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“How much longer?” was his reply.

As they rounded a display of canned soups, Holmes accidentally tapped the front end of another cart. The shopper was bent down, grabbing a can from a lower shelf.

“Sorry,” said Holmes, angling his cart to slide past.

“No worries,” said the woman as she straightened up.

Holmes froze.

It was Alicia Bell.

No advance warning. She wasn’t wearing Chanel.

Holmes felt his brain short-circuit. He had never seen Bell outside the clinic or her home. It was like spotting an alien. He started to panic. What was the protocol? Acknowledge her? Ignore her? Introduce her?

Bell glanced at Marple, then back at Holmes. She smiled. “You two have a nice day.” Then she dropped the soup can into her cart and walked off.

Heart pounding, Holmes moved on down the aisle in the opposite direction. He did not look back.

Marple’s phone vibrated in her handbag. She reached in and checked the screen. “I need to take this,” she said. “I’ll meet you by the checkout.” She quickly turned away and put the phone to her ear.

Holmes pushed the cart to the front of the store, picked a checkout lane, and stood anxiously with dozens of other shoppers in line to pay up. He looked around. Alicia Bell was nowhere in sight. Holmes almost wondered if she’d been an apparition, visible only to him. Jesus. Were Virginia’s visions starting to rub off?

Marple walked over as she put her phone away.

“Who called?” Holmes asked.

“Surprise guest,” said Marple. “We’ll need to set an extra place for dinner tonight.”

“Who is it?” blurted Holmes. “Who’s coming?”

“Don’t be so suspicious, Brendan. You’ll see.”

CHAPTER 73

MARGARET MARPLE WAS nervous, but the lodge looked terrific at 8:00 p.m. A cozy fire blazed in the great-room fireplace, and candles flickered in the table’s centerpiece. The vibe was rustic Norman Rockwell or—as Marple preferred to think of it—nineteenth-century French cottage.

Poe was on the sofa, rubbing Grey’s aching feet. She’d had a particularly rough day, but she’d insisted that she was still up for dinner. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she’d said. She’d even stretched a dress over her belly for the occasion.

Baskerville had been banished to a back room with a soup bone to gnaw. The last thing Marple wanted was a furry beggar disrupting dinner.

At the moment, Virginia was somewhere in the storage room, rummaging for a platter. That left Holmes to set the table, and he was taking it seriously, placing the flatware and plates with mathematical precision. He carefully set the wineglasses to the right of the water glasses, directly above the points of the dinner knives. He and Poe and Grey would be abstaining, of course, but he wanted symmetry nonetheless—every setting identical.

Marple was sautéing button mushroom caps on the stovetop. The main elements of the bouillabaisse were heating in a large stockpot. The truffle butter she’d infused was warming on another burner. She checked the clock. Almost time. Everything was almost ready.

And everything was on the line.

Marple needed tonight to go perfectly, not just as an affirmation of her skills but also as a way to put this course behind her, for her sake and everybody else’s. And there were other reasons too. As she stirred, she ran Agnes Matts’s voice through her brain, moving her lips in a silent imitation, over and over, like a mantra. It was like being two people at once.

She heard a car pull up outside.

Holmes looked out. “Black Mercedes.”

Marple took a deep breath. “That’s him.”

The engine turned off. A few moments later, there was a knock on the door.

Marple turned the burners off and walked over. She brushed her hair back and straightened her shoulders. Then she opened the door and put on her most gracious smile. “Welcome, Chef.”