Twice Kissed (37 page)

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 down 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.

“A woman who used to work for me.” Thane’s lips barely moved as he stared at the battered figure through the viewing glass. “She did odd jobs at my spread in California a long time ago.”

“She knew Marquise?”

“Yeah.” Thane’s eyes narrowed. “Renee kept the house up when I was away—ran into Mary Theresa a couple of times, I think. As I said, I hired her years ago.”

“Were you married at the time?”

“No, after that. Mary Theresa had moved to L.A., and I’d started spending most of my time in Cheyenne. My foreman, Tom Yates, he did the actual hiring.”

“But she doesn’t work for you anymore.”

“No—moved away from the area about two years ago.”

“And went where?”

Thane lifted a shoulder. “I can’t remember. Seemed like somewhere in the Northwest, Portland or Seattle. Tom would have her forwarding address, social security number, and the like.”

“Would he know her next of kin?” Hannah asked.

“Maybe. She was divorced, I think. No kids that I know of, but I’m not sure.” Thane’s lips curled over his teeth. “Jesus,” he whispered. “What was she doing in Mary Theresa’s rig?”

“We’ll give your foreman a call. What’s the number?”

As he gave Hannah the phone number of his California spread, Thane glanced at his watch. “He should be at the ranch now, but he might not be near the phone.”

Hannah Wilkins scratched out the number as she marched toward the door. “I’ll call now and be right back.”

“Get all the info you can on Ms. Nielsen.”

Hannah sent Henderson an oh-sure-like-I-haven’t-ever-done-this-before look over her shoulder as the door closed behind her.

Henderson turned his attention back to the viewing window and stared for a few long minutes through the glass to the body. The lab assistant stood ready to cover the dead woman. “So why would she”—he pressed the tip of an index finger to the glass—“be driving your ex-wife’s Jeep?”

“Beats the hell out of me.” Thane shook his head slowly, and Maggie stared at the corpse before looking away.
Thane had known this woman? She’d worked for him? Mary Theresa had known her as well?
Maggie didn’t recognize Renee, and yet her name was familiar. Why? Nothing made any sense. The headache that Maggie had been fighting for days thudded painfully behind her eyes.

“You remember if Ms. Nielsen had any relatives?” Henderson asked.

“No.” Thane shook his head. “But Tom might know.”

“Let’s hope.”

“We’ll need all the information you’ve got.”

Thane’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You’ve got it.”

“Did your sister ever mention Renee Nielsen to you?” Henderson asked Maggie, then motioned to the assistant behind the glass to cover up the body.

“No…I don’t think so,” she said truthfully, yet there was something familiar about the name. “Maybe. I can’t really remember.”

“But you didn’t know her?”

“We’d never talked or met, no.” Maggie shook her head and was grateful that the dead woman was draped again, her battered face hidden. “Why would she be in Mary Theresa’s Jeep?” she asked, echoing Henderson’s question.

“That, Ms. McCrae, is exactly what I intend to find out.” He sent Thane an unfathomable look before guiding them out of the room and hitting the light switch. The room was suddenly dark, and Maggie shivered as they walked into a hallway that seemed garishly bright in contrast. “Believe me,” Henderson assured her, “we’ll find your sister.”

Someone has to and soon,
Maggie thought.
Before it’s too late.
“I…I’d like to call my daughter again, just in case she sees or hears something on the news. I want her to know that the dead woman isn’t her aunt.”

“You can use one of the phones upstairs.”

“Good.” As they walked toward the elevator, she said to Thane, “Then I want to see the wreck.”

“It’ll just upset you,” Thane said, as Detective Henderson punched the call button.

“You can’t get too close,” Henderson said. “We’re treating the accident as a crime scene.”

Because you think Mary Theresa’s dead,
Maggie realized as the elevator bell rang, and the doors whispered open. Well, she wasn’t going to give up. Mary Theresa was somewhere—she just had to be found.
So why hasn’t she contacted you again—thrown her voice and told you where she is?

