Twice Kissed (33 page)

“This isn’t Marquise. It’s her sister. Maggie McCrae, Craig Beaumont.”

“Hey, is this some kind of joke…” he said before realizing the truth. “For the love of Jesus. Look at you. You and Marquise—you two are identical, right?”

“Nearly.” She nodded, and his blue eyes took in every inch of her, as if validating what his ears were being told.

“I can’t believe it.” Still holding his coat, he sat down on the corner of his desk. “Wow.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Ron Bishop was all business. “Now, listen. J.R. was half-kidding when he brought this up, but I think it would be a nifty attention-getting angle to put her on your show, you know, act like she’s Marquise during the lead-in, something like, ‘Is this Denver’s most celebrated missing person?’ We’ll check with Tess O’Shaughnessy”—he turned to face Maggie—“she’s now the executive producer of the show—”

Maggie wasn’t going to be bullied into anything. “Wait a minute.”

“—but it would be something along those lines, then you start interviewing her, not as Marquise, but as her twin. Wouldn’t that generate a helluva lot of interest? People are already curious, and the viewing public has a fascination with twin stories—they’re all over the miniseries and soaps. And here we’ve got it all rolled into one. A bona fide mystery
and
a twin deal and, of course, it could help us all find out what happened to her. That’s the most important facet, the real reason for the impersonation. The more people who watch the show, the more likely someone will call in with information.”

Craig was starting to warm to the idea. “Later in the show, we could have other twins come on—or twins separated at birth, that sort of thing. Explore what they have in common, why with different parents they still have the same mannerisms and interests and tastes.”

“Exactly.”

“Hey, slow down.” Maggie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I’m not interested.”

“What?”

“I just came to Denver to find my sister, not exploit her.”

“But you’d be doing her a favor. Maybe even help find her. One of our viewers might have seen her.”

“Wouldn’t they have called by now? Surely they’d recognize her.”

“But we could do some special advertising, draw a bigger audience. What do you think, Ms. McCrae?”

Maggie wasn’t going to be drawn into this ratings-driven, testosterone winner-take-all mentality. “I’d just like to talk to you,” she said directly to Craig Beaumont.

“Mr. Bishop?” A rail-thin woman with doe-shaped eyes and a smart black suit poked her head in the door. “You wanted me to remind you of your meeting with Mr. Danvers at the Brown Palace at eleven-thirty.”

Bishop checked his watch, mumbled his apologies, and reminded Maggie that she’d be doing her sister a favor if she agreed to be interviewed on
Denver AM
or the news, then hustled out of the tiny room.

“Sorry about Ron. He’s…well, he’s just Ron,” Craig said. “Always thinking ratings.”

“The nature of the beast,” she said with a shrug.

“All of us are geared to improving the quality of the show as well as improve our market share.”

“I understand, but as I said, I just want to find my sister, and I thought you could answer some questions for me.”

Craig eyed her for a second, then nodded, and for the first time Maggie saw a deeper side to this man whom her sister had once referred to as “a poster boy for ex-surfer dudes.”

“Sure. But let’s talk outside the station,” Craig suggested. “There’s a restaurant two blocks down the street where we might have a little privacy.”

Maggie agreed. Here, in Marquise’s workplace, she felt everyone’s eyes upon her. “Lead the way.”

Thane drew blanks. Anyone he talked to had little or nothing to say. The convenience store clerk had a faltering memory and the people who worked for Mary Theresa thought she was an angel—that was the word used by Raoul, who handled the yard work. “An angel sent down from heaven.” An elderly man with six children, two of whom still lived with him, he was devoutly religious and thought that the last five years of his life working for Marquise had been the best.

Her personal trainer, Laslo Rolf, was a surprise. Because of his own prejudices and Marquise’s usual taste in friends, Thane expected the guy to be a major flake. But he’d been wrong.

At twenty-eight Laslo had the body of an Adonis, a mixture of good genes and a healthy exercise-and-nutrition-driven lifestyle. Laslo spent his days working with different women and men, all wealthy, some as newsworthy as Marquise, but none quite as flamboyant.

