by Lisa Jackson
“Me too.”
“Let’s get you back to bed, and I’ll get some more ice and—”
“I’m okay, Mom, really.” Becca yawned. “You just weirded me out. You’ve been acting so strange lately. Today in the barn when you were on your knees, and now with the screaming.” Becca’s teeth sunk into her lower lip. “It’s kinda creepy.”
“Oh, honey.” Without thinking, Maggie wrapped her arms around her daughter, and for once Becca didn’t squirm away. “The last thing I want is to be creepy.”
Becca managed a nervous giggle as she slid out of her mother’s embrace. “I know you’re worried about Marquise, and I heard you and Thane talking about you helping him.” Maggie’s eyes narrowed on her daughter. “I wasn’t really eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help but overhear,” Becca added hastily, her gaze sliding away from her mother’s. “So why don’t you go find out what happened to her?”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Sure it is. The neighbors will take care of the horses, your book isn’t due for another couple of months, I could miss a few days of school and stay with my friends or Aunt Connie and Uncle Jim in L.A….”
“So that’s what this is all about,” Maggie said, wondering how conniving her daughter was becoming. As the years rolled by it seemed that Becca was developing her own sense of how to manipulate people. Just like Mary Theresa.
“But you could help find Marquise.”
“I could?”
“You write mystery novels, Mom. True crime. You talk to policemen all the time, and you worked for a private investigator, didn’t you?”
“That was a long time ago.”
Becca lifted a shoulder. “Isn’t it kind of like riding a bicycle?”
“Not quite,” Maggie said, chuckling a little as the effects of her nightmare faded away. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”
Becca offered a shy smile. “How about that hot cocoa now?”
Maggie wasn’t so groggy that she didn’t realize she was being conned, but she couldn’t help herself. If this was Becca’s self-centered and manipulating way of bonding, so be it. “Okay, okay, but then back to bed, and don’t try and talk me into this trip to Denver, okay? I’ll decide on my own.”
She helped her daughter into the living area of the house, where Becca curled on the sofa with an afghan tossed over her shoulders. The fire had burned low until only red embers glowed behind the screen and the house was taking on the chill of night. Maggie, barefoot and shivering, took the time to throw on a fleece robe and slippers, then quickly heated water for the instant cocoa. As the cups circulated in the microwave, she rummaged in the pantry for marshmallows whose shelf life had expired eons before. “Perfect,” she thought aloud. Culinary creativity had never been one of her attributes. She considered herself the Sergeant Friday of the kitchen: “Just the facts, ma’am.”
Plopping the hard mini-marshmallows into the cups, she asked, “What makes you think if I do go to Denver that I’ll send you to—L.A.? Why wouldn’t you stay with a friend here?”
“Who?”
Maggie stirred the cocoa. Becca had a point. They didn’t know anyone well enough to leave her with for more than a night. “I don’t know.”
“This way I could see my friends.”
“And miss school?”
“I’d make it up.”
“Promise?” Maggie carried a cup to Becca, who, for the first time in weeks, grinned up at her. An eager spark lit her eyes as Maggie sat on the far corner of the couch, tucked her knees up inside the voluminous folds of her dressing gown, and pulled the edge of the afghan over her feet.
“Promise.” Becca blew over her cocoa.
“I’ll think about it,” Maggie said, though her mind was half–made up. Something had to give. She and Becca were always at each other’s throats, the cryptic messages from Mary Theresa, real or imagined, had to be dealt with, and finding out what had happened to her twin was a priority, whether she wanted it to be or not.
Maggie had never been one to sit back and let everyone else handle her problems and, now, it seemed, Mary Theresa needed her.
“Mom?” Becca’s face was serious again, worry evident in the way she chewed on the corner of her lip.
“Yeah?”
“Is something wrong with you?”
“You mean other than the fact that I can’t seem to get along with my daughter?” she teased, as the marshmallows melted into a gooey white mass. She took a swallow of the sickeningly sweet brew.
