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Holmes felt his nostrils flare. “You mean, is she still wasting her time? Yes! A thousand times yes! She’s planning some sort of elaborate seafood fiesta for tomorrow night. Can you believe it? In the middle of one of the most important cases we’ve ever taken on!”

“Maybe cooking helps her concentrate,” said Bell. “If I’m not mistaken, the great Sherlock Holmes smoked a pipe when he needed to focus.”

“Yes! On solving crimes!”

“Just making a point. Cooking might be healthy for Margaret’s mental state.”

“It’s a trifle!”

“You’re being judgmental.”

“She deserves to be judged!”

“Like everybody else in the world? Everybody who can’t measure up to the great Brendan Holmes?”

“That’s not what I said.”

Bell sat back in her chair. Just sat there. Looking at him. Holmes always hated those parts of their sessions. It was like he was back in rehab and she was waiting for him to break down and spill his guts. Which almost never happened. On the other hand, he’d never felt a burning desperation like this. Not ever.

Ten seconds went by. Then twenty.

Holmes was getting more and more uncomfortable. “What?” he demanded. “What are you thinking?”

Bell let out a slow breath, then rested her hands on her knees. “Brendan, you are no longer my patient. So, what I’m about to say to you is under the category of free professional advice. You can take it or leave it.”

Holmes was starting to perspire under his wool sweater.

“I’ve never met Margaret Marple,” said Bell. “All I know of her is what you’ve told me. From your description, she sounds brilliant, resourceful, brave, sensitive, and caring.”

“All true,” said Holmes softly. “And beautiful.”

“Brendan, I believe that your problem might be that, deep down in your complicated soul, you don’t feel you’re worthy of Margaret’s love—so you look for ways to sabotage the relationship in order to let yourself off the hook. You think you’re asking Margaret to measure up to your standards. The truth is, you’re afraid you can’t measure up to hers.”

Holmes squirmed on the sofa. He looked down at the floor. He felt his heart start to pound. Blood rushed to his head. He gripped the cushion of the sofa and gasped. “I think I might be having a panic attack!”

Bell stayed perfectly calm. “If you are, I’ll help you through it. But I think you might be feeling something else. How do you feel about what I just said—about you and Margaret?”

Holmes hung his head. He took a few deep breaths. He could feel his heartbeat slowly returning to normal. “If you’re right,” he asked, “how do I fix it?”

Bell leaned forward, almost close enough to touch him, but not quite. “You’re a brilliant detective, Brendan. You’ll figure it out.”

CHAPTER 63

HOLMES WAS STILL brooding when he drove back to the lodge. Not only was he on Margaret’s bad side; he knew that Poe would be irritated with him too. They had an important trip to New York City scheduled for around noon—just the two of them. The visit with Bell had been an unscheduled detour. As usual, Holmes hadn’t told anybody about it before he left.

Sure enough, when he pulled the truck around the circle, Poe was waiting on the porch, pacing. As soon as Holmes braked to a stop, Poe stepped down and banged on the passenger-side window. Holmes lowered it.

“Brendan! Where have you been?”

“Tending to my mental health.”

Holmes knew that Poe preferred to be at a departure gate at least an hour before flight time. And that obviously wasn’t going to happen today.

“I just need to shower again,” said Holmes, his anxiety still high after the conversation with Dr. Bell. “Then I’ll be ready.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not. Imagine the bacteria I’ve absorbed from just sitting in this truck. I need a thorough cleansing.”