Holmes, Margaret and Poe, page 24
“Virginia? Are you okay?” Poe called out. “I can walk you back to the ferry.”
Virginia shook her head. “No,” she said, “I want to be here.” She felt Marple’s hand on her shoulder.
Holmes was on his knees now, reaching into the pit with gloved hands. The gravedigger passed him what looked like a long greyish stick. Holmes held it gently in both hands and settled back on his heels to examine it.
“Definitely female,” said Holmes. “Late teens, early twenties. Interred for approximately sixty to a hundred years.” He lifted the bone to the light and gently brushed away a few small deposits of dirt. “I’ll have to do more tests to confirm.”
Virginia sensed a cold wave washing through her, from front to back. It lasted for only a second. When it passed, she felt warm and calm.
“No need, Mr. Holmes,” she said softly. “It’s her.”
CHAPTER 115
One week later
A WARM BREEZE was blowing through Calvary Cemetery as the small funeral party entered the former Siglik family vault. Marple led the procession. The granite edifice was no longer a crime scene. The yellow tape and fingerprint dust were long gone. And, in fact, the building no longer belonged to the Siglik family at all.
Until a week ago, the mausoleum had been confiscated property, taken by the city as part of the sentencing agreement with the brothers. It had been sold to a shell corporation in the Maldives in a multimillion-dollar cash deal, with the condition that the funds be distributed among the families of the Siglik victims. No one would ever know that the actual purchasers were three PIs from Bushwick.
At the center of the mausoleum, the marble top had been removed from the vacant crypt, and an elegant mahogany casket was suspended by a mechanical arm over the opening.
Helene Grey stood with Poe at the foot of the crypt. Marple stood with Holmes on the opposite side. All in their somber Sunday best. Virginia had not worn a dress since her high school graduation. Marple had loaned her a spare from her closet.
There was no priest or minister in attendance. The partners had wanted to keep it private. No ceremony had been planned. For a few moments, the group stood in awkward silence.
Finally, Holmes nudged Marple. “You should say something, Margaret.”
Marple looked up to see everybody staring in her direction. She knew Holmes was right. Nobody was closer to this case—to this young woman—than she was. Except maybe Virginia.
Marple clasped her hands over her chest, closed her eyes, and quickly searched her memory. She recalled a prayer from another funeral service, for another young woman who had died too soon. She thought at the time how beautiful the prayer was. And now it came back to her, word for word. She cleared her throat and spoke it.
“Come in haste to assist her, you saints of God. Come in haste to meet her, you angels of the Lord. Enfold in your arms this soul, and take your burden heavenwards to the sight of the Most High.”
In the silence that followed, Marple looked across at Poe. She could see tears brimming in his eyes. She knew he remembered the prayer too. Then she saw Grey reach down and wrap her hand around his.
As Holmes pressed the lever to lower the coffin into the marble vault, Virginia stepped forward and placed a bouquet of green blossoms on top. She spoke softly but clearly.
“Rest in peace, Mary McShane.”
CHAPTER 116
“ARE YOU SURE?” asked Holmes. “I can take a town car.” He was standing next to Poe on the outskirts of the cemetery. Poe handed him the keys to the Trans Am.
“Nonsense,” said Poe. “Take it. Just watch out for speed traps.” He tapped the hood of the Pontiac. “This thing is a trooper magnet.”
Marple stepped up. “How long?” she asked.
“As long as it takes,” said Holmes.
“Can we send up the bat signal if we need you?” asked Grey.
“You can try,” said Holmes. “But I won’t respond. Hanging up the suit for a while.”
Virginia stepped forward and wrapped Holmes up in a hug. “I’ll miss you, Mr. Holmes. You’ve taught me a lot.”
“You’ve taught me a few things too,” said Holmes. “And it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.”
Virginia leaned back with a smile of recognition. “The Sign of the Four. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 1890.”
“Well done,” said Holmes.
“I’ve been studying,” said Virginia.
“I can see that,” said Holmes. “I may just have to will you my portion of the library.”
With that, he slipped behind the wheel of the car, turned the ignition, and drove away.
Five hours later, Holmes rounded the corner on a tree-lined road and turned into a gravel driveway. He was on the east side of Cayuga Lake, five miles north of Ithaca, at the entrance to an isolated estate. There was no sign, just two fieldstone pillars with a heavy metal gate between them. The gate opened as he approached.
