“Fair enough,” she said, though she didn’t like being in Thane’s house for a second. It was too personal, too close. And though warmer than the outside, it seemed cold and unwelcoming.
“The kitchen is that direction,” he said, pointing down a short hallway as he mounted wooden stairs that led to a landing before curving up to the second story. As his bootheels rang on the steps, she dropped her bag and walked to the kitchen. Small. Sparse. Just the essentials. Butcher-block countertops, cracked linoleum floor, the necessary appliances, and a table with two chairs pushed under a window that looked out across the parking yard to the barn and outbuildings.
The rest of the lower floor consisted of a living room decorated in what appeared to be cast-off or garage-sale furniture; a bedroom that had been converted into a den now equipped with a computer, modem, fax machine, floor-to-ceiling bookcases; and a bathroom.
She heard the toilet flush upstairs and the shower begin to run as she noticed the telephone/answering machine, its red light blinking. With only a slight qualm she pressed the PLAY button and heard three messages from Detective Henderson demanding that Thane phone the Denver police, another folksy greeting from someone named Howard Bailey, giving him a report on the livestock and what had happened on the ranch in the past couple of days, and one from a woman named Carrie, a friendly female voice who just asked Thane to call her back.
Maggie wondered about the woman, but shoved all thoughts of her aside as she made her way back to the kitchen. She heard the sounds of pipes and water running and decided Thane was still in the shower. Good. She needed a break from him. He was too intense, too good-looking, too much a part of her past.
Rummaging in the cupboards, she found a can of coffee on a shelf, located a much-abused coffeemaker on the counter, and set to work. While the coffee perked, she scrounged through the contents of the refrigerator, found eggs, a half loaf of bread that had seen better days, part of an onion, a couple of crisp apples, and a brick of cheddar cheese. Nothing fancy, but it would have to do.
Grating cheese and cracking eggs, she thought of Mary Theresa and her life in Denver. What did Maggie really know about her sister? She’d visited only a few times, once when Mary Theresa had married Syd Gillette, an older man who owned a string of hotels and treated his third wife as if she were one of his possessions. Mary Theresa had been younger than Gillette’s son, his only offspring, a boy who had been conceived in Syd’s first stab at wedded bliss.
Mary Theresa and Syd’s marriage hadn’t lasted a year. Since then Mary Theresa had avoided walking down the aisle.
So who else did Maggie know—who were the people associated with her sister? Eve Lawrence, Mary Theresa’s secretary, was the first to come to mind, and lately she’d worked out with a personal trainer whose name escaped Maggie. There was a boyfriend, ten years younger and a model of sorts—or had it been a tennis pro? His name had been Wayne…no, Wade, and his last name had been the name of a dog…Wade…Shepherd? No. Pomeranian, that was it. Then there was the cohost of Denver AM, Craig Beaumont. He and M.T. hadn’t gotten along. Or so she thought, but Maggie couldn’t really remember. Truth to tell, she didn’t know much about him or the other people who were involved with her sister since Mary Theresa had moved to Denver. Maggie had been wrapped up in her own life, her own problems, and her twin had always been secretive and glossed over her own.
Maggie couldn’t believe Mary Theresa was dead. Wouldn’t. Someone knew something. People just didn’t disappear without a trace. This was the age of telecommunications, for God’s sake, where the government and every creditor knew intimate details of a person’s life through his social security number, driving record, and credit-card use.
So where was M.T.?
Biting her lower lip, she sautéed onions, added the eggs, stirred, and when the mass had about congealed, threw in a couple handfuls of cheese.
By the time Thane walked down the stairs in clean jeans and a flannel shirt that was still unbuttoned, the makeshift meal was ready.
Maggie glanced at his bare chest, where there were still drops clinging to curling swirls of hair she’d never seen before, then looked away before she lost her train of thought. “You want some breakfast?” she asked, biting into an apple she’d already cut.
One side of his mouth lifted in a charming smile she would have loved to slap off his face. “Sure.” He buttoned his shirt and tucked in the shirttails.
