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Helene Grey, on the other hand, was way more predictable. She always turned in early. Whenever she could, Virginia tried to lure Grey out on the trail for some morning exercise, but the former NYPD detective was constantly exhausted these days. Who could blame her, carrying those twins? Grey had retired again after the brief rousing earlier, when Virginia had brought in tonight’s catch. Not another peep since.

Virginia walked to the small window. She leaned her elbows on the worn sill, absorbing the draft from around the frame as she looked out at the dark trees. It was her little nightly ritual. She loved feeling the cold air on her bare skin just before she hopped into bed. It made the warmth under the quilt all the more delicious. As she rubbed the goose bumps on her forearms, she suddenly felt a shudder run through her entire body. As if a shadow had passed over her.

Unsettling, but not entirely unfamiliar.

Even as a little girl, Virginia had always had a sixth sense, usually about some kind of danger. She was the first to know when one of the livestock was sick or dying. She’d felt something strange about the local postman years before he was charged with molesting his son. In the city, her intuition had even helped her bosses solve a few cases.

Virginia’s forebodings sometimes came in the form of flashes or visions. Sometimes no more than an odd tingle in the back of her brain. Or, like tonight, a sudden inner vibration.

It always felt like a message, or a warning.

She pulled the curtains together, then peeked out through the opening in the middle.

It came again. The shudder.

Staring out into the woods, Virginia got the distinct feeling that somebody—or something—was staring back.

CHAPTER 10

BRENDAN HOLMES CRUNCHED his way across the icy main street in Archer’s Branch with Margaret Marple and Auguste Poe right behind him. They were following the lawyer, Charles Milver, to Cayuga Inn—the only place out here that was still open at nearly midnight. It was a small bar with a Bud Light sign in the window and a mounted trout above the door.

As soon as he walked in, Holmes was rocked by the smells—stale beer, microwaved pizza, and the pungent sting of urinal cakes from the men’s room. Not even the refined scents emanating from Milver could withstand this olfactory assault.

Holmes crowded into a high-backed rear booth with Marple, Poe, and his mysterious new attorney. Milver had requested the sit-down as soon as they all walked out of the municipal building, just after he got Holmes released for lack of evidence. Buck Gregson had been no match for Milver, who had threatened to sue the county and the sheriff personally for defamation and false arrest.

Milver settled on the bench seat across from the others and spoke just loud enough to make himself heard above the bar’s classic-rock playlist. “Mr. Holmes has done me the honor of hiring me as his attorney,” he said, looking at Marple and Poe. “I invite both of you to do the same.”

Poe’s eyes narrowed. “Why would we do that? Margaret and I aren’t accused of anything.”

“Because then our conversation will be privileged,” said Marple. She stared right back at Milver. “Am I correct about that, counselor?”

“Privileged and secure. As all delicate conversations should be.”

Holmes was exhausted and impatient. “Do it,” he said. “Hire him.”

Poe looked at Milver. “Okay. You’re now my lawyer.”

“Fine, I’ll hire you too,” said Marple. “But only out of curiosity.”

“Good,” said Milver. “It’s official.”

A waitress in black jeans and an Ithaca College T-shirt came over to take their drink orders. Sherry for Marple, vodka for Milver, tonic water for Holmes, Pepsi for Poe.

As soon as she walked away, Holmes started in on the attorney. “How did Oliver Paul know I was here? How did he have any idea?”

“He didn’t,” said Milver. “The note on Celia Rogers’s body was his way of flushing you out, wherever you happened to be. Mr. Paul surmised that you might have headed north after the unpleasantness at your building, but he had no idea you’d be this close. To be honest, he didn’t expect the body to surface for another month or so.”

Poe narrowed his eyes at Milver. “Your client is a serial killer.”

“And a mad bomber in the bargain,” added Marple.

Milver smiled. “You know I can’t comment on that. Let’s just say that I’m aware of what Mr. Paul is accused of. With the presumption of innocence, of course.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to lead us to him,” said Poe.

“You’re correct,” said Milver. “I would not.”

“So, why are you here?” asked Marple. “Did Oliver Paul really think a murder charge would stick against Brendan? Based on one soggy note?”