“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.