Twice Kissed

by Lisa Jackson

  Becca didn’t like the sound of this.

  “The schools up there have to be atrocious.”

  “They’re all right.”

  “But all your friends and family are here and…well, you know Uncle Jim and I would love to have you come and live with us permanently. I’m willing to give up my office and move into Jim’s so that you could have a place to stay.” She smiled brightly. “We could be one big happy family.”

  “What about Mom?”

  “Oh.” Aunt Connie cleared her throat. “All this would have to be run by her, of course, and well…she could move back to L.A. anytime she wants. That would be even better. She…she could be closer to us and Grandma and Grandpa, and there are doctors here who would help her.”

  “Doctors?” Becca’s heart was pounding. “Is she sick or somethin’?” Maybe her mom hadn’t told her the truth, maybe she was fighting some deadly illness. After all, she was old. Thirty-seven. And she was on her knees in the barn, looking pale as death on that day that they found out about Marquise. Becca swallowed a suddenly huge lump in her throat.

  Connie walked across the room and placed a comforting hand on Becca’s small shoulder. “Your mom hasn’t really been okay since your dad died, sweetie. And that’s understandable. It…it was a shock to us all. So, anyway, we’d better get going.”

  “So why are we gonna see a lawyer?” Becca didn’t get it.

  “Just in case you decide to stay with us. There will be legal papers to sign. Guardian stuff.”

  Becca studied the rug for a second. “I think I better talk this over with Mom.”

  “Oh, we will. We all will.” Connie flushed bright red, and when Becca looked up at her, Connie glanced away and fiddled with the neckline of her cover-up.

  “I want to see her first.”

  “Well, you can’t, not now—”

  “I think I should go to Denver.”

  “Oh, sweetie, that’s just not possible.” Again the phony smile, and in that instant Becca knew Aunt Connie was lying to her. Scamming her. The way Jason Pennicott, a boy in her class, tried when he wanted her to do his homework or trade something good like a Twinkie or a Ding Dong from her lunch for some lousy carrot sticks or a crappy peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. “You know, Maggie’s a little fragile.”

  “Fragile?” Becca repeated, the niggling suspicion that Aunt Connie was implying more than she was saying boring deep in her brain. “Mom’s not fragile.”

  Her aunt’s smile was placidly patient. She sighed—that same old sigh that meant “you’re just a girl, Becca, you couldn’t possibly understand.” But Becca did. More than Connie knew. Yeah, her aunt was trying to pull a fast one. And Becca knew just how to handle her.

  “Okay,” she said meekly with a lift of one shoulder, as if she’d really bought her aunt’s line. “I’ll call her later.”

  “Good idea.” Connie was instantly relieved and stupid enough to think that she’d won. Fat chance. “Now,” the older woman pointed a professionally manicured finger at her niece, “try and wear something presentable, okay?” Connie’s facade slipped, and the look she sent Becca was a mixture of pity and disgust. “We’ll call your mother later. I promise. But we don’t want to upset her. Now come on, sweetheart, we’ve really got to get a move on.” Connie tapped one finger on the face of her watch. “Hurry up.”

  Becca waited until her aunt left, then quickly called the airline that she’d used to get to L.A. Within minutes she’d ordered her ticket for a night flight to Denver. Before Connie became suspicious, Becca threw on a decent-enough outfit, opened Jenny’s top drawer and, feeling guilty, slipped out some of the bills from Jenny’s emergency fund. She didn’t have enough money for the airline ticket and cab fare, so, after calculating what she needed, she took $150 from the drawer and cringed as she stuffed the bills into her purse. She’d pay Jenny back, but she couldn’t tell her cousin what she was doing; Jenny would either rat her out or end up getting in trouble herself.

  “Ready?” her aunt called, as Becca slammed the drawer shut. Connie, her expression vexed, threw open the door. “Come on, Becca. We’re late. I swear you’re slower than Jenny and you haven’t even brushed your hair.” Exasperated, she picked up Jenny’s brush and handed it to Becca. “You can do it in the car on the way.”

  Becca followed her aunt and swallowed a smile as Connie’s high heels clicked out a quick tempo to the garage. She and Jim were scheduled to go out tonight, and Becca intended to be on a flight to Colorado.

