pain in his left foot, but not even for a split second did he think he still had a left foot.
By then, the police were descending.
Ninety minutes after Beth had walked into the small apartment, she and Grit were standing in the parking lot in the Southern California sun. She had a tight grip on her emotions. Either Grit did, too, or he wasn’t all that bothered by the scene they’d come upon, which she didn’t believe. He just had the ability to take one thing at a time.
She could see the muscles in her wrists and forearms tighten as she crossed her arms over her chest and eyed the array of law enforcement vehicles that had gathered at the scene.
The police she’d expected. The FBI and Secret Service agents had unnerved her.
The victim was identified as Portia Martinez. She’d worked part-time as a sound technician and cleaned houses for actor friends for extra cash. She didn’t live in the apartment. She and the tenant, Trent Stevens, apparently were friends. Stevens didn’t look as if he had the money for a housekeeper, but, on the other hand, he didn’t look as if he were someone who’d clean his own house. He’d get someone else to do it and exchange favors or run up his credit cards.
Beth glanced back at a stern FBI agent standing under the wilted flower basket. “We’re cleared to go, you know.”
Grit put a hand out to her. “I’ll drive.”
She started to protest but dropped the keys into his palm. She wasn’t in the mood to argue.
An unmarked black SUV backed out of the way so they could leave. Grit got behind the wheel. Beth, feeling surly, slid into the passenger seat. “Have you even driven a car since you got your leg blown off?”
Grit seemed to take no offense at her rudeness. “I drove around Vermont, seeing the mountain vistas.”
“Vermont isn’t Los Angeles.”
“No, it’s not.”
He remembered the way back to Sean’s house, which was good because Beth didn’t. She sat looking out her window as Beverly Hills slid past her.
When they pulled into Sean’s driveway, she turned to Grit. “I’m sorry about the crack about your leg.”
“What crack? It was blown off. No one came and stole it while I was sleeping.”
She scowled at him. “Are you ever serious?”
“I was serious just now.”
He parked, and Beth flung herself out of the car. Hannah and Sean came out to the driveway. They’d already heard the difficult news and were expecting them.
Grit got out of the car and tossed Beth the keys but was focused on Sean. “I want to see where Jasper Vanderhorn was killed. I want you to tell me about that day.”
Sean nodded. “Now?”
“Yeah. Now.”
“All right. Let’s go.”
Beth headed inside, slamming the door behind her. She went straight out to the pool and stared at the clear, turquoise water. She’d reached for her cell phone a dozen times to call Scott. He’d want to know about the dead woman, if only from a professional point of view. From a personal one, Portia Martinez’s murder would just be another sign to Scott that he’d fallen for the wrong woman.
Beth was too close to the violence of the past year.
“You served the Whittakers
Muffins? As if she’d had any choice. As if she’d known Lowell Whittaker was a killer and his wife an abusive lunatic who’d leave Bowie O’Rourke, an innocent man, to burn up in a fire so that she could avoid the embarrassment of having her husband’s murderous activities come to light.
Beth had irritably countered that Three Sisters Cafe had also served the two paid assassins who’d left Drew Cameron to die in a snowstorm, run down an ambassador, 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.”
“Assuming 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 bitches. 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 identities 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
R ose fingered squares of the soft, old fabric left over from the quilt that she’d helped stitch 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