“It’ll cost ya.”
“How much?”
“Just the truth.” She handed him a plate with a makeshift omelette and a couple slices of toast.
“Thanks.” He set his plate on the table, then poured two cups of coffee. “So what do you want to know?”
“Everything.” She took a seat opposite him and skewered him with a stare she hoped would seem intimidating.
“That’s a tall order.” His gaze darkened and in a chilling moment of déjà vu she remembered loving him years before, yet knowing that he kept secrets from her, that his past was guarded. Some things, it seemed, hadn’t changed.
“And you’re ducking the issue,” she said around a mouthful of eggs.
He ate in silence for a few minutes, chewing thoughtfully, washing down a bite of toast with coffee, then nodded as if agreeing with some inner conversation he’d had with himself. “Who called?”
“What?”
While watching her, he took a bite of toast. “You listened to the recorder, didn’t you?”
“No…I…” She wanted to lie, but figured there would be no reason. She sipped her coffee, then said, “Detective Henderson wants you to call him, some guy named Howie—”
“Howard Bailey, owns the place next door.”
“—he said everything was fine, and a woman named Carrie left a message for you to call.”
“Did she?” Again that ingratiating and irritating smile.
“Yeah.” Maggie finished her breakfast and shoved her plate aside. “So, back to the truth.”
“What is it you want to know, Maggie?” He leaned back in his chair.
“I told you—everything.”
He glanced out the window and rubbed his chin. She knew without his saying so that he was examining his soul, taking stock of the secrets and lies that had made him the man he’d become. “I’m beat to hell. You know that, so how about I check on the stock, sleep for a couple of hours, and fill you in on all the details.”
“No way. I want to know exactly why you’re involved with my sister. Why the police suspect you and—” She stopped before she crossed a line she’d never stepped over, a line she’d avoided for the better part of eighteen years.
“And?” he encouraged.
“Never mind.”
“Come on, Mag Pie,” he said, using an old, familiar endearment from years before. “Spill it.” He finished his coffee in a gulp and rolled his lips in on themselves. When she didn’t answer, he scowled. “My guess is that you want to know why I married Mary Theresa. Why, when things were so good between you and me, I took up with her?”
The room seemed to shrink. All the old doubts in her mind crawled out of their carefully locked crates. She felt eighteen again. Young, alone, betrayed. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Like hell.” He stood, tossed his plate into the sink, and reached for his jacket. “I’ll keep it simple for now, okay? It was a mistake. From the git-go. I was an idiot. You were the one I loved. But I was young and randy and didn’t think beyond the minute’s pleasure.” He slid his arms into the sleeves. “It started out as a mistake. I’d had a few too many beers and then…”
“Then you couldn’t stop yourself.”
“Nah.” He shook his head as if to convince himself. “I could have. I just didn’t want to.” His eyes held hers for a moment. “As I said. Young and foolish.” Snapping his jacket, he walked to the door, grabbed his hat, and squared it on his head. “You want a more detailed explanation, you’ll get one. Just as soon as I take care of things and catch up on a few hours’ s
leep.”
Maggie watched him disappear through the door, and she mentally kicked herself a dozen times over. What did it matter? The past was ancient history. Mary Theresa had been irresistible, even to Thane. End of story.
Climbing to her feet she ignored the jab of pain she always felt when she thought of those dark days following Mitch’s death and Thane’s betrayal. It was better to put the past behind her once and for all. Right now she only had to deal with what had happened to her sister. She glanced out the window and watched as Thane struggled through the snow, then, throwing his weight behind his shoulder, forced open the door to the barn.
Maggie’s throat closed and she remembered the times they had been alone in another barn, the way his mouth felt on hers, the feel of his work-roughened fingers as they caressed her skin. “Damn it,” she growled, and tossed her dirty dish into the sink. She walked back to the den and, ignoring the flashing light on the recorder, punched out the number for her sister-in-law in California. Tapping her fingers impatiently, she waited until a groggy Becca answered.
“Hi, honey,” she said.
