She didn’t know what she expected to find, maybe nothing; it was just that Sophia was a bit of a mystery.
And then there was Sophia’s involvement with James Cahill. That was the root of it. With that other girl—Megan—missing and Sophia taking up with James before Megan had so conveniently disappeared, it all seemed more than a little suspicious.
Phoebe peered into the bathroom, which was slightly messier. So much makeup, which was ridiculous. The girl was a knockout, a blond bombshell, as Phoebe’s father—God rest his soul—would have said back in the day, but the shelves and counter were littered with liquid makeup, concealers and blush, lipsticks in a variety of colors, and eye shadows and liners and pencils, and oh . . . it seemed ridiculous for a girl with so much natural beauty. But then, hadn’t Phoebe seen as much in her lifetime? The pretty ones were the most vain, the most concerned with appearances, spent the most time in front of the mirror trying to cover flaws.
Still, there was nothing out of the ordinary . . . now, wait just a second. What was that? The door to the tall cabinet in the bathroom was ajar, as if it couldn’t close, as if the little cabinet was overstuffed. Phoebe opened the door and, at first, saw only stacked towels, but wait!
What the devil?
On the shelf above the towels, tucked behind some linens, was a Styrofoam human head, molded with female features and topped with a dark wig, coffee-brown hair cut shoulder-length with bangs. Phoebe touched it carefully and decided it was made from human hair. She knew a little about wigs as she had two friends who had gone through chemo; each had purchased a wig, one with synthetic hair, the other with human. This was the real deal. “Well, I’ll be . . .” Phoebe whispered. Next to the wig was a glasses case and inside a pair of owlish glasses, very much like the glasses she’d seen Sophia’s visitor wearing. The coffee-colored wig was the exact shade and length of that friend’s hair.
She explored a little further, moving the towels a bit, and discovered something else—some kind of padding that could be strapped around one’s body. To add pounds to an otherwise slim figure. Who would do that? Only someone who wanted to conceal her identity.
Phoebe’s heart began to quiver, and she was suddenly perspiring. What in heaven’s name was Sophia involved in? She touched the fine strands of the hair again and eyed the glasses. Clear glass, she discovered. These items were obviously part of a disguise. Was Sophia living a double life? But why? She couldn’t help but wonder if this had something to do with that other girl’s disappearance. Quietly, she replaced the items and decided she had to leave.
For now.
She couldn’t go to the police—so what if her tenant had glasses and a wig? Big deal . . .
But it was. Phoebe knew it in her heart.
She hurried into the living area again and felt as if she were being watched, then panicked as she thought Sophia might have installed cameras in her home. These days there were all kinds of sophisticated home security equipment available. She swept her gaze over the few pieces of artwork on the walls and the tabletops, but saw nothing that looked suspicious. And even if there were cameras, that was just too bad. She had her rights as a landlord, even if she did stretch them once in a while.
Outside, she closed the door firmly behind her before locking it. She hastened to her unit, slipping a little on a patch of ice, and decided to give Dabrowski a piece of her mind. How difficult was it to keep the walkway clear?
Inside her own unit, she took off her coat and slipped off her boots, then looked around. Where was the dog? “Larry?” she called, instant anxiety sizzling through her blood. Had he gotten out? Had someone been in her unit? She pulled her old high-school twirling baton from the umbrella stand, a handy weapon she’d kept for all these years, then, panicking, searched her apartment. “Larry?”
Her heart was beating a frantic tattoo when she couldn’t find him.
“Larry? Here, boy. Come on now.”
Nothing.
Heart in her throat, she kept searching, peering under her bed and behind her favorite recliner.
“Larry!”
She was having trouble breathing, fear shooting through her, when she heard a muffled yip. Her heart leapt. “Where are you—?”
Another sharp bark.
From the kitchen! She opened the pantry door, and he burst out, yapping wildly.
Relief flooded through her as she crouched, and he sprang into her arms. “Silly boy, how did you get in there?” She scooped him up as she straightened. He rewarded her with sloppy kisses that made her giggle. “You know you’ve been naughty, don’t you, hiding from me?”
But it was her fault. She must’ve left the pantry door ajar, and Larry, always curious, had somehow gotten caught inside, the door swinging closed behind him.
Still, it was odd, she thought, as she carried him into the living room.
“All’s well that ends well,” she said, but she was left with an uncomfortable feeling, her nerves slightly jangled. As she took up her spot on the couch and stared out at the parking lot, her gaze moved to unit 8. All locked up.
So, what about the disguise?
It was odd.
She decided to keep the baton at her side.
Larry gave off a sharp bark, and before she picked up her knitting, she reached for his treats. “Sit,” she commanded, and he obeyed, his eyes focused on the treat in her hand. “Good boy.” She rewarded him, and he ate hungrily, then spun in tight circles, hoping for more. “Okay, fine.” She gave him a few more of the liver-flavored treats, then brushed her fingertips on her sweatshirt. “My turn.” Though she knew she shouldn’t, she reached into the candy dish and counted out five M&Ms, then plopped them all into her mouth. The chocolate was
