Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

MARGARET MARPLE’S APARTMENT cupboard was fresh out of tea, which was why she was prowling the first-floor kitchen at 1 a.m. Virginia always stocked a supply of Margaret’s favorite chamomile in a tin by the microwave.

As she reached for the tin, the front-door bell rang. She turned and looked at the wall clock. It was late for visitors but not unheard of around here. She walked through the empty office to the entryway and looked at the security monitor.

It was Holmes. With an attractive young woman.

Margaret pressed the lock release and opened the door. The woman’s blond curls were damp from the mist outside. Holmes looked logy, not himself. His herringbone jacket was rumpled, and his tie was askew. There was a small lump on his forehead. A sedan with an Uber placard was idling at the curb behind them.

“Margaret?” the woman asked.

“Margaret Marple, yes.”

“You know this guy?”

“I do,” said Marple. “He’s my business partner. Who are you? What happened?”

The woman had a solid grip on Holmes, her hand on his upper arm. “I’m Dr. Brett. Callie Brett. Brendan had a little incident tonight.”

Marple’s heart started pounding. “Incident?”

“He’s fine. Just mixed two substances that should never be mixed. I stayed with him until he stabilized.”

Holmes twisted free and stepped through the doorway. “Like she says, I’m fine.”

Dr. Brett took a step back toward the sidewalk. “Okay, Margaret. He’s all yours now. But do me a favor. Watch him tonight—and do not let him anywhere near the liquor cabinet.”

“Of course,” said Marple. “How do you two…?”

“We just met,” said Brett, holding up her hands as if to plead innocence. “Bar buddies, that’s all.”

“Thank you for bringing him home, Doctor,” said Marple.

“No problem,” said Brett. “Good luck with your investigation.” She pressed her palms together in prayer formation. “Please find those babies.” Callie Brett turned away, and waved good-bye as she slid into the back seat of the Uber.

“Dr. Brett gave me an interesting lead,” said Holmes. He lurched toward a desk with a computer. “I need to follow up…”

Marple pulled him back. “The only thing you’re doing right now is walking upstairs and going to sleep. What in God’s name did you get into tonight?”

Holmes looked morose. “I’m sorry,” he said, eyes down. “I’ve told you—I can’t be trusted anymore. I’ve lost the gift.”

Marple helped him up the stairs. “Not the gift for damaging yourself, obviously.”

Holmes seemed to gather strength as they walked toward his apartment. He planted his palm on the security pad outside his door. The lock clicked open. He made an awkward bow. “Thank you, Margaret. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You’ll see me before that,” she said. “I’m sleeping on your sofa.”

She gave him a nudge and stepped into the apartment foyer with him. “Go put yourself to bed,” she said. Then she grabbed him by the arms. “And starting tomorrow, we’ll have no more of this. As long as you’re a partner here, you are still Holmes !”

“Wait,” said Holmes. “I need to tell you something.”

“Now what?” said Marple. She was tired, and her irritation was showing. She realized that Holmes was staring at her intently.

“Margaret,” he said softly, “I’m in love with you.”

Marple walked to the linen closet and yanked out a blanket and pillow. “No, Brendan. You’re in an altered state.”