Rose felt a sense of dread deep in the pit of her stomach. “What do you think is going on, Myrtle?”
“No idea. I just keeping asking questions. I know I won’t relax until I find out who set my house on fire.”
“It’s a leap to get to Derek or Robert as the arsonist.”
“It was a leap to get to Lowell as the mastermind of a network of killers.” Myrtle sighed and looked out the window, the snow and ice on the river cast in late-afternoon shadows. “I’ve been trying to think back to that week in November. Grit was in town. We ran into each other outside the hotel where the ambassador was killed in the hit-and-run—on orders from Lowell Whittaker, we now know. The same two who killed your father did that hit.”
“We know Melanie Kendall and Kyle Rigby didn’t set the fire at your house,” Rose said. “Is there any concrete evidence that could point to Derek or Robert?”
“Not that I know of. Have you talked to Beth since she and Grit found the woman in Beverly Hills?”
“Dom and I both have.”
“Dom’s a mess. This is all finally getting to her. She’s been so cool, cooking, keeping the café running while you all hunt killers.” Myrtle picked up the oxford-shirt square that Rose had abandoned but immediately placed it back on the table. “I hope that didn’t sound callous. Gallows humor is sometimes my way of coping. Scott Thorne stopped by just before you got here. He’s hurting. I can see it, but he won’t say anything.”
“Neither will Beth,” Rose said.
“Ah, yes. So true. I don’t have to be born and raised in Black Falls to see that. Do you know what happened between the two of them? They seemed to be getting along great. Then all of a sudden, he comes back from Beverly Hills without her.”
Rose shook her head. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe Scott doesn’t have a lot of room in his life for someone else with a demanding job.”
“Not to mention someone whose sister is a Secret Service agent,” Myrtle said.
“I suspect Jo’s been an issue, too, if not the main one. Scott’s solid and decent, but he’s insecure.”
“Who isn’t these days? Does he want a woman who’ll worship him?”
“I don’t think that’s what he’d say, but Beth—”
“The Harpers all say what’s on their minds. Dominique’s convinced Beth and Scott have been on the skids for longer than most of us realize. They got together after your dad died. In my opinion, they talk shop too much. Their work’s become the focus of their relationship. It’s all they have in common.”
“Jo’s a federal agent and Elijah’s a soldier.”
“Totally different worlds. They’ve also known each other since you all were kids. Didn’t she cut the rope on his tire swing? When they’re together, you can see they’re for real. Scott doesn’t have that depth of history with Beth.”
Rose thought about Nick. They had no history. She’d seen him maybe a dozen times on her trips to California. She’d always envisioned herself with someone from Vermont, or at least from New England. But a former submariner? A smoke jumper? Her brother’s best friend and business partner?
Myrtle waved a hand, her nails bright red. “Scott and Beth can figure out their own relationship. I’m lucky I know where I’m sleeping tonight. By the way, I talked to the owners of the gallery across the hall. They’d love to get out of their lease and move to a smaller place down the street. I’ve been trying to convince the ‘sisters’ into expanding and starting a dinner service.”
“So I’ve heard,” Rose said, welcoming the change in topic. “Dominique’s for it.”
“She’s not sure Hannah will want to stay involved in the café.”
“Sean still owns the building.”
“He’ll approve of my plan,” Myrtle said confidently. “He’s a businessman. I more or less ran it past him in January and again last week. O’Rourke’s would benefit from bringing more people into town at night. The lodge, too. People like a lively village.”
“You have big heart,” Rose said with a smile.
“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 café 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 café’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.”