Cold Dawn (3 page)

That was how Rose had seen Nick last June: as a firefighter. Only when she'd entered his condo in Beverly Hills had she remembered that he was also a multimillionaire...and her brother's best friend.

At least at first. Once Nick had kissed her, she'd forgotten everything else.

Ranger rubbed against her leg, as if he knew she needed to get her head back in the game.

Nick touched her chin with a gloved finger, moving her head gently so that she was facing him and couldn't avert her eyes. "You're not in good shape, Rose. No BS, okay? Were you meeting this guy, Derek Cutshaw, here?"

"No."

"Were you seeing him?"

"No, Nick, I wasn't seeing him." Not now, she thought. She wished she could say not ever, but it wasn't true. "Ranger and I have been coming out here at the same time, on the same day, for the past six weeks." She pulled back from Nick, and he lowered his hand, although his intensity didn't lessen. "That doesn't mean Derek--or whoever is back there in the shed--was here to meet me."

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"A few weeks ago. In town. We didn't talk. I hadn't realized until then he was even in Vermont."

A town cruiser barreled around a curve and turned into the main driveway, closely followed by a fire truck and ambulance. Rose felt her mouth and throat go dry as she watched Zack Harper, a firefighter she'd grown up with, jump down from his truck and glance in her direction, as if to say
not again
.

A state cruiser pulled in behind the town cruiser. Rose was surprised to see Scott Thorne behind the wheel.

She glanced at Nick. "I thought Scott was in California with Beth Harper."

"He came home early."

"When?"

"Monday night. He only stayed the weekend."

Rose frowned. Why hadn't Beth told her? But that was her friend Beth, a paramedic who was closemouthed about her love life if about nothing else.

Then again, Rose thought, she was standing next to a man she'd made love to on one wild night, and another man who hadn't wanted to take no for an answer was likely dead a few yards from her--and almost no one knew about her association with either of them.

She watched Scott walk up the driveway, grim and ramrod straight in his trooper's uniform. He was a fair, strongly built man with little sense of humor. Rose hated to see him and Beth go their separate ways, but the violence of the past months had been hard on everyone.

She wondered if the FBI and the ATF would be next to descend on the scene, perhaps even the Secret Service. Vice President Preston Neal and his wife and five children had visited Black Falls in early February and planned to come for the winter festival at the lodge in a couple of weeks. It was meant to celebrate the last days of winter and to put the violence of the past months behind them.

Everyone believed Lowell Whittaker's arrest had put his killer network out of business.

Rose felt Nick standing close to her. Did
he
believe it? She remembered him sweeping her into his arms last June, holding her tight as he pushed back the memories of a friend who'd died earlier that day in a wildland fire.

The friend, Jasper Vanderhorn, had been an arson investigator obsessed with a serial arsonist.

She turned, facing Nick. "Are you in Vermont because of Jasper? Do you think his serial arsonist followed you and killed Derek?"

Scott Thorne was within a few yards of reaching them. More police cars and fire trucks arrived. Nick's expression didn't change. "Not now," he said.

"We're not done yet, Nick."

He fixed his gaze on her. "That's right. We're not."

Three

R
ose welcomed the cold air as she let Ranger out of the back of her Jeep. She'd parked in front of Three Sisters Cafe on Main Street, across from the common in the middle of the village of Black Falls. She wondered if Sean had ever tried to explain their hometown to Nick over mojitos by the pool, or looking out at the view of Beverly Hills from their Wilshire Boulevard offices.

She'd left Nick with two state detectives.

She snapped a leash on Ranger and, bypassing the cafe's main entrance, went into the 1835 brick house through its center-hall door. Sean owned the building. Three of Rose's friends--"sisters" in spirit--had converted the corner rooms into a breakfast-and-lunch enterprise that few in town had believed would survive six months. Almost two years later, it was thriving.

Without waiting to be told, Ranger lay down in the hall. He looked tired. Rose had given him a treat and water in the Jeep, but he wasn't as resilient as he'd been even just a year ago. She suspected he was reacting to her stress as much as his own at the unexpected scene on the river. A body burned beyond recognition. The likelihood that the victim was a man she knew and had hoped was long out of her life.

Nick's presence.

She took off Ranger's leash, hung it on a peg on the wall and entered the cafe. The early-morning rush was over, the only customers three middle-aged women fresh from their yoga class up the street. They'd leaned their rolled-up mats against the wall and were enjoying house-made yogurt, fresh fruit and muffins at a table overlooking Elm Street.

Dominique Belair, one of the cafe's three owners, was behind the glass case, her fine dark hair pulled back neatly but her face pale, her brown eyes wide, shining with worry. "I heard about the fire," she said as she reached for a mug in the cafe's evergreen signature color. "Is it true the man who died is Derek Cutshaw?"