“Who knows what happened to her,” he said between sessions in the gym with which he was affiliated. They stood at a broad bank of windows looking toward the Denver skyline, where bright sunlight was reflecting on the steel-and-glass towers and the snow was melting as the temperature climbed.

The clank of bodybuilding machines echoed as weights were hoisted and dropped. Muted music was barely audible over the hum of stationary bikes, stair machines, and treadmills.

To his credit, Laslo actually sweated, and he wore a jogging suit over his well-honed body, a white towel draped around his neck. “With Marquise, you could never tell what was going on. One minute she was on a serious health kick taking vitamins, living on lean meat, vegetables, and fruits; the next thing you knew she was poisoning herself with liquor and drugs.” His nose wrinkled in disdain. “The trouble with Marquise is that she doesn’t have any dedication, no loyalty to her body or the ability to stick to any kind of regimen.” He lifted his broad shoulders. “But she’s not alone. It’s a problem in this country.”

“She ever talk about takin’ off?”

“All the time.” Laslo dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead with the end of his towel. “She had dreams, thought she’d end up in New York or back in L.A. doing something in television. That seemed to change week to week—all those problems at the station. Her cohost is a real prick, always out to get her. If you ask me, she was confused and pressured. Either work or, well…personal issues.” His mouth pursed, as if he’d said far too much. “Maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you,” he said. “After all, the way Marquise told it, you were a major part of the problem.”

The muscles in the back of Thane’s neck tightened. “What did she tell you?”

Laslo hedged. “You know, Walker, half the time I thought she still held a torch for you.”

“And the other half?”

“The other half tells me that she was afraid of you. That you were the only person that frightened the bejeezus out of her. Why’s that?”

“Hell if I know,” Thane replied, though that wasn’t exactly the truth. Mary Theresa had half a dozen reasons to distrust him—all of them valid. “You know what they say about ex-husbands.”

“The only good ones are dead ones.”

Thane grinned. “I’ve heard that before.”

“Kind of like ex-wives, I suppose,” Laslo said, his eyes drilling into Thane’s as an announcement for the next step class was broadcast. “Look, I’ve got to go. My next appointment’s here.”

A short woman, decked out in expensive workout gear and jewelry, beamed at the sight of the much younger man. Laslo rained a smile on her, and the slightly pudgy woman melted.

Thane got the hell out of there. The gym with its weight machines, rowing machines, ever-moving steps, and sweating bodies all staring at televisions mounted high on the walls or instructors with bodies most of the soft-bellies who walked through the door wanted to duplicate, made him uncomfortable. He believed in staying in shape by simple hard work. Physical labor.

He unlocked his truck, noticed that the Jeep that had followed him here was gone, and felt a bit of relief. But as he drove out of the parking lot, he spied a Plymouth four-door pull away from the curb, and he knew Henderson was still watching him. Adjusting his rearview mirror, Thane nosed his truck toward the heart of Denver again and wondered how Maggie was doing.

Being away from her made him restless and edgy. Though he told himself it was insane to worry—she was a grown woman, for God’s sake—he couldn’t help the frisson of concern that cut into his brain when he thought of her walking in her irresponsible twin’s shoes.

Like she’s safe with you.
Guilt burrowed deep in his soul. He was using Maggie. Plain and simple. And she didn’t know it.

“You’re a miserable son of a bitch,” he growled at himself, but it didn’t do any good. He’d step on anyone who got in his way. Including Maggie.

Leveling a curse at himself, he flipped his visor down, squinted into the sunlight, and wished the whole mess with Mary Theresa was over.

And when it is, Maggie McCrae will hate the sight of you.
Well, so be it. He gunned the engine and set his jaw. No one ever said that life was fair.

