Bowie relaxed slightly. “Derek was an SOB, especially when he’d been drinking. He was manipulative, controlling and self-absorbed. Everything had to be his way.”
“Was he potentially suicidal?”
“No.”
“You didn’t hesitate.”
“Correct, I didn’t.”
Nick drank more of his beer. “Cutshaw was from somewhere out West?”
Bowie nodded. “Colorado, I think. I don’t really know. Not California, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“What about Robert Feehan?”
“I don’t have a clue. From what I’ve heard, Feehan and Brett Griffin hung out with Derek because he was always up for anything—skiing, partying, driving up to Burlington or down to Boston at the drop of a pin. Feehan stuck with Derek after the fight here. Griffin got out.”
“You seem to have good insights into people.”
“I don’t know about that.” Bowie shrugged, glancing at the band as they finished setting up. “I’ve just had to figure things out to survive. I haven’t kept track of Derek and his friends since last year. I can’t afford to mix it up with anyone again. I’m on probation as it is. I stay busy with work.”
“Do you come in here often?”
“Yeah, but I don’t drink or get into it with anyone. I’m working on my house out on the river.” He frowned at Nick. “What are you doing, playing arson investigator?”
“I’m just a friend.”
“Rose has helped a lot of people with her work. People are alive now who’d be dead without her. If she needs anything, I won’t be the only one who’s there for her.”
“Anyone good enough for her?”
Bowie didn’t hesitate. “Probably not.”
Nick thought he could get along with Bowie O’Rourke.
“I didn’t kill Derek if that’s on your mind. I didn’t wish him well, but I didn’t kill him. I heard about Feehan this morning. I haven’t seen either one. We don’t operate in the same circles. I expect you already know that.” Bowie tapped a thick finger on the bar. “You’re looking for trouble. I know the signs. Pull back.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
Bowie seemed to give up on the idea of eating anything and left with a curt farewell to his cousin. Nick didn’t have high hopes for his beef stew but it was fine—rich, thick, just what he needed after cross-country skiing and raising the hackles on the Black Falls natives.
He finished his stew and left as the band started on their first set. Even in the village, the stars and half-moon stood out against the black night sky. When he arrived back at the lodge he passed a young couple and their curly-haired daughter, who couldn’t be more than ten, playing Scrabble in front of the fire.
The kid was about to nail her folks with a seven-letter word.
Nick headed upstairs. His room was toasty warm. He stood at the window, the drapes open to a view of the moonlit meadow, and called Sean. “Derek Cutshaw and Rose—what does Hannah know?”
“None of the details,” Sean said, obviously not completely taken aback by the question. “She doesn’t want to talk about Rose behind her back.”
“These aren’t ordinary circumstances, Sean. Rose is a perfectionist. She doesn’t like to make mistakes.”
“I have a feeling Derek Cutshaw was a big mistake.”
Nick backed away from the cold air seeping through the window. “Bowie O’Rourke knows something, but whatever it is, he’s keeping it to himself.”
“Rose wouldn’t keep anything germane from the police.” Sean sighed. “Hell, Nick. She would hate owning up to falling for some weasel like Cutshaw to A.J., Elijah and me. It’s her own pride. We wouldn’t do anything. We’ve made enough mistakes of our own.”
“None of you Camerons likes to make mistakes,” Nick said, leaving it at that as he hung up. He wouldn’t lie, but he had no intention of discussing his night with Rose last June with Sean or anyone else.
Nick thought of her alone in her isolated little mountain house. He agreed with A.J. that she wouldn’t stay at the lodge again tonight if she could get out of it. A.J. and Lauren lived on Ridge Road, a few miles from her. She had friends she could call if she wanted company or protection.
Nick grabbed his coat anyway and headed back down to the lobby. The Scrabble players were still in front of the roaring fire. The kid was killing her folks, who seemed surprised she could spell that well. Lively piano music emanated from the bar, laughter from the dining room. Nick could have had a warm, enjoyable evening on his own, but he slipped outside.
His car had cooled off. He’d left his gloves in his room, and the steering wheel was irritatingly cold. He cranked up the heat as he drove along the dark road and turned onto Cameron Mountain Road up to Rose’s house.
There were no other cars in the driveway. He assumed she was still at dinner with her family and parked in front of her garage. She hadn’t left on any outdoor lights.
Nick wasn’t even sure the place had outdoor lights.
As he got out of his car, he noticed the glow of a green tennis ball in a snowbank. Ranger’s doing, undoubtedly. Nick smiled, thinking of Rose out here playing fetch with her golden retriever, and started up the stone steps to the front door, which surely she had locked.
He’d check, anyway.
He heard a sound in the evergreen shrubs by the door and reacted instantly, dropping back down a step, but he already knew he was too late. A man sprang out of the darkness, wielding a snow shovel. Nick raised his arm in an effort to minimize the blow, the shovel glancing off the side of his head. He landed a fast, hard, low kick, striking his attacker below the knee, catching the soft tissue just above a thick boot, forcing him to drop the shovel.
The man groaned and leaped down the steps, bolting onto the driveway.
Nick felt blood trickling into his mouth, tasted it. He jumped off the steps but saw headlights through the trees and heard an engine. He grabbed the shovel, reaching the bottom of the steep driveway just in time to see the rear lights of the car disappear on the narrow, twisting road.
He swore and turned back up to the house. The driveway seemed icier and more treacherous than on the way down. His head throbbed as he mounted the stone steps and checked the front door.
Yes, indeed, Rose had locked it this time.
He descended the steps once more and got back in his car, turned on the engine for the heat and dialed Sean in California. He didn’t give his friend a chance to speak. “What’s A.J.’s number? Never mind. Call him.” Nick wiped blood off the side of his face. “Tell him not to let Rose come home alone. I’m at her house. I don’t want her on the road by herself.”
“Nick, what the hell—”
“I just surprised some jackass breaking into her house. We scuffled. He took off. He had a car parked out of sight. I’m calling the police next.”
“Got it.”
“Do you know where Rose keeps her spare key?”
“She usually doesn’t lock up.”
“I know.”
“The gutter by the back door,” Sean said. “Stay in touch.”
Nick got out of the warm car. He hadn’t switched on the headlights, and his eyes had adjusted to the dark. He found the key stuck in the base of an icy gutter, above another bright green tennis ball. He let himself in through the back door, flipping on lights, checking for any sign the intruder had gotten inside.
He dialed 911 as he moved into the kitchen. He dug a dish towel out of a drawer and pressed it to his bloody head. He got ice from a small freezer and explained the situation to the dispatcher, who clearly knew Rose.
The dispatcher instructed him to stay in a safe place.
Yeah, good idea.
Nick put ice on his scrape and sat on a chair in front of the cold woodstove. It was a cute house. Little. Nice location, except some SOB could walk in and toss the place without worrying about nosy neighbors. Rose didn’t have an alarm system. His condo had twenty-four-hour security, cameras, proper locks, alarms.