“It was built by a wealthy New York couple who loved Black Falls and were nothing like the Whittakers. It’s always been owned by people from out-of-state. Not many people here could afford it.”
“The Camerons?”
“Not unless we turned it into something that could produce an income. It’d be a risky investment.”
“A challenge.”
Rose smiled, her tension lessening. “Maybe that’s why you’re a multimillionaire. Do you love any of the buildings you and Sean have bought?”
“We don’t invest in a property we don’t love. We’ve refurbished some historic beauties. We’re looking into a grande dame of an old hotel in Beverly Hills right now. Hannah loves it.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“But it’s still business,” Nick said.
“It has to be. You and Sean had a fire in a building last winter. I hadn’t thought about that. Did Jasper investigate?’
“Not at the time. Afterward.”
“Because of his serial arsonist?”
A strong gust of wind howled and whistled in the trees. “It’s cold,” Nick said, heading back onto the walk. “Let’s go.”
They returned to her Jeep. Ranger hopped in the back, agile and eager, no sign of stiffness.
A mile down the riverside road, Nick settled back in his seat. “What’s on your mind, Rose?”
“Nothing.”
“Uh-huh,” he said skeptically.
She gripped the wheel. “I was thinking about driving up to Killington to check out the house Robert and Derek rented together.”
“Bad idea.”
She sighed, the emotion of being back at the scene of Derek’s death—reliving the weeks they’d seen each other—still weighing on her. “I have some work to do at my house. I’ll drop you off at the lodge.”
“I can keep myself busy at your place. I’ll chop wood.”
“When’s the last time you chopped wood?”
He grinned at her. “You just forgot I’m a rugged smoke jumper, didn’t you? I can wield an ax. You insist on always imagining me in a tux at a five-star Beverly Hills hotel.”
“Wrong, Nick.”
“Ah. So you also imagine me in the shower.”
She felt a jolt of pure sexual awareness. The shower. Great. Just what she needed. If she hadn’t been imagining him naked thirty seconds ago, she was now, which, she suspected, had been his goal.
Was he imagining her naked in the shower?
She ground the gears turning onto the main road into the village and tried not to look at him. So much for being a private person. Now Nick knew about Derek, and Sean, Hannah and everyone else knew about Nick. She had no secrets left.
Maybe it was just as well, she thought. Maybe now she could put the pain and mistakes of the past year behind her.
She glanced at Nick, saw the scrape and bruise on the side of his head and realized that nothing would be behind her, nothing would be over, until he had his answers. Until he was satisfied that Jasper Vanderhorn’s serial arsonist—his killer—wasn’t in Vermont.
Fourteen
Beverly Hills, California
G rit woke up and checked his BlackBerry. He didn’t have any emails, text messages or voice mails from anyone but Admiral Jenkins, his boss, who’d left one of each at around one in the morning East Coast time. Grit eyed the email subject heading: Los Angeles?
Apparently the admiral didn’t like Grit’s choice of airport.
Nothing anyone could do about it now. Grit deleted all three messages.
He went through his routine to put on his prosthesis and headed down the hall to the kitchen. It was a bright, beautiful morning in Beverly Hills. No one was around. He figured Sean was off making money or putting out fires, but he noticed Hannah and Beth were out by the pool. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was just after ten. Later than he thought.
He ventured outside for coffee, fruit, cheese and cute mini-muffins at a sunny table by the pool. While he was listening to Beth describe a discussion back in Black Falls between foodie Dominique Belair and Washington reporter Myrtle Smith over the virtues of different varieties of peaches, Grit received a series of text messages—one after another—from Charlie Neal. They came through under an obvious alias, but Grit wasn’t even curious how Charlie had pulled them off.
Each message included a piece of the address for his sister Marissa’s actor ex-boyfriend, Trent Stevens.
Grit didn’t text Charlie back.
Hannah and Beth were dressed in shorts and T-shirts, Hannah’s legs slightly less pale than Beth’s. Both had obviously slathered on sunscreen. Grit, who was in civilian cargo pants and a polo shirt, didn’t bother. He wasn’t spending the day by the pool.
“It was cool last week,” Hannah said.
“It’s cool this week,” he said. “You two just think it’s warm because you’re used to it being four degrees.”
“You did your SEAL training out here,” Beth said, holding a bunch of grapes in her lap.
“Not in Beverly Hills.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know not in Beverly Hills.”
“I don’t scare you, do I?”
“What?”
He grinned and helped himself to a strawberry. “Never mind. I trained down the road on Coronado. What’re you two doing today?”
“Hannah’s studying this morning,” Beth said. “I’ll hang out here. Then we’re doing a ladies’ lunch at the Beverly Hills Hotel. You’re welcome to join us.”
“I’m not a lady.”
Another roll of the eyes. Grit figured Beth Harper deserved sunlight, warmth and time away from Vermont, given the stresses of the past winter. She’d been on the search team that had hiked up the remote north side of Cameron Mountain when one of Lowell Whittaker’s paid killers had pinned down Jo, Elijah, Hannah’s brother Devin and another teenager—the stepdaughter of a murdered ambassador—in a tiny cabin.
By the time Beth arrived, the killer, a brutal type named Kyle Rigby, was dead. Elijah had shot him while Jo provided cover from the cabin and kept the two teenagers alive.
Trooper Thorne had been on the team that morning.
Beth was the second daughter of a Black Falls retired police chief, one of the co-owners of Three Sisters Café and, from what Grit had seen during his days in Black Falls, close to her firefighter brother and federal agent sister. But right now, Beth looked very alone to him.
Hannah gave Grit a bright smile. “What are you doing today?”
“I have a few errands to run before I head to Coronado. Should be interesting. I haven’t been this far from my physical therapist since they wheeled me into Bethesda.”
Beth plucked a grape off her bunch and popped it in her mouth. “You’ll be fine.”
“You’re a hard-bitten Yankee woman, Beth Harper,” Grit teased her, good-humored, as he got to his feet.
“I was being encouraging.”
He laughed and headed back inside. It was a nice house. Generally it took a lot for him to notice such things. He was digging out his phone to call a cab when Beth appeared at his elbow. “Sean’s loaned me a car,” she said. “I can take you where you want to go.”
“What about your ladies’ lunch?”
“Hannah said she can use the extra study time. We’ll go tomorrow.”
“You could just give me the keys,” Grit said.
“Nope. Can’t. The idea of driving the streets of Beverly Hills with a disabled Navy SEAL scares the hell out of me.”
“No, it doesn’t. You’re looking for distractions. In my experience, that, combined with car keys, is a recipe for problems.”
“Add jet lag and unfamiliar roads and it all cancels out,” Beth said. “I’ll have to concentrate.”