“Beats me.”
“Oh, she must’ve told you something.” Catching the ball, he frowned and set it back in the scratched holder that was molded in the shape of a tiny mitt.
“Nothing that you haven’t read in the papers.”
“And you have no idea what happened to her?”
Thane’s gaze was rock steady. “None.”
Henderson said to Maggie, “I assume you’ll be staying in town for a while.”
“Yes. I haven’t booked a hotel yet, but when I do I’ll call. I want to know what’s going on.”
“Then we’ll talk again.”
“Wait a minute.” Maggie wasn’t through. She hadn’t shipped her injured, estranged daughter to Dean’s relatives in California, spent the last few days driving through a near blizzard, dealt with the one man who had nearly ruined her life, worried herself sick with her stomach in knots, her life out of kilter, only to show up here without getting a few answers of her own. “So what’re you going to do about finding my sister?”
“Continue the investigation.”
“How?” she demanded. From the corner of her eye she thought she caught the ghost of a smile whisper across Thane’s mouth.
“Through diligence, resources, leads…it’s what we do here, Mrs. McCrae.”
“Diligence?” she said. “You’re checking her credit-card receipts—right? The phone, and bank cards and gas cards? And you’ve got an APB out for her Jeep as well as her? You’ve let the radio and television stations know that she’s missing and have asked for their help?”
“She works for KRKY. Believe me, the media is informed. They called us when she didn’t show up for work and they couldn’t get through to her.”
“Are you watching her house? And she has a place…near Aspen, where she goes to ski.”
“It’s covered, Mrs. McCrae.”
“How about her psychiatrist? She was seeing someone—a woman, I think. Kelly…”
“Dr. Michelle Kelly.”
“She might have some idea what was going on in Mary Theresa’s mind.”
Henderson stood. “Trust me, we’re doing everything possible to find your sister. Talking to anyone who knew her. We’ll find her. The last person to see her that we know of was Mr. Walker here. She had a blowup after taping her program on Thursday, went toe-to-toe with her cohost, then blew off a meeting with her agent, who had flown here from L.A. just to talk to her. Even so, because she’s flighty and has a history of being a hothead and a flake, the station wasn’t in an out-and-out panic, but they were concerned, sent a news crew out to knock on her door to find her, then started digging. That’s when we were contacted. By this time KRKY was all over the story, and the other stations picked up on it. I’m surprised they or Marquise’s secretary didn’t call you.” He glanced at Thane. “Ms. Lawrence contacted you, right?”
Thane nodded.
“And the newspeople?”
“They had just started nosin’ around when I met with you and decided someone should inform Maggie, face-to-face.”
Henderson motioned to Maggie. “No one called you but me?”
“No,” Maggie shook her head. “I don’t think so. I was away for the weekend, shopping with my daughter, and my answering machine wasn’t hooked up.”
Henderson’s eyebrows beetled, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Well, the upshot is that after the station manager, Ron Bishop, down at KRKY got worried and couldn’t find her, he and the executive producer for Denver AM called down here; we asked him to come in and file a missing-person report and have been investigating ever since.” He riffled through his notes. “The last person who thinks she recognized your sister was the cashier at a convenience store/gas station where she bought a tank of supreme, a bag of Doritos, and a Diet Coke—all bought with cash from a woman who resembled Marquise. The clerk doesn’t remember for certain, thinks there might have been two people in the car—a man and a woman—and she thinks it headed west out of town. And there’s nothing to prove it. Someone bought those items, but the receipt doesn’t show who it was and the clerk might just be jerking our chain, trying to get some publicity or advertising for the mini-mart. There are all kinds of nuts out there. In my opinion, it just doesn’t mean a helluva lot. The clerk could be mistaken, or your sister could have pulled a U-turn at the next block, but we’re checking every lead.”
“Good.”
“So far we’re treating your sister as a missing person, nothing more.”
“You’re not concerned with the possibility of foul play?” Thane asked.
