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“Margaret!” Poe jumped up from a stool against the basement wall. Holmes pressed his shaved head against the bars, reaching his hands between them.
Marple grabbed both his hands and squeezed tight. “Brendan! What the hell have you done?”
Marple had been feeling like she was in the middle of some bizarre play. But seeing Holmes behind bars was all too real. It just about undid her.
“I didn’t do anything! It was Oliver Paul. He set me up.”
“I was about to explain on the phone,” said Poe. “But you hung up.”
“My priority was getting here,” said Marple. “When I hear the word ‘murder,’ I dash.” She turned back to Holmes. “Now tell me what happened. Exactly.”
“They found a woman’s body in the lake,” said Holmes. “Young mom. Dead since last September.”
“I’m sure they’ll find it was last September 30th, to be exact,” added Poe.
“A note on the body had my name on it,” continued Holmes. “No doubt planted by Oliver Paul.”
Marple let out a long breath. “His latest Mother Murder.”
“No question about it,” said Holmes. “But for some reason he’s planned to pin this one on me. I don’t understand. If he wanted to get rid of me, why not just shoot me?”
“Or drown you in a lake,” said Poe.
“September 30th,” said Marple, thinking back. “The same night we arrived here from the city.”
Poe nodded. “Which does put Brendan in the general vicinity of the crime.”
Holmes kicked the bottom of his cell bars. “Auguste! Whose side are you on?” he hissed. “Besides, proximity proves nothing!”
“He’s right,” said Marple. “And Poe and I were with you the whole time. I’m sure Helene can vouch for you too.”
The door to the stairwell opened with a metallic creak. Marple turned to see a pot-bellied man in a police jacket. “I heard there was a visitor here,” he said, addressing her. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Margaret Marple. I work with Mr. Holmes and Mr. Poe.”
The man cocked his head, stifling a grin. “Are you shitting me? Holmes. Poe. Now Marple? Is this some kind of mystery book club?”
Holmes butted in. “Margaret, this is Buck Gregson, the county sheriff.”
“And our AA counselor,” added Poe.
“Sober for ten years and two weeks,” said Gregson.
Marple was about to confront the sheriff when he stepped past her and put a large key into the cell lock.
Holmes moved toward the door. “Am I free to go?”
“Nope. We’re working on putting together the manpower to transfer you over to our substation in Scipio at this time of night, but first I’m taking you upstairs to the interrogation room,” said Gregson. “Your lawyer’s here.”
Holmes looked at Poe. Poe looked at Marple.
Their puzzled expressions said it all.
Lawyer? What lawyer?
CHAPTER 8
BRENDAN HOLMES TURNED around so Sheriff Gregson could clasp the cuffs onto his wrists behind his back. Then the sheriff nudged him toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”