Henderson pushed a button to an upper floor and Thane settled next to Maggie as the elevator groaned and the car began to move upward. His jaw was set, and he looked mean—as if he could spit nails.

For a split second she had the creepy sensation that he knew more than he was telling, that true to Mary Theresa’s desperate call to her all those days ago, Thane was somehow involved to his damned sexy eyeballs in his ex-wife’s disappearance, that his seduction of her was planned—a distraction to throw her off track.

So why then would he drive all the way to Idaho only to bring you back here? Why let you get so close?

Maggie didn’t know, but she damned well intended to find out.

“No one could have survived that,” Maggie whispered, her stomach curdling as she stared through the bare, broken limbs of chokecherries and aspen trees. Marquise’s red Jeep, a tangled mass of twisted metal and broken glass, was barely visible in the melting snow, mashed against the red rocks and the thick trunk of a pine tree. The rig had been partially dug out from the snow. Its license plate was visible but crumpled—the first three letters, MAR, a painful reminder of who owned the wrecked vehicle.

Several detectives searched the vehicle and the surrounding area for clues. Other officers measured skid marks. Yellow crime-scene tape roped off the area, and a few curious passersby had stopped their cars and climbed out to rubberneck at the scene in morbid fascination.

“No one did survive.” Thane scanned the surrounding area. Sparse trees, deep canyons, red boulders peeking out of snow that was melting under the brilliant rays of sunshine.

“Why did Renee have Mary Theresa’s Jeep?”

“Who knows?” Thane lifted a shoulder and rubbed his jaw. Another car parked along the road, and he scowled at the man and woman who’d obviously decided to stretch their legs while viewing the accident scene.

Wearing sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a heavy jacket with the collar turned up, Maggie hoped not to attract any attention. The excitement of stepping into her sister’s shoes, of being Marquise, had faded, and, like every other reclusive celebrity, she knew what it felt like to want to blend into the crowd, to avoid recognition, to guard her privacy. Maggie McCrae was already tired of being Marquise—she just wanted to find her sister.

The wind was fierce, though the day was clear, and she had to hold on to her hat as gusts tried to snatch it away from her. Detective Henderson had donned boots and a parka and was trudging through the snow, snapping orders to the men who were on the detail of searching the area. Dogs on leashes barked madly, trying to pick up a scent, as officers held them in check. Maggie crossed her fingers that Mary Theresa wasn’t dead, that her body wouldn’t be recovered from this desolate canyon. “Please let her be safe,” she whispered under her breath, and shivered as she glanced up at the sky.

“Pardon?” Thane stood beside her, mirrored aviator glasses hiding his eyes, his head bare, his sun-streaked hair ruffling in the wind.

“Nothing.” She stuffed her hands into her pockets and heard strangers’ voices filled with idle curiosity, but no sense of despair or fear.

“Wonder what all the fuss is about?” a female voice, raspy from years of smoking cigarettes, asked.

“Someone died. A woman.” Her companion, maybe her husband, wasn’t into conjecture. “From the looks of it, she might be that newswoman—look at the plates.”

“Must be why there are so many cops here…uh-oh, here come the vultures—damned press.”

Maggie craned her neck and spied the white van with KRKY splashed in blue letters across the door. A satellite dish and other equipment were visible, and, as the van rolled to a stop, a cameraman and Jasmine Bell in a full-length blue coat climbed out. Her shiny hair, perfectly coiffed, fell victim to the wind. She scanned the crowd, spotted Maggie, and waved.

“I think we should leave now,” Thane said, noticing the news crew.

“It’s just the press.”

“But they’re gonna want an interview.”

“So we’ll give them one,” Maggie said, and without waiting for his response, wended her way through the crowd to Jasmine.

The reporter flashed her toothy smile. “Thought you might be here. What’s going on?”

The cameraman stood at the ready, and Maggie frowned. “Not yet, Phil,” Jasmine said.

