Page 5

BRENDAN HOLMES AND Auguste Poe stood at the edge of the frozen lake as a young deputy in a thermal jacket chopped through the ice with an ax. He was about fifteen yards offshore. A portable scene light cast a long shadow behind him as he hacked away.

The flimsy fishing hut had been moved to one side. The hole was getting wider with each fall of the ax. A yellow rope dangled down to whatever—whoever—was underneath.

Sheriff Buck Gregson warmed his butt on the hood of his idling patrol car, lights still flashing. Two teenage girls sat in the back of the car, their eyes fixed numbly on their phone screens. The town ambulance idled alongside. For what? wondered Holmes. Frostbite?

When Gregson spotted Holmes and Poe, he came walking over, wearing the expression of a man straining to be polite.

“Maybe you didn’t hear, gentlemen,” he said. “Tonight’s meeting is over.”

Holmes instantly understood. He and Poe were welcome at the church, as fellow lost souls, but here they were interlopers. Not to mention out-of-towners.

Somewhere between the church and the lake, Gregson’s empathetic moderator persona had completely disappeared. Now he was all hard-ass cop.

Gregson pressed the point. “This is police business. No need for you to get involved.”

“We’re just a couple of concerned citizens,” said Poe. “And to be honest, it’s the first excitement we’ve had in months.”

Holmes pointed to the girls in the back of the car. “Are they the ones who called it in?”

Gregson nodded. “Two friends out ice fishing. Ava Delune and Emma Fry. Good kids. I’ve known ’em since they were toddlers.”

“You don’t think they might have been returning to the scene of the crime?” asked Poe, leaning toward the most ominous possibility.

Gregson stared at him. “They’re high school juniors. Their only offense is being out here when their folks thought they were home watching a Marvel movie.”

“Do the girls know who the victim is?” asked Holmes.

Gregson shook his head. “No idea. They bolted at the first sight of it.”

“Yo! Sheriff!” The deputy was shouting and waving his arms from out on the ice. “Here it comes!” He bent down at the edge of the enlarged hole and tugged on a loop he’d made with the yellow rope. It took a massive effort, but the deputy was strongly built. Slowly at first, then all of a sudden, a sodden dark mass slid out from the fishing hole.

From a distance, the most Holmes could tell was that the shape was human, with arms and legs stiff from the freezing water. He watched as the deputy gently eased the remains onto a low sled and started tugging it off the ice and onto the snow-encrusted shore.

Holmes and Poe followed close behind Gregson as he walked over to where the deputy had dragged the sled. The sheriff pulled out a penlight and shined it directly on the corpse’s face. Pale, shriveled features. Long, tangled hair. No obvious head wounds.

The deputy leaned closer. “Holy shit, Sheriff! I think it’s Celia Rogers!”

Holmes moved nearer to Gregson. “You know her?”

The sheriff nudged him away. He was getting testier with each exchange. “I do. I did. Single mom from Ovid. Went missing on the lake last September. We found her canoe floating near Aurora. Put her down as a presumed accidental drowning.”

“Presume nothing,” said Poe, taking a step toward the body.

Gregson yanked him back by his jacket sleeve. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“He can’t help himself,” said Holmes with a resigned air. “He’s cursed with morbid curiosity.”

Gregson shifted from irritated to hostile. “Keep your hands off the victim! This is a police investigation. No amateurs allowed.”

Amateurs?

It was all Holmes could do to refrain from laughing in Gregson’s face. He, Auguste Poe, and Margaret Marple had probably solved more crimes in the last few years than Buck Gregson had seen in his entire career. And they had definitely encountered more bodies.

The deputy stooped and lightly ran his hands over the woman’s outer garments. Her legs were encased in what looked like purple spandex. Her vest was coated with slime but mostly intact. The deputy unzipped the upper vest pocket and pulled out a small, waterproof bag. He pinched the top with two fingers and handed it over to Gregson.

The sheriff pulled a pair of blue evidence gloves out of his jacket pocket and slipped them on. He gently teased the bag open along the seam and removed a set of car keys and a laminated New York State driver’s license. The ID photo showed a young woman, mid-thirties. Long, wavy hair framing a full, pleasant face.

Gregson turned the license toward the deputy. “You’re right. It’s Celia.”