Twice Kissed

by Lisa Jackson

  Sniffing loudly, she thought of the last few months when they had been living in Idaho. Maggie had wanted to get away from L.A. and “all the memories, all the pain.” Becca had fought the move tooth and nail, had refused to speak to Maggie, had even wished she could die, and hadn’t been afraid to tell her mother just how she felt.

  Now, Becca cringed at the thought. At the time, Maggie had been seeing a shrink and had insisted that Becca visit him, too. Maggie McCrae had been a basket case—well, they both had been. Thinking back on that painful scene, Becca was embarrassed that she’d laid so much guilt on her mother and, though she hated to admit it, she had decided that living in Settler’s Ridge wasn’t all bad. In fact, some of it she actually liked.

  Like riding Jasper through the woods at night with that stupid, ugly, Barkley loping on three legs behind the horse. That one-eared dog had turned out to be her best friend in the world. Barkley slept on the end of her bed and followed her everywhere she went, just like he would have if she’d raised him from a pup. Yeah, he was dumb.

  Then there were the kids in school. Lots of ’em were geeks—country bumpkins who didn’t know anything about L.A. or surfing or beach volleyball or anything other than what they saw on MTV, but some of the girls seemed okay, and there was one boy in her class, Austin Peters, who was pretty cool. He had shaggy blond hair, cut kinda long, and he was on the shy side; but he smiled at Becca sometimes, and when he did her heart went ker-thunk. Austin Peters had the greatest blue eyes she’d ever seen.

  Oh, man, why was she thinking of Austin now, when she was a million miles away from him, her mom was in Denver, and her aunt Marquise was possibly the victim of “foul play”? Becca cleared her throat, sniffed back her tears, and told herself not to worry about Marquise. Hadn’t her mother always said Mary Theresa always landed on her feet? So nothing could possibly be wrong. Nothing. The news had just screwed something up. That was possible, wasn’t it?

  She squeezed her eyes shut and, for the first time since the day of her father’s funeral, Becca McCrae prayed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brring! The phone jangled, jarring Maggie from a fitful sleep. Where was she and who—oh, God, she was with Thane in the hotel room and she’d just…

  Again the phone blasted.

  Becca. Or Mary Theresa.

  Still half-asleep, she scrabbled for the receiver of the telephone, her heart hammering as if she expected bad news. It was morning, sunlight seeping through the cracks of the curtains, the noise of traffic from the street and water running in nearby rooms sifting through the walls.

  “Hello?” she called into the mouthpiece as she sat up and scooted to the head of the bed, where her pillow was pressed to her back. Thane propped himself up on an elbow, his naked skin gleaming in the morning light, his mouth set in a hard, worried line.

  “Ms. McCrae?” a male voice she recognized asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Detective Henderson.”

  Her heart nearly stopped. The man’s voice was toneless. “Yes?”

  “Listen, you’d better sit down. Your sister’s Jeep’s been located. Off the highway near Turkey Canyon. Single-car accident.”

  “What?” Tears sprang to her eyes. Denial screamed through her brain. “I—I don’t believe it.” She was shaking violently.

  “Maggie, let me—” Thane reached for the receiver, but she wouldn’t let go, held on to the damned phone as if it were a lifeline to Mary Theresa.

  “Are you still there?” Henderson asked.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice the barest of whispers. She began to shiver as the words sank in. “But I don’t believe…I can’t believe that my sister…” Her voice failed her altogether.

  Thane’s eyebrows slammed together, and he stared at her hard, his naked body close, his eyes filled with questions.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. McCrae, but there’s no doubt about it. The license plate and description of the Wrangler match,” Henderson said. “It’s hard to miss your sister’s vanity plate. It reads ‘Marquise.’”

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, her fingers holding the receiver in a death grip. A million images of her sister swirled in a blurred kaleidoscope through her mind. Mary Theresa as a blond tot, as a preteen hiding under the covers and reading her brother’s Playboy magazine, as an adolescent smoking and sneaking out of the house, as a young woman pregnant with Thane’s child and scared to death…Maggie swallowed hard, had trouble finding her voice. “Mary Theresa. Is she—? Is she alive?”

