Cold Dawn (15 page)

"I'm glad Hannah didn't find a murder victim in January," Beth had said. "That's one thing, anyway, don't you think, Rose? You and I have more experience with injuries and death because of our work."

Rose hadn't known how to answer. Hannah had almost become a murder victim herself. Was that any better? But Rose understood that Beth had been grasping for something positive to hang on to--some reason she'd been with Grit Taylor that morning and found a woman dead.

Was Portia Martinez's murder connected to Derek's death and Nick's presence in Vermont?

How?

Rose knew she'd be better off contemplating leftover quilting pieces than speculating.

Myrtle Smith came out from behind the glass case and joined Rose at her table. "Are you thinking about starting your own quilt?"

"Maybe. I don't know. There's enough fabric here for a pillow or a wall hanging, anyway." Rose set her square back on the table. "My mother loved to quilt."

"Mine, too." Myrtle plucked a blue calico square from the pile and held it to the fading afternoon light in the window. "I swear this could be from one of her dresses. My mother, my sister and I would sit under a pecan tree in summer, with a pitcher of tea and a plate of pimento cheese sandwiches. Granny would be there when she wasn't coughing up a lung in the back room. She lived with us until she died."

Rose smiled. "I can just see you. Where are your sister and mother now?"

"Still in South Carolina. Mother's in assisted living. Gorgeous place."

"Do they still quilt?"

"I doubt it. Mother has arthritis in her hands, and my sister's a high school principal with four kids--two in high school, two in college. Husband's a doctor. They're on the go all the time."

"But you're the one who left home," Rose said.

"I am. No husband, no kids. No house these days, either. Well, it's still there but I'm not. Grit and Elijah are minding things for me. A SEAL and a Special Forces soldier." Her lavender eyes sparked with unexpected humor. "Couple of macho guys, the two of them."

"I don't think of Elijah that way."

"Of course not. He's your brother. Maybe he and Grit will change the
chi
in the house. I tried burning sandal-wood incense. That's supposed to help, but it just reminded me of the fire. I'd have burned up if Grit hadn't rescued me. I don't like to admit that. I was in shock. Stunned. Frozen in place." Myrtle carefully placed the calico square back on the pile. "Classic, huh? I never thought I'd be like that, completely useless."

"You don't know what you'd have done if Grit hadn't come along," Rose said. "There's no reason to be embarrassed about getting rescued by a Navy SEAL. You're a reporter. Grit would probably freeze in place if he had to interview someone."

"I don't think Grit freezes in place for any reason."

"He's a Southerner, too."

"I don't get the impression he ever wants to go back."

"Do you?"

Myrtle seemed startled by the question, although Rose couldn't imagine she hadn't considered it before now. "Washington's far enough south for me."

"It's home," Rose said.

"I didn't say it's home. I said it's south enough. You've never lived anywhere else but here. If you did, wouldn't Black Falls still be home?"

"I guess it would be, but I'm almost thirty. How old were you when you left South Carolina?"

"Twenty-one. I've been based in Washington for thirty years, but I've traveled a lot, spent long stints overseas. A tumbleweed." She seemed to make an effort to pull herself out of the past. "I told the police to find out if Derek Cutshaw and Robert Feehan were in Washington around the time of the fire at my house."

Rose felt a sense of dread deep in the pit of her stomach. "What do you think is going on, Myrtle?"

"No idea. I just keeping asking questions. I know I won't relax until I find out who set my house on fire."

"It's a leap to get to Derek or Robert as the arsonist."

"It was a leap to get to Lowell as the mastermind of a network of killers." Myrtle sighed and looked out the window, the snow and ice on the river cast in late-afternoon shadows. "I've been trying to think back to that week in November. Grit was in town. We ran into each other outside the hotel where the ambassador was killed in the hit-and-run--on orders from Lowell Whittaker, we now know. The same two who killed your father did that hit."

"We know Melanie Kendall and Kyle Rigby didn't set the fire at your house," Rose said. "Is there any concrete evidence that could point to Derek or Robert?"

"Not that I know of. Have you talked to Beth since she and Grit found the woman in Beverly Hills?"

"Dom and I both have."

