Chapter 50

CHAPTER 50

MARGARET MARPLE PLUCKED a sweater from her chair, folded it neatly, and placed it on her closet shelf. She was straightening her apartment while mentally reviewing the facts of their case and puzzling over the mysterious two women in the maternity ward when she heard five sharp raps on her front door—two in a row, a pause, then three more.

Brendan.

She heard his voice in the hallway as she headed through her living room. “Margaret! It’s me! I need to talk to you!”

Marple opened the door. Holmes pushed right past her, jittering with energy and wringing his hands.

“Hello,” said Marple, still holding the doorknob. “Would you like to come in?”

“Sorry,” said Holmes. He was pacing nervously. He looked confused and disturbed. His gaze was flitting all around the room.

“Brendan, what’s wrong? Did you find something at the hospital?”

Holmes sat down heavily on Marple’s love seat, eyes aimed at the floor. “I have a confession to make,” he said.

Marple felt a quiver in her chest. Not again.

“Brendan, we’ve been through this. Whatever feelings you have are probably just…”

Holmes looked up. “I’m working on another case,” he said. “I’ve been keeping it from you and Auguste.”

Marple’s shoulders stiffened slightly. She sat down on the edge of a chair. “I see.”

“Remember Oliver Paul, the little pest from the writers’ convention?”

“The one with the amazing story we never got around to hearing?”

“Yes. That’s him. ‘The Mother Murders.’”

Marple leaned forward. “You mean it’s a real case? I thought it was just some wannabe detective fantasy.”

“It’s no fantasy,” said Holmes. “I’ve done the research. Twenty-three women died over the past twenty-three years. A faulty electrical ground in a swimming pool. A leaky oven gas line. A mis-wired space heater. One a year, always on the same day: September 30th. All mothers. All deemed accidental. No suspects. No arrests.”

“My God,” said Marple, adding, “Odd pattern. Anything else?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “I think Oliver Paul has been investigating me .”

“Why would you think that?”

Holmes took a deep breath. “Margaret, he knows things. He knew all about my little vacation in Ithaca. He seems to know what’s going on in my mind. And tonight, he started talking about my mother.”

“Brendan, you’re rambling. Start at the beginning.”

Marple could sense that Holmes was doing his best to center himself but was having a difficult time. She had tried to get him to open up about his past, though it always seemed like a door he wanted to keep sealed. She could have looked into it anyway, of course, but out of respect for Holmes, she’d never pushed. But now, for some reason, a significant piece of that history appeared to be spilling out in a flood.

“Growing up,” said Holmes, “I knew my mother had problems. Mental issues. Drugs. For as long as I can remember, my father was always sending her away to one recovery program or another. She even spent time at Lake View. That’s why I chose it.”

“Your father was a doctor, correct?” said Marple. “I assume he had connections in the rehab world.”

Holmes nodded. “One night, about twenty-five years ago, he sat me down in the living room and told me that my mother had died. He didn’t tell me where or how. He said that he knew it would be difficult, but it was time to move on in life without her. And that was it.”

“Was there a funeral?” asked Marple. “A memorial service?”

Holmes shook his head. “My father said that my mother never wanted anything like that. I hadn’t seen her in years by that time. It was as if… one day she was off somewhere getting help. The next day she was gone forever.”

“And what does Oliver Paul have to do with this?”

Holmes looked up. He cleared his throat. Marple could tell he was having a hard time getting the words out.

“Oliver Paul says that my mother is alive.”

Marple blinked. “What?” How cruel.

“I think he could be making it up, but he’s been right about a lot of other things. I need to see for myself.” Holmes grabbed for Marple’s arm. “And I need you to come with me. To be sure I’m not going crazy.”

Marple felt a wave of compassion and a pinch of guilt. The timing could not be worse.

“Brendan, I’m sorry. I’m on my way to London. Virginia called while you were out. Scotland Yard is willing to cooperate with us on the baby case, and it can’t wait. I’m taking the red-eye from JFK tonight.” Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and stood up. “Sorry. That’s my Uber. Maybe Auguste can—”

“No, Margaret. I need it to be you.”

She put her hands on his shoulders. “Then wait for me. We’ll figure it out when I get back. I won’t be gone long.”

Holmes nodded, then stood up also and seemed to suddenly notice her small carry-on bag waiting by the door, with her laptop tucked into a zippered front pocket. He grabbed it for her, then they walked downstairs to the waiting car. “Good hunting, Margaret,” he said, opening the rear door.

Marple could feel his confusion and disappointment. She hated to abandon him in this state. He handed over her bag, which she set, with her purse, on the floor mat, then she ducked back out.

“Listen to me, Brendan,” she said. “For the sake of your mental health, don’t go running off chasing ghosts until I get back. Work the baby case with Auguste. Stay put. Promise?”

Holmes nodded.

Marple climbed into the car. Holmes closed the door after her. Marple saw him standing with his hands in his pockets as the driver pulled away.

Marple was usually good at compartmentalizing. As the car crossed Jamaica Avenue and headed south, she did her best to focus on the long flight and daunting tasks ahead of her. But she also fretted about Holmes.

She worried that her partner had made yet another promise he couldn’t keep.