Page 37
“What are we missing?” Gestard asked, his tone edgy and impatient.
Marple spoke up. “Wet ingredients!”
Gestard shoved a bowl in her direction. “Four eggs and heavy cream. Then cayenne pepper and nutmeg to taste.”
To taste? Was that a mistake—or a dare? Or maybe a joke.
“I know the measurements, Chef,” said Marple. “But I’m not tasting a mixture with raw eggs. Not even for you.”
Gestard stared at her, then turned back toward the oven. Marple grabbed the bowl and started cracking.
She’d either passed some kind of test or really pissed him off.
CHAPTER 37
AGNES MATTS WOKE to the sound of loud banging on her cell bars. After months in Bedford, she was accustomed to predawn wake-ups and snap searches. But this was a different kind of energy. When she sat up on her cot, she saw a squad of guards at her cell door. Three white males, one Black female. All in tac gear.
For a second, she thought her extradition request had gone through. No. She would have heard something. And none of the guards looked familiar. If she was being sent home, her buddy Gwen would be here for sure to see her off.
One of the male guards unlocked the cell. “Time to go, Agnes.” Matts noticed that the two other male guards were carrying assault rifles. Definitely not business as usual.
“What’s going on?” asked Matts. “Did I miss a riot?”
The female guard stepped in carrying handcuffs and leg shackles. “You’re being moved.”
Matts stood up and stepped into her thin prison slippers. “Moved? Where? To a new cell?”
“New location.” The guard held up the cuffs. “Hands, please.”
“Wait! I haven’t even brushed my teeth!”
“Your beauty regimen is not my problem.”
The guard fastened the cuffs tightly around her wrists. “This is bullshit!” Matts muttered. “Nobody told me anything about this.” She felt pressure around her ankles as the guard clamped the leg cuffs shut and gave a tug on the chain that connected them.
“Good to go,” the guard called out to the others.
“Where the hell are you taking me?” asked Matts.
The guard stood up. “I guess they want you someplace more secure.”
“More secure?” Matts stepped back, almost tripping over her shackled feet. “I’m in a fucking maximum-security prison!”
The guard grabbed her upper arm and turned her toward the cell door. “Trust me, honey, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
CHAPTER 38
VIRGINIA ROCKED HER Greta Van Fleet playlist as she drove into town in Poe’s newly purchased Hummer. She could hardly believe he’d allowed her to borrow it. Sitting high up behind the wheel of the massive truck was even cooler than she’d imagined. It was like driving a tank, but with heated leather seats and a kick-ass audio system.
The supply run was her excuse for getting out of the house for a while. It was getting crazy back there. Virginia was no stranger to drama, especially working for Holmes, Marple, and Poe. But the tension at the lodge right now was off the charts.
That morning, she’d noticed Mr. Poe had been sleeping on the sofa in the great room. He was still groggy when the FBI agents barged in to set up shop for the day. That was a whole scene. Ms. Marple was MIA again—gone before dawn—and Mr. Holmes was fuming about it. Detective Grey was having a bad morning too. Crabbier than usual.
Being out on the road was a temporary getaway, and a lot more comfortable than setting trap lines in the snow. As Virginia roared toward town, Baskerville sat beside her in the passenger seat, his hot breath steaming up his side of the cabin.
She pulled into the small parking lot in front of a lakefront grocery store. The Hummer was too big for a regular space, so Virginia pulled up next to a dirty snowbank. She turned off the engine and opened her door, holding her palm toward the dog. “Stay!” Baskerville shifted and let out a small whimper. “Sorry, buddy. No dogs allowed.” Virginia cracked the window, closed the door, and locked the vehicle with the key fob.
The store was no sprawling suburban supermarket. Just the opposite. It had only four aisles. Fortunately, Virginia’s shopping list was short. Kibble for Baskerville. Eggs and butter for Marple. Tylenol and Ex-Lax for Grey. When she piled her purchases on the counter, Virginia could feel the checkout clerk eyeing her. “I like your stud,” the clerk said. She was a teenager, maybe sixteen.