“No. I mean like are you sick?” Becca swallowed hard and her gaze shifted away. “You know…”
“No, honey, I’m not sick. Not physically. Not mentally.” She sighed and wished she could confide in her daughter, tell her the truth about hearing Mary Theresa’s voice, but that would only add fuel to the fire, scare Becca and bring back all the old, painful memories and concerns that her mother might not be sane, just because Maggie had seen a psychiatrist after her husband’s death. It hadn’t been a big deal, but Connie and Jim had insinuated time and time again that Maggie’s mental health was an issue. Clearing her throat, she said, “Drink up, then we’ll go back to bed.”
“So what’re you gonna do?” Becca asked. She took a final swallow, then handed her half-drunk cup to her mother.
“I wish I knew,” Maggie admitted. There wasn’t an easy answer. None. Life was getting much more complicated than she’d ever imagined. She carried both cups to the sink, where she noticed the mug Thane had used earlier. Touching the rim with one finger, she wondered why he’d chosen to show up at her doorstep. He could have called and told her about Mary Theresa, yet he’d decided to drive hundreds and hundreds of miles to see her in person.
Drumming her fingers on the edge of the counter, she stared through the kitchen window. Snow covered the ground and bowed the branches of the trees. Without any light from the moon, the night was eerie, the solitude that she usually found so comforting oddly disturbing.
“Mom?” Becca’s voice caught her up short. “What’s really going on?”
Maggie shook her head and sighed. Instead of acting as if she didn’t know what Becca was talking about, she said, “That seems to be the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question right now.” Running her fingers through her hair, she walked back to the living room and silently offered to help her daughter down the hallway. “I wish I knew the answer, Becca. Damn, but I wish I knew.”
Chapter Four
Detective Reed Henderson didn’t like being played for a fool, and in this case, the one involving Marquise or whatever the hell she wanted to be called, he was certain that someone was out to dupe him.
He picked at his teeth with his thumbnail, reached into his top desk drawer for his cigarettes, and found, instead, a pack of nicotine gum. He hated the stuff but wadded a piece into his mouth and thought it a damn poor substitute for a Camel straight.
A picture of Mary Theresa Reilly Walker Gillette aka Marquise was pinned over his desk. She was a looker, no doubt about it. Model slim with thick red-brown hair, eyes as green as jade, straight nose and perfect teeth surrounded by lips that were stretched into a smile that would light up any man’s day, she carried herself with the confidence of a truly beautiful woman who knew and calculated her effect on every man who happened to cross her path. Looking into the camera as if intent on seducing the man behind the lens, she exuded a sexual radiance that even he, after nearly twenty years on the force and the cynicism that came with the duty, recognized.
Marquise had star quality. Few men would be able to resist her.
Married twice, with a string of lovers, she didn’t seem particularly stable in her love life, but then, who could blame her? Men would’ve been salivating, their tongues dragging out of their mouths, if she so much as gave them a wink or a smile. Her first husband was a cowboy—a loner who had a temper that had put one man in the hospital. That was years ago, of course, when Thane Walker was barely sixteen, but Henderson believed that a man didn’t change. Onc
e a hothead, always one. In years past, it seemed, Walker was forever just one step in front of the law.
Then there was the second man to make the mistake of marrying Marquise—an older guy who liked his women young and flashy, but had trouble keeping this one under his thumb. Mary Theresa had become the third Mrs. Syd Gillette for a period of less than a year. He’d moved on, been married and divorced since. It was a wonder the guy still had any money.
Her last boyfriend was ten years younger than she, a model with long, curly hair and a brooding, dark look that women seemed to find sexy. As far as Henderson was concerned, Wade Pomeranian was a spoiled pain in the butt.
So what had happened to her? The question rattled around in his head like rocks in a hubcap—irritating and damned hard to dislodge. Was she dead? Murdered? Had she committed suicide? Had she just taken off on a lark? Or was this all just a publicity stunt, the actions of a desperate woman whose star, albeit not in the caliber of a Hollywood celebrity, had once flared bright but now had begun to fade?