  Shaken from the sight of the wreck, Maggie huddled against the passenger window in Thane’s truck as it sped south toward Gillette’s home. She felt cold inside. Empty. And her heart squeezed in fear for her sister. Where was Mary Theresa? Was she alive? How was she connected to Renee Nielsen, and why was the woman driving her car? There was a connection—something she should know about Renee Nielsen, Maggie thought, but she couldn’t figure it out, couldn’t remember where she’d heard the name. Certainly not from Mary Theresa.

  From Thane’s cell phone, they’d called Tom Yates, who was faxing as much information as he had not only to the Denver police, but also to the hotel for Thane. “He didn’t know much,” Thane admitted. “Just that Renee had moved away a few years back, up to Beaverton, which is a suburb of Portland, Oregon. She didn’t have a lot of friends and no relatives nearby, but he’ll send everything he’s got on her to us.”

  It wasn’t a lot of information, but all they could get for the moment, so as she stared out the window, Maggie had to content herself with the hope that her sister was still alive. The countryside, brown patches of ground showing through the melting snow anchored by dead grass and weeds, flashed by.

  “So tell me what you know about Renee Nielsen,” she suggested as she adjusted her gloves and tried to forestall the sense of doom that seemed to be forever chasing her. Maggie was more determined than ever to find her sister and she wasn’t about to stop checking out everyone who had seen her sister in the past couple of weeks.

  “Not much to tell,” Thane replied. As his hands tightened over the wheel, Maggie was reminded of the cryptic message she’d gotten from her sister. “I knew Renee a long time ago, but she was just an employee who worked part-time. She just did odd jobs. Worked as a waitress at a local deli part-time, house-sat, took care of pets when people went out of town, and did housework on the side. Tom hired her to keep the house up, and when I was in California for any length of time I saw her. She was friendly, quiet, and pretty much kept to herself. I can’t begin to guess what kind of a relationship she had with Mary Theresa. I didn’t know her all that well. Seems to me she was married, but separated from her husband or some damned thing. Never did divorce him that I know of. But I didn’t know she was close to Mary Theresa.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t close,” Maggie said, chewing on her lip pensively. “Maybe she just saw an opportunity.” She glanced at Thane, and her forehead wrinkled in worry as Thane wheeled the truck into a gated community spread around an exclusive golf course. A security guard in a gatehouse stopped the truck, asked whom they planned to visit, made a quick call, then waved them through.

  “Looks like the hotel god has deigned to see us,” Thane said, driving across a bridge spanning a lazy creek. Patches of snow covered well-tended lawns of homes that were as expensive and elegant as the one Marquise owned. Thane pulled into a curved driveway that ended in front of a five-car garage. “Let’s go see what the second Mr. Marquise has to say for himself,” Thane said darkly, and Maggie didn’t comment.

  As they reached the front door it was thrown open, not by a servant as Maggie would have expected, but by Marquise’s second husband himself. Syd Gillette oozed success. Nearing seventy, his girth had started to expand, despite his avid interest in golf and tennis. His once-dark hair was now shot with silver. A big bear of a man, he was tanned, dressed in golf shirt and slacks. He eyed Thane with suspicion.

  “Maggie,” he said without a trace of warmth. “It’s been a long time. Come in
, come in. I was just watching the news.” He walked them down a marbled hallway toward the back of the house and a private atrium that overlooked the golf course. “A shame about Marquise. God, I wonder what happened to her—Annie, would you bring us drinks? What’ll it be?” He motioned toward his guests.

  “Anything—tea, if you have it,” Maggie said.

  “Scotch straight up.” Thane didn’t crack a smile, just leaned a shoulder against one wall as Maggie, upon Syd’s urging, sat on the edge of a wicker couch beneath a skylight. Broad-leafed plants grew around a fountain that splashed noisily as the maid carried in hot water and coffee. Syd mixed drinks from a bar around the corner.

  Once they were all settled, she sipping tea on a soft cushion, Thane nursing his drink while staring through the glass windows to a snow-covered fairway, and Syd taking up residence in a recliner, he finally asked, “What do you know about Marquise’s disappearance?”