Maggie gave her the rundown, and Jasmine told her that KRKY was giving the story number one priority. “We’re very concerned, you know,” she said, “and there’s talk of KRKY putting up a reward for anyone who has information about Marquise. No questions asked. When she’s discovered, the person who gave us or the police the lead that led us to her will collect ten thousand dollars.”

“Whose idea was this?” Maggie asked, mentally checking off Craig Beaumont.

“Ron Bishop and Tess O’Shaughnessy came up with it.”

“Figures,” Thane muttered.

Jasmine ignored him, her attention centered on Maggie. “Would you mind answering a few questions?”

“Not at all. In fact, I’ll even make a plea to anyone who might have information about my sister.”

“That would be great. How about you?” Jasmine asked, her dark eyes moving to Thane. “As an ex-husband, someone who was once married to her, would you like to make a statement?”

“No.” Thane’s jaw was rock hard. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d like to find Mary Theresa, but I’m not gonna be part of some media circus.”

“It could help. This is going to be relayed to the network and will probably be on cable news within the next hour or so.”

“Maggie can do what she wants, but count me out.” He was firm, his lips a thin, resolute line, and Jasmine was intuitive enough not to push. Phil filmed the crash site, then zeroed in on Jasmine before turning the camera on Maggie, who took off her shades, answered a few questions, then looked directly into the lens. “I would just like to say if anyone has any information about my sister, please contact the police.”

“Would you look at that,” the smoky-voiced woman said from somewhere behind Maggie. “Put a little makeup on her and she could be that missing woman…the one whose car is down in the gulch.”

“Shh. She’s not.”

“But—”

“Just hush, Sally.”

Maggie slid her sunglasses onto her nose again and ignored the curious stares cast in her direction. A few more cars stopped, another news team and tow truck arrived, and Henderson—with the help of other policemen—insisted that everyone back up, allow the police to do their jobs, and, unless they had data that would help the investigation, be on their way. He was interrupted by several phone calls and underlings, but managed to keep things moving along. Eventually he motioned Thane and Maggie to meet with him beside his car.

“We haven’t found anything yet,” he admitted, chewing on a stick of gum and squinting against the afternoon sunlight, “but we’ve got tracking dogs and the best men in the state, who will help canvass the area here. If your sister is anywhere near, we’ll find her.”

“KRKY is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward,” Maggie ventured.

“I heard.”

“Will it help?”

Henderson spit his gum onto the side of the mountain road. “I’d like to say it won’t hurt, but what will happen is every nutcase in the country who needs some extra cash will come up with some kind of scam.” His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “Let’s just say it’s gonna take a lot of manpower to wade through the shit.” He shrugged. “On the other hand, it might just be the incentive some greedy son of a bitch needs to sharpen his memory.” He frowned as the tow-truck driver maneuvered his truck to the side of the road and released a long cable attached to a winch. “We can only hope.”

“…and so, the mystery remains unsolved,” the reporter, an Asian woman from a Denver news station, reported via satellite to L.A., where Becca lay sprawled over a beanbag chair in the middle of her cousin’s room. Eyes riveted to the screen, Becca, fascinated but horrified, watched as a publicity photograph of her aunt was flashed onto the screen, followed quickly by pictures of a wrecked Jeep twisted in a clump of trees on the side of a canyon. “Mary Theresa Gillette, known as Marquise and cohost of the popular morning program
Denver AM,
is still missing. The identity of the woman driving Marquise’s Jeep is being withheld pending notification of next of kin, and no one knows what happened to the Denver celebrity, but the investigation into Marquise’s disappearance continues—”

The slap of thongs heralded Connie’s arrival from the vicinity of the spa. She walked into the room, grabbed the remote control from the nightstand, and aimed it at the television.

“KRKY is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for information as to the whereabouts of—”

Click. The set immediately went dark. “I don’t think you should be watching this.”

“Wait!” Becca launched herself off the bed and slapped on the television. Her mother stood talking with the Asian woman. “…so please, if anyone has any information about my sister, please contact the police—”

“That’s Maggie.” Connie was flabbergasted. “What’s she thinking?”

“Duh! She’s trying to help find Marquise!” Becca said, tired of her aunt’s bossing her around.

