by Lee Magner
“Basically, yes. Her parents had moved away, and she wouldn’t have known what to say to them, anyway. Asking them to provide her with a room to stay in while she battled alcoholism was more than she could ask for. She was sure they’d reject her, and condemn her for having the disability.”
“But you were safe to approach.”
“Yes. But she didn’t know where I was. She remembered hearing her parents discuss the adoption proceedings with a neighbor who was considering going through a lawyer for a private adoption. She remembered the lawyer’s name and the name of the town where our uncle lived. So she made inquiries, and searched the court records for that period. To her delight, she found the court order making permanent our respective adoptions.”
“Which led her to your parents’ surname and place of residence.”
“Right. My parents were in their early fifties when they adopted me, and their health had begun to fail several years ago. They died within a year of each other.”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“I had time to prepare for the inevitable,” she said, still feeling the sadness of the loss. “But their selling their home and disappearing from phone lists made it very difficult for Maryanice to try to locate me. I used Cryssa’s phone listing for most of my business, and until recently, I avoided having a residential phone of my own. It seemed I was constantly inundated with unwanted sales pitches. That was really disruptive for me. I needed long periods of peace and quiet to concentrate on the work. I got a cellular phone and a pager, so people could page me and I could call them back. It worked very nicely.”
“But made you invisible for your sister. She couldn’t even use the Internet phone-directory search throughout the West to locate you.”
Mariana made a face and nodded. “Exactly.”
“But we got a listing for you in Phoenix this morning.” he pointed out, frowning. “Or is that some other person?”
“No. That’s me. I finally broke down and got a residential phone line installed. Actually, I did it because I thought it would make it easier for Maryanice and her doctors to reach me after she went into the hospital.”
“Hospital?”
Mariana noticed that they were getting close to Fred Lowe’s house.
“Fred’s house is on that street on the left. The second house down.”
“I guess I’m not going to hear what a hospital has to do with your getting a phone line.” Owen said dryly, pulling into the driveway.
“Later. There’s a For Sale sign up on the property,” Mariana observed. “Maybe it’s part of his estate settlement.”
Owen turned off the engine.
“Let’s see if anyone in the neighborhood can tell us about you and Maryanice and Fred,” he suggested.
Mariana got out of the car and cast a sly smile at him.
“You’re thinking of Maryanice and me as separate persons, aren’t you?”
He hesitated in midstride.
“Yes,” he conceded with a pained grimace. “But I want to, Mariana. That’s the problem.” He tried to focus on fact gathering. “Come on. Let’s canvass the neighborhood and see if we can get some objective corroboration for your tale.”
Two hours later, they returned to the car and backed out of the driveway, somewhat more informed than they had been when they pulled in. Lowe’s house was vacant. The bank had been appointed by the court to manage the inventory, accounting needs, bill paying and tax filing for his estate. That included selling his house, the neighbors had explained. Some of them recalled seeing someone who looked exactly like Mariana on one or two occasions in the past, although not on the day Fred Lowe drove off and died in a Virginia motel room. They knew he was alone, estranged from his family for the most part.
And there had been a strange car prowling in front of his house the day before his death. But the police knew all that, the neighbors had assured them.
Owen was frowning as they drove back to his home.
“Call Lefcourt,” he suggested, handing her the cellular phone so he could concentrate on the rush-hour traffic. “Ask him if the authorities have determined Fred Lowe’s probable cause of death.”
Mariana punched in the numbers. She had a bad feeling about Fred Lowe’s death. She’d been having it ever since she regained the rest of her memory. Lefcourt was at his desk, and he had lots of information for them.
“Oh! Sure glad you called!” he exclaimed heartily. “The police in Phoenix verify that a Mariana Sands lives in an adobe-style house on the outskirts of town. She’s an artist. Sells pottery, paintings and other kinds of artwork. Cryssa Roberts runs a gallery and also serves as an artist’s agent, brokering consignment sales all over the Southwest. No one answers M. Sands’s phone. No one answers her door. Her home is locked up, and it appears no one’s there. Ms. Roberts’s answering machine was on. She’s apparently gone on a business trip for a few days, according to the people who operate a shop next door to her gallery.”
Mariana had held the phone up between her and Owen so they both could hear Lefcourt’s reply. She raised her eyebrows and smiled at Owen, as if to say I told you so. He could tell what she was doing out of the corner of his eye, although he was still watching the traffic ahead of them. He shrugged, indicating that it was great news but was not definitive proof.
“Funny you should ask about Lowe’s cause of death,” Lefcourt said in surprise. “I told Owen they weren’t sure how to classify it at first. They thought it was suspicious, but it could have been natural causes, accidental or some intentionally inflicted injury. He hadn’t checked into the room. No one saw anybody else coming or going from the motel room, not even the dead man himself. There was no obvious signs of foul play in the room itself—”
“Sergeant,” Mariana interrupted, momentarily bringing the phone back to the side of her face so she could speak into it. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but for weeks I’ve had to face all the things I didn’t know. Would you mind sparing me all the things these poor detectives don’t know and get to what they do know?”
