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“Didn’t say,” said Virginia. “But she was dressed up. Skirt, nice sweater, her good boots.”

Holmes grabbed his phone from Poe and pressed Margaret’s contact. Two seconds later, he got a “DND” message in reply. He put the phone down on the table and swiped back to the night-vision footage.

“Should I track her?” asked Virginia. She came out to the table, carrying a small tray.

Holmes thought for a second. “No. Give her some space.”

“She probably came down with cabin fever,” said Poe. “Let her be.”

Virginia set the tray down in front of them. It held two steaming mugs of coffee, along with spoons, a bowl of raw sugar, and two miniature carafes—one of skim milk for Holmes, one of cream for Poe. She glanced at the video replaying on his phone, then leaned down. “Does this mean you’re back on the job, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes poured a stream of milk into his mug. “No comment.”

“I understand,” said Virginia. A slight smile flickered across her face as she turned back toward the kitchen.

Holmes knew he hadn’t fooled her for a second. For better or worse, he was all in, and Virginia knew it. She sensed it.

Poe picked up his mug and looked at Holmes. Clearly he knew it too. He lifted the mug in a toast.

“Welcome back,” Poe said.

CHAPTER 20

IT WAS FIFTEEN degrees outside. Margaret Marple had the heat in the pickup truck going full blast. As she drove into downtown Ithaca, she could see the stone towers of Cornell University perched above the city. She passed by Moosewood Restaurant, the natural foods mecca on North Cayuga Street, and headed for the municipal parking garage in the center of town.

Marple parked on the lower level and walked a few blocks east through the frozen slush. Her destination was a converted office building a few blocks away. The closer she got, the faster her heart pounded. This was the day she’d been waiting for, studying for, practicing for. It was now or never. And she knew she’d have only one shot.

The building was from 1910. The three upper floors of it were nondescript, maybe offices or storage. But the ground floor was freshly renovated, bricks repointed, new glass in the front window, gleaming red paint on the entrance door, sheltered by an awning in a contrasting blue.

The only sign identifying the establishment was a small brass plaque to the right of the door that read LA FORÊT. A passerby might miss it. But if you knew, you knew. It marked a new French restaurant—not yet open for business—and it promised to be one of the best in the country.

Marple had been surveilling the location for months. Checking arrival times for staff. Observing construction vans, purveyor trucks, and delivery schedules. And, most important, studying the habits of her target, the restaurant’s head chef and owner, Luc Gestard.

Born in the Loire Valley, Gestard had become a culinary legend by the age of twenty-five. He’d trained at L’Ambroisie and Guy Savoy in Paris, and was second in command at Pasjoli in Santa Monica. He was a fierce defender of traditional French cuisine, though with his own head-spinning twists.

On a trip to photograph fall foliage around the Finger Lakes two years ago, Gestard had been charmed by the Ithaca Farmers Market and impressed by the wares at a nearby restaurant supply store. What’s more, he was bored by California’s monotonous sunshine. He craved a change of scene, and a change of seasons.

All of this and more Marple had gleaned from a variety of confidential sources. But she would have to handle the actual contact herself. She expected that it would take some skill. And maybe a little subterfuge.

Marple walked toward the entrance and waited a few doors away. The interior of the restaurant was still partially under construction. The kitchen staff had already been hired, but interviews for servers and back-of-house workers hadn’t started yet.

There was no sense trying to get an advance appointment with Gestard. He was a recluse, even with the press, and totally dark on social media. His Wikipedia entry was a single paragraph. He never posted on TikTok or Instagram. He’d never written a cookbook, never appeared as a guest judge on the Food Network. All he cared about was the work. As Marple’s idol Agatha Christie once wrote, “When one is unique, one knows it.”

Clearly Luc Gestard knew it.

Marple checked her watch and looked up. A young man in jeans and a heavy parka was coming her way, head lowered against the chill. Right on schedule. Same time every morning.

This was Jean Ouimet, Gestard’s assistant pastry chef, who spoke no English. He walked past Marple without a glance and put his key in the front door’s brass lock. When Ouimet opened the door, Marple moved into his shadow. When he walked in, she silently slipped in behind him.

Step one.

She hung back in the unlit entryway as Ouimet headed down a staircase that led to the employee lockers. Marple had every inch of La Forêt locked in her head. She had downloaded the renderings on file with the city planning board. Like Holmes, she had a passion for definite and exact knowledge.

Marple took a breath. The empty dining room was spread out in front of her. Wires hung from the ceiling, but the tables were already in place, covered with butcher paper. Sixteen identical rectangles, seating no more than four people each. Gestard preferred a superior experience for a few over a banal experience for the masses. “Quality control means crowd control,” he was reported to have said. One of the few authenticated Gestard quotes that Margaret Marple had found.

Marple took a few steps forward. She could hear a light clatter from the kitchen, which was separated from the dining room by a set of stainless-steel doors.

One of the doors opened. A tall young man in black dress pants and a crisp white shirt walked into the dining room carrying a small leather notebook. This was Gestard’s restaurant manager, Michael Piedalu, looking even younger in person than he did in Marple’s surveillance photos. Piedalu walked toward the newly installed hostess podium, then looked up, a bit startled when he spotted Marple standing there.