“Hi.” Becca wasn’t known to arise sunny-side up.
“How’re things goin’?”
“Okay,” Becca mumbled. “It’s early.”
“I know, but I wanted to talk to you.” More than you’ll ever know, kiddo. “So is the ankle okay? Does it hurt you?”
“It’s fine, Mom. Really.” There was a hint of distrust in her daughter’s voice—the innuendo that Maggie was intruding.
“I’m in Wyoming,” Maggie said, and explained about the snowstorm, though she knew Becca wasn’t listening, was just ticking off the seconds, doing time as part of her daughter-duty. When questioned about what she was doing, she was evasive but insisted that all her homework was caught up and that she was having a “super” time, “the best.” When Maggie said she loved her, Becca mumbled a “love you, too,” by rote that meant nothing other than she didn’t want to make her mother mad.
Sighing, Maggie hung up feeling uneasy and out of sorts. She needed to be with her daughter, hated the separation, even though she felt it might be best for their relationship to have a few days apart from each other.
Disturbed, she walked through the spartan house again. Hardwood floors covered with a few rugs, not a plant in sight, no photographs or mementos of any kind. A chipped hurricane lantern rested on the mantel in the living room where a timeworn rocker, end table, television, and battle-scarred camel-backed couch took up residence around a washed-out braided rug and river-rock fireplace.
She hauled her bag upstairs and found the second bedroom, where a twin bed was pushed into the corner and a simple bureau that had once been painted white stood in the corner. The bare wood floors needed refinishing, and the only picture on the wall was a framed ink drawing of a rifle. The glass was cracked in one corner.
“Home sweet home,” she muttered under her breath and twisted open the blinds. Ice had collected on the exterior of the windows, and snow blew in wild gusts. Past the flurries she watched Thane shut the door of the barn and plow his way through the path he’d broken earlier.
Her heart did a stupid little thump, and she berated herself for being a fool where he was concerned. She always had been, though. There seemed to be no changing that. Disgusted with herself, she closed the blinds, cleaned up in the bathroom, and flopped onto the bed. She heard Thane come in, listened as he made a couple of calls—she couldn’t make out the words—then closed her eyes. A small headache that began at the base of her skull and crawled upward nagged at her, and she silently prayed for her sister. Through all the pain and tears, all the feelings of betrayal years ago, she had loved her twin, felt close to her. “Please, M.T., be safe.”
She heard the sound of Thane’s footsteps as he climbed the stairs, held her breath as he walked past her door. He didn’t slow a bit, and she told herself that she didn’t want him to look in on her, that had he opened the door it would have been an invasion of her privacy, that she needed her space to think this all through. And yet a small and very feminine part of her was disappointed that he hadn’t stopped or rapped softly and tried the door.
Furious with her thoughts, she pounded on her pillow, twisted the comforter over her, and squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to sleep, to clear her mind, to wake up refreshed so that she could face the police in Denver and find out what the devil was going on.
Reed Henderson was on his second cup of coffee. Thankfully the caffeine was beginning to surge through his bloodstream and take hold. He’d already ducked a bevy of reporters, ignored calls from the local news stations, and even evaded the DA, who was demanding answers.
About Marquise.
A fading local star who was starting to become a cult figure. Or so it seemed. She’d never even been that famous in life, but now, with her disappearance, hers was very much the name on everyone’s lips. He doubted that anyone else cared much. She wasn’t exactly a national obsession; a couple of bit parts in B-movies in her early twenties, a stint as a weathergirl before she ended up as a news reporter for a small station in Sacramento. Then she landed the job in Denver. She’d been an anchor for one news team before jumping to a rival station as a talk-show host of a daily morning program that, according to the demographics, appealed to housewives in their mid-thirties with two years of college and pre-school-aged children.
Marquise wasn’t exactly high-profile as far as the rest of the country was concerned, but the local press and viewers had loved her. Until recently. In the past year Denver AM had fallen off in the ratings; there was talk of replacing Marquise with a younger, fresher, more with-it face or canceling the show altogether.