  Thane reached for the phone again, but Maggie shook her head, pushed him away.

  “We don’t know yet. A state trooper found the rig as the snow began to melt. The Wrangler’s pinned beneath the top of a pine tree that must’ve split on impact and there’s nearly a foot of snow on top of that.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered, her throat catching, tears drizzling from her eyes.

  “The trooper called in for backup, and a team’s dug deep enough to see someone—a woman—in the front seat, but it’ll be some time before they can get her out and look for identification.”

  She let out a little squeak of protest. Her stomach clenched, but she couldn’t let the fear get the better of her. “I’ll—we’ll—be at the station in twenty minutes,” she said into the phone, her blood turning to ice, her heart cold as death. She was shaking so violently she could barely hang up the phone.

  “That was the police.”

  “I gathered that much. Are you okay?” Concern darkened his eyes.

  “Yes…no…yes, I will be.” She tried to pull herself together. “They…they think they found her,” she said in a voice that sounded distant and distraught, not at all like her own. “And…and there was some kind of accident.” She blinked and drew in a quivering breath. “Detective Henderson didn’t say it, but I could hear it in his voice. He thinks Mary Theresa is dead. Dead! Oh, God, Thane she can’t be, she just…can’t be.”

  “Wait a minute, slow down.” He tried to hold her, but she edged away.

  “Don’t you understand?” she whispered, her voice dry, her soul black as the darkest corner of hell. “They found her car and a body, a woman’s body. It—it could be her, Thane.”

  Reaching forward, he dragged her into his arms and, despite her protests, held her close. Tears rained from her eyes and she wanted to fall into a million pieces. Pain and desperation clawed at her heart, ripped through her soul. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. Mary Theresa was still alive. She had to be. And yet Maggie was sobbing, clinging to Thane, her fingers curled into fists.

  “Shh,” he whispered. “Maggie, darlin’, it’ll be all right.”

  “No! No! Oh, God, no!” she wailed. “It’ll never be all right.”

  His fingers twined in her hair, and he rocked her gently, pressing her head into his shoulder as his other arm held fast to her waist. “Slow down, Maggie. Tell me what Henderson said.”

  She tried. Through the blinding pain, she managed to repeat most of the conversation.

  “We don’t know anything yet, then. Nothing’s certain.” But his voice was dead, as if he were lying. “Come on, let’s get a move on.”

  “I can’t believe it,” she whispered over and over as she dressed as quickly as she could, throwing on jeans and a sweatshirt, not bothering with makeup or jewelry, just barely able to slip into running shoes.

  Thane, too, yanked on his jeans and wrinkled shirt before finding both their jackets.

  They were on the road in five minutes.

  The police station was a madhouse, as the press had already gotten wind of Marquise’s accident. “I’ve got to call Connie and warn her before Becca turns on the television and sees this,” Maggie said, horrified at the swarm of reporters who were collecting at the station. She didn’t ask, just reached for Thane’s cell phone, gave her sister-in-law a quick rundown of what was happening, then spoke briefly to Becca.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Have they found Aunt Marquise?” Becca
demanded. “I saw something on the news last night.”

  “All I know for certain is that they’ve located her car,” Maggie hedged, upset that Becca was getting information from other sources. She had to level with her daughter and give her straight facts—just as soon as she had them herself. Fingers tightening around the phone, she said, “But we’re at the police station and going to talk to the detective in charge of finding Mary Theresa. The minute I know anything I’ll call.”

  “Promise?” Becca, the tough kid, sounded scared.

  “Scout’s honor. I already told Aunt Connie the same thing. Now try not to worry.”

  There was a hesitation, and Maggie’s heart broke. “Okay,” Becca finally said, her voice breathless as if she was fighting a losing battle with tears. Maggie felt horrible. She wanted her daughter with her, should never have let her go to California. “Look, honey, I’ll call you back once I get to the hotel. Do you have the number?”

