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The only other item in the baggie was a sturdy piece of paper, about the size of an index card, folded in half. Gregson tugged the paper out with his thumb and forefinger and unfolded it.
From his angle, Holmes could see only that there was handwriting on the card. Then the deputy aimed his flashlight beam toward the note as Gregson read it aloud, so everybody could hear.
“‘If anything happens to me, arrest Brendan Holmes.’”
CHAPTER 6
THE VILLAGE OF Archer’s Branch had only one jail cell.
Brendan Holmes was in it.
Auguste Poe paced back and forth on the other side of the bars, furious to see his friend locked up this way on mere suspicion. A rush to judgment. “Damn this one-horse town!”
“It was the watchmaker,” Holmes muttered, kicking the cinder-block wall. “That conniving little bastard!”
Poe nodded, tapping his mustache. “Occam’s razor would point in that direction. Single mom. Apparent accident. September demise.”
It was the MO of serial killer Oliver Paul, who had developed a particular vendetta against Brendan Holmes. Paul’s victims followed a singular crime pattern: They were always mothers, killed in ways that made their deaths look like fatal mishaps. In his normal life, Paul was a skilled watchmaker, and each murder was committed with painstaking precision. The killings had gone on for decades, and always were committed on the same day of the year: September 30.
“Celia Rogers,” said Holmes. “The latest on a long list.”
Poe slapped the cinder-block wall. “He must have killed her the same day the bomb went off at our office, after he slipped out of the city.” He looked through the bars at Holmes. “And now he’s framing you for the crime. Why?”
“It makes no sense,” said Holmes. “He declared that he would be the cause of my demise. But even if I were convicted for this, there’s no death penalty in New York. What’s his game? Is he thinking I’ll die in prison? Get shanked in the jail yard?”
“You’re not going to prison!” Poe shouted. “We need to get you out of here.”
“Where the hell is Margaret?” asked Holmes. Despite their personal problems, he knew she always kept a cool head in a heated situation. Much cooler than Poe’s.
Poe’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out. “Finally!” He put the phone to his ear.
Holmes listened to Poe’s side of the conversation. “Margaret!… Yes, I know my text was cryptic—I didn’t want to worry you until we talked. Listen, don’t be alarmed. It’s about Brendan. He’s in custody, in Archer’s Branch—for murder.”
CHAPTER 7
MARGARET MARPLE GRIPPED the steering wheel tight and stared through the chipped windshield as she sped down dark county back roads, pushing sixty. She was driving the rattling fifteen-year-old pickup truck that came with the lodge, but from the sounds it was making, she worried it might not go the distance.
Just a few minutes later, nearer the northern end of the lake, she spotted the tiny Archer’s Branch business district. Marple roared up in front of the brick municipal building and parked, then jumped out, stepping through a pile of slush that splashed against her beat-up Wellingtons and thick tweed trousers.
She burst through the front door of the building. What looked to be a security guard was sitting at the front desk, flipping through a hunting magazine.
“Where’s your jail?” Marple demanded.
The guard slowly put down his reading material. “What’s your purpose?”
“I’m here for Brendan Holmes! He’s locked up!”
“You next of kin?”
“No! We work together. Or we did. Never mind. I need to see him!” She pulled out her private investigator’s ID and held it up.
The guard picked up a security wand and eased out from behind his desk. “Need to check you first, ma’am. You carrying any weapons?”
“Only my brain,” said Marple, having wisely left her pistol at home. She assumed a starfish pose, arms up, feet apart. She shifted impatiently while the guard waved the wand around her perimeter.
He lowered the wand and pointed to a metal door on the left side of the lobby. “That way. One flight down.”
The door opened onto a musty stairwell. Marple rushed down the stairs and pushed through another door into the basement. Low ceiling. Garish fluorescent lights. And a single tiny jail cell.
