Page 38

CHAPTER 38

EIGHT THE NEXT morning.

Holmes felt warm sun pouring through his bedroom window, but his mood was still gloomy. He had gone to bed early, before his partners came home. He realized they hadn’t called him once the whole day about their trip to the country.

Maybe they were finally getting the message.

He showered once, shaved his face and scalp, then showered again. He reached into the bathroom cabinet and took his daily dose of medication. When he stepped back into the bedroom, an aroma coming from the kitchen downstairs hit him like a wallop. He dressed quickly and stepped out onto the balcony.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes!” Virginia waved to him from in front of the stove. She wore a blue-and-white chef’s apron and held a mixing bowl in the crook of her arm.

Holmes walked to the end of the hallway and down the staircase to the first floor. His olfactory bulbs became more aroused with every step.

“Miss Marple and Mr. Poe are out already,” said Virginia. “You’re probably hungry.” As usual, she had anticipated his first question and his immediate need.

“What in heaven’s name are you making?” asked Holmes.

Virginia smiled. “Waffles with toasted pecans.” She held up a small cruet. “With warm maple syrup, of course.” She gestured toward the table. “Sit, Mr. Holmes. I’ll bring your coffee.”

Holmes closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, taking in the essence of sizzling batter and butter from the griddle, with hints of vanilla and roasted nuts. The aroma took a direct line to his limbic system, stirring memories he hadn’t felt since childhood. Holmes knew this recipe very well. It was his mother’s.

But he had never mentioned it.

Then the plate was in front of him, with a mug of fresh coffee alongside. The waffles were thick and golden brown, flecked with the crushed pecans and dripping with rivulets of syrup. He picked up his knife and fork and took his first taste. Incredible. Almost overwhelming. He savored the warmth, the texture, the flavors.

He looked over at Virginia. “Where did you learn to make this?” he asked. She was already rinsing the mixing bowl in the sink. “Not sure,” she said with a shrug. “Things just come to me.”

Holmes nodded. The girl had a sixth sense. Poe had been the first to notice it, and Holmes had seen it in operation many times. Their young assistant was always one step ahead of the game and, at times, seemed to know things that reason said she simply should not.

Holmes wolfed down the waffles and wiped his mouth with a napkin. If comfort food was Virginia’s way of making him feel at home, it had worked. At least for the moment. Holmes scraped the last morsels from his plate and licked his fork. “I need your help,” he said.

Virginia finished drying the bowl and set it on the counter. She brushed back a streaked lock of hair—green today. “Sure,” she said. “Anything.”

“Background check,” said Holmes. He gave her what details he knew about Oliver Paul.

“Got it,” said Virginia with a quick nod. She dried her hands and walked over to her desk at the far end of the floor. A half minute later, she was back, balancing a MacBook on one palm, tapping keys as she walked. She sat down across from Holmes and put the laptop on the counter. She peered at the screen, moving her lips slightly as she absorbed the data.

“Let’s see… Oliver James Paul? Tell me if this is the one you’re interested in. Age thirty-six. Last known residence Queens. No criminal record. No military service. No current vehicle registrations.” Virginia’s fingers flicked around the keypad, then hovered. “Interesting,” she said.

“What is?” asked Holmes.

“No obvious social media activity. He’s totally dark. Except for all these publications. Dozens of them.”

“About crime?” Holmes asked.

“No,” said Virginia, clicking on one of the files. “About… chronometer mechanisms.” She tapped a few more keys, then looked up. “Oliver Paul is a watchmaker. He has a shop in the East Village.”

Holmes pulled out his cell phone. “Text me the address.”

Virginia’s whole face brightened. “New case?” she asked.

“Not likely,” said Holmes. But something in him was stirring. He couldn’t deny it.

Couldn’t hurt to pay the little creep a visit.

Unofficially, of course.