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 too many episodes of Dateline about missing or murdered women? Her last husband, Charles the Casanova, had thought as much and had even gone so far as to delete the shows she’d recorded. “Why get yourself all worked up over these old crimes?” he’d say in that all-knowing way of his. He’d always tried to tell her what to do. Well, they were long divorced. Good riddance to bad rubbish!