Twice Kissed

by Lisa Jackson

  “Not to me. Usually to the ranch outside of Sonoma.” He lifted a shoulder. “For some reason she thinks of it as kind of a sanctuary.”

  “I didn’t know.” But there was so much she didn’t understand about her twin, so much she never would.

  “She has a room there,” he admitted. “It’s the same one she had when we were married.”

  “When you were married?” she repeated and wondered why he was trying to con her. Her temper, always at ready, kicked in. “Do you expect me to believe that you didn’t sleep with your wife?”

  “Not after she lost the baby. We were still renting the place then, before I scraped together enough money for a down payment. Mary Theresa moved out of our bedroom and usually locked the door. Sometimes…she’d change her mind, for whatever reason, probably to keep me on a short leash. Hell, who knows with that woman, but then she’d come knockin’ on my bedroom door, and I always opened it.” His jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed a fraction, as if he was disgusted at his own particular brand of weakness. “Intimacy, if you could call it that with your sister, was always on her terms.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I take it she didn’t tell you.”

  “No.” But then I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know anything about your life with her. Folding her arms over her chest, Maggie glared out the window and refused to be saddened by something that had happened years ago.

  “Believe me, there’s a lot she probably didn’t let you know about her life and you might not like it. She had a dark side, Maggie.”

  “Don’t we all?” she tossed back, unable to stop herself.

  “Not like her. Brace yourself. You might be about to find out things about your sister you didn’t want to know.”

  “I think I already have.”

  The police station loomed before them, and Thane, his countenance grim, his expression harsh and unforgiving, parked the truck in a parking lot that had been cleared of snow. With a glance at her, he reached for his hat. “It’s now or never.”

  “Let’s go.” She didn’t want to waste another second.

  They walked together along the snow-crusted street, past people dressed in anything from business suits to Western jeans and denim jackets to ski coats and stocking caps. A television van was pulling up as they climbed a few steps. Thane held the door to the station open for her, and, within minutes, they were ushered upstairs to Detective Reed Henderson’s office, two Styrofoam cups of coffee warming their hands, the detective himself seated behind a battered metal desk overflowing with files, notes, and scattered papers. If there was any rhyme or reason to his method of doing business, Maggie couldn’t figure it out.

  He’d been gentleman enough to introduce himself, shake her hand, offer her a chair, and order coffee from an underling, but the eyes in his hound-dog of a face didn’t show the slightest bit of warmth.

  “So you still haven’t heard from your sister?” he said as Maggie, cradling her cup in fingers that were still cold, noticed a picture of Mary Theresa on the bulletin board behind him. Her throat constricted. Despite all the pain, they were still blood kin—twins. So where was her sister? What had happened to the flamboyant and wild Marquise?

  She licked suddenly dry lips. “No. Not a word.” Well, aside from that one desperate nonvocal plea for help. But she didn’t mention that. Wouldn’t. If she did, Henderson would probably have her evaluated by some kind of criminal psychologist on the force. Avoiding the detective’s eyes, she took a sip from the weak coffee in her cup.

  “And you?” He lifted one eyebrow in Thane’s direction.

  “Nope. Stopped by the ranch on the way here. No messages.”

  Nodding as if he expected no more, Henderson tented his hands and looked over the tops of squared-off fingers. “So you went all the way to Idaho to pick up your ex-sister-in-law.”

  “Yep.” Thane lifted a shoulder. “Didn’t want her to have to face you alone.”

  “Any other reason?”

  “Nope,” he drawled. “Just here for moral support.”

  “So you’re a do-gooder, Walker?” Henderson said skeptically, his expression doubtful.

  “Nah.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Maggie felt the tension in the air, the antagonism between the two men. Obviously neither trusted the other. Nor, come to think of it, did she.

  “So I take it you don’t know any more than when you called me,” Maggie said, her spirits sinking. She hadn’t realized until this moment that she was expecting good news upon her arrival in Denver, had hoped that Mary Theresa would have shown up, flustered, tired from a hastily planned trip to who-knew-where, but pleased and amused that she’d caused a stir.