"There hasn't been a positive ID," Rose said, pulling off her coat. She'd left her hat and gloves in her Jeep. "His car's at the guesthouse and footprints lead to the shed where the body was found."

"So yes, it's Derek. I can't imagine what it must have been like for you to go out there expecting a beautiful morning with Ranger and finding..." Dominique shuddered and pointed the mug at the glass case. "You should eat something. Coffee and a scone?"

Rose had brought a breakfast bar with her to the Whittaker place but hadn't touched it. Now it was almost lunchtime. She couldn't imagine eating and yet knew she had to. She nodded and attempted a smile. "That'd be great."

Dominique filled the mug from a coffee urn on a counter behind her, then pulled a cinnamon scone off a stack on a tray and set it on a small plate. She handed both the mug and plate to Rose. "Anything else I can get you?"

"No, thanks," Rose said. "This is perfect."

Dominique started to say something, but another customer entered the cafe and Rose took her coffee and scone to a table overlooking the river that ran behind the cafe. She wasn't sure why she'd come here. To have a few moments to herself, or to be among friends? Or just to avoid being alone at her house, or going up to the lodge and talking to her brother A.J. about what had happened--about Nick Martini and Derek Cutshaw?

She noticed Myrtle Smith come through the kitchen door behind the glass case. At fifty-four, Myrtle was tiny, with dyed black hair, lavender eyes and bright red nails. She'd been helping out at the cafe since January, when Hannah Shay, another of the three "sisters," had departed for Southern California with her two younger brothers, not to mention, Rose thought, one Sean Cameron. He and Hannah, a recent law school graduate, had exposed Lowell Whittaker as a killer.

Myrtle was an experienced Washington reporter who'd been touched by Lowell's violence herself when he'd arranged for the poisoning murder of a Russian diplomat she'd been involved with. Her investigation into his death ultimately had led her to Black Falls.

She headed straight for Rose's riverside table. "I hate to speak ill of the dead," Myrtle said, dropping into a chair across from Rose, "but Derek Cutshaw could be one unpleasant human being."

Rose didn't comment. "When did you see him last?"

"About two weeks ago. I haven't seen him since. Dom, either. I don't know about Beth."

Beth Harper was the third "sister" who co-owned the cafe. She was in Beverly Hills visiting Sean and Hannah. Beth, her brother and Scott Thorne had flown back to California with them last Friday. Zack had always planned to stay just through the weekend. Not Scott.

"What about Hannah?" Rose asked. "Have you or Dom been in touch with her?"

"Dom said she'd call both Beth and Hannah when she knew more. They're supposed to be having fun--swimming in Sean's pool, shopping on Rodeo Drive, watching for Hollywood stars."

"Scott Thorne's back. Did you know that?"

"I'd heard," Myrtle said but didn't elaborate.

Rose decided not to try to figure out Beth's love life. Her own was complicated enough, or at least had been. Nowadays it was downright simple: no love life.

"What about your brothers?" Myrtle asked. "Have you talked to them?"

"No, not yet."

A.J. would be at the lodge. Elijah, her middle brother, a Special Forces soldier, was in Washington, D.C., with Jo Harper, Zack and Beth's older sister, a Secret Service agent. Sean, the youngest of the three Cameron brothers, was home in Beverly Hills with Hannah, who was still figuring out her life. Rose had no doubt they were as in love as they had been in January. Their feelings weren't rooted in the adrenaline of their encounter with the Whittakers. They'd been destined for each other since high school.

They were soul mates, if one believed in such things.

The yoga group departed, and the cafe was quiet. Rose stared down at the ice jams on the river, vaguely aware of Dominique setting a plate of quiche and fresh fruit in front of her.

She thanked Dominique before realizing her friend had already gone.

She felt Myrtle observing her as she tried a bit of her cinnamon scone. Only recently had she decided that what her family and friends didn't know about the past twelve months of her life wasn't anything she was hiding from them so much as letting be. She'd moved on, or had tried to.

Except now Derek Cutshaw was almost certainly dead, and Nick Martini was in Black Falls.

And walking into the cafe, Rose thought with a grimace, watching out of the corner of her eye as he glanced in her direction and headed to the glass case. His jacket was open, and he moved as if he didn't have anything more momentous on his mind than figuring out what kind of coffee to order.

Myrtle raised her thin, penciled eyebrows. "You know him?"

Rose realized her expression must have given her away. She tried to appear more neutral. "That's Nick Martini. He's--"

"The Martini of Cameron & Martini and another smoke jumper," Myrtle said with interest. "When did he get here?"

"Last night. He was at the fire this morning."

"You're friends?"

"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 cafe.

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 cafe. "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."