  “We were hoping you could shed some light.”

  Syd scowled. “Don’t know how. She and I weren’t on the best of terms, didn’t see much of each other.” He looked pointedly at Thane. “You know how that goes.”

  “Enlighten us.” Obviously Thane wasn’t going to pull any punches. Sitting in a club chair, he turned his eagle-sharp gaze on Gillette.

  “She and I were civil.”

  Why was he talking in the past tense? As if Mary Theresa was already dead?

  “But that was about it. I was just getting over Ellie when I met your sister. In retrospect, it was probably just a rebound thing on my part. Hell, who could resist that woman?” He threw a knowing glance at Thane, who didn’t comment, just sipped his drink. Maggie gritted her teeth. He was right, of course. No one, not even Thane had been immune to M.T.’s charms.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “we got married, and about the time Marquise finished saying ‘I do,’ she was already into ‘I don’t.’” He took a long swallow from his gin and tonic, and his face clouded. “We didn’t get along, and there were some…other issues.”

  “She got involved with your son-in-law.”

  Gillette froze. His expression turned thunderous. “I didn’t know that was common knowledge, but yeah. She and Robby got together.” He scowled into his drink. “Ruined my daughter’s marriage.” Thick eyebrows lifted. “Well, it’s all over and done with now, and there’s no love lost between me and Marquise, but I don’t wish her ill. Don’t believe in dwelling on the past.”

  “What about your daughter?” Maggie plunged on.

  “Tanya? She’ll get over it. In time.” But the corners of his mouth tightened, and his jaw clenched, showing a muscle that twitched.

  “She had a baby.”

  Gillette swore under his breath. “A boy. Chad. And he gets to grow up without his dad. Thanks to Marquise. Jesus Christ, what a mess.” Syd tossed back his drink and ran a hand over his face. Clean-shaven and robust, he hardly looked his age. “The divorce was hard on my daughter, and it will be for a long time. She loved Robby, probably still does. Hell, he turned out to be a prick, didn’t he? And Marquise was just playing with him. Didn’t even care for him.” Syd sighed.

  “You think she did it to get back at you?” Thane asked, as if he understood his ex-wife’s motives.

  “Definitely. Sounds egocentric, I know, but I’m sure Marquise was making a point.”

  “Because—?” Maggie asked.

  “The prenup I had her sign. She wanted to change it from the git-go.” Ice cubes rattled in his empty glass. “Oh, well, time will take care of everything, I suppose. Tanya and I will get over it. Chad…well, it’s tough for a kid to grow up not knowing his dad.” Syd ran a hand over his jaw. “I should know. I never knew my old man.”

  Thane’s jaw slid to the side, and his fingers drummed impatiently on the arm of his chair, but he didn’t comment.

  “But your grandson has a father,” Maggie ventured.

  “You think so?” Gillette threw her a look that silently called her naive. “This is the same guy who tried to talk his wife, his wife, mind you, into an abortion because he didn’t want a kid. Robby couldn’t be bothered, because he was already involved with his father-in-law’s bride.” Gillette walked to the bar and poured himself another stiff drink. “So you can understand why I don’t see a lot of my ex-wife anymore.”

  “End of story?” Thane asked, as if he didn’t believe it for a minute.

  “End of story. Marquise and I ran into each other once in a while, as we’re part of the same social scene.” He swirled his glass, stared into the clear depths. “But we pretty much avoided each other. Let the lawyers haggle it out between them and moved on. I married Yvonne, and Marquise…well, she got into younger men. Not just Robby.” He tossed back his drink. “She doesn’t like men with children—‘extra baggage’—that’s what kids were to Marquise. She wasn’t too happy when she found out Tanya was pregnant. But then neither was Robby.”

  The muscles in Thane’s face tightened perceptibly. He set his barely touched drink on a glass-topped table.

  “What do you think happened to her?” Thane asked. “You had an argument with her according to the police.”

  “Anytime I talked with her, it turned into a fight. That’s not exactly a news flash.”

  “What was the fight about?” Maggie asked.