“Don’t speak to me—”

“Shh!” Becca didn’t care about being polite. She had to find out what her mother was saying, but it was too late. Connie aimed the remote control, and the screen went dead.

“Why’d you do that?” Becca demanded.

“It’s too upsetting for you to watch.”

“It was my mother!”

“But she already called and explained about the accident. There was no need for you to—”

“Marquise is my aunt! Like you are. I want to know what happened to her!” Becca was sick of being treated like a little kid.

“We all do,” Connie assured her. She pasted on that saccharine smile that Becca had come to loathe. “As soon as I hear from Maggie again, I’ll let you know.”

“But I want to talk to her now.” Something was going on, and Becca was more scared than she’d ever been in her life. A woman was dead. Even though her mom had called and explained about it, Becca wasn’t satisfied.

“We will. I’ll call her later.” Aunt Connie was getting pissed.

Becca wasn’t going to wait. She hopped to her bare feet, winced a bit as her ankle still gave her a little trouble, then walked stiffly to Jenny’s bed and picked up the receiver of her princess phone. But she didn’t dial. There was no reason. She’d just talked to her mother a little while ago. Still, she was scared. Scared to death. Her throat closed, and she fought tears. “But someone’s dead.
Dead.
And they can’t find Marquise.” She dropped the receiver.

“I know, Becca, but everyone’s doing the best they can.” Sighing loudly, Connie sat on the edge of Jenny’s bed and shook her head. She placed a hand on Becca’s shoulder, and Becca had to fight the urge to cringe. “Try not to worry, okay? I’m sure your mother will call the minute she knows anything else. She’s probably not even in her hotel room right now and”—she looked pointedly at Jenny’s clock, the one of a fake wooden Elvis where his hips swung like a pendulum—“look at the time. Remember, you’ve got a doctor’s appointment in an hour.”

“I’m not going.”

“Of course you are, dear; your ankle hasn’t healed, and Dr. Orem is the best orthopedic man in all of Beverly Hills.”

“My ankle’s fine.” Becca was tired of her aunt’s platitudes, sick of being treated as if she were a stupid nine-year-old.

“Now, don’t argue, okay?” Connie’s face, though set in a kind expression, was hard as granite, and Becca had learned over the last few days that the woman ran her house with an iron fist covered in a doeskin glove. As much as she had loved L.A., Becca was beginning to want to leave. Connie was a big reason; and her uncle Jim, what a weenie he’d turned out to be. It was always “Yes, dear this,” and “Of course, honey, that.” He didn’t seem to have a mind of his own. Even Jenny, for all her rebellious streak, had to toe the line and do exactly what her mother asked or she was browbeaten for hours as Connie would walk around the house with a wounded look, dabbing at the corners of her eyes, like she couldn’t believe that her daughter could be so cruel. What a crock. It was amazing that Jenny had the guts to sneak out.

“Get ready while I change, and try to wear something nice.” She eyed Becca’s cutoff jeans as if they were poison. “You know, a shorts set or a skirt would be appropriate. If you didn’t bring something of your own, I’m sure Jenny has something you can fit into.” Connie’s smile was patronizingly patient, and Becca realized that her concern of a few moments before had all been fake. “We’re not just going to the specialist. I want you to visit your grandfather.”

“But—”

“He’s in a care home, honey, and he’d love to see you.”

Becca had never been close to her father’s father, but nodded. She couldn’t get out of this one.

“And then we have to stop by the lawyer’s office.”

Becca’s shoulders stiffened, and she felt instantly apprehensive. “Why?”

“Legal papers—I’ll explain later.”

“Can’t you explain now?” Becca asked, suspicion her newfound companion.

“It’s complicated.”

“Which means you don’t want to tell me.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Connie sighed dramatically, and Becca folded her arms over her chest, then plopped onto the bed.

“Well, you are thirteen; I suppose I should tell you. I know that you’ve been really unhappy in Idaho. Uncle Jim and I are very worried about you.”

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.”