Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [99]
“She has an alarm system,” Thane reminded Maggie as she stuffed the key in the door.
“I know.”
They entered; the electronic beeper started ticking off the seconds; and Maggie, yanking off her gloves, walked unerringly to the broom closet near the kitchen, opened the door, and deactivated the security system, pressing a series of buttons just as her sister must have every day. A sense of desperation caught hold of her and she tried to shake it off, but entering Mary Theresa’s empty house gave her a small case of the creeps, made her feel as if she were walking on someone’s grave.
That’s crazy, she reminded herself. Just because M.T. isn’t here, doesn’t change a thing.
But being with Thane didn’t help; there was just too much she didn’t know—couldn’t trust—about him.
For all its stately outward appeal, the home’s interior was eclectically decorated—some of the furniture and art pieces a little offbeat. The living room, study, and library were all conservatively decorated in tones of hunter green and tan that reminded Maggie of a stuffy men’s club. Occupied by oxblood-leather couches, wing-backed chairs, antique tables, brass lamps, and leather-bound tomes reeking of snobbery, those rooms were at odds with the rest of the house, which was decorated without any common theme and filled with whatever caught Mary Theresa’s wild eye. Period pieces were interspersed with modern posters and artwork that was little more than junk, but somehow appealed to M.T.
A dour-faced mannequin dressed in Roaring Twenties attire, complete with beaded, fringed flapper dress, feather boa, and long cigarette holder, stood near a suit of armor in the entry hall. The kitchen was festooned with hanging pots and pans, a sturdy knife rack, baskets of dried herbs, marble counters, and bouquets of wilting flowers. Zebra-striped chairs were scattered near a faux leopard couch and a large table with a ceramic chess set was placed near a cherrywood-faced fireplace.
But for all its personality, there was a sense of lifelessness throughout the rooms. Without Mary Theresa the house was dead inside. No laughter. No sounds from the television or stereo. Just the soft hum of a hidden furnace and the ticking of a cuckoo clock.
Maggie unlocked French doors that opened to a wide brick patio. Outside, the air was brisk and cold. Planters, filled with last fall’s dead blossoms, were buried in snow. The yard, a field of white, rolled toward a lake where the smooth glasslike surface was occupied by a flock of Canada geese and the late-afternoon sunlight glinted in sharp, vibrant rays. A copse of leafless cottonwood trees stood near the opposite shore, and, far in the distance, the peaks of the Rocky Mountains rose like cathedral spires to touch a blue, cloudless sky.
“Not a bad place to live,” she said, her breath fogging in air that chilled her hands and cheeks.
“If this is what you like.” Thane squinted into the sun.
“Did she?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Who knows with her?”
“No one.” Together they walked back inside, and Maggie locked the door behind them.
“Nothing simple for Marquise,” Thane observed, running a finger along the back of a leather couch.
“Mary Theresa,” Maggie said automatically as she eyed the kitchen. She’d always hated her sister’s stage name; thought it sounded so uppity. One name for God’s sake. “But, yeah, this is overkill for one person.” She walked into the dining room, where a table with twelve chairs stretched beneath a chandelier resplendent with fragrant, half-burned candles rather than electric lights.
In the living room a concert grand piano gleamed ebony and reflected the sunlight from a bank of windows overlooking the lake.
“Why would she leave this place?” Maggie wondered aloud, and started up a curved staircase to the second