Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

“ WE’RE OVER THERE ,” said Poe, pointing to a table across the room. The luncheon setup had no more than fifteen tables, set close enough to allow easy chatting. Holmes had been hoping for a little more isolation. A soundproof booth would have been nice.

The tables were set for four, with white damask tablecloths and tasteful floral centerpieces. Waitstaff in dark slacks and crisp white shirts hovered on the periphery. The aromas of grilled beef, broiled swordfish, and—yes—baked chicken emerged from behind cushioned doors.

“Is this absolutely necessary?” asked Poe under his breath. “We have more important things to attend to!”

“The hard part is over,” said Marple. “Enjoy your lunch.”

Holmes pulled out Marple’s chair for her and helped her settle before taking his seat to her right. Poe sat down on her left. The other tables filled with VIP guests. At a table nearby, Tana French was telling a bawdy story, her Irish accent seemingly deepened for the tale.

“Looks pricey,” said Poe, glancing around the elegant room.

Holmes stared at the empty chair at their table and wondered who the no-show was. Probably Grisham. And then…

“Now. Where were we?”

Oliver Paul pulled out the chair and sat down. Holmes almost jumped out of his seat.

“No need to call security,” said Paul, holding up his hands. “I assure you I paid for the all-access experience. I’d hate to tell you what this seat cost!” He looked across the table, from Holmes to Marple to Poe. “But what an honor to be sitting with the three of you!”

Holmes let out a brief sigh, then put on a thin sheen of civility. “Margaret. Auguste. This is Oliver Paul. He and I were just talking in the lobby.”

“Charmed,” said Marple.

“Same here,” said Poe.

“Has Brendan told you?” asked Paul in his scratchy voice.

Marple laid the napkin in her lap. “Told us what?”

“Maybe he wants to keep it to himself,” said Paul, “solve it on his own.”

“Solve what, exactly?” asked Poe.

“My case!” said Paul. “I’ve been working on it for years. Haunting. Impossible. I call it ‘The Mother Murders.’” He spoke quietly, as if he were afraid other guests would overhear. “Great title, right?”

A waiter appeared and began to pour wine into the goblets at each setting. Marple casually floated her palm to cover Holmes’s glass. “I’m sorry, Mr. Paul,” she said. “Are we talking about an actual crime or a crime story?”

“Maybe both!” Paul replied with an awkward wink. “It could be the next In Cold Blood !”

“That’s a high bar,” Holmes said. Though Oliver Paul did remind him a bit of Truman Capote, at least in the height department.

“This is one of the greatest mysteries ever, ” said Paul. He looked around the room. “Way better than anything these hacks could dream up.”

Holmes felt the blood rising in his neck. In a flash, his decorum completely dissolved. “Oh, for God’s sake, Mr. Paul, spit it out!”

“There,” said Paul calmly. “See how good I am? I’ve got you hooked already.”

Amid the buzz of room conversation, Holmes heard the hum of a cell phone. It was coming from Poe’s jacket pocket. He watched Poe pull out the phone, glance at the screen, and jerk back in his chair. Poe turned the screen so that Holmes and Marple could see it. SCHOOL BUS MISSING , the text read. PUTNAM COUNTY / DRIVER + 5 KIDS.

Poe and Marple stood up quickly, almost in unison. “I’m sorry, Mr. Paul,” said Marple. “We have to go.”

Holmes didn’t stir.

“Brendan!” said Poe, shaking the back of his partner’s chair. “Come on!”

“No,” said Holmes. As much as he wanted to escape this particular room, he felt it necessary to make a stand. “You two need to learn to work without me.”

“Brendan,” said Marple. “We managed without you all summer. But this looks like more missing children. And you agreed to help.”

“Not today,” he said. “You go. This is the future. Your future.”

“We’ll talk about this,” said Marple curtly. “You promised.” She nudged Poe on the shoulder and followed him out of the room.

“Endive salad,” the waitress announced as she set down an elegantly arranged plate of greens at each place, ignoring the two empty chairs. Holmes picked up his fork.

Oliver Paul leaned across the table. “I know what’s going on with you, Mr. Holmes,” he said. His tone was gentle and soothing, in spite of the rasp. “I know you’ve been in a… facility. You’re afraid you’ve lost your touch—that old Holmes magic.”

Holmes set his fork down on the table. Enough! Who does this obnoxious little groupie think he is? And where did he get his information?

“Incorrect!” Holmes said brusquely. “And as for the old Holmes magic”—he stared directly into Paul’s good eye—“I’m afraid I never had it.” He pushed back his chair and tossed his napkin onto the table. He pointed a finger at Paul. “Do not follow me,” he said.

Then he turned and headed for the door.

“Hey, Holmes! Where are you going?” It was Harlan Coben, calling out from two tables over. “Off to search for your true self?”