Twice Kissed (27 page)

Leaning against a counter in the small storefront, Becca eyed the tattoo artist warily. The woman was so skinny she looked like a walking skeleton. With frizzy bleached blond hair, tanned skin, and too much eye makeup, she didn’t come across as the kind of person to trust with your body. But she believed in her art because she had hearts and flowers decorating one arm and a flaming cross with a banner that said
Jesus is Love
on the other.

“Okay, doll, what’ll it be?” the woman asked around a wad of gum as a cigarette burned unattended in an ashtray. There were other artists as well, seated in cubicles with their clients, gloves on their hands as they used equipment that looked like electric pens to trace patterns on different body parts. The place was clean enough, the floors gleaming, the walls decorated with pictures of tattooed bodies.

“Get one of those Chinese suns,” her cousin Jenny said, urging her on as a paddle fan slowly turned, moving the stale air typical of greater Los Angeles. Jenny was fairly beaming. Dressed in the short skirt and sweater of her cheerleading outfit, she looked as out of place as Becca felt. “The ones that mean something. Or your sign of the zodiac, that would be cool.”

“When were you born?”

“In April, but…I was thinking more like a hummingbird.”

“No problem.” The woman took a drag from her cigarette and reached upward to the wooden shelves where there were stacks of books. “Let’s see…birds, I got birds here somewhere…” She found a thin-leafed book, flipped through it, then frowned. “…nope, oh, here it is.” She pulled down a pattern book that had seen better days and placed it on the desk in front of Becca. Refusing to be intimidated by the woman or her cousin, Becca riffled through the pages. “This one,” she said, pointing to a ruby-throated hummingbird hovering in midair.

“Nice. Where d’ya want it?”

“Umm. I was thinkin’ on my ankle.”

“Awesome,” Jenny said. “I wish I had the guts to get one.”

“Do it,” Becca urged. It would be so much cooler if Jenny did it with her.

“I…I can’t. I
hate
needles.”

“Not much pain involved.” The woman leaned forward, eyed Becca’s bare legs, and nodded. “That’d work.”

“Great.” Jenny was more enthusiastic than Becca. Her brown eyes glinted with mischief. “How much?”

“Depends on the size and the difficulty.” The woman thought long and hard. “We’ll discuss price when your mother gets here.” She straightened, frizzy blond hair falling back into place.

“My mother?” Becca’s heart dropped.

“Or your dad. Or a legal guardian. Whatever. You know that I can’t do this without your guardian’s permission.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, honey.” The woman smiled sadly. “You’re gonna hafta do some big talkin’ to convince me you’re eighteen.” She popped her gum, took a final drag from her cigarette, and shot smoke out of the side of her mouth. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a driver’s license or a passport or some kind of document with your age?”

“No, but—”

“Didn’t think so.” She offered a kind smile. “Well, unless you come back here with your guardian, I can’t help you out.”

“But—”

“Hey, I don’t need that kind of trouble.” She pointed a long finger at the sign over the cupboard holding her books—a sign clarifying age restrictions, then she jabbed out her cigarette in a tin ashtray and flipped the pattern book of birds closed. “Come back with your mom, or when you’re older, okay?”

“Oh, come on,” Jenny begged, and Becca was surprised that her cousin was so interested in Becca’s doing something that could land her in big trouble. Maybe there was more to Jenny than met the eye. Becca was already beginning to suspect that her older cousin might rat her out at a moment’s notice. Jenny had already demonstrated that she adhered to the CYA—cover your ass—mentality.

“Really, girls.” The woman shook her head. “I have a couple kids of my own, and if they did anything to their bodies behind my back, I’d give ’em what for, believe me.” Her overly made-up eyes were sincere. “As I said, next time, bring your mom.”

Since they had no other choice, Jenny and Becca walked outside, where the November sun was warm and bright, sparkling off the dusty sidewalk. No trees lined the streets in this part of town, and litter blew in the dry wind that followed the cars through the alleys and around squatty buildings.

