Carla Neggers: Cold Dawn

“I don’t know him that well,” Rose said truthfully.

Nick came over to their table, and, coffee in hand, pulled out a chair and sat down without waiting to be invited. “Nice spot,” he said, nodding to the frozen river. “Same river we were just on?”

“Yes,” Rose said, her voice almost inaudible. She picked up her fork and tried the quiche. Spinach, cheese, mushroom. She had no appetite for it, but it was warm and tasted good—and she knew she needed something more substantial than a scone.

Nick’s dark eyes settled on Myrtle. “You must be Myrtle Smith. I’m Nick Martini. Sean’s told me about you.”

“I’m sorry,” Rose said. “I should have introduced you.”

“It’s all right,” Myrtle said, obviously already taken in by Nick’s good looks and compelling presence.

Nick glanced out the window again. “I saw Beth and Hannah at Sean’s pool yesterday before I headed East.” He shifted back to Myrtle. “You’re filling in for Hannah. Who’s filling in for Beth?”

“Dominique hired a new part-timer,” Myrtle said, “but there’s no way to replace either Hannah or Beth.”

Nick grinned. “That’s diplomatic.”

“I’m not staying in Vermont.”

Myrtle seemed to be trying to convince herself as much as anyone else. She’d arrived in Black Falls in November, after surviving a suspicious fire at her house that had destroyed her office and all the materials she’d methodically compiled detailing a network of paid assassins. She’d stayed at the lodge at first but two weeks had ago moved into Hannah’s apartment above the café.

Whenever Rose saw her, Myrtle insisted she’d be back in Washington soon.

She got to her feet, retying her evergreen canvas apron. “I should get busy. I’ve been showing Dominique the art of making a four-layer fresh coconut cake like my mother used to make.”

Rose gave her a distracted smile. “Can’t go wrong with coconut cake.”

“You can if you haven’t made one in twenty years. Vermont seems to have brought out my Southern roots.” Myrtle sighed heavily, obviously distracted herself. “People can’t resist a good coconut cake. It looks like springtime itself.”

Nick shrugged. “I think it looks like snow.”

“We don’t get much snow in South Carolina where I’m from. We have a real spring there.”

“It’s still February,” Rose said, relaxing a little. “Spring’s not for another month.”

Myrtle grunted. “It won’t be spring here even then. You all can get snow well into April.” She winced, looking stricken. “I can’t believe I just said that. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be cavalier.”

Nick’s eyes were half-closed, but he said nothing. Rose wondered where he’d been last April when her father had died on Cameron Mountain. Fighting a wildland fire? Making a deal for Cameron & Martini? Flying off somewhere in his private plane with a woman?

After all, what did she know about Nick Martini?

She and Ranger had searched for her father after he’d been caught in an fierce April snowstorm on the remote north side of Cameron Mountain, but it was Devin Shay, Hannah’s younger brother, who’d found him.

The storm hadn’t killed him. Lowell Whittaker’s paid assassins had, on Lowell’s orders.

“It’s okay,” Rose said quietly. “We’re all ready to make our peace with the past. Pop wouldn’t want us to be miserable. He’d want us to be happy.” She smiled. “Coconut cake is happy.”

Myrtle glanced out at the bright, snowy landscape, as if she couldn’t quite believe she was there, working in a Vermont café. “It’s made with egg whites. My mother would use the leftover egg yolks for boiled custard.”

Rose raised her eyebrows in an exaggerated manner. “Boiled custard, Myrtle?”

“Best stuff in the world. It’s like a cross between eggnog and pudding.”

“Sounds wonderful. How much longer can you hang in here?”

She turned from the window and gave a short laugh. “When you see me digging a pit out back to roast a pig for pulled pork, do an intervention, will you?”

Rose laughed, surprising herself. Myrtle seemed relieved, which told Rose just how pale she had to be. Definitely a welcome distraction, she thought, to talk about coconut cake and pulled pork instead of Nick Martini and the tragic scene out on the river.

Of course, Myrtle was no more focused on food than Rose was and fixed her lavender eyes on Nick. “Do the police suspect the fire this morning was deliberate?”

“Too early to say,” Nick said.

She shifted to Rose. “What do you think?”

Rose reminded herself that the woman scrutinizing her was a veteran journalist accustomed to rooting out lies, deception and simple stonewalling. “It looks as if a kerosene lamp or something similar blew up. Derek—the victim’s upper body was badly burned.”

Myrtle shuddered, turning ashen, her lips thinning as she swallowed visibly.

“It could have been an accident,” Rose added.

“I’ve been in this town for three months. None of the untimely deaths and near-deaths here so far have been accidents.” Myrtle turned back to Nick. “Sean was out here with Hannah last week for a few days. Why didn’t you come with him then?”

“Work commitments,” Nick said.

She obviously wasn’t satisfied. “What are you doing here now?”

“Visiting.”

Instead of stomping back to the kitchen, Myrtle didn’t seem bothered by Nick’s light sarcasm. “You and Rose know each other through Sean?”

Nick drank more of his coffee. “That we do.”

“He told you she’d be out there this morning?”

“Sean did.” Nick leaned over and helped himself to a chunk of Rose’s scone. “What do you know about Derek Cutshaw?”

Myrtle’s eyes darkened slightly. “I only met him a couple times when he stopped in on his way to different ski areas. He was well aware he wasn’t a favorite around here. What was he doing out at the Whittaker place, do you know?”

“No idea,” Nick said.

“Rose?”

“No, none,” she said, feeling Nick’s gaze burning into her. She smiled faintly at Myrtle. “Your reporter’s habits die hard.”

She adjusted her apron. “They’ve been buried in frosting and salad fixings and frozen in the snow. Apparently Derek was sharing a ski house in Killington with some of his friends.”

“How do you know?” Rose asked, surprised.

“Dominique. She knows everything. I imagine the police are up there by now.” Myrtle pushed strands of black hair out of her face. “They still don’t have the SOB who set fire to my house. They think it was one of Whittaker’s killers, probably the same one who taught him how to make a pipe bomb. He won’t say. I think he’s more afraid of this guy than he is of anything the FBI can do to him.”

Nick set his coffee, barely touched, back on the table. “I’m sure if there’s even the remotest possibility of a connection between your fire and the one this morning, the police are all over it.”

“This pyro, whoever it is, is still out there.” Myrtle moved back from the window and gave Nick an unflinching look. “You’re a firefighter. You must hate arson.”

“Most people hate arson,” he said.

“I don’t own a kerosene lamp. My granny did. I remember. What a great woman she was.” Myrtle seemed to give herself a mental shake. “I’ll be in the kitchen. My self-imposed northern New England exile continues. At home in South Carolina,” she said, obviously attempting to lighten her mood as she headed back to the glass case, “I’d be setting out pansies.”

Once Myrtle was through the swinging door to the kitchen, Rose jumped to her feet. “Dom’s quiche is amazing—help yourself,” she said quickly to Nick. In a few strides, she was in the center hall, fighting tears.