“I’ll admit it,” Craig Beaumont agreed as he downed his second Bloody Mary. “Your sister and I didn’t see eye to eye on which direction our program was heading.” He swirled his drink with a stalk of celery and ignored the bowl of red bean and rice soup he’d ordered. The tiny restaurant was decorated with a Southwestern theme. Lariats, spurs, longhorns, and even a pair of bronzed chaps covered the walls, while the booths were constructed of bleached oak and Formica, topped with lanterns and softened by cushions in muted golds, pinks, and lavenders—the colors of a western sunset.

The food was Tex-Mex, the atmosphere quiet, the waiters seemingly discreet.

“You fought with her the day she disappeared.”

He nodded, waving one hand. “It was a big scene in front of the assistant producer and crew. A mistake.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It seems so silly now,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Marquise had been adamant about adding a segment about local celebrities—people in the Mountain States with star power, I guess you’d say. She wanted to dress things up, give the show a ‘makeover,’ I think her words were. Make it look more like something out of L.A. Sleeker, more sophisticated.”

“And you opposed this.”

“Our demographics showed us that our average viewer is a homemaker with a couple of kids who holds down a part-time job. Some college. Twenty-five to thirty-eight…well, anyway, we were going for a homey—folksy feel. We’ve always had a local chef make a dish during one segment, and you can write to the station, or e-mail for the recipe. We have gardeners, makeovers, local authors, the high-school football heroes, health tips, and artsy-crafty things to spruce up the house. Every once in a while we’d have a celebrity who was passing through, either filming a show in town, or hawking his biography, or whatever, but Marquise wanted this to be the new thrust.”

He drained his drink. “And to be truthful, she wanted me out.”

Maggie wasn’t surprised. She picked at her taco salad and asked, “Why?”

“Because she wanted to run the show. As she had from the minute I came on board. She always resented that, you know—that I was hired behind her back. Never really thought I contributed. So, when ratings started falling again, it was
my
fault.” He flashed her a false if-ya-get-my-drift smile as he reached for a slice of bread, started to butter it, then thought better of it. “There had been some talk of canceling the show altogether—or going with an entirely new format. The upshot is that Marquise wanted to revamp it—well, excuse my little pun—and handle everything herself.” He munched on his bread and thought for a second. “Your sister was a prima donna, you know. Saw herself as a queen bee.”

“How did you see her?”

“As a major pain in the ass.”

“She seemed to think the same of you.”

He snorted. “She would.”

“So you have no idea what happened to her?”

“None.” He blew across a spoonful of his soup. “I don’t wish her any harm, you understand, but I’m not sorry she’s off the set. And the reason I can say that is that it’s common knowledge at the studio. Anyone will tell you the same thing.”

“Why didn’t you like her?”

“Because, Maggie, Marquise was unprofessional. She was always showing up late, demanding everyone listen to her views, threw the worst tantrums I’ve ever seen, and was totally and irrevocably out of line. Professionalism isn’t in the woman’s vocabulary.” He ate two more bites. “She blamed everyone but herself for her problems. Now, don’t get me wrong. I really do hope she’s okay—she’s not a bad woman, just screwed up. And I don’t have any idea what happened to her.”

Maggie was warming to Craig whether she wanted to or not. He was self-serving and vain, but seemed honest enough. He made no bones about the fact that he didn’t like Marquise and though Maggie wanted to defend her sister to the hilt, to rail against anyone who dared utter a disparaging word against her, at least she understood Craig’s motives.

From the restaurant she drove to the outskirts of town and an unobtrusive cinder-block building housing Lawrence’s Executive Options, where Eve Lawrence, as president of the company, oversaw and managed ten or twelve accounting and secretarial underlings who, combined, did the paperwork for several small businesses in the Denver area along with handling Marquise’s accounts, fan mail, and correspondence.

No-nonsense and dogged, Eve shook her head at the sight of Maggie. “I know you hear it over and over, but you look so darned much like Marquise, it’s spooky. I mean because she’s missing and all. I knew you two were pretty close because I’d seen pictures of you, but I didn’t realize how much until just now. Mary, Joseph, and Jesus. Spitting image doesn’t begin to cover it. Oh, well.”