"Dom's a mess. This is all finally getting to her. She's been so cool, cooking, keeping the cafe running while you all hunt killers." Myrtle picked up the oxford-shirt square that Rose had abandoned but immediately placed it back on the table. "I hope that didn't sound callous. Gallows humor is sometimes my way of coping. Scott Thorne stopped by just before you got here. He's hurting. I can see it, but he won't say anything."

"Neither will Beth," Rose said.

"Ah, yes. So true. I don't have to be born and raised in Black Falls to see that. Do you know what happened between the two of them? They seemed to be getting along great. Then all of a sudden, he comes back from Beverly Hills without her."

Rose shook her head. "I don't know what happened. Maybe Scott doesn't have a lot of room in his life for someone else with a demanding job."

"Not to mention someone whose sister is a Secret Service agent," Myrtle said.

"I suspect Jo's been an issue, too, if not the main one. Scott's solid and decent, but he's insecure."

"Who isn't these days? Does he want a woman who'll worship him?"

"I don't think that's what he'd say, but Beth--"

"The Harpers all say what's on their minds. Dominique's convinced Beth and Scott have been on the skids for longer than most of us realize. They got together after your dad died. In my opinion, they talk shop too much. Their work's become the focus of their relationship. It's all they have in common."

"Jo's a federal agent and Elijah's a soldier."

"Totally different worlds. They've also known each other since you all were kids. Didn't she cut the rope on his tire swing? When they're together, you can see they're for real. Scott doesn't have that depth of history with Beth."

Rose thought about Nick. They had no history. She'd seen him maybe a dozen times on her trips to California. She'd always envisioned herself with someone from Vermont, or at least from New England. But a former submariner? A smoke jumper? Her brother's best friend and business partner?

Myrtle waved a hand, her nails bright red. "Scott and Beth can figure out their own relationship. I'm lucky I know where I'm sleeping tonight. By the way, I talked to the owners of the gallery across the hall. They'd love to get out of their lease and move to a smaller place down the street. I've been trying to convince the 'sisters' into expanding and starting a dinner service."

"So I've heard," Rose said, welcoming the change in topic. "Dominique's for it."

"She's not sure Hannah will want to stay involved in the cafe."

"Sean still owns the building."

"He'll approve of my plan," Myrtle said confidently. "He's a businessman. I more or less ran it past him in January and again last week. O'Rourke's would benefit from bringing more people into town at night. The lodge, too. People like a lively village."

"You have big heart," Rose said with a smile.

"More likely I'm meddling in matters that don't concern me. Where's Nick Martini off to? Didn't he come in with you?"

"He's in the cellar last I checked."

"Your Nick's another macho, testosterone type." Myrtle grabbed the corner of a square of faded fabric at the bottom of the pile. "Gingham. My goodness. I haven't thought about gingham in years. So, Rose. Any idea why Grit Taylor is in California?"

It wasn't an idle question, Rose thought. Idle questions weren't in Myrtle Smith's nature. "Beth says he's there on navy business. He arrived late last night."

"What kind of navy business brought him to that apartment this morning?"

"I haven't talked to him. Beth said he had Sean take him to the spot where an arson investigator died in a fire last summer." Rose added quietly, "His name was Jasper Vanderhorn."

"Charlie Neal," Myrtle whispered, then waved her fingers again at Rose. "Forget I said that." She patted the pile of fabric squares. "I'd love to know the history of these pieces, wouldn't you? They look as if they're all from men's old shirts, ladies' dresses. Well. They won't have belonged to anyone I know."

Nick entered the cafe through the center hall door. He tucked his cell phone into a jacket pocket, and Rose envisioned him making deals while he paced. He clearly wasn't used to small-town life and her fits-and-starts work schedule. He was used to being on the go all the time. She could work for long stretches, at home or in the field, but she appreciated her downtime--her solitude, she thought.

He walked over to the window by her table and looked down at the river. He obviously had no interest in quilting, and Rose doubted he was particularly curious about the building since it wasn't a Cameron & Martini property.

Myrtle stood up. She had on one of the cafe's evergreen canvas aprons over a white shirt, slim, pricey jeans and impractical boots. "You're a suspicious sort, aren't you, Mr. Martini? I'll bet we're all under your scrutiny. I wouldn't be surprised if you suspect me of setting fire to my own house."

"Has it been ruled arson?" he asked.

"Suspicious in origin," Myrtle said curtly.

