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.
It would all come out. Her and Derek, her and Nick. There'd be no more secrets. No discretion. Everyone in town would know her private business.
Ranger was asleep on his back, paws in the air. She didn't want to wake him, but he rolled over on his own and got stiffly up onto all fours. She grabbed his leash and snapped it back on. For the past eight years, he'd been her constant companion. They'd done so much together. He'd been
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.
It would all come out. Her and Derek, her and Nick. There'd be no more secrets. No discretion. Everyone in town would know her private business.
Ranger was asleep on his back, paws in the air. She didn't want to wake him, but he rolled over on his own and got stiffly up onto all fours. She grabbed his leash and snapped it back on. For the past eight years, he'd been her constant companion. They'd done so much together. He'd been
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