She clapped her hands together, and Maggie noticed that she wore a ring on nearly every finger. Her makeup was perfect, not one red hair out of place, and her fingernails were painted a deep red and didn’t have the slightest chip. In a dark brown suit and boots, Eve Lawrence presented herself as the quintessential businesswoman. “Let’s get down to it. What can I do to help find her?” She escorted Maggie into a boardroom and sat next to her at the table. A secretary brought coffee and several files that were filled with information.

“This is all the most recent stuff,” Eve said, as the girl slipped through the door and closed it behind her. Eve poured cream into her cup and watched as clouds swirled to the surface of her coffee. “If you want copies, I’d be glad to show them to you—well, except for her private papers—tax returns, financial statements, that sort of thing.”

Eve, after a painful second divorce, had followed Marquise to Denver from Los Angeles and built her own business when she realized that she could expand and take care of more than one client. Marquise had given her letters of recommendation and spoken to prospective clients on Eve’s behalf. In return, Eve Lawrence seemed to give Marquise her undying respect and trust. As Eve told it, theirs was a near-perfect relationship except that Eve’s business was off, and there were a couple of hitches in her dealings with Marquise.

“…personally, and this is just between you and me,” Eve confided as she sipped from her cup, “your sister was going broke. Couldn’t control her spending. I shouldn’t say anything, but it’s all going to come out as she’s going to be sued for the money she owes.” Eve shook her head. “I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Mary Theresa always played by her own rules.”

“The IRS doesn’t take that lightly,” Eve said.

“No, they don’t.”

“And, worse yet, your sister had horrible taste in men.” She held up a hand as if she expected Maggie to argue with her. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t make any comments. I don’t have a stellar track record myself, and for the most part I stay out of her private life altogether, but she’s made some questionable choices. You’ve met her first husband? Thane Walker?” Maggie’s heart froze. Eve rolled expressive eyes. “Outwardly, he seems fine, you know, the laid-back cowboy type, and sexy as all getout but there’s something about him I don’t trust. He’s not as much of a roll-with-the-punches kind of guy as he appears, too secretive for my taste. For some reason and God only knows what that is, Marquise never could quite sever her relationship with him.” Eve sighed.

“Is that right?” Maggie said, a sense of dread seeping through her.

“It’s as if he wanted something from her—maybe he’d never stopped loving her, I don’t know.” Maggie’s throat tightened, and she ignored the painful
I told you so
that echoed through her heart. “And then there was Syd, the second one. More bad news. I don’t mean to sound like a man-hater—I’m not, really—but the ones around Mary Theresa are either conniving or weak. Syd’s smart and rich as hell, but he treated Mary Theresa like she was a piece of jewelry, you know, what they call a ‘trophy wife,’ one who’s supposed to come out when she’s asked, then stay in the box where he put her and be a good girl the rest of the time. That didn’t sit well with your sister, let me tell you. Syd tried that garbage one too many times, and Mary Theresa showed him.” Her eyes glinted as if she knew more than she wanted to share. “Hit him where it hurt, then gave him his walking papers.”

Maggie sipped coffee and listened while Eve talked freely about the men in Mary Theresa’s life. “It’s like she could never really settle down. Between Thane and Syd there were a few boyfriends and after Syd quite a string. No one special, though, all more or less the same—mindless pretty boys. It seems that she was throwing it in Syd’s face that she could date younger and better-looking men—” Eve waved a finger in Maggie’s face “—including his ex-son-in-law, oh boy, did that one tick him off.”

“What was his name?”

“Let’s see.” Eve snapped her fingers, and her eyebrows knitted thoughtfully. “Oh, crap.” She leaned back and sighed, her face pulling together thoughtfully. “Now, I know it. Let’s see. Inman, that’s it. Robert Inman. He’s not quite thirty and he and old Syd used to play golf together, until he tossed Syd’s daughter over for another woman.”

“Mary Theresa?” Maggie asked, feeling sick.