Nick glanced out at the river, more shadow on the ice formations now than sun. "It must bother you that the police have no idea who started that fire."

Myrtle grunted. "This all bothers me."

He was silent a moment before finally turning to Rose. "I'll be outside."

Myrtle waited for him to cross the hardwood floor and go out the main door before she spoke. "He's stir-crazy. I get that. Think he'll stay here through your winter fest? Get him to demonstrate swinging an ax."

"Ha, right," Rose said, although she could picture it.

"He is a bit of a rogue, isn't he? I imagine he can be ruthless, too. Is he reckless?"

"Sean wouldn't continue to fight fires with him if he were."

Myrtle nodded, thoughtful.

Dominique burst out from the kitchen, still in her hat and coat, her face red from the cold. "Ever have one of those days you just want to bury yourself in work?" She pulled off her hat, her dark hair filled with static. "I stopped by my house for a few minutes. I don't know what possessed me to choose the bathroom tile I did. I'm installing it myself. It's a total pain and looks so...wrong."

"Sounds like a case of cabin fever to me," Rose said with a smile. "Don't change a thing until the maple sap is running full force. It's a rule I swear by."

Dominique laughed. "It's a good one." She unbuttoned her coat. "I'm going to make something with lemons. Cheerful, yellow lemons. Pie, pudding, cupcakes, chicken, salmon. Something."

"You miss having Beth and Hannah here," Myrtle said, retying her apron. "Nothing bothers Beth. She's like a mood stabilizer, unless she's fighting with Trooper Thorne. Then it's not so pretty."

Rose debated how to raise the subject of Dominique's presence at the Whittaker guesthouse that morning and decided the only choice was to be direct. "Dom, Zack Harper says he saw your car and Bowie's van at the Whittaker place this morning."

"Zack must have happened along at just the right moment." Dominique walked over to a window, adjusted a lock that probably hadn't been touched since cold weather had settled in for the winter. "I saw Bowie and stopped to say hi. I didn't stay long."

"What were you doing out there?" Myrtle asked.

"Curiosity." Dominique stood back from the window, her dark eyes impossible to read. "Aren't we all curious about what happened there? It's a beautiful spot. I hope one day it'll be filled with life instead of memories of violence and death."

Myrtle scooped up a paper napkin that had fallen onto the floor. "I imagine the Whittakers or someone acting on their behalf will put it up for sale as soon as possible."

Dominique moved to another window, adjusted another lock for no apparent reason except to have something to do. "The police came by here first thing this morning and asked me if I'd seen or heard from Robert Feehan. I hate the idea that the violence isn't over--that there's still someone out there...." She finally shrugged off her charcoal wool coat and draped it over one arm. "Business was slow. I knew Myrtle could handle things. I so seldom get involved in anything in town. I cook. I work on my house."

"Dom," Rose said, "I'm not criticizing you for going out there."

"I know. I'm sorry." She gave a feeble smile. "I just know how a little thing like being seen with Bowie O'Rourke at an isolated guesthouse can get blown into something it wasn't. Never mind. I'm not making any sense. By the way, he said he'd be stopping back there this afternoon. He wants to get the last of his stuff cleared out."

Before Rose could respond, Dominique bolted back across the cafe and swung behind the glass counter and into the kitchen.

"Maybe she has a souffle in the oven," Myrtle said drily. "Everyone adores Dom, but she is something of a mystery, isn't she? Any chance she and Bowie are seeing each other?"

"I guess there's a chance, but I'd be surprised if they were." Rose got to her feet and grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair. "Even if Bowie didn't tell me--and I think he would--he'd have told Hannah."

"Not if Dom wanted to hide their relationship. I swear there are more secrets in this one little town than in all of Washington, D.C." Myrtle nodded out to the street. "Mr. Southern California is pacing. He's too rugged to admit he's cold. He'll just say he's impatient."

"I have to put away the fabric."

"I'll get it. You go on."

Rose thanked her and went out into the center hall, Ranger already up and eager to get moving. He led the way down the steps to the sidewalk. Nick had stopped pacing and was leaning against her Jeep, his jacket open, his arms crossed on his chest. Rose sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of him, the sun glinting on his hair, the casual, sexy way he stood. All day, she'd kept remembering him making love to her. It might have been yesterday instead of eight months ago.