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“No,” he said. “I’ll get it.”

He walked over and opened the front door just as Gregson was about to knock. He was alone. No detectives or deputies. A good sign.

The sheriff stepped into the lodge and took off his winter cap. He looked around and gave a low whistle. “Jesus, I haven’t been in this place since I was a kid. It used to be a hunting and fishing lodge. Top notch. I delivered ice and beer up here during the summer. Fancy renters. Big tips.” He shook his head. “It’s kinda gone to shit, hasn’t it?”

“We’ll try not to take that personally,” said Holmes.

He led Gregson to the big dining table as Poe stood up. “What’s going on?” Poe asked. “Is Brendan off the hook?”

“Let’s just say I did my homework,” said Gregson. “I checked with NYPD, like you said. You guys are famous as hell down there.”

“Sometimes infamous,” said Holmes. “I doubt they miss us in New York.”

“Holmes, Marple, and Poe,” said Gregson, with a slight chuckle. “I thought you made those names up.”

Poe sat back down. “Who says we didn’t?”

Gregson pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I got the coroner’s report.”

“What does it say?” asked Holmes.

“Like we thought. Celia was dead since last autumn, probably submerged the whole time, partially preserved by the early freeze. Cause of death was drowning. No signs of foul play.”

“There wouldn’t be,” said Holmes. “Like I told you at the lake, Oliver Paul is an expert at making murders look like accidents. Engineering a drowning would be nothing for him.”

“There are still some questions about the note,” Gregson said. “The family says it matches Celia’s handwriting.”

Holmes shrugged. “Inconsequential. Paul could have forced her to write it at gunpoint. Or he could have stolen a writing sample and faked it himself. You can’t put anything past him. He’s a craftsman, and he pays attention to detail. I’ll give him that much.”

“Talent recognizes genius,” said Poe.

“NYPD told me Paul tried to put a hit on you guys in New York,” said Gregson. “That right?”

“Not a hit exactly,” said Poe. “Just a minor terror attack. He wanted to throw us off our game and cover his getaway.”

Holmes was a bit stung by Poe’s cavalier description of the bombing. Their entire office had been destroyed, along with some of Holmes’s personal treasures. He had fond memories of that space. It was where the three partners had first come together as a team—and where his romance with Margaret had bloomed.

“Got any leads on him?” asked Gregson.

Holmes glanced at Poe, who obviously knew what to say. “Not yet.”

Sheriff Gregson put his cap back on. “Okay then. Will I see you two at the next meeting?”

“We’ll do our best,” said Poe, forcing a smile.

“Praise Jesus,” said Gregson.

Just then another vehicle pulled up out front. This time it was definitely Marple. Holmes could tell from the rattle of the pickup’s muffler.

A few seconds later, Marple kicked the lodge’s front door open. Her arms were loaded with kitchen equipment. She stopped when she saw Gregson. “Morning, Sheriff. Everything okay?”

“Just fine,” said Gregson. “You need help?”

“Actually, I do,” said Marple, nodding back toward the vehicle. “There’s more in the truck.”

Gregson walked outside. Marple put her supplies on top of the kitchen island and mouthed silently to Holmes, Why is he here?

Holmes moved his hands in an “all clear” gesture. Nothing to worry about.