  “Yeah.”

  Maggie’s heart tore. Becca was too far away. Mary Theresa was missing. She’d made love to Thane and her entire world was tilting badly, her life falling apart. “Love ya.”

  “Me too.” Becca said meekly and hung up, leaving Maggie holding the receiver and wishing she could reach through the wires and hug her daughter. Becca was usually a pretty strong kid, but all the worries about Marquise seemed to be getting to her as well.

  “Let’s go,” she said, clearing her throat as she handed Thane the phone and reached for the handle of the door.

  Together they walked toward the front of the police station, where the crowd of reporters swarmed. At the sight of Maggie there was a stir. Several cameramen advanced toward her.

  “Hang in, this might be rough,” Thane said. One arm surrounded her shoulders as he hustled her up the steps. Three microphone-wielding reporters accosted them, shouting questions, following them up the few concrete stairs to the double doors of the station.

  “Marquise? Is that Marquise or her double?”

  “Please, just one word.”

  “It’s the sister—”

  Maggie ducked her head. Thane was more forceful, helping her up the steps and shouting, “No comment, we don’t know anything yet,” over his shoulder.

  “This is a nightmare,” he whispered once they were on the second floor and were being ushered into Henderson’s office. Upon spying them through his open door, the beleaguered detective waved them in. “What the hell’s going on?” Thane demanded.

  “As I told Ms. McCrae, we found Marquise’s Jeep. Sit down,” he invited, waving them to the worn plastic chairs in which they’d sat on their earlier visit. He ordered coffee, but Maggie couldn’t take a swallow from her Styrofoam cup. Her stomach was churning; her intestines felt as if they were waterlogged.

  “What about Mary Theresa?” Maggie asked, dreading the answer.

  “Not sure yet.”

  Thane drank his coffee and looked as if he’d rather be any other place in the world. Even through the closed door, the buzz and excitement of the other offices seeped in. Henderson’s phone rang twice, and he had short, terse conversations with whoever was on the other end.

  Hannah Wilkins rapped on the door, then slipped into the tight little room. “The ME is allowing them to remove the body soon,” she reported, and Maggie’s heart shredded. “To the morgue. And the press is all over this. We’ve already had calls from all the stations and papers.” She handed a list to Henderson. “So far the official word is ‘no comment.’”

  “Good.”

  Maggie didn’t think it was good. Not good at all.

  “And we’ve been getting calls from everyone who knew her.” She handed Henderson a list.

  “Pomeranian, King, Gillette…” Henderson nodded. “We’ll call them back.”

  “Wade Pomeranian is demanding answers.”

  Henderson’s expression didn’t change. “So are we.” He swung his gaze back to Maggie. “I’m sorry for the wait—”

  A uniformed officer poked his head into the room. “The fax you were waiting for came in,” he explained.

  Henderson waved him in and accepted a couple of pieces of paper that Maggie was certain would change the course of her life forever.

  Henderson scanned the pages as the officer left the room. Maggie’s brain was screaming with dread, her pulse thudding. She felt sick and silently sent up prayer after prayer for her sister while Thane didn’t say a word, just sat grim-faced, his eyes trained on the detective.

  Henderson’s hound-dog face drooped even farther as he scanned the fax. Maggie’s heart plummeted. She gripped the edge of her chair and felt her head pounding.

  “No positive ID yet,” Henderson said quietly, “but your sister’s purse was in the Jeep and—”

  Maggie thought she might be sick.

  “—the woman in the driver’s seat is about the right size.” His voice was toneless, his gaze on the damning sheets of paper. “The victim’s pretty mangled up. Lacerations, contusions, broken teeth, as she wasn’t wearing her seat belt and was thrown into the windshield.”

  Bile screamed up Maggie’s throat, and she had no choice but to scramble to the wastebasket and retch.

  “Ms. McCrae—” Henderson was on his feet.

  “Leave her alone,” Thane ordered. “Maggie—” He was beside her in an instant.

