Page 59

In fact, Carson and Fields were lucky already. In less than five hours, they’d be riding in a company helicopter, heading for new-employee orientation on an oil rig in the Gulf, one hundred miles offshore.

And not just any rig. After five sweaty years working as derrick hands in Midland, they’d both been hired on to the Aquila, the world’s newest and biggest offshore drilling platform. Starting tomorrow, they’d be part of a three-hundred-man team pulling 350,000 barrels of crude a day from the seabed, and drawing six figures for their trouble.

“This is definitely our last night in a shithole like this,” slurred Ron as he fumbled with the room key. He kept his other hand firmly around Candi, squeezing the smooth bare skin below her crop top.

“Next time, the Four Seasons,” said Candi, stroking Ron’s broad back.

“You got it, baby.” Ron shoved the door open and nudged her through.

Pete was paying no attention to any of this. He and Luanne were so locked at the lips that they almost tripped over the metal threshold on their way in. But he managed to glance at the dresser out of the corner of one eye. The boxes with their new uniforms were still where they’d left them. Clean and unopened.

Ron pushed Candi down onto the bed nearest the window and started to paw at the flimsy ties over her breasts. She slid out from under him like a ninja and slapped his butt. “Not yet, baby,” she said in a slow Texas drawl. “You need a shower first.”

Ron lifted his arms and sniffed his pits. “Damn. You’re right.” He peeled off his T-shirt and unbuckled his jeans, letting them drop to his ankles as he waddled toward the bathroom. “Don’t start without me!” he called back with a shit-eating grin. Then he pulled down his briefs.

Luanne broke off the kiss with Pete as the bathroom door closed. She plunked him down at the foot of the other bed. Then she turned toward the dresser, leaning over to assess herself in the mirror. Cutoff jeans. Tank top. Tecovas boots. “Look what you did,” she said in a scolding voice. “You messed my hair.” She finger-combed her dirty-blond shag and turned back toward the bed.

“I’ll mess more than that,” said Pete, grabbing awkwardly for her bare leg.

Luanne stepped back, just out of his reach. “That’s enough now, honey.”

Candi reached into her handbag and pulled out a pistol with a six-inch suppressor. Pete lurched to his feet. “Hey!” Candi pumped two quick, quiet rounds into his heart. Pete dropped back onto the bed and then toppled onto the floor, a wide-eyed expression frozen on his face.

Candi flipped the pistol to Luanne. Luanne walked into the bathroom, yanked the shower door open, and shot Ron through the head. He dropped with a hard thud, blood swirling out onto the beige tile. Luanne wrapped her hand in a facecloth and turned off the tap.

When she walked out of the bathroom, Candi was standing by the window, staring out into the parking lot. A few seconds later, there were two hard raps on the door. Candi slid the bolt open. Two men in athletic gear walked in. One was tall, with a blond crew cut like Ron’s. The other was stockier, with a thick, dark mustache like Pete’s. The girls and the men exchanged a few quick sentences in Russian. Luanne tossed the gun onto the window-side bed. Then the girls walked out and slid into the car the men had left idling out front. A few seconds later, they were gone.

The men ignored the body on the floor. Not their problem. The cleaners would arrive soon to make everything disappear. They grabbed the boxes from the dresser and pulled out the uniforms. They stripped out of their clothes and slipped into the crisp orange coveralls. Perfect fits, as expected. They pulled counterfeit IDs from the pockets of their sweats and clipped them to the uniform lapels. Finally, each man pulled out an Apple Watch and strapped it to his wrist.

“Chetyre chasa do vertoleta,” muttered the crew-cut guy.

His partner backhanded him across the chest. “English now! Only English!”

Crew-cut made a quick mental adjustment. “Right. Okay. Four hours till the chopper.”

He sounded like a good old boy from Galveston. Just like the one bleeding out at his feet.

CHAPTER 60

“WHAT’S THIS?” ASKED Brendan Holmes, staring into a large pot on the stove.

“Just what it looks like,” said Margaret Marple curtly. She was in no mood for his pickiness.

Before she’d started going to class, Marple had been whipping up fancy breakfasts at the lodge nearly every morning as a way to polish her kitchen skills. Brioche french toast. Oeufs en Cocotte. Fruit-filled galettes.

This morning, it was plain oatmeal. She had bigger things on her mind.

Holmes was up early, as usual, following the first of his daily showers. Virginia was already at the counter, brewing coffee like a barista. Marple turned as she heard creaking on the stairs. She watched as Poe carefully helped Helene on her way down. It was getting to be a more precarious journey every day. Dawn had just broken, and Helene looked exhausted already.

When everybody was seated around the table, Marple cleared her throat, then spoke up. “I think you all know that my cooking course ended yesterday.”

Holmes put down his coffee mug and offered a few pointedly slow claps.

Marple ignored the snarky response. “But as it happens,” she said, “I’m not quite done with my assignments.”

“What does that mean?” asked Poe. There was irritation in his voice.

“I have a final recipe to make,” said Marple. “A very difficult recipe. To get my certificate, I have to serve the dish to Chef Gestard tomorrow night.” She paused. “And I plan to do it right here. At this table. With all of you here supporting me.”