“We’re concerned, but don’t have enough evidence to prove it.” Henderson’s serious mask didn’t crack. “We haven’t ruled out homicide or even suicide—”
“Suicide?” Maggie said. “Mary Theresa would never take her own life. What is this?”
“How well did you know your sister?” Henderson asked, and for the first time in her life Maggie didn’t know how to respond.
She and Mary Theresa had grown up so close, but even then they’d been on different paths, and as they’d become adults they’d drifted further and further apart. There were so many secrets, so many lies, so many betrayals. The truth of the matter was that she didn’t know Mary Theresa very well. Marquise even less.
“I just don’t believe that she would take her own life. Why would you even think such a thing?” She turned worried eyes to Thane.
“She tried once before,” Hannah Wilkins said. “A year and a half ago.”
“No…I don’t believe it.”
Henderson lifted a shoulder. “Her stomach was pumped at Pinehurst Memorial.” He shuffled through the papers on his desk. “She had enough sleeping pills and antidepressants in her to do the job. But she called nine-one-one in time.”
“Oh, God,” Maggie whispered, then eyed Thane. “Did you know about this?”
“After the fact.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” She was horrified. This was her twin sister; aside from Becca, her only living relative.
“She wanted it kept a secret. From everyone. Somehow she pulled it off. Hard to do when you’re a quasi celeb.” He glanced at Hannah. “Must have paid off people at the hospital to keep it quiet.”
Maggie shivered. It seemed that almost everyone she held dear to her was gone. Mitch, her parents, and her husband were all dead. Her sister and daughter were both somewhat estranged from her and as for Thane Walker…well, he too was lost. Rubbing her arms, she pulled herself together. Right now she had to find Mary Theresa. If she was alive, then they could begin to mend their emotional fences. If.
“As I said, your sister wasn’t the most stable person around,” Henderson reiterated, and stared at her long enough for Maggie to suspect that he was considering the fact that she, too, had been under psychiatric care at one time. Not that it was a crime or rare. Unless your name was McCrae. “Then there was the note.”
Cold dread grasped Maggie’s heart in icy fingers. “What note?”
“We found it in the wastebasket by her computer.” Henderson produced a scribbled piece of paper, sheathed in plastic, and Maggie recognized her sister’s backhanded loopy style.
I can’t take this any longer. No one understands me. No one cares. I should just end it all.
Maggie nearly dropped her half-empty cup of coffee. She couldn’t believe it, not Mary Theresa. Never. She was too full of life, too full of herself. “Anyone could have written that,” Maggie whispered, her voice husky as she stared at the damning note.
“It looks like her handwriting, though.”
Maggie nodded, stunned. Was it possible? She glanced over at Thane, saw denial in his eyes, and remembered her sister’s desperate plea. She’d heard it when she’d been alone in the barn. Or had she? Her head began to pound, and she was suddenly exhausted.
Henderson rounded the desk and she thought he was about to escort her out the door; but he paused, swung a leg over the corner of the littered surface, and looked her squa
rely in the eye. “This wouldn’t be some kind of sick publicity stunt of your sister’s, would it? You know the kind, to stir up some interest for her failing show, get her some national media attention, maybe help revive her career?”
The question once would have stunned her, but no longer. An hour ago she would have denied the accusation vehemently, but an hour ago she didn’t know nearly what she now did about her sister. Mary Theresa Reilly. Marquise. Thane Walker’s ex-wife. Once-upon-a-time Hollywood hopeful. Doting aunt. Twice-married has-been talk-show host who had previously attempted to end her own life. “I—I don’t know,” Maggie answered honestly.
“She has a history of storming off sets, of riling up the public, and pulling this kind of disappearing stunt.”
“I know, but she’s always come back.”
“Just before the police were called in, usually.” Henderson flipped open the file and ran his fingers down a typed list. “When she was acting, she held up production of one of the movies she made by pouting and locking herself in her dressing room, all over a minor scene being cut.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“It cost her a contract.”