He drove up the long, curving lane to a large brick building with Norman-style turrets. He pulled the Pontiac around the circle at the top of the driveway and parked near the main entrance. Then he pulled a leather bag from the back seat and walked inside. The entryway was just as he remembered it, natural stone and heavy oak. It looked like a millionaire’s hunting lodge.
The scents were the same too. A mixture of aged wood and tea tree oil. The receptionist behind the desk looked up. “Can I help you? Visitor or physician?”
“Neither,” said Holmes. “I’m checking myself in.”
The woman clicked her keypad and checked her computer screen.
“Don’t bother,” said Holmes. “I’m not on your list. I came on my own.”
“Were you referred to us?” the woman asked, her brow creasing slightly.
“I’ve been here before,” said Holmes. “I came to visit my mother.”
The woman dipped back toward her keyboard with a hopeful expression. “Is she a client?”
“My mother died twenty-five years ago,” Holmes said softly. “I’m here for myself.”
The receptionist leaned forward and spoke in a calm, even tone. “Sir. I’m sorry. Lake View is not a walk-in facility. We need to make advance arrangements, clear your insurance coverage, scan your medical files, consult with—”
“Stop,” said Holmes. He set his bag on the desk. “This contains enough cash to pay your fee for as long as I need to be here. Two thousand a day. Am I right?”
The receptionist stared back at him for a few moments. This was obviously not her normal intake. But she had been trained to be as accommodating as possible, at least until the medical staff could be summoned.
“All right, sir,” she said, easing back in her chair. “Let’s start again. Can I have your name?”
“My name is Brendan Holmes. I’m a heroin addict. And I need help.”
CHAPTER 117
MARPLE LOWERED THE windows on the white Ford F-150 pickup. To her surprise, she had discovered that she loved driving a truck. Especially one that was all hers.
After a three-state search, Carson Lee Parker’s vehicle had finally been located in a Rockland County junkyard, just hours from being dismantled for parts. It had been released by NYPD forensics just a week ago. Parker had no use for the truck where he was headed. Marple had paid a fair price for it at the police auction.
The pickup was boxy and big, and it had plenty of power. Marple lowered the visor against the setting sun as the speedometer climbed to 75.
Over the past four days, on her drive through ten states, Marple had been hanging her arm out the side as she listened to a succession of country stations. She’d even gotten a bit of a trucker’s tan.
Now she was on a Texas two-lane heading straight west on a line between Tulia and Dimmitt. The scenery was a mix of desert and low brush, interrupted by the occasional slow-moving stream. For miles on end, the white Ford was the only vehicle on the road. As she closed in on her destination, her mood turned somber. She clicked off the radio and rode in silence.
Marple glanced at the GPS map on her phone. It showed a slim yellow line jogging to the south. As Marple made the turn off the main highway, her rear tires kicked up a cloud of yellow dust. After a mile on the dirt road, she saw a battered mailbox with the name FERRY on the side.
She drove down a rutted lane toward a well-kept Texas double-wide with a little barn out back. On the right, a small herd of horses ambled in a paddock. As she stopped the truck and turned off the engine, the door to the trailer home opened. A middle-aged man emerged, followed by a woman who looked slightly younger. Their clothes were simple—fresh jeans and button-down shirts. Their faces were creased from the sun.
Margaret opened her door and stepped down onto the coarse dry grass. She took a deep breath. Then she reached into the space behind the front seat and picked up a rectangular stone urn.
“You must be Margaret,” called the woman from the steps. She was slender and pale, and almost as tall as her husband.
“I am,” said Marple. “It’s nice to finally see you both in person.” She closed the truck door gently. “I wish it weren’t for this reason.”
She held the urn close to her chest as she walked up the short pathway toward the couple on the front steps. She tried to imagine what they must be feeling. Tried to put herself in their place.
“I’m Arnold Ferry,” the man said. “This is my wife, Lynn.”
“You’re so kind for making such a long trip,” said Lynn. “You didn’t have to do this alone.”
“I didn’t mind the drive,” said Marple, her hands wrapped tightly around the urn. “And I never felt alone.”
She extended her arms and held the urn out. Lynn Ferry took the container in both hands, then cradled it in her arms, weeping softly. Arnold touched the surface gently, then wrapped his muscular arm around his wife. He looked at Marple.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice cracking.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” said Marple. “I’m glad your daughter’s home.”
CHAPTER 118
AFTER DINNER, MARPLE helped Lucy’s mother bring the plates to the sink. Arnold was already out on the front porch, staring across the yard. The tip of his cigarette glowed orange in the darkness.
