining for their own reasons. He settled for Perrier, which had left him feeling gassy and bloated.

When he dropped face-first onto the bed, he let out an involuntary belch. His belly felt like a small boulder underneath him. He climbed under the covers and turned onto his back, staring at the pattern of wood beams above him.

When his estrangement from Margaret began, Holmes had given her the larger of the two single bedrooms, closer to the staircase. His retreat was tucked under the eaves at the far end of the second floor. More than once, he’d banged his head against the slanted ceiling.

As usual, he lay awake for a long time, torturing himself with thoughts of Margaret, wondering if he should walk down the hall and attempt a rapprochement. He worried that he wouldn’t be welcome, and that a rejection would shatter him all over again. He truly loved her. She was one of the greatest hearts and greatest brains he had ever known. But somehow they were now simply on different wavelengths.

Holmes turned onto his side and tucked his pillow under his head. Unexpectedly he found himself thinking about Alicia Prynne Bell—specifically the scent of her perfume. Holmes felt confused. Then aroused. Then guilty. Stop! he told himself. It was just a sense memory. A synapse in the limbic system. Nothing more.

Holmes flicked off the light on the side table and closed his eyes. At night, the lodge was pitch-black and totally silent. The only sound as he drifted off was from outdoors—the wind rattling a loose siding board. He’d been meaning to fix it. Just needed to find a ladder… and some tools… maybe tomorrow…

He fell into a deep sleep.