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“Me, too,” he said.
She hid her grin with another sip.
“It is”—he glanced at the clock on the wall—“eight o’clock, and I’m guessing you have a date with Miss Pearce today.”
“I do,” she said.
“That means it’s high time for breakfast. If you’ll just direct me to your pans.”
“You made the coffee, I’ll make the breakfast,” she said, padding forward into the kitchen.
“And what should I do with myself?” he asked.
“Take a shower? Sit and talk to me?” she suggested.
“I’ll do that one,” he said, pulling out her desk chair and sitting down.
She set about pulling out a carton of eggs and some bread. She counted herself lucky she had a bit of bacon in the refrigerator, too.
“So is this where all of the writing magic happens?” he asked, looking around.
She glanced over at him. “Most of that’s saved for the newsroom, but I’ve been working on putting some structure to my conversations with Miss Pearce. It’s mostly notes right now. You can take a look if you like. It’s that pile of papers right there.”
He set his coffee down and picked up the first sheet of paper to begin reading through it while she put the bacon in a pan to fry. Then she cracked the eggs into a bowl and whipped them for a scramble.
“This Guy Whitley was her husband?” asked Matt.
“That’s right.”
“Then why does she go by Miss Pearce?”
“I assume she started using Pearce again when they separated. You know, he owned a couple of hotels in Pasadena when it used to be a winter resort?”
“Really?”
“They lived in a big house on South Orange Grove Boulevard. I drove by to try to find it, but it looks like it’s not there anymore,” she said.
“So they moved to Rosewood House?”
“No, it was part of her marriage settlement that she be given a property free and clear. Apparently she negotiated that condition herself.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Matt, picking up another page. “You should see her handle wholesalers.”
Theresa depressed the handle on the toaster and flipped the bacon before putting another pan on to heat for the eggs. In the background, the urgent tone of a news bulletin sounded.
“Matt, would you turn that up?” she asked.
He reached for the radio and twisted the volume dial.
“… responding to early reports of a wildfire in the San Gabriel Mountains near Idlehour Campground.”
Matt shot to his feet. “That’s close to Rosewood.”
“How close?” she asked.
“The campground is less than a ten-mile hike from the house.”
In a flash, Theresa turned off the burners on the stove and tugged off her robe. Matt followed her to the bedroom, diving for his shoes while she wrenched open the drawers of her small dresser to pull out whatever clothes she could put her hands on first. She pulled on a pair of slim navy trousers and threw a white linen top over a bra. Then she jammed her feet into a pair of Keds and raced out to the front room to stuff a fresh notebook and pencils into her handbag.
