Cold Dawn Part 21

Beth had irritably countered that Three Sisters Cafe had also served the two paid a.s.sa.s.sins who'd left Drew Cameron to die in a snowstorm, run down an amba.s.sador, poisoned a Russian diplomat and nearly killed two teenagers.

That was when Scott had packed up and gone back to Vermont.

Hannah opened a French door and came out onto the patio. "Beth?"

"I'm good. Please don't worry." Her eyes brimmed with tears. She felt terrible, and alone. "I'm ruining your time with Sean. Grit never should have come. He said so himself."

"Don't start with that. He and Sean have gone out to the canyon where that arson investigator was killed. His death's been weighing on Sean's mind. Nick's, too." Hannah stood next to Beth at the edge of the pool. "It's good that you and Grit found that woman, Beth. Her family and friends must have been looking for her and had no idea she was there."

"a.s.suming they even realized she was missing. Sometimes people don't, not for a while. If she was new in town, if she..."

"It must have been awful," Hannah said.

"It wasn't great."

"What can I do?"

Beth turned to her friend. "Tell me if I should call Scott."

"Beth-"

"I know you can't," she whispered. "I know it wouldn't help if you could."

"I'm sure of one thing. Scott wouldn't want you to be afraid and hurt right now."

"No," Beth said, "my dear, uptight Trooper Thorne would want me hiding under a rock for the rest of my life, so I wouldn't do anything or have anything happen to me that might interfere with his next promotion. I don't even blame him."

"We've all had a run of bad luck."

"Not bad luck, Hannah. We've been targeted by a bunch of murdering sons of b.i.t.c.hes. I'd like to haul Lowell Whittaker out of his jail cell and make him tell us who electrocuted that poor woman."

"He might not know. So much of his work was done anonymously. His killers weren't even aware he was the one arranging their hits. It's possible he didn't know the ident.i.ties of all of them, either."

Beth raised her eyebrows at her friend. "I see your prosecutor's mind hasn't been baked by the California sun."

Hannah gave a small smile. "I'll make us sandwiches. We can sit by the pool, and you can tell me everything. In the meantime, call Scott, will you?"

"Hey, I thought you weren't going to interfere."

Hannah was already through the door, and Beth pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open, debating what to do-and there was a text message, already, from Scott: Call me. Tell me you're okay.

The feds would have been in touch with him, maybe even her sister.

Beth stared at the message, seeing Scott right here by Sean's pool just a few days ago, pacing, tense, unable to articulate what he was feeling. She hadn't done any better. Neither of them was particularly introspective, but the past few months of their lives demanded at least some insight and understanding.

She dialed his number but got his voice mail. "I'm okay," she said. "Thank you for calling. I-" She almost said she loved him, but stopped short. "Call me anytime. I'm here."

When Hannah returned with the sandwiches, Beth opened an umbrella at one of the tables at the edge of the pool and sat down, keeping her phone close in case Scott-or anyone else-called.

Fifteen.

Black Falls, Vermont R ose fingered squares of the soft, old fabric left over from the quilt that she'd helped st.i.tch over the past month. She was at a riverside table at the cafe, which had just closed for the night. She remembered how she and Hannah had discovered the fabric, which seemed to be from the 1940s, neatly stacked inside the nineteenth-century trunk up they'd hauled up from the cellar. Hannah had given the trunk to Dominique to refurbish for the house she was renovating in the village.

Nick was down in the cellar now. He'd already checked out the struggling gallery next door, with its offerings from New England artists. Rose knew he was giving her a chance to regroup. There'd been no news of Robert Feehan. For all anyone knew, last night had been an outburst-a frightened, nervous man caught off guard and overreacting.

The square Rose held in her hand now was obviously from a man's blue oxford-cloth shirt, much worn in its day before being cut up. Some of the pieces hadn't survived decades in the trunk, but enough had for a simple, authentic, beautiful quilt. Rose welcomed the distraction after talking with Beth Harper in Beverly Hills, the impact of her discovery of the murdered woman evident in the strain in her voice.

"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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sisted living. Gorgeous place."

"Do they still quilt?"

"I doubt it. Mother has arthritis in her hands, and my sister's a high school princ.i.p.al 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. "Cla.s.sic, 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 embarra.s.sed 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 amba.s.sador 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 ap.r.o.ns 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."