“Me, too.”
“Well, I’m calling with some bad news. Two weddings in February have been canceled, and the clients don’t want their dresses. Can you believe it? This late. One groom got cold feet and broke it off, and the other clients lost their venue and have to reschedule and now want a summer destination wedding, and this dress just won’t do. Never mind that the bride gained forty pounds since the initial fitting and now claims the dress makes her ‘look fat’ and blames me. I tell you, dealing with bridezillas is not for the faint of heart. Per l’amor di Dio!”
For God’s sake, spoken rapidly and under her breath, was one of Angelica’s favorite phrases. Especially when she was frustrated. Which was often enough.
Angelica wasn’t finished ranting. “They both want their deposits back, of course, but the dresses are nearly complete, and what are my chances of selling them—designed specifically for the brides?” She rattled off a further stream of Italian that Rebecca assumed was some form of swearing, but she couldn’t be certain. “I’ll have to sell them at a discount—that is, if I can. So I’ll finish them and send you digital pictures that you can upload to the site and stress the discount?”
“No problem. I was about to head back.”
“Here? To Seattle? When your sister is still missing?” Angelica asked, her tone almost accusing. “No, no, no. Family is everything. You should stay.”
“I don’t think there’s any more that I can do.”
“No? Surely you need to be there for her when she shows up . . .” Her voice trailed off, and Rebecca understood she meant if Megan showed up. “Someone in that town must know something. Someone always knows something they’re not telling, but you can find out! And check into her boyfriends. They’re always the ones, you know?”
She thought of James and wondered. His attitude did seem off. Should he be more concerned about Megan? He’d told Rebecca about their fight without the right amount of emotion, as if he were talking about someone else or spouting lines from a script. And yet he was found broken and bruised with scars that might never completely heal.
Or was that all in her head? Had James’s reaction been spot-on and she, so close to the situation, was simply blind to the truth?
“She might have a secret lover,” Angelica suggested.
“I don’t know about that,” Rebecca said, but, she supposed, anything was possible. For the thousandth time, she wondered about Megan and James’s relationship. How had it started? What was it like? She might never know, but it still stung. Probably always would. Her sister and the man Rebecca had once loved. Had they ever discussed her? Laughed at her expense? Had he told her about their lovemaking? Even now, the thought could make her blush.
“You find out,” Angelica instructed. “You can work from there. No problem. You know. I’ll send you what you need, then I’m flying to L.A., looking at space not far from Rodeo Drive. Wouldn’t that be something, to expand down there? Keep in touch, but stay, Rebecca. Your sister deserves it.”
CHAPTER 29
Something didn’t smell right.
Phoebe Matrix had lived long enough to know when things weren’t right. She’d buried one husband and divorced two others, all of them tomcats who couldn’t keep their privates in their pants. She’d been foolish to give her heart to any of them, though in truth it had worked out. Didn’t she own this apartment building free and clear? Good thing too. You just couldn’t count on Social Security to support you in your golden years.
Golden?
Ha!
That was a laugh.
Anyone who’d lived into their seventies knew that the whole idea of those fabulous retirement years was a fool’s dream. She’d give anything, including the Cascadia Apartments—lock, stock, and barrel—for a good run at twenty or thirty again. And she wouldn’t have married Marvin, Steve, or Charles . . . well, maybe Marvin again. She just would have played her cards differently and would never have let him drive by himself to Yosemite, where somewhere south of Bend, Oregon, his little Chevy Nova had been T-boned by a tractor trailer. No, sirree, she wouldn’t have let him take that fateful trip again.
At the thought, she sketched the sign of the cross over her ample breasts and made her way to the living room, where Larry, who had proved far more loyal than any of her husbands, was in position on the back of the couch. His little nose was pressed to the glass, and he was growling, his fuzzy white fur practically standing on end.
Probably at the blonde in the upstairs studio. Sophia Russo. She was always coming and going, never staying put. Or that friend—or was it a relative, maybe a sister or cousin?—the woman about the same age as Sophia who sometimes stayed over, a dark-haired woman who was heavier, with dark eyes and glasses. She was really pushing the “temporary guest” rule. Phoebe had seen her a number of times and had actually run into her once when she’d been hauling out the trash from a unit that had just been vacated. She hadn’t caught her name and was pretty certain she wasn’t actually living with Sophia; that would definitely be in violation of the lease. Nor was James Cahill living in the building, but he’d been at the apartment a few times and spent the night. Phoebe had caught him leaving in the predawn hours at least twice before his girlfriend, that Megan Travers, had gone missing. Then again, he had his own place, and Phoebe wondered why they didn’t just stay out there at the Christmas tree farm? It would be more private. Well, unless the girlfriend showed up when he was with Sophia.
It was all very odd. And interesting. Scandalously so.
Maybe Sophia and James had worked together to get rid of Megan? Could that be possible? Or was it reaching a bit, maybe from watching
