“You know him?”
Another beat. “We’ve met.”
“And?”
“And he’s the reason she was so upset and driving to my house.” Her lips tightened almost imperceptibly. “And if you believe what you read in the papers, he was the last person to see her alive—to see her.” She cleared her throat. “She told me that they’d had a horrid fight and that she was coming to stay with me. She didn’t show up, and I came over here, found out that James was in the hospital with injuries from some kind of altercation, which just confirms what Megan told me.” She drew a breath. “He did something to her,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “I just know it.”
“How?”
“Because of what she said. Because she was so upset on the phone.”
“What do you think happened to her?”
“God, I don’t know! I wish I did. Isn’t that your job?”
“It is.”
“Then find her.”
“We will.”
“Good,” she said and headed for the bedroom.
Rivers turned to follow her, but stopped when he saw, through the open doorway, the manager of the apartments hurrying across the parking lot. Emma-Mae Frost, pushing seventy, umbrella in one gloved hand, pistol in the other.
Uh-oh.
“What in God’s good name is going on in here?” Emma-Mae demanded, her face red with the cold. In the light, he saw she was wearing red pajamas beneath a knee-length puffy coat with a hood, her feet covered in furry-topped ankle boots.
“Detective Rivers. You remember me.”
“I do,” she declared. “How’d you get in?”
“Put down the gun,” he suggested carefully, though Emma-Mae had already let her hand fall to her side and was no longer pointing the weapon at him.
Rebecca stepped out of the bedroom. “Oh, whoa!” Her eyes rounded as she stared at the pistol.
“Put the gun on the table,” Rivers said.
“Who’re you?” Emma-Mae demanded, her hood falling backward to show a cap of mussed curls.
“I’m Megan’s sister.”
“Be careful with that,” Rivers said.
“The pistol?” Emma-Mae let out a snort. “It’s not loaded. You think I’m nuts enough to come bustin’ out here in the snow and ice with a loaded gun?”
“Put it down!”
“I got a license.”
“Put the gun down. Now!”
“Well . . . fine.” She set the pistol on the coffee table, but held tight to the handle of her umbrella. “It’s just you can never be too careful.” Her eyes narrowed. “So how’d you get in? I locked up after you all left the last time.”
“I have a key,” Rebecca said.
Rivers left it at that.
“Well, for the love of all that’s holy, I wish someone woulda told me. I hear my cat, Fritz, growling at a squirrel or something and look out the window to see what’s got him all riled up, and I see this place—that’s supposed to be locked, mind you—wide open! Light on. Thought someone was robbin’ it.” She sent Rivers a beady-eyed look. “You mighta let me know.”
“It was early,” he said.
“Hell, yeah, it’s early.” She let out a frustrated breath. “But it’s common decency, y’know, rather than scarin’ me half to death. I had half a mind to call the pol—oh, well.” She squared her shoulders. “I don’t suppose you have any news about Megan?”
“No.”
Emma-Mae eyeballed Rebecca. “She’s behind in her rent.”
“Is she?” Rebecca didn’t seem surprised.
“Again.” Emma-Mae nodded, her short curls bobbing. “It’s due by the fifth, but she told me she’d have the money by the fifteenth, but hell, that’s just around the corner, isn’t it?” Before Rebecca could answer, she asked, “You heard from her?”
“Not since the other night, no.”
“So what am I gonna tell the owner, huh? That I was foolish enough to let her slide on the rent, and now what? I’m gonna evict her?”
“Not yet,” Rivers said.
“I figured she was planning on moving in with her boyfriend. They were thick as thieves, at least for a while, and it seemed it was on her mind. She kept hinting she was probably going to move.”
“Did she?”
“Well, not in so many words. That’s why I didn’t bring it up when I talked to that deputy earlier, but I had the feeling she was going to leave, and I just guessed it was probably with him . . . You think he had something to do with her going missing?” Emma-Mae’s eyebrows arched. “That’s what I read in the paper.”
“We’re still trying to work out what happened,” said Rivers.
“Well, this is a fine pickle. Just a fine damned pickle.” Frowning, she crossed her arms over her chest. “So you done here, or what? I know you’re the cops and all”—she waved in the air dismissively—“but I got a decent place here to run, other tenants, y’know, so . . .”
“I’m finished,” Rivers said.
Emma-Mae cocked an eyebrow at Rebecca.
“Me too.” She was already moving to the still-open door.
Emma-Mae swept her pistol from the coffee table and stuck it into the pocket of her puffy jacket. “Good.” She snapped off the lights, and Rivers followed after her. The fact that she said her pistol was unloaded didn’t ease his mind, nor did the fact that it was tucked in her pocket or that she may or may not have had a license to carry. He’d learned along the way to never let a person with a weapon out of his sight.
He flipped the lock, then closed the door behind them.
Emma-Mae said, “Next time you all think you want in, you talk to me.” Then she snapped open her umbrella and hurried across the lot toward the only apartment with a light burning in a window.
“So why did you decide to show up now?” Rivers asked Rebecca as the door to the manager’s apartment closed behind her.
“Couldn’t sleep.” She eyed him as she walked to her vehicle, a small Ford SUV parked in a visitor spot in the snow-covered lot. Snowflakes caught in her hair, glistening a little