“Bummer,” Jenny said. “I thought if we came down here, they’d do it. My friends go to nicer places. You know, they’re almost like doctors’ offices, but I knew they wouldn’t do it without a parent’s signature.” She unlocked the driver’s side of her silver Jetta, crawled inside and flipped a switch to unlock Becca’s door. As Becca took her seat, Jenny folded up the dash guard that she’d placed on the inside of the windshield to protect the interior from the heat. It didn’t help much. The car was pretty warm even though it was early November. But it felt good to Becca.

Leaning her seat back as Jenny eased into traffic and turned on the radio full blast to the sound of a song by Jewel, Becca smiled and told herself she didn’t miss her mother. Lately she had been such a pain. This was much better. Though hangin’ out with Aunt Connie and Uncle Jim wasn’t all that great. Connie was always sighing and complaining, and Jim was a tight-ass. Everything had to be just so.

But Jenny. For the most part, aside from her need to protect herself, she was beyond cool. Becca dragged a pair of sunglasses out of her backpack and slid them onto her face. Jenny fumbled in her purse for cigarettes and a lighter. “Want one?” she asked her younger cousin.

Becca grinned and took the offered filter tip. Jenny handed her the lighter and laughed when she couldn’t get the flame to hold steady. “Like this,” she explained, and flicked the lighter with expertise.

She held the flame to Becca’s cigarette and Becca drew in hard. Too hard. The smoke burned all the way to her lungs. She ended up coughing wildly, and Jenny laughed as she lit up and rammed her car into gear. “I wish I had a convertible,” she complained, but Becca didn’t mind. She didn’t even care that she couldn’t get the stupid tattoo. Rolling down her window, she took another puff, coughed, and was determined to get better at this smoking thing.

She leaned her seat way back and held her hand out the window with the cigarette burning. Oh, yeah, this was the life. She loved L.A.

“I overheard Mom and Dad talking last night,” Jenny said, as Becca watched a scraggly looking palm tree flash by.

“About what?”

“They were talkin’ about you coming to live with us permanently.”

“Really?” Becca coughed on more smoke. “Mom’s thinkin’ about it?”

“I don’t know. I…um, I don’t think I was supposed to hear—they were on the patio and the window was open, so I kinda just hung out and listened.” Jenny bit her lip. As if she’d revealed too much and was suddenly regretting it. She glanced over her shoulder, gunned the engine, and beat out a boy in a red Kia to the next light. “So, Becca, don’t say anything to your mom, okay? She probably wants to surprise you about this L.A. thing.”

“Cool,” Becca said, inhaling on the cigarette again. And it was—really cool. Maybe her mother was finally coming around.

Marquise’s home was no less than a mansion. Maggie had always thought so. Built of red brick and stone and guarded by ancient maple and aspen trees, the house rose three stories to a sharply pitched, snow-covered roof. Leaded-glass windows winked in the bright sunlight as Thane and Maggie trudged a path through the melting snow to the front door.

“She has an alarm system,” Thane reminded Maggie as she stuffed the key in the door.

“I know.”

They entered; the electronic beeper started ticking off the seconds; and Maggie, yanking off her gloves, walked unerringly to the broom closet near the kitchen, opened the door, and deactivated the security system, pressing a series of buttons just as her sister must have every day. A sense of desperation caught hold of her and she tried to shake it off, but entering Mary Theresa’s empty house gave her a small case of the creeps, made her feel as if she were walking on someone’s grave.

That’s crazy,
she reminded herself.
Just because M.T. isn’t here, doesn’t change a thing.

But being with Thane didn’t help; there was just too much she didn’t know—couldn’t trust—about him.

For all its stately outward appeal, the home’s interior was eclectically decorated—some of the furniture and art pieces a little offbeat. The living room, study, and library were all conservatively decorated in tones of hunter green and tan that reminded Maggie of a stuffy men’s club. Occupied by oxblood-leather couches, wing-backed chairs, antique tables, brass lamps, and leather-bound tomes reeking of snobbery, those rooms were at odds with the rest of the house, which was decorated without any common theme and filled with whatever caught Mary Theresa’s wild eye. Period pieces were interspersed with modern posters and artwork that was little more than junk, but somehow appealed to M.T.