  No such luck.

  “Nothing more,” the detective admitted. “She’s still missing, as is one of her cars—a Jeep Wrangler, so we think she went somewhere. This could all be a mistake, I suppose, but the fact that she didn’t show up for the taping of her talk show; stood up Ambrose King, her agent, who had flown here from L.A. to talk to her about her career; and has been incommunicado since last Friday, suggests that something might have gone wrong.”

  “What?” she asked, her temper flaring again. She was tired, hungry, and angry that there wasn’t any more information than before.

  “That’s what we intend to find out.”

  “Have you talked to all her friends? Her…her boyfriend? Her boss? Her hairdresser, her personal trainer, her…” She let her words fall away.

  “Everyone we know of. I was hoping you could come up with some other people she might have contacted.” He glanced over Maggie’s shoulder and, using two fingers, motioned to someone hovering on the other side of the door to come in. Maggie glanced behind her as a petite woman with platinum-blond hair and an upturned nose sauntered into the room. “This is my partner, Hannah Wilkins. Maggie McCrae. I think you and Mr. Walker have already met.”

  Thane tilted his head and started to climb to his feet, but Hannah waved him back into his chair. Her eyes hadn’t left Maggie. “So you’re the twin sister. I guessed as much.” Hannah shook Maggie’s hand, glanced at the picture on Henderson’s bulletin board, and shook her head. “You’re a dead ringer for her.”

  “Not quite,” Maggie replied, a little uneasy at the woman’s intense scrutiny.

  “I doubt that many people can tell you apart.”

  Not even the man I loved. Maggie sensed Thane’s gaze touch hers for a heartbeat, before he took a swallow from his cup.

  “Let’s bring in another chair,” Henderson suggested, but Hannah shook her head.

  “I’m fine. Been sitting all morning.” As if she anticipated Thane offering her his chair, she sent him a steely glance. “Really. Thanks.” She leaned against the filing cabinet. “This is perfect.”

  “Whatever.” Henderson shuffled through some of the mess of papers on his desk. “We were hoping you could fill in some blanks for us, Ms. McCrae.”

  Maggie leaned back in her uncomfortable chair. “Sure…I mean, whatever…” There was no reason to fight these people, at least not yet. Though Henderson might not care as much as she for Mary Theresa’s safety, he appeared thorough, earnest, and though probably overworked and cynical, had a wealth of information, manpower and technology at his fingertips. So what did it matter if his desk looked like a three-year-old had done his filing?

  “Good. Now tell me about your sister and your relationship with her.” The most gossamer of smiles touched his lips. “I think we’ve already established the fact that you’re twins.”

  She glanced at the picture of Mary Theresa pinned to the bulletin board. Yes, they were twins, but she was a pale, washed-out version of the vibrant woman smiling in the slick publicity shot. Maggie’s head pounded; she was tired and worried sick. “Yes, we’re twins. Identical, but mirror image. Mary Theresa—well, Marquise—is left-handed and I’m right. There are other characteristics as well, nothing quite as obvious. Anyway, she and I lived with our parents in Rio Verde, California; that’s about a
n hour or so north of San Francisco, not too far from Sonoma.” Maggie explained about growing up in their family, about her parents’ and Mitch’s deaths. Once in a while Detective Henderson broke in with a question or comment and even more rarely Detective Wilkins did the same, clarifying a point here and there.

  They didn’t ask about her affair with Thane. She didn’t mention it. There didn’t seem to be any reason to bring up the painful topic, and she never said a word about her means of silent communication with her sister. Henderson and Wilkins wouldn’t believe her if she did, and anything she might confide in them would be taken with a very jaded grain of salt.