“I know.”
“So she took some courses, became a weathergirl, managed to work her way up on the local television-news circuit, then took a job here. Since she’s been in Denver she’s failed to show up for work on two separate occasions, both times claiming health problems, though the consensus was she was in some kind of contractual dispute and was holding out for more money.”
“I don’t know about those.”
Henderson glanced at Thane, who gave a grudging nod.
“She also has a history of drug use.”
“What?” Maggie was out of her chair. Shaking, her head thundering with all this new painful knowledge, she said, “I don’t believe it.”
“Prescription medications. A painkiller for her back, a series of different antidepressants, and something to help her sleep. The same ones she used in the suicide attempt.”
“Dear God.”
He flipped the file closed and tossed it back on the pile covering his desk. “As I said, your sister has more than her share of problems.”
“We all do,” Maggie said, refusing to be intimidated. “And Marquise is an actress, a—”
“I don’t buy into the sensitive artiste bullshit, Mrs. McCrae. The way it looks to me, Marquise is a spoiled brat. A beautiful, pampered, emotional basket case.”
Maggie bit back a hot retort. She wanted to argue and shout, to call the detective an ignoramus and an insensitive lout, but she didn’t want to aggravate him. Truth to tell, in light of what she’d learned, his description of Mary Theresa wasn’t too far off base. “Do you need anything more from me?”
“That’s about it for now.” Henderson focused on Thane for a second, then managed a professional grin that held no warmth whatsoever as he stood and offered Maggie his hand. “But I might want to talk to you again.”
“Good. Because I’ll want to talk to you, too. I expect you to keep me abreast of the situation.”
“Wouldn’t dream of anything else. Let me know where you’re staying.”
“I will,” she said brusquely, then realized that she was on the defensive though she had no reason to be. Slightly galled, she shook his hand. “Thanks.”
“You, too.”
Instantly on his feet, Thane squared his hat on his head and gave a curt nod to each of the detectives.
Maggie was out the door in a flash, zipping up her jacket and yanking on her gloves. Thane was right behind her. She walked through the maze of desks and general hubbub of people, officers in uniform, plainclothes detectives, office personnel, and lay people as they found their way to the main lobby and walked outside where the air was cold, the sky a brilliant blue, the sunlight dazzling.
Three reporters hung out on the steps, smoking cigarettes and talking, their breath fogging in the air.
One woman glanced at them. “Hey—isn’t that Marquise?” she heard one whisper to another. Maggie’s heart leaped and she turned, looking over her shoulder, hoping to spy her sister when she realized the reporter was staring directly at her. “Marquise? Where have you been?” A petite Asian woman, bundled in a heavy wool coat, gloves, and a scarf, thrust a microphone in Maggie’s face. The cameraman was right behind her, balancing a huge camera on one shoulder and pointing it in her direction.
“I’m not Marquise.”
“No?” The reporter smiled and winked. “Are you going by Mary Theresa again? Look, everyone at the station has been worried sick—”
“You don’t understand,” Maggie cut in. “I’m not Mary Theresa.” She felt Thane’s fingers on her elbow.
“Let’s get out of here,” he growled into her ear.
But Maggie stopped short and sensed the other reporters approach her. “I’m Mary Theresa Gillette’s sister. I came to Denver to help locate her.”
“You mean Marquise. You’re her sister?” The woman paused, then as if remembering something, “You’re not from around here.” She glanced at a cameraman. “Tess said something about a twin sister, but no one had tracked her down. You lived in California but moved north—Montana or…Idaho.”
Maggie was stunned. It had been only a few days, but the resources of the press were incredible. So they should be used to find her sister.
“Do you have any idea where she might be?” the Asian woman asked.
“No.”
“She’s disappeared before, hasn’t she?” This from a tall, thin man wearing a ski parka. Another microphone was shoved under Maggie’s nose. “Do you think foul play was involved?” he asked, eager eyes searching for a story. “Could she have been kidnapped?”
