Page 28 of The Girl in the Lake

She carved off a chunk of butter and dropped it into the pan, watching it sizzle. The instant before it was about to turn brown, she poured in the eggs. Using the back of the fork, she gently coaxed and prodded the mixture until it solidified to a sheen, controlling the temperature by sliding the pan on and off the burner. At the critical moment, she used the fork to roll the solidified mass onto itself with a single smooth fold. She tipped the pan and tapped it until the omelet fell down to the rim, then slid it onto the waiting plate. The omelet was cigar-shaped, plump, and light yellow all over. Textbook.

Marple carried the plate to the prep table, where Gestard was talking in French on his phone. She slid the plate in front of him from the right. Desan handed him a fork.

“Attendez,” Gestard said into the phone. “Hold on.”

He angled the fork and sliced the omelet through the center. He lifted one edge and eyeballed the texture. He carved a small bite from one end and put it into his mouth. Gestard’s expression as he chewed gave nothing away. He took another bite, dropped the fork onto the counter, then picked up the plate and tossed it into a nearby sink. He walked toward the dining room, phone to his ear. He didn’t even look back.

Marple was crestfallen. Her left brain had held up, but clearly her technique had been lacking. Desan reached over to pick up the fork and wipe away all remnants. When she looked up, Marple saw something like shock on her face.

“So, that’s it?” asked Marple. “I failed?”

The young woman shook her head slowly. “Chef never takes more than one bite. Ever.”

“Meaning what?” asked Marple.

“Class starts in two days,” said Desan. “At 5:00 a.m. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t. Thank you!” Marple thought she might get a hug or at least a handshake, but the assistant had already turned away. Clearly not the physical type.

Marple was vibrating with excitement. She grabbed her coat and slung her purse over her shoulder. She reached inside for her phone, pulled it out, and turned it on.

As she walked through the dining room, the screen lit up with text after text. All from Holmes. All the same.

GET HERE NOW!

CHAPTER 29

BRENDAN HOLMES WAS facing one of his worst nightmares. And he was wide-awake.

His domain had been invaded.

The lodge’s great room and dining table had been turned into a makeshift command center. Government-issue laptops and radios were everywhere, and four sullen FBI agents were acting like they owned the place.

The man in charge was FBI special agent Burton Edwards, fresh from an undercover assignment. Still in that mode, Edwards wore his hair long, swept straight back from his forehead and falling over his collar. He was young, early thirties. To Holmes, he looked more like an indie film director than a fed. His three associates were from Central Casting: Agents Campbell and Meyer were both crew-cut guys in their late twenties, probably ex-police or ex-military, and Agent Hubbard was the lone female, mid-thirties, hair in a tight bun. The three of them were already busy on their laptops and cell phones. Edwards was huddling with Helene Grey.

Auguste Poe was sulking in a corner. Holmes knew he was angry that Grey had taken the initiative to call for reinforcements. To Holmes, the whole situation was against the firm’s code. They did their best work in the shadows. And now this. He felt like a nonperson in his own territory.

When Edwards walked toward the center of the room, Holmes stopped him.

“How the hell did you get here so fast?”

“I talked to Raymond Pike,” said Edwards. “He advised us to stay close to you guys. We set up an outpost nearby, and when Grey called, we rolled.”

“Who the hell is Raymond Pike?”

Grey stepped in. “He’s an old friend. Somebody I call on in emergencies.”

“Pike is a real star at the Bureau,” said Edwards. “Commendations up the ass. He told us to trust Grey, not you.”

Holmes could feel himself losing it. “If you don’t trust us, why the hell are you here?”

“Because Pike said your methods are unconventional—and sometimes productive. We’ll see.”

“It’s true,” said Poe, emerging from his corner. “We’re very good at what we do.”