Page 13

CHAPTER 13

SHIRTS. SOCKS. SLACKS . Briefs.

Marple sat on the silk sofa in Holmes’s bedroom and watched as he carefully unpacked his duffel bag, item by item. In typical Holmes fashion, everything was immaculately pressed and impeccably folded.

“You have no idea what it took to get an ironing board in that place,” he said.

Marple ran her hand over the sofa cushion. “I missed you, Brendan,” she said. “More than I thought I would.”

Holmes gave her a slightly embarrassed smile. “I was a handful before I went away,” he said. “I know that.”

A handful? That was an understatement. Marple flashed back to all the times Holmes’s drug habit had put their PI licenses—and their lives—in jeopardy. But through everything, she and Holmes had kept a strong bond. Comrades to the end.

The duffel was almost empty now. The last item Holmes pulled out was a small prescription bottle. “Buprenorphine,” he said, rattling the pills inside. “My new best friend.”

“Not methadone?” asked Marple.

“Methadone is Schedule II,” said Holmes. “Buprenorphine is Schedule III. On paper, lower potential for abuse.”

“On paper,” Marple repeated.

“Correct,” said Holmes. “Says so in all the literature.”

As he put the small white bottle on the bedside table, Marple saw a slight tremor in his hand. She leaned forward. “Brendan, are you all right?”

Holmes clenched and unclenched his hands. “I’ll let you know in a second,” he said. He sat down on the end of his bed, facing Marple. “I have a confession to make,” he said.

Marple felt a flutter inside. She tried to deflect it with humor. “Look, Brendan. We already know you stole the bathrobe.”

“Margaret, I’m serious. I realized something up there at the funny farm.” Holmes clasped his hands tightly in his lap, as if to keep them from twitching. “My instincts are shot. I’m through as an investigator. I’ll never work a case again.” He lowered his head. “This is the end of Holmes.”

What? This was not the colleague and friend she knew. Brendan had many flaws, but lack of confidence had never been one of them. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You just got back. You need time. Auguste and I can take up the slack until you—”

“There’s something else,” said Holmes, cutting her off. “Something that might shock you even more.”

Marple’s mind started spinning. But before another word could pass, the sound of glass shattering violently came from downstairs.