“No comment,” Thane insisted loudly, then said into Maggie’s ear, “Let’s not get into this now.”
“Who’re you? The bodyguard?” one reporter demanded as Thane tugged on Maggie’s elbow and passersby on the street slowed or craned their necks at the commotion.
“The ex-husband,” another reporter clarified.
“Is she a dead ringer for her sister or what?” Ski Parka asked.
“Please, I’d like to set up an interview with you,” the first woman said. She shoved a business card in Maggie’s gloved hand. “I’m Jasmine Bell. I work at KRKY with Marquise.”
“Later,” Thane said.
The woman leveled Thane with a cool I’m-used-to-men-trying-to-push-me-around gaze. “I was talking to…what’s your name?”
“Maggie McCrae.”
“I was talking to Ms. McCrae.” Her dark eyes found Maggie’s while the other reporters inched closer. “Give me a call.”
“If you’ll help me find Mary Theresa.”
“I’d love to. Everyone at KRKY is concerned for your sister’s well-being. I’m sure Ron Bishop, the station manager, would be more than willing to get our people and resources more involved.”
“Hey, wait a minute—” the tall reporter was trying to wedge himself between the two women.
“That’s it,” Thane said, his expression unforgiving as he shepherded Maggie toward the truck. “We’re out of here.”
She pulled her arm out of his grip but managed to keep up with him. His stride was longer, but her boots pounded the sidewalk in quick time. Anger coursed through her veins. Damn it, she was sick and tired of his high-handed tactics, as if he knew what was best for her.
Fortunately, the reporters didn’t follow, and Maggie did a slow, steady burn. By the time they reached his truck, she was ready to explode. “You and I better get something straight, Walker.” She jabbed a gloved finger at his nose. “Just because we’re both trying to find out what happened to Mary Theresa doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to do, or manhandle me, or embarrass me. Got it?”
His eyes narrowed, and for a second, as he stared down at her, she didn’t know if he intended to shake some sense into her or kiss her. For a heartbeat the city seemed to melt away. He reached forward
. Her breath caught. She swallowed hard but focused on the thin line of his mouth. His arm grazed her shoulder as he forced a key into the lock and opened the pickup’s door.
In a second, the magic moment evaporated.
“Don’t hold your breath if you’re expecting me to say, ‘yes, princess.’ The way I see it we’re in this together. Equally. I’m not about to take any orders, got that?”
“Equally?” she repeated, flabbergasted. “You think you’ve treated me equally with those Neanderthal tactics back on the steps of the police station?” She glared up at him. “Well, let me tell you something, cowboy, ordering a woman around might work on your ranch or in some outpost in the middle-of-nowhere Wyoming, but not with me.” She hooked her thumb at her chest. “Don’t push me around.” Climbing into the cab, she added, “I’m not the kind of woman who wants to be placed on a pedestal or put under some man’s thumb, and I never have been. You got this, Walker? I never want to be told what’s best for me, because I think I can figure it out for myself.”
“Right on, sister,” he mocked, and she nearly came out of her seat. “Now, Ms. McCrae, is that all?” His expression was unforgiving, his eyes as gray-blue and stormy as a raging sea in winter.
“For now.”
“Well, praise be!” He slammed the door shut and strode to the driver’s side, where he slid behind the steering wheel, twisted on the ignition, and pumped the gas pedal. When the truck started, he eased out of the parking lot. “Where to?”
“Marquise’s house.”
“Don’t you think it’s off-limits?”
“Maybe, but the detective didn’t say so, and I just happen to have a key.” She pulled out her key ring and flashed it in front of his eyes.
“You didn’t ask.”
“Because I didn’t want him to say no. This isn’t exactly a game of ‘Mother, may I?’ So if Henderson has a fit, I can plead innocence or at the very least ignorance.” She wiped some condensation from the passenger side of the windshield with her glove. “Besides, my sister gave me the key ‘in case of an emergency.’ I think this qualifies.”