  “Don’t—” Maggie lifted a hand, afraid someone would try to touch her, comfort her. She didn’t want anyone, not even Thane, to offer any consolation. Not yet. “If…if I could just have a few minutes in the rest room.”

  “I’ll take her.” Detective Wilkins helped Maggie to her feet, and together they made their way through the maze of offices to a women’s room with pale green walls and a tile floor layered in years of built-up wax. The urge to vomit had passed and Maggie huddled over a sink, where she washed her mouth and splashed water on her face.

  Get a grip, she told herself as she eyed her sorry-looking reflection in the mirror. She was pale as death, her eyes sunken and shadowed, her lips bloodless, her unbrushed hair falling lankly around her face. You can’t lose it; not now. Not until you find out the truth and then, damn it, not even then.

  “Better?” Hannah asked.

  “Marginally.”

  “Can I get you anything? Coffee or a glass of water or…a cigarette, maybe?”

  “No.” Maggie yanked out a paper towel and wiped her hands, then her lips. “I’ll be fine. This is all so scary, all…just a shock.”

  “I know.” Hannah offered her a thin, patient smile. “You and your sister were very close.”

  “Are,” Maggie corrected. “We are close.” She tossed the paper towel into the waste barrel and, with as much dignity as she could muster, made her way through the hallways and large rooms crammed with desks to Henderson’s office.

  “…so until we make a positive ID, I’m not sure how we’re gonna handle this.” Henderson was chewing gum to beat the band, and his eyes were mere slits as they narrowed on Thane. He looked up as Maggie entered. “The body’s been transferred to the morgue. Are you up for an identification?”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Thane said. “I’ll handle it.”

  “No.” Maggie was firm. “She’s my sister.” Dry-eyed, she nodded at Henderson. “I’ll do it.”

  Thane looked as if he was about to argue but didn’t. For the first time in his life that Maggie knew of, he did as he was told, following Henderson’s instructions to the letter. Numb, her heart as cold as the bottom of the ocean, her mind screaming all kinds of denials, Maggie, too, took the detective’s lead. Within minutes they were in the morgue, standing behind a large window, watching as a man in a lab coat lifted the sheet from a naked body.

  Maggie’s hands curled into fists so tight that her fingernails dug into her palms. She stood next to Thane, not touching him, but knowing that he was nearby, that if she needed to lean on him, he would support her. Throat too tight to swallow, she stared through the window as the sheet was pulled do
wn and the face of the battered woman came into view. Cuts and bruises, discolored skin and swelling destroyed her features. Her hair was red-brown, the same mahogany color as Mary Theresa’s.

  Maggie thought she might be sick all over again. She could barely look at the body, though she’d seen corpses before; in her previous line of work she’d viewed a few. But never before had it been anyone she’d loved, and she never had really been comfortable viewing death—especially the victims of a violent end.

  But this…could it be?

  “It’s not Mary Theresa,” Thane said, his eyes as harsh as an eagle’s as he glared through the viewing window.

  “He—he’s right,” Maggie said, relief washing over her as she grasped Thane’s words. She couldn’t explain it, because there was no rational reason, but she knew that she wasn’t looking at her sister’s body.

  “This woman weighs more than Mary Theresa,” Thane said as the sheet was completely stripped away.

  “And Mary Theresa had…has…freckles on her shoulders, from being badly sunburned when she and I were about seventeen,” Maggie added. “She’d tried to have them bleached, but they were always there…”

  “This isn’t Marquise,” Thane said again, his countenance harsh. “This woman’s name is Renee Nielsen.”

  Henderson had been reaching into his breast pocket for a nonexistent pack of cigarettes. He froze at Thane’s words. “You know her?” Cocking his head toward the viewing window, he glared at Thane. From the corner of her eye, Maggie saw Hannah Wilkins withdraw a notepad and pen from her pocket.

  “Yeah,” Thane said. “I knew her.”

  Maggie’s throat went dry. Renee Nielsen. Why did the name ring bells?

  “Who is she?” Henderson prodded, as his partner began to scribble furiously in her notepad.