“Hell if I know,” he admitted, leaning back in his desk chair until it groaned in protest. He fingered his old baseball, the one that had been signed by Sandy Koufax when Henderson was just a kid, then gave it a toss. It arced perfectly one inch below the fluorescent lights before dropping into his open, waiting fingers.
What the hell had happened to Marquise? The press was all over the case. As she was the cohost of Denver AM and hadn’t shown up on the set, the producer of the show had gotten nervous, checked around, and eventually called someone she knew on the force.
In the intervening days Henderson had talked to most of the people associated with Ms. Gillette. He didn’t much like any one of them. Including her surly first husband. That guy was hiding something. Henderson could feel it in his bones. He intended to find out what it was; he just needed a little more time.
He’d put out a nationwide APB on Marquise, with her description as well as that of her Jeep Wrangler and the license plate of the vehicle. He’d also filed a missing-person report through the National Crime Information Center via the FBI. Sooner or later, she’d show up—dead or alive, he couldn’t begin to guess. An enigma, that one. But people didn’t usually fall off the face of the earth.
Then again, years ago, when he was still at the academy, he’d made a bet that Jimmy Hoffa would eventually turn up. That five bucks was history; he’d be damned if the same thing happened anywhere near his jurisdiction.
The door to his office swung open and Hannah Wilkins poked her head inside. Though it was the weekend, she, too, was working. “No news on the whereabouts of Thane Walker?” she asked, eyeing him with disapproval as he flipped the baseball toward the ceiling again. He knew she objected to his lack of reverence when it came to things of value. Hell, everyone did. But he didn’t believe in gilded cages, and, because of it, he supposed, he’d lost Karen and the kids.
“Nope. Walker seems to have taken a hike. Along with his ex-wife.” He caught the ball, careful to avoid his fingers’ touching Sandy’s signature, which was still intact, then gave it another toss toward the ceiling. “You talk to anyone at his ranch in Wyoming?”
“Nope. No one answered.” She slid into the room and leaned against the doorframe. Folding her arms over her chest, stretching the blue wool of her jacket, she added, “But I called his other place—the spread in California. Talked to a manager there. No one knows what happened to him.”
“Convenient.”
“Very.”
“Keep looking.”
“I will.” She nodded, her short blond hair moving a bit, brushing her collar. “They both can’t be lost.”
“You wouldn’t think so.”
“And he claimed he didn’t leave with her. Remember you questioned him yourself the day that she was reported missing.”
“I remember. He’d had a fight with her.”
“He wasn’t the only one.”
“But he was the last. Good ol’ Marquise was on a tear last week, wasn’t she?” he muttered, recalling that she’d had it out with the cohost of her morning program and her latest boyfriend as well as her first husband. And those were only the ones he knew about.
“Walker’s not on the up and up.” Henderson frowned and replaced the baseball in its stand, a small metal replica of a catcher’s glove that once had been painted shiny gold, but now showed dull black where the paint had chipped away. Narrowing his eyes on the skyline of the city, visible through a thick, plate-glass window, he scratched with one finger at the itchy stubble beginning to shadow his jaw. “I don’t like the guy.”
“This isn’t exactly a news flash,” Hannah remarked with that irritating half-smile of hers. “You don’t like anyone.”
With good reason, he thought. Most people weren’t to be trusted. Especially ex-husbands with personal axes to grind.
“Looks like your lucky day,” Maggie said as she walked into Becca’s room and lifted the shades of her windows. Sunlight danced over the patches of snow that clung to the ground, and the room was suddenly awash with bright morning light. But as Maggie looked out the window, she saw the storm clouds gathering in the distance, gray and threatening, promising more snow than had been left in the middle of the night.
Becca, groaning, rolled over in bed, and the ice bag, a Ziploc plastic container now filled with water, tumbled to the floor. Fortunately, it didn’t burst open. “What’s so lucky about it?”
“You’re flying to California.” Maggie picked up the bag.
Becca’s eyes sprang open. She pushed herself into a sitting position. “What happened?” she asked suspiciously as she rubbed her eyes and yawned.