  Henderson listened, eyed them both, and once in a while reached for a baseball buried under a manila envelope on his desk, only to ignore it. Hannah Wilkins scratched a few notes on a pad she’d taken from her pocket and small dents appeared between neatly plucked eyebrows as she concentrated. Once in a while she tugged at an earring. All the while Thane didn’t offer a word, just sat in his chair, one booted foot propped on the opposing jeans-clad knee, his rawhide jacket open, his arms crossed over his chest, his hat resting on the floor. His face was a mask of patient disinterest, but the flicker of anger in his gaze belied him. Thane Walker was doing a slow, steady burn, one that would eventually ignite like a powder keg.

  “So after Mary Theresa married Mr. Walker, here, you and she went your separate ways?”

  Maggie’s heart beat a painful tattoo. She avoided the detective’s probing gaze. “That’s right.”

  “You went to the University of California, Davis.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “Eventually, after two years at a junior college. I studied literature and journalism.”

  “And met the man who would become your husband…Dean McCrae?”

  “Yes—I met Dean at junior college and we both transferred.” Why this embarrassed her, she didn’t understand, so she looked up and sighed. “I finished my B.A., Dean went on to law school, and I worked with a private investigator for a while.”

  “Before writing true-crime stories?”

  “Yes.”

  “One child?”

  Maggie nodded and wondered what Becca was doing now. “A daughter. Rebecca Anne. She was born in April of 1985.” Maggie gave the information out by rote, knowing that it was probably all in the files on the computer as well as buried somewhere in the mess of papers and folders on Henderson’s desk.

  Henderson checked his notes. “Your husband died in a car accident about nine months ago?”

  She nodded, her heart growing heavy. “Yes.”

  “Single car? He swerved to miss a dog, ran off the road, and down a hillside, where the car hit a culvert.”

  Maggie felt her skin crawl at the memory. A sheen of nervous sweat broke out on her back. She couldn’t stand to think about the dark days surrounding Dean’s death or the guilt that nagged at her when she considered it. “Yes.”

  “You were living in Southern California at the time.”

  “Laguna Nigel, yes,” she admitted, clearing her throat. “We moved there right after Dean got out of law school.”

  “I don’t see what this has to do with anything,” Thane finally cut in. Tiny brackets surrounded his mouth and he couldn’t hide his irritation and impatience.

  Henderson ignored him. “You visited a psychiatrist after your husband’s death?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, suddenly more nervous than she had been. Though it had been only natural to visit a grief counselor and psychiatrist, Dean’s family had disapproved. Connie had pointed out that Maggie had visited the doctor before Dean’s death—that she’d been battling depression for months, perhaps years, and that there might be something deeper, a more insidious form of mental illness. Jim had been outwardly suspicious of Maggie’s fortitude as well as her morals—what woman, after all, would be insane enough not to want to be married to Dean, no matter what his faults? They hadn’t said too much but had quietly disapproved, silently insinuating that Maggie might not be a stable influence for her daughter, which was downright ridiculous. Maggie suspected that their concern for Becca was rooted in a deeper worry about her inheritance, the trust fund that sat gathering interest in Becca’s name.

  “So you have a history of…”

  “I had a case of slight depression, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?” Henderson asked, clearly skeptical.

  “Wait a minute. What is this?” Thane’s boots hit the floor, his pretense of disinterest falling away as quickly as if it had been stripped.

  “Just trying to get the whole picture.”

  “What does Maggie’s marriage have to do with anything?” Nerves strung tight, Thane stood slowly, placed his hands on Henderson’s desk, and leaned forward, thrusting his face so close to the detective’s that there was hardly any space of daylight between them. “Listen, Detective, Mary Theresa is missing. We came here to give you information. About her. To help you find her. Maggie doesn’t need her life ripped apart in the process.”

  Henderson’s smile held zero warmth. “Sit down, Walker.”

  Thane hesitated, ground his teeth, and slowly returned to his seat. Eyes narrowed on Henderson, his lips blade-thin, his manner was silently combative.

  “I’ve got a job to do here.” Henderson riffled through his papers. “But don’t worry. We’re gonna find your ex-wife. Did you have any contact with your sister recently?”

  The muscles in the back of Maggie’s neck tightened.

  “Not for a few weeks. Five or six,” she said, refusing to think of that one silent cry for help only she could hear.