A dour-faced mannequin dressed in Roaring Twenties attire, complete with beaded, fringed flapper dress, feather boa, and long cigarette holder, stood near a suit of armor in the entry hall. The kitchen was festooned with hanging pots and pans, a sturdy knife rack, baskets of dried herbs, marble counters, and bouquets of wilting flowers. Zebra-striped chairs were scattered near a faux leopard couch and a large table with a ceramic chess set was placed near a cherrywood-faced fireplace.

But for all its personality, there was a sense of lifelessness throughout the rooms. Without Mary Theresa the house was dead inside. No laughter. No sounds from the television or stereo. Just the soft hum of a hidden furnace and the ticking of a cuckoo clock.

Maggie unlocked French doors that opened to a wide brick patio. Outside, the air was brisk and cold. Planters, filled with last fall’s dead blossoms, were buried in snow. The yard, a field of white, rolled toward a lake where the smooth glasslike surface was occupied by a flock of Canada geese and the late-afternoon sunlight glinted in sharp, vibrant rays. A copse of leafless cottonwood trees stood near the opposite shore, and, far in the distance, the peaks of the Rocky Mountains rose like cathedral spires to touch a blue, cloudless sky.

“Not a bad place to live,” she said, her breath fogging in air that chilled her hands and cheeks.

“If this is what you like.” Thane squinted into the sun.

“Did she?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Who knows with her?”

“No one.” Together they walked back inside, and Maggie locked the door behind them.

“Nothing simple for Marquise,” Thane observed, running a finger along the back of a leather couch.

“Mary Theresa,” Maggie said automatically as she eyed the kitchen. She’d always hated her sister’s stage name; thought it sounded so uppity. One name for God’s sake. “But, yeah, this is overkill for one person.” She walked into the dining room, where a table with twelve chairs stretched beneath a chandelier resplendent with fragrant, half-burned candles rather than electric lights.

In the living room a concert grand piano gleamed ebony and reflected the sunlight from a bank of windows overlooking the lake.

“Why would she leave this place?” Maggie wondered aloud, and started up a curved staircase to the second floor.

Mary Theresa’s bedroom was a study in femininity. Decorated in varying hues of rose and pink, it housed a king-size bed covered in shimmering white silk, a grouping of tables and chairs, and an armoire that hid a large television and stereo system. On the walls were professional photographs of the woman who had evolved from Mary Theresa Reilly into Marquise. In subtle black-and-white or startling color, Maggie’s twin was visible from every possible angle. There were a few pictures of Maggie and more of Becca, her school and sports pictures propped on the night table and bureau top. Exotic stuffed animals from a life-sized llama to a coiled snake occupied the corners and crannies of the suite. Silk flowers offered color.

And yet the room seemed empty. Barren.

Thane glanced at the pictures without comment and Maggie wondered how often he’d seen them before, how many times he’d visited Mary Theresa’s bedroom.

She closed her mind to those thoughts and stepped into the bathroom, where a sunken marble tub was framed by huge windows screened by flowering orchids. Mirrors covered the walls and ran along a marble counter, where bottles of perfume, cologne, and cosmetics were strewn in haphazard fashion. Candles and potpourri scented the air.

Maggie picked up a bottle of cologne and wondered again where Mary Theresa was, what had happened to her. “Do you think she would try to take her own life?” Maggie asked as she replaced the bottle, picked up an atomizer, and smelled the tip, only to be reminded of her sister.

“Nope.” He met her gaze in the mirror and loosened the buttons of his jacket. “The woman I knew was too selfish to end it all. Too vain.”

“So you think she was kidnapped?”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “Ransom demands would have been made by now. It’s been over a week since she stormed off the set.”

Maggie opened the closet door and stepped into an expansive cedar-lined closet, where hundreds of pairs of shoes were kept neatly in their boxes, and dresses, skirts, evening gowns, blouses, and slacks, encased in plastic, hung perfectly. Sweaters were folded in drawers; T-shirts, shorts, and jeans were folded and tucked onto shelves.