The meal had been simple but delicious. Baked chicken, creamed corn, homemade apple pie. All during dinner, the Ferrys had wanted—needed—to talk about their daughter. About how she’d always been the tallest girl in her class, about how excited she’d been when her picture first appeared in a local catalog, about how much she loved horses, and country music, and books.
Marple mostly just listened. After all, she only knew Lucy Lynn Ferry from her pictures and a coroner’s report. And from her killer’s confession.
After the dishes had been scraped and loaded into the dishwasher, Lynn dried her hands on a towel and touched Marple’s arm. “Would you like to see her room?”
Marple smiled. “Love to.”
Lynn led the way down the hall past the small master bedroom to the far end of the trailer home. She pushed open the door and flicked on the light, then stepped aside.
The room was tiny, with a neatly made single bed and a small pine dresser. A bulletin board on the wall held a cluster of school pictures and horse-show ribbons. Running along the far wall was a low white bookcase. The top shelf was stacked high with fashion magazines. The bottom shelf was crammed full of stuffed animals. On the center shelf was a row of books. Marple bent forward to look closer. She took a quick breath.
The shelf was filled with Agatha Christie volumes. All of them. In chronological order.
“Lucy loved mystery stories,” said Lynn.
Marple ran her fingers gently over the worn spines. “So I see. She had excellent taste.”
“It’s funny,” said Lynn. “When you told us your name on the phone, we thought what a strange coincidence it was—I mean, that you were the one to help solve her case. You. A real Miss Marple.”
Marple looked up and smiled. “Something brought Lucy and me together,” she said softly. “I’m sure of it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Lynn, her eyes suddenly filling with tears again. “It hurts too much to be in here …” She took a step back into the hallway. “You stay as long as you like.” Her footsteps receded as she walked back toward the kitchen.
Marple sat down on the bed and slid one of the books off the shelf. A collection of short stories. She imagined Lucy sitting under the covers at night, devouring the tales, just as she had herself as a young girl—before death and deception became part of her actual life.
She picked up a pen from the night table and opened the book to the blank inside cover. She thought for a moment. Then, in flowing script, she wrote:
To the late, beautiful Lucy, from a fellow fan—
Whoever I am.
Also By James Patterson
ALEX CROSS NOVELS
Along Came a Spider • Kiss the Girls • Jack and Jill • Cat and Mouse • Pop Goes the Weasel • Roses are Red • Violets are Blue • Four Blind Mice • The Big Bad Wolf • London Bridges • Mary, Mary • Cross • Double Cross • Cross Country • Alex Cross’s Trial (with Richard DiLallo) • I, Alex Cross • Cross Fire • Kill Alex Cross • Merry Christmas, Alex Cross • Alex Cross, Run • Cross My Heart • Hope to Die • Cross Justice • Cross the Line • The People vs. Alex Cross • Target: Alex Cross • Criss Cross • Deadly Cross • Fear No Evil • Triple Cross • Alex Cross Must Die
THE WOMEN’S MURDER CLUB SERIES
1st to Die (with Andrew Gross) • 2nd Chance (with Andrew Gross) • 3rd Degree (with Andrew Gross) • 4th of July (with Maxine Paetro) • The 5th Horseman (with Maxine Paetro) • The 6th Target (with Maxine Paetro) • 7th Heaven (with Maxine Paetro) • 8th Confession (with Maxine Paetro) • 9th Judgement (with Maxine Paetro) • 10th Anniversary (with Maxine Paetro) • 11th Hour (with Maxine Paetro) • 12th of Never (with Maxine Paetro) • Unlucky 13 (with Maxine Paetro) • 14th Deadly Sin (with Maxine Paetro) • 15th Affair (with Maxine Paetro) • 16th Seduction (with Maxine Paetro) • 17th Suspect (with Maxine Paetro) • 18th Abduction (with Maxine Paetro) • 19th Christmas (with Maxine Paetro) • 20th Victim (with Maxine Paetro) • 21st Birthday (with Maxine Paetro) • 22 Seconds (with Maxine Paetro) • 23rd Midnight (with Maxine Paetro)
