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“I spent five years in the Manhattan office,” said Edwards. “I’ve still got eyes everywhere.”
“Then why can’t you find Oliver Paul?” asked Holmes.
Edwards looked peeved by the question. “We’ve got a nationwide net out for him. Homeland Security has extra people stationed at every nuclear power plant, refinery, and hydroelectric operation in the country. Our analysts are thinking we’ve scared him off or run him to ground.”
“Your analysts don’t know Oliver Paul,” said Holmes. “If he’s quiet, it’s because he’s planning something even bigger. He won’t stop until he gets what he wants—which is his wife free, and me dead.”
“Then why hasn’t he killed you?”
“Because he thinks I can be instrumental in getting Agnes out.”
“Do you want me to post some agents around your property?”
Holmes glanced at Poe. That was the last thing they wanted. “Thanks, but no. We can take care of ourselves. We just need you to be ready to move the next time Paul makes contact with us.”
“We’ll be ready. But do me a favor. Don’t go running around without letting me know what you’re up to. We don’t need to be in the same room, but we’re still on the same damn team. If you’re going somewhere, tell me.”
Marple leaned in. “Fair enough. Right now Brendan and I are going grocery shopping.”
Edwards was starting to reply when Marple clicked the Leave Meeting button. The agent’s face disappeared as the screen snapped to black. “I hate it when people spy on us,” said Marple.
“I agree,” said Holmes. “Feels unnatural.”
Poe nodded. “It should always be the other way around.”
CHAPTER 72
BRENDAN HOLMES COULD not remember the last time he’d been in a supermarket. He always preferred to have his provisions delivered. But Margaret needed some last-minute items for that night’s feast, and she wanted company.
By now, it was clear to Holmes how important the dinner was to her, so he had agreed to ride shotgun. He was trying to be accommodating. Trying to be thoughtful. Trying to be… worthy.
The farmers’ market was closed for the season, so they’d ended up at Wegmans, a cavernous food emporium not far from downtown Ithaca. Holmes could hardly believe that he was actually pushing a shopping cart as Marple browsed the shelves. They looked just like a hundred other couples performing exactly the same ritual.
“How do people endure this every day?” asked Holmes. He was feeling prickly all over, totally out of place.
“Endure what?” asked Marple. “Do you object to appearing normal?”
“Yes. Strenuously.”
The store was spanking clean. The aromas from the in-house bakery and prepared foods section were not entirely unpleasant. But a baby in a passing cart had a pungent diaper, and the overall scene made Holmes antsy. He was used to crowded city streets and subways, but this bustle felt much too… what was the word? Vanilla? Tame? Monotonous? To his way of thinking, all of the above.
“What are we here for anyway?” he asked, trying to stifle his impatience. “I thought you had everything prepped already.”
“I need some ingredients for the side dishes,” said Marple. “Button mushrooms, fresh tarragon, a few other things.”
“This meal had better be worth it,” muttered Holmes. The truth was, he wished it were already over.
Marple pulled him to a stop at a chilled shelf of imported truffles. “Trust me, it will be quite the scene.”
As Marple sorted through the truffle selection, Holmes looked around the produce section. It was buzzing with earnest couples and clinging children.
Is this what domestic life was about? Was he looking at his future?
No way. He loved Margaret Marple. He truly did. But he wasn’t about to sign up for this.
“So far, so good,” said Marple. “I need some Comté to grate over the salad.” She pointed toward the back of the store. “Dairy aisle.” Holmes started pushing the cart in that direction. Marple held on to a side of the cart as they walked together past the bread and cereal.
“Is this so bad?” she asked.