  “What it always was. Money. She wanted more. Thought she got screwed on the divorce because she didn’t end up with any of my hotels. So she always came around, wanting to borrow from me. This time I said ‘no,’ and from there things went downhill.”

  Maggie tried to delve further and asked a few more questions, but Syd was vague. Yes, they’d fought, but that was to be expected. They’d been divorced, after all, and Marquise wasn’t known for her even temperament. As he ushered them to the door, he’d made one last comment. “What can I say? You know your sister. Marquise is Marquise.” As if that explained everything.

  “I don’t think so,” Maggie replied. “The way I see it, Marquise is really Mary Theresa.”

  “What do you want first?” Hannah asked as she slipped into Henderson’s tiny office. He’d just returned from the site of the accident and was tired as hell. This case was going to drive him into early retirement, back to Camel straights, or both. Right then, he didn’t really give a damn. “The bad news or the good news?”

  “Didn’t know there was any good.” Henderson reached for his baseball. “Let’s have the bad.”

  “Guess who’s lined up to be the next guest on Denver AM?”

  He gave the ball a quick toss, caught the damned thing, then, only slightly calmer, set it back in its holder. “Okay, I’ll bite—who?”

  “Wade Pomeranian.” She offered him a cat-who-just-swallowed-the-canary grin.

  “Is that so?”

  “Uh-huh. It isn’t a secret that he’s wanted to be on the show for a long time. He even stormed down to the station one day and fought with Marquise about it in front of witnesses, including Craig Beaumont.”

  “So now he gets his shot.”

  “Yep. And here’s the kicker. Beaumont and the executive producer were opposed to Pomeranian being on the show, didn’t like his connection with Marquise. Even when they had a fashion show last spring and Wade could have modeled men’s clothing, Craig Beaumont put the kibosh on the idea. Nixed Pomeranian specifically, but now that Marquise is missing…voilà, Beaumont and the executive producer have changed their collective tune.”

  “Now they want Wade.”

  “To interview him as a friend of Marquise’s.”

  “Jesus H. Christ.”

  “Ron Bishop insists that they’re helping locate Marquise, as opposed to exploiting the situation.”

  “Maybe they are.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, they’re not stopping with Pomeranian. The producer wants other people who know her as well; they’re dedicating at least one segment to her and going to remind the viewers that there’s a reward for information that leads to finding her.”

  Hend
erson leaned back in his chair. “So who else are they inviting to be Beaumont’s guest?”

  “First of all, they’ve approached Maggie. Want her to dress and act like Marquise.”

  “Shit. Don’t tell me they want the ex-husbands, too.”

  “Possibly. But who knows if they’ll agree.”

  Henderson shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

  “Maybe it’ll help.”

  He couldn’t disagree, and at this point he was frustrated. No lead to the whereabouts of the missing celebrity, no body, no ransom note, nothing but a suicide letter that might or might not be fake. Another woman was dead, and the sister and ex-husband were running around trying to do Henderson’s job for him. The press was on his neck and the D.A. was demanding answers. Reed Henderson thought the clues leading to Marquise were drying up faster than the Colorado River on its way to L.A. He’d kill for a cigarette.

  “There’s more.”

  “Pile it on.” He motioned with his fingers, encouraging her to tell him everything.

  “It looks like Marquise’s Jeep wasn’t involved in a single car accident after all. We just got some reports back and the boys who checked out the accident scene think another vehicle was involved. Hit-and-run. Black paint on the back fender of the Jeep seems to indicate that it was forced off the road.”

  Henderson’s back stiffened and his pulse elevated a bit, the same way it used to when he hunted and caught a glimpse of a buck in the undergrowth.

  “Walker’s got a black pickup,” he thought aloud, mentally clicking off the possibilities. His mind was already spinning ahead. This was unexpected news, that Marquise’s rig might’ve been forced off the road. A whole new twist. A clue that might break the damned case wide open.

  “Walker’s truck doesn’t have any damage. We already checked. It was at the site today.”

  “Damn.”

  “You really hate the guy, don’t you?”

  “I just don’t trust him,” Henderson admitted. “He’s got his own agenda. Lying. Nothin’ I hate worse than a liar.”