Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [89]
“So after Mary Theresa married Mr. Walker, here, you and she went your separate ways?”
Maggie’s heart beat a painful tattoo. She avoided the detective’s probing gaze. “That’s right.”
“You went to the University of California, Davis.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Eventually, after two years at a junior college. I studied literature and journalism.”
“And met the man who would become your husband…Dean McCrae?”
“Yes—I met Dean at junior college and we both transferred.” Why this embarrassed her, she didn’t understand, so she looked up and sighed. “I finished my B.A., Dean went on to law school, and I worked with a private investigator for a while.”
“Before writing true-crime stories?”
“Yes.”
“One child?”
Maggie nodded and wondered what Becca was doing now. “A daughter. Rebecca Anne. She was born in April of 1985.” Maggie gave the information out by rote, knowing that it was probably all in the files on the computer as well as buried somewhere in the mess of papers and folders on Henderson’s desk.
Henderson checked his notes. “Your husband died in a car accident about nine months ago?”
She nodded, her heart growing heavy. “Yes.”
“Single car? He swerved to miss a dog, ran off the road, and down a hillside, where the car hit a culvert.”
Maggie felt her skin crawl at the memory. A sheen of nervous sweat broke out on her back. She couldn’t stand to think about the dark days surrounding Dean’s death or the guilt that nagged at her when she considered it. “Yes.”
“You were living in Southern California at the time.”
“Laguna Nigel, yes,” she admitted, clearing her throat. “We moved there right after Dean got out of law school.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with anything,” Thane finally cut in. Tiny brackets surrounded his mouth and he couldn’t hide his irritation and impatience.
Henderson ignored him. “You visited a psychiatrist after your husband’s death?”
“Yes,” she admitted, suddenly more nervous than she had been. Though it had been only natural to visit a grief counselor and psychiatrist, Dean’s family had disapproved. Connie had pointed out that Maggie had visited the doctor before Dean’s death—that she’d been battling depression for months, perhaps years, and that there might be something deeper, a more insidious form of mental illness. Jim had been outwardly suspicious of Maggie’s fortitude as well as her morals—what woman, after all, would be insane enough not to want to be married to Dean, no matter what his faults? They hadn’t said too much but had quietly disapproved, silently insinuating that Maggie might not be a stable influence for her daughter, which was downright ridiculous. Maggie suspected that their concern for Becca was rooted in a deeper worry about her inheritance, the trust fund that sat gathering interest in Becca’s name.
“So you have a history of…”
“I had a case of slight depression, that’s all.”
“That’s all?” Henderson asked, clearly skeptical.
“Wait a minute. What is this?” Thane’s boots hit the floor, his pretense of disinterest falling away as quickly as if it had been stripped.
“Just trying to get the whole picture.”
“What does Maggie’s marriage have to do with anything?” Nerves strung tight, Thane stood slowly, placed his hands on Henderson’s desk, and leaned forward, thrusting his face so close to the detective’s that there was hardly any space of daylight between them. “Listen, Detective, Mary Theresa is missing. We came here to give you information. About her. To help you find her. Maggie doesn’t need her life ripped apart in the process.”
Henderson