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Poe’s head slumped. “Okay. But hurry. We need to see Milver today!”

“You mean Stapleton.”

“Whoever.”

Holmes climbed out of the truck and walked into the lodge. Poe trailed him, checking his watch. Marple was in the kitchen, assembling a mass of ingredients for her stew. Virginia had gone out in the Hummer after breakfast to hit local grocery stores and gourmet food shops in Ithaca. The countertop was littered with leeks, fennel, oranges, tomatoes, and bundles of fresh herbs. The air was filled with the smell of sautéed onions, garlic, thyme, saffron, and, for Holmes, the unmistakable tinge of trimethylamine N-oxide—a compound present in fish.

“What in God’s name are you making?” he demanded, pinching his nose.

Marple turned from stirring the pot. She seemed tense. Her jaw was tight. “Since you asked, it’s a fish fumet. Virginia found me some backbones, heads, and tails at the market in town. My recipe starts with a basic stock and builds from there. This is the easy part.”

“Well,” said Holmes, “we may need to fumigate after your fumet.” His little attempt at verbal humor. A stab at breaking the ice. Margaret did not laugh. She did not even smile.

“Don’t you and Auguste have a plane to catch?” she asked. Then she turned back to her cooking.

“Yes,” said Poe emphatically. “We do. In Syracuse. In two hours.”

Deflated, Holmes climbed the stairs and walked into his bedroom. He shucked off his slacks and sweater. The fish aroma almost overwhelmed the trace of Chanel that lingered from Bell’s office. But not quite.

Holmes wrapped himself in his silk robe and walked down the hall. The door of the next bedroom was closed, which meant that Grey was napping, something she did more and more as her due date got closer.

Holmes closed the bathroom door and turned the shower tap all the way to Hot. The pipes banged. The showerhead sputtered and spit. A few seconds later, it gushed—with ice-cold water. Holmes closed the toilet lid and sat down. Damn water heater. By now, he was used to the wait.

He rubbed his face and thought hard about what Alicia Bell had said about needing to prove himself worthy of Marple’s love. He didn’t doubt the theory, and he didn’t question the goal. He just had no idea how to accomplish it.

Slowly steam started to fill the bathroom. Holmes stood up and hung his robe on the door hook. He stepped into the claw-footed tub for his second shower of the morning. Temporary bliss.

When he was finished, he dried himself on a thick terry-cloth towel and walked back to his bedroom to get dressed. By now, the aroma from the fumet rose from the kitchen to fill the lodge, competing with the scent of Holmes’s sweet-orange body soap.

When he went downstairs, Holmes saw Poe huddled with Virginia at the table. She was showing him something on her phone. When they spotted Holmes, they quickly broke off the conversation. Virginia stuffed her phone into her pocket and whistled. Baskerville immediately bolted out from her bedroom. “We’re going for a walk,” she said with a wave. She glanced back at Holmes and Poe. “You two have a safe trip.”

After she closed the front door behind her, Holmes turned to Poe. “What were you two talking about?”

“Nothing important. Are you ready to go?”

Marple walked over, wiping her hands on her apron. “I don’t understand why you don’t just ask Burton Edwards if you can borrow an FBI helicopter. You’d get there a lot faster.”

Holmes shook his head. “Because we don’t want Edwards tagging along. Every encounter we’ve had with him has been either violent or unproductive.”

Poe nodded in agreement. “Brendan’s right. We need to get back to our usual methods. Stealth, deduction, deception. Heavy artillery is not the answer for everything.”

“What time did you say your flight was?” asked Marple.

“Half past noon,” said Holmes.

Marple glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’re going to be late.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him,” said Poe. He gave Holmes a nudge toward the door. “You’re clean, you’re dressed, let’s go!”

Holmes paused in the entryway to put on his blue wool overcoat. He sniffed the sleeve. “If this fish odor lingers, I’ll need a dry cleaner.”

“Wait!” Marple called out. “You two will be in Manhattan, right?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “Assuming the address Virginia found pans out.”

“Do me one favor,” said Margaret. “When you’re done with what you’re doing, stop at Fish Tales in Brooklyn and pick me up some eel, mussels, and a couple of freshly caught lobsters. The pickings are too thin around here.”

Holmes reflexively started to protest. A shopping trip? In the middle of a case? Then he stopped himself. If this was one small deed to ease his way back into Margaret’s good graces, he was willing to do it.