“Oh, sure. I understand, Ms. Sands,” Lefcourt replied apologetically. “The coroner put the time of death sometime on the Sunday afternoon that you had your car accident. He thinks the cause of death was a drug overdose. It appears Lowe swallowed a fatal amount of black-market tranquilizers. The autopsy lab analysis identified the substance. Apparently it’s something you can get from a pharmacist without a prescription in some of die Latin American countries. Works fine, if you take the right amount. Which Mr. Lowe, unfortunately, didn’t.”
“Why aren’t they calling it a suicide?” Owen demanded.
“No suicide note. No threats of suicide reported by any of his friends. No reports of his being despondent. No known failed love affairs. No financial problems. As a matter of fact, his neighbors and friends at AA all thought he’d been happier this year than any time before. His doctor had seen him recently and declared him in good physical and mental health. It just doesn’t seem like this man had any reason to end his own life. And then—” Letcourt cleared his throat awkwardly “—when they heard from me about the car inquiry, they began looking into the possibility that his death had something to do with Jane Doe’s driving off with his car, assuming it was his car, which it now sure does appear to be.”
“Wasn’t there any evidence of foul play on his body?” Mariana asked.
“Some. The coroner thought it looked like he’d been restrained. His wrists and ankles were a little bruised, like he’d been tied up. When the lab chemistry came back with the overdose, it didn’t answer where those bruises came from, but it certainly made homicide a possibility. It could be that someone restrained him, then forced him to swallow a fatal drink laced with tranquilizers.”
“Drink?” Mariana said, her heart sinking.
“Yep. He’d downed nearly a pint of vodka.”
“But they didn’t smell that on his body at the scene?” Owen asked in surprise.
“Nope. ’Cours
e, vodka doesn’t smell that strong. And the guy wasn’t breathing when they got there. The liquor was all inside him. Not spilled on him. Oh, yeah...they haven’t found the bottle anywhere.”
“Maybe someone took it with them after they force-fed him his last nightcap,” Owen suggested.
“That’s a mighty popular theory among the investigators on that case right now,” Lefcourt confided with a short laugh. “It’s still considered a suspicious death, but they’re working on probable homicide. Unfortunately, they’ve got no suspect, no motive, no obvious clues to point them anywhere in particular to look for a motive or a suspect. The only suspicious thing about the motel where he died is the question about how the man got into a locked mom all by himself. They’re doing the usual legwork and hoping for a break in the case, but they’re stumped for now and open to suggestions.”
Owen took the phone. “Well, take this one. Suggest they check on Louie Roualt’s whereabouts at the estimated time of death. They could also trace the movements of Roualt’s associates,” Owen said grimly. “They might want to discover what countries Louie’s been in recently, and whether customs has ever found any of those tranquilizers in excess quantities in his baggage.”
“Louie Roualt?” asked a clearly perplexed Buddy Lefcourt.
“Louie Roualt. Maryanice Roualt’s husband.”
“Her husband? Then he lives at that address on the driver’s license Anselm Brock found?”
“You got it, pal,” Owen muttered.
Lefcourt whistled under his breath in consternation.
“Okay.” Lefcourt agreed. “I’ll call if I get any news. If you think of anything else, give me a buzz.”
Owen turned off the cellular phone and glanced at Mariana.
“Have you always led this adventurous a life?” he asked in consternation.
Mariana laughed and shook her head. “No. This is the most adventure I’ve ever had.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” he muttered. “How about stopping at Rafael’s Café for dinner on the way home? With all this investigating, we somehow forgot to eat lunch.” He shook his head, unable to explain how that could happen.
“If I had my credit card, I’d treat,” she said gamely, offering an apologetic grin instead.
“Lucky for you, I haven’t lost mine yet.” Owen turned onto the road that would take them toward the town. “You can explain the rest of this adventure to me over dinner...beginning with that comment you left dangling about your sister and the hospital.”
Mariana nodded and absentmindedly agreed.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s much easier to accept your financial kindness now that I know I have money and can return the favor. I’m going to have to get duplicates of my driver’s license, bank card and credit cards, but I actually do have accounts.” She leaned back against the seat and relaxed. “I have enough money to take care of all the bills we’re running up.”
“What happened to your wallet and identification?” Owen asked curiously.
“It was in the back seat of the car. Unless Anselm Brock finds it, it’s probably lost somewhere in the mountains.”
“Too bad he couldn’t have found yours instead of Maryanice’s,” Owen observed. “She already had a roof over her head and a known identity.”
“Gosh, I should call her,” Mariana said, frowning. “She was supposed to be isolated from outsiders. It’s part of the rehabilitation program. But she would have expected me to call every Sunday, or in case of an emergency. She must be very worried.”
“Use the cell phone,” Owen said.
Mariana punched in the numbers. When the rehabilitation center operator answered, she explained who she was, gave them the confidentiality number that authorized them to speak with her about the case and asked to speak to Maryanice.
“Are you sure?” Mariana asked, shocked. “She hasn’t finished the program yet. I’m sure it’s too soon... I see. No. Thank you. Uh-huh. Goodbye.” She turned off the phone and turned toward Owen. “She checked out.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. She left with Cryssa. They think they were going to Las Vegas.” Mariana’s voice trailed off.
