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When the group broke for coffee and snacks, Holmes huddled with Poe on one side of the room and pulled out his pocket watch, a 1911 Audemars Piguet. “Dear Lord, how much longer?” he mumbled.

Poe took a bite from the middle of a glazed cruller. “I know, I know. But maybe it’s helping.”

Holmes had his doubts. He had never been much for group therapy. He was mostly there to support Poe. Misery loves company, or something like that. “Well,” he said, “at least it gets us out of the house.”

The AA meeting was a weekly distraction from why he and Poe were in this tiny hamlet in the first place. They were temporarily in seclusion, far from their home in New York City and from their usual occupation, which was solving unsolvable crimes.

At the moment, they were keeping their distance from Oliver Paul, a psychopath who had almost killed them last fall. The others in the twelve-step group knew their first names and their addictions but almost nothing else about them. Holmes intended to keep it that way.

He didn’t want to admit it, but for him the meeting had another purpose. It was a way for him to temporarily avoid Margaret Marple, the woman he loved. Though at the moment they were practically strangers to each other. Partners in name only.

Poe polished off his cruller. “Oh, God. Here it comes.”

Gregson was waving his hands at the front of the room, beckoning the group to return to the circle. Holmes hung back with Poe as the others migrated toward their seats.

Suddenly the basement door burst open. A young man in mechanics’ coveralls rushed in and headed straight for Gregson. “Sheriff! Sheriff! They need you!”

“Calm down, Bud,” said Gregson. “What’s up?”

The young man paused to catch his breath, then delivered his news. “Archer’s Point! Body in the lake!”

CHAPTER 3

THE ANNOUNCEMENT THREW the small meeting into turmoil. Sheriff Gregson jumped up and grabbed his uniform jacket off a hook. It took Dean, Rick, and Father Alan a few moments to realize that the twelve-step session was over. They stood up and milled around, gathering their coats and gloves.

A body!

Poe was already on his feet. As always, he lit up at the prospect of a mystery—especially a mystery corpse. It was in his DNA. Fully energized, he followed Gregson toward the door, pulling at Holmes. “C’mon, Brendan! Let’s go!”

But Holmes shook him off and hung back, sullen and silent. Last summer, Holmes had quit the investigative firm he’d founded with Poe and Marple, and had taken his name off the door. He was completely done with the detective business, he’d told them. The work had nearly destroyed him, mentally and physically. And it had almost brought death to everybody he loved.

For a few agonizing moments, Holmes paced the floor, wringing his hands. He watched the other attendees exit, until he was left alone in the church basement. He heard car engines firing up in the parking lot, then the initial bleats of a police siren. His heart started beating wildly. He started sweating. Am I having a panic attack?

He clenched his hands into fists and closed his eyes. He took deep breaths, in and out. He wanted nothing more at this moment than a narcotic fix. Something to even him out, settle his mind, put him to sleep. Not exactly the right coda for an AA meeting.

Holmes stared up at a painting of Jesus hanging on the wall. The eyes seemed to be following him.

“Leave me alone!” Holmes shouted. Then he grabbed his overcoat and sprinted outside just as Poe pulled to a stop at the curb, revving the engine of his ’66 Pontiac GTO.

The muscle car was a total misfit for the frigid upstate weather and slippery roads, but it was one of Poe’s personal treasures, and he had insisted on bringing it up from the city. When he leaned over and pushed open the passenger door, Holmes felt a blast of warm air.

“Get in!” shouted Poe. “No rest for the weak and weary!”

Holmes appreciated the poetic reference, but it didn’t persuade him. On the other hand, Poe was his only ride. What was the alternative? Calling an Uber? Not likely.

Holmes slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door. “All right,” he said, “I’ll come. But only to keep you company.”

As he stared out the frosted windshield, Holmes could see the flashing lights of Gregson’s patrol car disappearing down the village’s main road. The sound of his siren was fading into the distance.

Holmes buckled in and braced himself. He was familiar with Poe’s driving.

Poe jammed his left foot down on the clutch as he shoved the gearshift knob into first, then eased off the clutch as he hammered the gas. The tires spun on the frozen pavement, then gripped, and the car shot out of the parking lot like a bullet.

Holmes was flattened against his seat. Within the space of a few seconds, Poe closed the distance between them and Gregson. He hung tight behind the patrol car’s bumper as they sped in tandem along the curving road that led to the lake.

Poe glanced over at Holmes but said nothing. No words were needed. The two men had a silent understanding in moments like these, racing toward some unknown gloom. They each wrestled with different demons at the AA meetings. Poe’s vice was booze; Holmes had a weakness for heroin.

But deep in their souls, they were both addicted to this.