Page 67

As he stared, the ground-level door alongside the yogurt shop popped open. A young man in a sheepskin jacket stepped out of the shadows and onto the sidewalk. Long, greasy hair, combed straight back. Hooked nose. Bad skin. He matched the description. “Hello there, Marco.” Poe rested his index finger on the shutter-release button.

Before he could get off his first shot, an empty city bus roared past, blocking his view. “Dammit!”

When the bus cleared, the street was empty again, and Marco was nowhere in sight. Poe pressed his face against the side window and looked left and right. “Dammit!”

“What happened?” whispered Annie. “Did you lose him?”

“I think I might have.”

She smiled. “Some great detective I’m with.”

Bright flashes. Two loud bangs. The windshield shattered, blasting pellets of glass against Poe’s face. Something struck the side of his seat like a hard punch. He leaned across the console and grabbed Annie’s arm, yanking her toward him. His car alarm was blaring. He heard brakes screeching on the street, car doors opening, people shouting.

“Annie! Annie! Are you okay?” Poe put his hand under her chin and lifted her head. Her eyes were open and glazed. He rolled her back onto the passenger seat. Her arms flopped. He spotted the hole in her chest just as the blood started to spill from her mouth. “No!” He pulled her sweater up. Her white bra was soaked with blood. Crimson streams ran down the side of her rib cage. Her lips were losing color. Her pupils rolled back. Oh, God!

A small crowd gathered outside the car. A woman climbed onto the hood, shouting through the broken windshield. “I called 9-1-1! The cops are coming! Is she all right?”

Poe put his head next to Annie’s and pressed his fingers against her neck, feeling for a pulse. Hardly a tremble. Blood from her mouth oozed over his hand. Sirens wailed from down the block, getting closer every second.

Poe pounded his fist into the roof of the car, then collapsed on top of her. “I’m sorry!” he wailed. “Don’t leave me! Please! Don’t leave me! Please…”

“Auguste!”

Poe snapped back to the present.

He was kneeling on the sidewalk, head down, with his hands wrapped around the rails of the metal park fence. He felt a pair of arms around his chest, pulling him up.

It was Holmes.

“I forgot where we were,” said Holmes, holding on tight, supporting him. “I had no idea we were so close to where it happened. I’m sorry.”

Poe was numb. He could hardly speak. “I haven’t been back,” he mumbled. “Not once. Not in all these years.” He looked across the street. “It looks exactly the same as it did that night. Exactly.” He blinked back tears. “This was the last thing she saw.”

“No, Auguste,” said Holmes gently. “You were.”

“I should have protected her!”

“There was no way,” said Holmes. “It happened too fast.” He grabbed Poe’s head between his palms and looked right into his eyes. “Listen to me. There was nothing you could have done. No way to save her. Remember, the killer’s in Attica, and you have a whole new life with Helene. She loves you. She’s waiting for you right now. Let’s get back.” He pointed toward the street. “The cab’s right here.”

Poe nodded. But when Holmes let go of his head, his chin dropped toward his chest. He stared at the curb and flashed back to the blood. Annie’s blood. His eyes blurred. His shoulders heaved. He started sobbing.

With all that they’d been through together as partners, Poe had never actually wept in front of Brendan Holmes. Not one time. Not until now.

“I wish you could have known her,” said Poe softly.

Holmes grabbed him in a tight hug, then squeezed even harder. “Me too.”

CHAPTER 67

IT WAS DARK by the time Brendan Holmes and Auguste Poe got back from the airport. Margaret Marple could see the headlights of the pickup through the window as it bounced up the long, snowy driveway toward the lodge. She was still in the kitchen, tending to the rest of her prep. Virginia and Helene were sitting across from her on the other side of the kitchen island.

All day long, Marple had been using the two of them as her sous chefs, directing them as they chopped, sliced, seeded, and trimmed. As a skilled baker, Virginia was a quick study. Grey admitted that she was more adept at takeout, but she put her heart into the project. And she seemed to appreciate the distraction.

Marple handled the actual measuring and cooking herself. She felt that anything less would be cheating. By now, the dough for the dinner rolls was prepped and resting in the fridge. The background ingredients for the bouillabaisse were ready and waiting. All she needed were the elements she’d sent Holmes and Poe for in New York.

The door opened. Holmes walked in carrying two Styrofoam containers. He plunked them down on the counter.

“Yes!” said Marple. “Thank you.”