  “Did she mention anything that was out of the ordinary?”

  “She was always a little out of the ordinary,” Maggie said. “That’s why she was Marquise.”

  “But more than usual? Was she depressed or angry or worried about anything?”

  “Just the ratings of her show, I think. We mainly talked about my daughter. Mary Theresa and she were—are—very close.”

  “When was the last time she saw your daughter?”

  Maggie thought for just a second. “Last summer. Beginning of July. That’s the only time she came up to our place in Idaho.”

  “Why?”

  “Look, Detective, if you know anything about my sister, you know that a cabin in the woods in the panhandle of Idaho isn’t exactly her style. Mary Theresa was never one for…roughing it. She’s a city girl.”

  “But she was married to you?” His gaze swung to Thane, and Maggie sensed the wheels of curiosity were cranking overtime in the detective’s mind. Cowboy boots, battle-scarred rawhide jacket, jeans, and a work shirt—Thane wasn’t the kind of man Marquise would deign to marry.

  “We were young,” Thane explained.

  “Opposites attracted?”

  “Something like that.”

  Maggie felt her cheeks flame. She bit her tongue. There was no reason to discuss what had happened so long ago. It was over. Ancient history. Or was it? Why had Mary Theresa kept in contact with her ex-husband if there was nothing between them? Why had they fought? And why did Thane seem like he was hiding something, a secret that he couldn’t confide in her? Somehow she knew that Detective Henderson would ferret it out, one way or another. Though she knew she wasn’t under suspicion—well, at least she thought she wasn’t—the conversation seemed like an interrogation. Henderson wasn’t convinced either she or Thane was telling the truth.

  “When was the last time you saw Marquise—er, Mary Theresa?” He glanced at Thane as he rummaged in the top drawer of his desk.

  “We discussed this the last time I was here.” Thane’s eyes were thunderous.

  “I know about the fight at her house,” Henderson said. “We’ll get to that in a minute. But she’d come to see you before then, hadn’t she?”

  A muscle worked in the corner of Thane’s jaw. “About three or four weeks ago. She’d come up to my ranch in Wyoming.”

  “Not far from Cheyenne?”

  “Yep.”<
br />
  Maggie’s spine stiffened.

  “Any particular reason?” Henderson asked, retrieving a pack of gum and shaking out a stick.

  Thane hesitated and rubbed his chin. “It was unusual, even for her. I think I told you that she sometimes went to my spread in California, but this time she came up to see me. She was having trouble with her job. Ratings and arguments with the guy she worked with.”

  “Craig Beaumont?”

  “Right.”

  “Anything else?” Henderson unwrapped the gum and plopped it into his mouth.

  “Nope,” Thane said, and again Maggie felt as if he was hiding something from her. From the detective. Something vital. She couldn’t imagine what it was, but she was determined to find out.

  “So,” Henderson said, wiggling his pencil and frowning, “the last time your ex-wife came to visit you, how long did she stay?”

  Thane’s nostrils flared. “A while.”

  “How long of a while?”

  Maggie sensed something was going on here, something important.

  Thane rubbed the back of his neck. “Three days,” he said, his face dead serious. “She stayed three days.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Three days?

  Thane and Mary Theresa had been alone in his house for three days less than a month ago?

  Maggie’s heart began to ache, though she didn’t understand why. It was as if she’d been lied to, betrayed, all over again. She couldn’t help swing her incredulous gaze in Thane’s direction. Mary Theresa had been in Cheyenne—in that stark house, sleeping in the small bed in the second bedroom? Or…had she been with Thane?

  “Were you lovers?” Henderson asked.

  “A long time ago.” Thane didn’t miss a beat.

  “But not recently?”

  “No.”

  “Yet she came to see you?” Clearly the detective was suspicious. He exchanged a glance with his partner, who scratched another note on her pad.

  “Sometimes.”

  Henderson reached for his baseball as if he didn’t know he was doing it. “Who else did she go to?” He gave the ball a toss.