“I decided you were right. I have to go to Denver.” Maggie sighed and sat on the window ledge as the bright morning began to fade and the storm clouds encroached. “I don’t know what happened to Mary Theresa,” she admitted, staring at the clear sagging bag of water that had once been ice. “And I’m the only family she has left, so I’m going to Denver.”
“Cool.” Becca didn’t seem too worried about her missing aunt.
“Now, let’s look at that ankle of yours.” She walked to the bed and Becca willingly showed off her bruised and swollen foot. Gingerly, Maggie ran a finger over her daughter’s skin. Becca didn’t wince.
“It’s better.”
“It is?”
“Much,” Becca assured her. It seemed as if the swelling had, indeed, gone down, though the area around Becca’s ankle had turned an even uglier shade of green-blue this morning and the discoloration had spread, running down to the back of her heel.
“If you say so.” She forced a smile as she straightened, then walked to the bathroom, where she dumped the contents of the bag into the sink and tossed the used plastic into a wastebasket. “This isn’t the greatest time for you to visit Connie and Jim,” she said, returning to Becca’s room. It looked as if the proverbial cyclone had hit with the clothes, towels, books, and magazines scattered helter-skelter on the floor and every other available surface.
“Sure it is.” Becca wasn’t going to relinquish her mother’s promise. “You can’t change your mind.”
“I won’t.” Maggie hated leaving Becca while the kid was still struggling with crutches. Not that she had much choice in the matter, considering the circumstances. “So, I’ve already called Connie, and the airlines, and your teacher at home,” Maggie said, updating her daughter and ignoring her unease at leaving Becca with Dean’s relatives, who sometimes seemed more interested in the family money than they were in their own daughter. “We’ll pick up your assignments from school on the way to Boise, and you’ll fly from there to L.A. Connie will meet you at the airport. She told me Jenny is beside herself. She can’t wait for you to get there.” Forcing a smile she didn’t feel, Maggie opened the closet and, standing on her tiptoes, dragged down an athletic bag that was precariously balanced on the top shelf. “I guess we’d better both get packed.”
Becca threw back the covers and, using one crutch,
hobbled to her dresser. “This is so great,” she said, her eyes bright, any groggy little hint of sleep long vanished from her eyes. “I mean, I’m worried about Marquise and all, but nothing’s really wrong with her. She’s just missing. Like before. She’ll turn up, don’t ya think?”
“Sure.” No reason to dampen Becca’s suddenly bright spirits, though Maggie wasn’t certain of anything. True, Mary Theresa was flighty and had, over an argument with her agent, a fight with a lover, or a battle with the production company of the few movies she’d acted in, been known to walk off the set, take off for a few days, only to return refreshed and ready to do battle. Since working in Denver, Mary Theresa hadn’t been much happier, though Maggie hadn’t heard of her temper tantrums and never before had Maggie received an anguished, silent call from her sister. More to the point, never before had Thane Walker shown up on her doorstep.
This time was different.
“If you need any help in the shower, just let me know,” Maggie said. “Breakfast’ll be on the table in fifteen.”
”’Kay,” Becca mumbled, but Maggie doubted if the information registered in her daughter’s brain as she was into sorting through T-shirts, shorts, and jeans—warm weather wear for Southern California.
Maggie paused at the door. “Pack enough for a week.”
Becca’s head snapped around in her mother’s direction. “A week?” She couldn’t hide the delight in her eyes. “Really?”
“I don’t know. But you know my motto—better safe than—”
”‘Sorry,’ yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before.” Rolling her eyes expressively, Becca once again dug through her underwear drawer.
Maggie had already showered, dressed, and packed. Her suitcase, laptop computer, briefcase and oversize purse were piled near the front door. She’d listened to the weather service and, upon hearing that the area was in for an early snowstorm, thrown her ski jacket, gloves, and hat onto the growing pile.
The coffee had perked, and she popped two waffles into the toaster. Nothing fancy this morning. Just the basics. She heard the creak of the water pipes as Becca turned on the faucet and a few seconds later Becca’s off-key singing floated down the hallway over the rush of water as she showered.
