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Virginia stared at the girl. “Hey! Have you been watching me? Following me?”
The girl nodded. Her eyes were on Baskerville. She looked terrified.
“Don’t worry about him,” said Virginia. She pulled the dog back and told him to lie down.
The girl looked like she hadn’t eaten in days. Virginia turned to the grown-ups. “Is this your daughter?”
They both nodded.
“And you live here?”
“For the winter,” said the woman, her voice weak and hoarse.
The man said nothing. He just sipped from a paper cup.
Virginia walked up to the girl and knelt down to her eye level. She pointed to the rabbit. “You know how to skin your catch?”
The girl shook her head.
Virginia reached into her pocket and pulled out her Buck knife. She handed it to the girl. “Well, it’s time you learned.”
CHAPTER 31
BY 6:00 P.M., the lodge had returned to something close to normal.
Margaret Marple had invited the agents to stay for dinner, but Special Agent Burton Edwards declined. His team was needed at the field office. At 5:00 p.m., the agents packed up their gear and headed for their SUVs. “We’ll be back,” Edwards had said.
“No rush,” Holmes had replied.
So now, as usual, it was just the five housemates at the large dining table—six counting Baskerville, who sat at Virginia’s knee panting for scraps. Annabel the cat was nowhere to be found, likely waiting until the large dog was asleep for the evening before appearing for her nightly meal.
Emboldened by her triumph at the restaurant that morning, Marple had prepared French onion soup and a hearty cassoulet. She had been bursting to tell the others her news, but she waited until the agents were long gone.
Now, as the others dug into the meal, she couldn’t hold back any longer. She clinked her fork against her glass. “I have an announcement.”
Poe looked up from his plate. “You’ve solved the case?”
Marple shook her head. “No. This is more in the realm of personal growth.” She leaned forward. “I’ve been accepted for a course in French cuisine—a three-day intensive. The instructor is one of the best chefs in the world.”
Poe stared at her. “Don’t tell me you’re flying to Paris.”
“No! He’s right here! His name is Luc Gestard. He’s about to open a restaurant in downtown Ithaca. And he picked me for his class. Highly selective.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Virginia, taking another helping of cassoulet. “You’re a pretty great chef yourself.”
“She’s right, Margaret,” said Grey, “everything is delicious.” She sighed and rubbed her mounded belly. “I’d eat more if I didn’t think it would come back up.”
Marple looked at Holmes. He had said nothing. Finally, he looked over at her. “Do you really think this is the best time to be pursuing a personal hobby? Sounds like a petty distraction to me—when we can least afford it.”
Marple had expected a reaction like this from Holmes. She managed a tight smile. “Let’s not talk about distractions, Brendan. You’ve provided your share.” She stopped there. No need to spell out his two months and eleven days in rehab for heroin addiction last fall. Everybody seemed to get the point.
Holmes especially.
He stood up and threw his napkin on the table. Then he stared daggers at Marple. “Don’t you dare compare a voluntary medical leave to a frivolous indulgence! They’re not in the same league!”
The room turned deathly quiet.
Marple watched as Holmes stomped to the door and grabbed his coat. “I need some air!” he muttered. “That meal was way too rich for me!” The door slammed shut behind him. A few seconds later, Marple heard the pickup starting, then the sound of the rattling truck careening along the driveway.
