“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.
“Myrtle can run you up to the lodge,” she said as she opened up the back for Ranger. “I have something I want to do.”
“You’re going back out to the Whittaker place to check on Bowie. I’m going with you.” Nick eased up next to her and reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out her keys. “My turn to drive. It’ll be fun navigating all the potholes and curves around here.”
“What if I want a private moment with Bowie?”
“You can have one. I’ll make myself scarce.”
“Oh, sure. Make yourself scarce where? Behind a snowbank?” Ranger hopped up into the back of the Jeep. “All right, Nick. Go right ahead. Drive.”
Nick had no trouble with her Jeep or the roads, not that Rose had expected he would. When they reached the Whittaker estate, he continued down to the guesthouse turnaround and pulled in next to Bowie’s van.
Rose released Ranger from the back and let him run off into the snow, down to a small, frozen pond. “This is such a beautiful place,” she said as Nick joined her. “I hope the Whittakers weren’t here long enough to ruin it for someone else.”
“People will remember the good more than the bad.”