Rafael’s Café was more than half-filled by the time they had been seated and had placed their orders. The after-work crowd had been drifting in for more than an hour, and families looking for someone else to cook their dinner were filing in, one after the other.
Mariana sipped her margarita, watching Owen over the top of the salt-rimmed glass. He was tipping back a long-neck bottle of Texas beer and taking a long, satisfying swallow of foamy brew. She’d never noticed how sexy that was, she realized, feeling as if her mind was becoming strangely fogged. She absentmindedly turned the rim of the margarita glass, letting the citrusy iced teqaila flow over the salt and into her mouth. She watched Owen’s Adam’s apple move as he swallowed some more of his beer, saw the slight sheen of moisture on his lips, the ruddy hue of his neck and cheeks....
And the distinct gleam of male amusement in his eyes.
Mariana choked on her drink. She hastily put down the drink and picked up her napkin, coughing a few times to clear her windpipe.
“I don’t normally stare,” she hastily defended herself.
“Does your staring at me mean something’s wrong with me?” he asked.
Mariana thought he looked suspiciously poker-faced, but she vehemently blurted out her reply before considering why that might be.
“No! Nothing’s wrong with you,” she assured him, still feeling flustered and not knowing precisely why. She frowned and looked at the margarita. Maybe she shouldn’t drink after all. She raised her eyes to his and felt herself enfolded in a mysterious and exciting warmth. “There’s nothing at all wrong with you, Owen Blackhart,” she murmured. “I was just...admiring you...admiring your appearance...as an artist....” And as a woman, she thought with an inward sigh.
“Then I’ll take it as a compliment,” he said, a slow grin curving his lips. He touched his bottle to her glass and proposed a toast. “To mutual admiration.”
“To...mutual admiration,” she murmured in a thready voice made peculiarly weak by his steady regard.
They each drank in honor of the toast. Then for a long, silent, moment, they gazed at one another.
“Why don’t you tell me how your sister finally found you and what the hell a hospital has to do with her? You may have remembered everything and feel very illuminated. I, however, am still significantly in the dark.”
In between bites of spicy grilled chicken, savory sautéed vegetables and freshly cooked, soft tortillas, Mariana provided him with the answers he wanted.
“The neurologists at Cleary Hospital said that the memories acquired immediately before a traumatic head injury are sometimes lost...or slow to return. I lost my identity, memories of my entire life. The last ones to return are those that occurred during the months just before the accident, and the least related to my past.”
Owen nodded, conceding that often happened.
“Every time I remembered something, it jogged a new memory into being, Owen. The memories were linked together in an endless chain. Tug on one, and it pulled another into view.” She looked at him. “That domino effect of memories falling into place turned into an avalanche when I sat in your car and looked at the Roualts’ house this afternoon. It felt like a barrier had disintegrated. Suddenly memories began cascading back so fast I was overwhelmed by them.” She pushed a piece of grilled pineapple around a roasted-green-pepper slice. “I think it was Louie that was the barrier.”
“Louie?”
“I think you were right when you said I was avoiding some things too painful to recall.” She frowned, trying to analyze her own behavior. It was difficult, being both doctor and patient at the same time. “I remembered his face, and my fear of him and that somewhere a woman was desperately depending on me. All those things came back in my dreams fairly quickly. And I was fairly sure they were memories, not just fantas
ies. They didn’t make sense in the beginning, because I hadn’t remembered that Maryanice was my twin sister.”
Owen’s expression didn’t change, but Mariana knew he wasn’t completely convinced that there actually was another person named Maryanice. He was going along with her explanation, partly to encourage her returning memory, and partly because he wanted to believe that Mariana Sands and Maryanice Roualt were two separate people. She smiled at him reassuringly, knowing that he would soon be able to lay the last of his doubts about that to rest.
“I had only learned that Maryanice was still alive a few months before I lost my memory. She was a recent memory. And she was a traumatic memory. She brought back the deep pain from my earliest childhood about the death of our parents, our uncle’s giving us away and his lying to me.” She blinked away the moist stinging of tears. “I guess the brain tries to protect you when you’re vulnerable. I guess I wasn’t able to handle all that at first, especially the old grief on top of the new fears. So my mind bought me some time to recover by smothering Maryanice’s identity, and with her, Louie’s. Maryanice’s marriage was a nightmare. When she told us what it was like, we were all afraid of Louie ourselves. Afraid for Maryanice’s safety...and our own.”
“We?”
“Cryssa, Fred Lowe and me.”
Owen’s expression hardened. He hoped he ran into Louie Roualt under circumstances that allowed him to repay the man for the torment that Mariana and her friends had suffered.
“Have you fully recovered your memory and remember everything now?” he asked casually, trying not to pressure her.
“I think so. I remember why I came here. I was masquerading as Maryanice.”
Chapter 14
Owen grimly stared at her.
“Let me see if I have this straight,” he said slowly. “You impersonated your twin sister to protect her from her maniacally possessive husband, a man with more than enough money to destroy you and no known scruples that might deter him from that goal if he found you out?”