So much for her professional life.
However, it was better than her personal one: two husbands, a string of lovers, and a nearly estranged sister. Everyone else who had been close to her was dead. Both parents gone and even the brother—well, if he could be called that—had committed suicide. Maybe it ran in the family—though Mitchell Reilly had been only a first cousin, the son of Frank’s deceased sister who had been unmarried at the time of her son’s birth. No one had known who the kid’s father was, and when Carol had died of a genetic heart defect not long after Mitch had come into the world, Frank Reilly had stepped up to the plate and not only adopted the kid but raised Mitch as if he were his son.
Henderson frowned to himself. Marquise’s friends were an odd mix and he was still working on those.
Hannah poked her head into the open door. Behind her, phones rang incessantly over the buzz of conversation, jangle of keys, and hum of computer monitors. Every once in a while laughter erupted, or someone shouted over the din, but the small cubicles and open desks created a sense of barely organized mayhem.
A slow-spreading smile slipped across Hannah’s pointed chin, and beneath a fringe of blond bangs her eyes danced. “Guess what? The elusive ex-husband called last night.”
His head snapped up. “Walker?”
“One and the same. Called from his ranch in Cheyenne. He’s on his way here. With the sister.”
Reed’s gut told him something was wrong. “Isn’t she from a small town in Idaho?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why would they be together?” he wondered aloud. “I thought the divorce between Walker and Marquise was kinda messy—no love lost—that sort of thing. So why would the twin sister be arriving with him?” Scowling to himself, he spun the seat of the chair and stared out the window for a few long seconds, but he didn’t see the face of the building across the street, nor the few pedestrians bundled in ski jackets or long wool coats, wool hats, boots, and scarves huddled against the wind as they made their way along the sidewalk. Now, his vision was turned inward to the case—the damned case.
“Beats me. Something to ask.”
“Are they bringing the niece—what was her name?” He spun the chair again, glanced down at the notes on his cluttered desk, thought about a cigarette, and found a stick of gum in his top
drawer. “Rebecca?”
“Don’t know.” Hannah leaned against the doorjamb to his office, her favorite position when they hashed things out. “Why?”
“Marquise had a lot of pictures of the kid. Almost as many as she kept on herself.” He opened the stick of nicotine-laced gum and plopped it into his mouth as he surveyed the woman who had worked with him for over three years. Attractive, smart as a whip, in good shape and, he suspected, in love with him. A mistake. They both knew it, but didn’t ever broach the subject. It was a line he never intended to cross. Too sticky. Affairs had a way of ending and ending badly. He liked this woman too much to mess things up.
And then there was Karen to consider. They were divorced, had been for years, but…he still kept her picture in the top drawer with his forty-five and empty flask that still reeked of scotch.
“We’ll see if they bring the daughter when they get here.” Folding her arms over her chest and pulling at her right earring, the way she always did when she was thinking hard, Hannah said, “You know, a lot of people close to Marquise are dead.”
“I thought about that.”
“Good. Don’t know if it has any bearing, but it’s odd, I think.” She started clicking the deceased off, lifting fingers as she counted. “First, the stepbrother dies in the ocean, suspected suicide; then the parents split up over his death, try to reconcile, and the mother ends up falling while supposedly cooking dinner in the kitchen, hits her head, and dies with a blood-alcohol level in the stratosphere.
“Next the father, Frank, bereft and broken, has himself a massive heart attack, and the two girls, barely in their twenties, are on their own. They’ve only got each other and a couple of husbands, right? Except that Mary Theresa marries quickly and divorces even faster and the other one, Maggie, she hangs in there, has a kid, then when things get rocky, separates, and the guy has a car accident, ends up in a coma, takes a while to die. According to the hospital records, Dean McCrae’s bloodstream was pure whiskey—kinda like the mom—when he was life-flighted in.” She wiggled her fingers. “That’s a lot of dead bodies for a small family. Now the centerpiece, the golden girl, is missing, probably dead somewhere.”