DETECTIVE MICHAEL BENNETT SERIES
Step on a Crack (with Michael Ledwidge) • Run for Your Life (with Michael Ledwidge) • Worst Case (with Michael Ledwidge) • Tick Tock (with Michael Ledwidge) • I, Michael Bennett (with Michael Ledwidge) • Gone (with Michael Ledwidge) • Burn (with Michael Ledwidge) • Alert (with Michael Ledwidge) • Bullseye (with Michael Ledwidge) • Haunted (with James O. Born) • Ambush (with James O. Born) • Blindside (with James O. Born) • The Russian (with James O. Born) • Shattered (with James O. Born) • Obsessed (with James O. Born)
PRIVATE NOVELS
Private (with Maxine Paetro) • Private London (with Mark Pearson) • Private Games (with Mark Sullivan) • Private: No. 1 Suspect (with Maxine Paetro) • Private Berlin (with Mark Sullivan) • Private Down Under (with Michael White) • Private L.A. (with Mark Sullivan) • Private India (with Ashwin Sanghi) • Private Vegas (with Maxine Paetro) • Private Sydney (with Kathryn Fox) • Private Paris (with Mark Sullivan) • The Games (with Mark Sullivan) • Private Delhi (with Ashwin Sanghi) • Private Princess (with Rees Jones) • Private Moscow (with Adam Hamdy) • Private Rogue (with Adam Hamdy) • Private Beijing (with Adam Hamdy) • Private Rome (with Adam Hamdy)
NYPD RED SERIES
NYPD Red (with Marshall Karp) • NYPD Red 2 (with Marshall Karp) • NYPD Red 3 (with Marshall Karp) • NYPD Red 4 (with Marshall Karp) • NYPD Red 5 (with Marshall Karp) • NYPD Red 6 (with Marshall Karp)
DETECTIVE HARRIET BLUE SERIES
Never Never (with Candice Fox) • Fifty Fifty (with Candice Fox) • Liar Liar (with Candice Fox) • Hush Hush (with Candice Fox)
INSTINCT SERIES
Instinct (with Howard Roughan, previously published as Murder Games) • Killer Instinct (with Howard Roughan) • Steal (with Howard Roughan)
THE BLACK BOOK SERIES
The Black Book (with David Ellis) • The Red Book (with David Ellis) • Escape (with David Ellis)
STAND-ALONE THRILLERS
The Thomas Berryman Number • Hide and Seek • Black Market • The Midnight Club • Sail (with Howard Roughan) • Swimsuit (with Maxine Paetro) • Don’t Blink (with Howard Roughan) • Postcard Killers (with Liza Marklund) • Toys (with Neil McMahon) • Now You See Her (with Michael Ledwidge) • Kill Me If You Can (with Marshall Karp) • Guilty Wives (with David Ellis) • Zoo (with Michael Ledwidge) • Second Honeymoon (with Howard Roughan) • Mistress (with David Ellis) • Invisible (with David Ellis) • Truth or Die (with Howard Roughan) • Murder House (with David Ellis) • The Store (with Richard DiLallo) • Texas Ranger (with Andrew Bourelle) • The President is Missing (with Bill Clinton) • Revenge (with Andrew Holmes) • Juror No. 3 (with Nancy Allen) • The First Lady (with Brendan DuBois) • The Chef (with Max DiLallo) • Out of Sight (with Brendan DuBois) • Unsolved (with David Ellis) • The Inn (with Candice Fox) • Lost (with James O. Born) • Texas Outlaw (with Andrew Bourelle) • The Summer House (with Brendan DuBois) • 1st Case (with Chris Tebbetts) • Cajun Justice (with Tucker Axum)• The Midwife Murders (with Richard DiLallo) • The Coast-to-Coast Murders (with J.D. Barker) • Three Women Disappear (with Shan Serafin) • The President’s Daughter (with Bill Clinton) • The Shadow (with Brian Sitts) • The Noise (with J.D. Barker) • 2 Sisters Detective Agency (with Candice Fox) • Jailhouse Lawyer (with Nancy Allen) • The Horsewoman (with Mike Lupica) • Run Rose Run (with Dolly Parton) • Death of the Black Widow (with J.D. Barker) • The Ninth Month (with Richard DiLallo) • The Girl in the Castle (with Emily Raymond) • Blowback (with Brendan DuBois) • The Twelve Topsy-Turvy, Very Messy Days of Christmas (with Tad Safran) • The Perfect Assassin (with Brian Sitts) • House of Wolves (with Mike Lupica) • Countdown (with Brendan DuBois) • Cross Down (with Brendan DuBois) • Circle of Death (with Brian Sitts) • 12 Months to Live (with Mike Lupica) • Lion & Lamb (with Duane Swierczynski)