“Mmm.” Eve nodded and smiled a bit, as if she extracted a bit of pleasure in the Gillette family’s pain. She took a gulp from her cup. “Marquise should never have done it, I know, but Robby—that’s what she called him—was a real lowlife, always running around. If ya ask me, Marquise did his ex-wife, Tanya, a big favor.”

“I don’t suppose Tanya saw it that way.”

“’Course not. She was pregnant at the time. It broke up the marriage.” Eve’s expression darkened. “Syd had to find himself a new golf partner.”

The coffee soured in Maggie’s stomach. She set her near-empty cup on the table.

“Anyway, eventually Mary Theresa gave up on Robby and found someone else. Her latest boyfriend, that Pomeranian kid, only wanted to ride her coattails and hoped she would get him into films or television with her connections. Fat chance. That new agent of hers, Ambrose King, was always, well, at least in my estimation, pushing her in the wrong direction. So that leaves her slime of a cohost. In my book Craig Beaumont is a snake.” She frowned into her cup. As if she finally realized that she sounded as if she was gossiping, Eve waved off anything else she might have thought. “Well, I’m the kind of person who believes in calling ’em as I see ’em, and I’m worried about your sister, Maggie. This isn’t like her—well, it is, but she hasn’t pulled a vanishing act like this for a while. And never for this long. It’s…unnerving.” She finished her coffee and set the cup aside. “I just hope she turns up alive and well, and we can all get this behind us.”

“So do I,” Maggie said, though she was feeling more ill at ease with the passing of each day. “Do you think she was bothered by anything in particular?”

“Besides her life in general?” Eve laughed. “No, don’t think so.” She wagged a finger at Maggie. “Now, before you start asking me if she was suicidal, the answer is an emphatic ‘no’ again. The police seem to think she might have gone off somewhere and done herself in, but I doubt it.” She looked directly into Maggie’s eyes. “That wouldn’t be Marquise’s style.”

They talked for a while, and Maggie left feeling frustrated, learning little more than she had already known, sensing she was no closer to finding out what happened to her sister than she ever had been. The snow was melting under a bright southwestern sun, and the air was clear and fresh, but Maggie couldn’t help the sense of foreboding that clung to her like a shadow.

“You’re sure?” Thane hugged the receiver to his ear and ignored the country-western music and loud conversation that emanated from the bar.

“That’s right,” Roy said, his rough voice as clear as if he’d been in the next room rather than some tiny outpost in California. “It took a little diggin’ but I got lucky. Seems as if your ex-wife spent some time in a small private hospital called Our Lady of Sorrows, not far from the Mexican border. The nearest town is miles away. It’s for mental patients, and a lot of celebrity types go there on the q.t. to pull themselves together or dry out or to get off drugs. Mary Theresa checked herself in about six months after your divorce was final, pal.”

Thane’s gut clenched, and if Mary Theresa had been anywhere near him, he would have grabbed her and throttled her for her deception. “Hell,” he ground out.

“I guess congratulations are in order,” Roy said laughing without much mirth. “It’s not every day a man discovers he’s got a seventeen-year-old son.”

Betrayal burned through Thane’s soul, and he remembered the way Mary Theresa had thrown it in his face just last week. She’d called him in Cheyenne and she’d been sobbing, swearing she was going to kill herself, out of her mind with her latest emotional trauma. She’d begged him to come to Denver. He’d pushed the speed limit and straightened corners the entire distance.

When he’d arrived at her house, he’d found her in the kitchen, dressed in a black silky bathrobe and offering him a drink as she led him to the kitchen. He should never have followed. She’d been three sheets to the wind, and when he’d refused the bourbon, she’d gotten right to the point and asked to borrow money from him. He’d refused, and she’d fallen into a million pieces, first trying to seduce him and then crying.

She’d tried all her tricks on him. First she’d kissed him, opening her mouth and licking his ear, telling him he was the only man who had ever satisfied her.

“Give it up,” he’d told her, pushing her away. She’d stumbled, falling against the kitchen counters. Tears had sprung to her eyes, and she’d started sobbing again, as if she were brokenhearted.