This time, the situation felt different.
She remembered the frantic phone call she’d received from Megan, how freaked-out the younger woman had been. Now, Rebecca felt foolish to have thought she was being played. She should have realized Megan’s panic was real. But how could she when Megan was such a drama queen, such a great actress . . .
But Megan hadn’t been acting or playing a part when she flipped out after her fight with James. She’d been furious, and for the first time, Rebecca wondered if Megan had been distraught enough to do something rash, hurt herself or worse. That didn’t feel right. The idea of suicide was hard to imagine, as Megan had always displayed a zest for life. Yes, she was emotional, her temper legendary, but she wouldn’t harm herself. And certainly not just to prove a point.
The last person who had seen Megan had been James Cahill and she, Rebecca, had walked out on him the other night. Before getting any answers.
Maybe it was time to fix that.
He wouldn’t exactly be rolling out the red carpet for her, but she’d track him down. He had to know something more.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she snagged her keys from the dresser, slipped on a jacket and scarf, and headed out the door. Her near-frozen Subaru was waiting for her in the parking lot, and after giving the windshield a quick swipe with the ice scraper, she climbed behind the wheel and headed out of town.
She stopped at James’s house, found he wasn’t home, and drove to the inn, where she spied his Explorer parked and collecting a layer of snow.
First, she checked the hotel, its lobby festooned in ribbons, lights, poinsettias, and, of course, a Christmas tree that climbed nearly two stories. One man sat reading near a fire burning in a river-rock fireplace; another couple emerged from an elevator. Music and laughter filtered in from the bar, where people had gathered on bar stools and café tables.
But the front desk stood unmanned, no receptionist at the computer.
Rebecca waited anxiously, searching for a bell to ring, but could find none. Irritated, she looked for anyone who might be able to help her and spied two women huddled deep in conversation beneath a glowing EXIT sign that marked a hallway leading toward the rear of the building. The older of the two, a wasp-slender woman with a dour expression and over-permed brown hair, was agitated, a muscle near her forehead ticking. A name tag was pinned to her jacket. It read DONNA BUNN, MANAGER, and she was speaking rapidly, almost out of breath. “—never happened before. It’s just not like her not to call in if she wasn’t going to show up for her shift.”
“I know,” the shorter, younger, apple-cheeked woman agreed. Her name tag read MARIBELLE EDWARDS, KITCHEN STAFF. Thick-waisted, with horn-rimmed glasses and hair tinged purple, she looked like she’d been crying and kept swiping at her nose with a tissue and then lifting her glasses to dab at red-rimmed eyes. “I’ve texted her. Nothing. I even called. Three times. No answer. I’m just zipped to voice mail.”
“Maybe she lost her phone.”
“Maybe, but I can’t help but worry after what happened to Charity Spritz,” Maribelle said, sniffing loudly. “She’s my neighbor, you know. Or was. Geez, that’s weird to say. She lives in the same apartment building as I do, and now they’re saying on the news that Charity’s dead. Murdered! I just can’t believe it. I saw her just the other day and waved to her when she was getting into her van. Ooh, this is horrible.”
“We shouldn’t borrow trouble. Maybe it’s nothing. Just a stomach bug. Or something. She’s always calling in sick anyway.” Donna’s mouth pursed. “And if it is . . . well, I’ll deal with that later. Anyway, Zena’s shift ended an hour ago, and I asked her to stop by and check in on her. They’re friends, you know.” She pulled a cell phone from the pocket of her jacket and scowled at the screen. “Of course, Zena hasn’t texted. Those two are a pair. So unreliable! She might not have even gone over to Willow’s!” Donna must’ve seen Rebecca because she said hastily, “I gotta go,” and forced a smile.
“Just keep me in the loop!” The shorter woman hurried to the women’s restroom, and Donna pasted a smile on her wan face. “Sorry,” she said as she stepped to the reception area and stood behind the desk. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for James Cahill.”
“The owner. Oh.” Her neatly plucked eyebrows drew together. “He’s . . . well, I’m not sure where he is. Let me check.” She made a quick call on her cell phone, talked softly, then clicked off and pasted on her smile again. “He’s supposed to be in the lot,” she told Rebecca. “At least that’s what Bobby, our foreman here, thinks.”
“The lot?”
“Yeah. The Christmas tree lot. Out back.” Donna motioned toward the rear of the building. “Next to the café. You can get there through that hallway,” she said, motioning to the short corridor where she and the other woman had so recently been deep in conversation.
“Thanks.” Rebecca was outside in a shot, crossing the parking area and ducking under an archway to the lot where cut trees were displayed beneath strands of lights. Gravel paths led through the clusters of spruces, pines, and firs, while Christmas music played softly from speakers attached to the exterior of the café. Rebecca barely noticed. She cut past a few customers and scanned the area just to spy James, dog at his heels, striding through a back gate to the surrounding forest of uncut trees.
“Great,” she muttered, hurrying after
