Twin Turmoil Page 3

  Did I do this to spite my mother? Perhaps. I don't really know but, although it might have been partly that, I like to think my decision was solely for my twin sister, Claire.

  Chapter Three - Grief

  After the tiring but luxurious First Class flight to New York on a Pan-Am 707, my father ushered me into a taxi which took us to the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. This is where we were to stay overnight before taking the Keedon executive Lear Jet to Phoenix, Arizona.

  The hotel was simply amazing and although my mother always liked to stay in luxury accommodations when she travelled, I can honestly say that I had never stayed anywhere quite so splendid when travelling with her. The Waldorf was magnificent and nothing was too much trouble for the staff. Despite the comfort level, I did not sleep well that night. It may have been the dry air due to the air conditioning system, a feature that I was unused to back home, or it may have been the excited stress at my present unusual situation. Consequently, I was exhausted by the time we left for the airport the following day.

  The flight was an ideal time for my father to fill me in on 'who was who' at the ranch, or 'The Plomosa' as it was named. Due to my lack of sleep, I seriously wondered how much that my father told me about Claire, the ranch and the people who lived there, would sink in and stick in my travel weary brain.

  There was Sarah the housekeeper, who had married my father's cousin, my second cousin, I guess, who had been a pilot during the war. After the war had ended in 1945, Mr. and Mrs. Williams had set up home together in Scottsdale, Arizona. After her husband had died of cancer only a few years later, the feisty Scottish woman had come to stay and basically never left, taking the role of housekeeper and becoming a valued member of the family. There was Kate, who also lived in; my father described her as more of a general assistant. Matthew Lane I already knew of. He ran the cattle side of the ranch and although he bunked at the ranch, he was living in Flagstaff since Claire had died. My father told me that he thought that keeping the secret of Claire's murder was a difficult task for Matt. There was also a Liam O'Donnell and he was in charge of the tourist side of things. Apparently The Plomosa was a new kind of tourist concept—a 'Dude Ranch' which meant people could stay in bunkhouses—luxury models— and get the whole cowboy ranch experience.

  I was concerned about Sarah, the housekeeper, and Kate, the general assistant; they knew Claire well and I would have to be very wary around them. My father also went over Claire's likes and dislikes with regards to music, books, food etc. Her music preferences showed me that she was definitely not a cool cat. Claire liked country and western. Not a big surprise there seeing that she had grown up on a ranch in Arizona. Claire liked Elvis too but, then, who didn't! Books now that did surprise me, for her favourite was mine as well, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen. Her food tastes were similar to my own except for the fact my sister had become a dedicated vegetarian. Rather a surprising thing on a cattle ranch I thought. My father drew a picture of a pliable and dreamy girl. I was rather disappointed because she sounded too much like a 'wishy-washy' girl to me. On the other hand, I mused this was a 'Daddy's view' of Claire. She must have had some strength of will to become a vegetarian amongst all those meat eating red-necks, especially since she was living amidst them on a cattle ranch.

  We were met at the Phoenix airport by two plain clothes detectives. They whisked us through the back of the airport to a waiting car that had blacked-out windows. Everything up until now had had a fictional feel, but as I climbed into the unmarked car, I realised the enormity of what I was undertaking. Could I go through with this? I was tired from the flight and from all the overwhelming emotion of the last few days. It suddenly dawned on me that I could not possibly carry on with this stupid plan. How could I possibly impersonate Claire? I would need to be insane to do this.

  We were to be driven first to the police precinct and then on to the hospital where Claire had been taken after she had been found.

  Travelling into the city, I was surprised by the amazingly wide roads and the speed of the American drivers. The cars and their passengers travelled past in a steady flow, unlike at home in England where a car was still a luxury item that only a minority of people could afford.

  After a drive into and through the city, we finally turned onto a ramp on the side of a large red brick building and drove down a concrete slope into an underground garage. The older detective jumped from the car and whisked open my door helping me out and hurrying me into an open lift. My father and the other detective followed on behind. The lift glided upwards and we travelled in silence until we stopped at the seventh floor, emerging into a quiet corridor. A woman wearing a plain black suit met us and we were ushered rapidly along to a room and asked to wait. Presently, a tall slim man entered and after shaking my father's hand, he asked us both to sit. The thin man introduced himself to me as Chief Stewart and, fixing his astute gaze on me, he studied me a while. He continued to stare for some time, still not speaking and I began to fidget, feeling uncomfortable. Finally he spoke, "The likeness is extraordinary Miss Keedon, do…"

  I interrupted him, "St. Clare."

  "I apologise, Miss St. Clare, of course."

  "Nicola, you're a Keedon," my father said irritably.

  The Chief and I both ignored him. "Are you quite sure you wish to go through with this double act, Miss St. Clare?" he asked me quietly.

  "Do you think it will work?" I asked.

  "Well now, ma'am, up until the moment I met you just now, I was totally against this whole idea of your father's. Now… well, it will be dangerous… you do understand that, Miss St. Clare, extremely dangerous. The person who killed your sister will surely try again, once he or she, finds they have not succeeded. I shall, of course, place a detective with you at all times. She will pretend to be your physiotherapist. I must tell you straight though, Miss St. Clare, that I would be much happier if we just announced that your sister had been murdered and a full murder inquiry opened."

  My father started to say something like, "See here, Stewart!" but I interrupted him.

  "Have you collected any evidence at all, Mr. Stewart?"

  The Chief looked at me with interest, "None I am sorry to say, Miss St. Clare. Your sister was wearing gloves so there were no traces under her nails. We think that her murderer also wore gloves."

  "My father said that you were certain the killer came from the ranch. Why is that?" I asked.

  "Where we found Claire there were no tracks leading off in any other direction except your sister's from The Plomosa. Your sister was found in a small canyon on the outer edge of the ranch, on Pinto Rock. The trail leading there is one used frequently by Plomosa hands and occasionally tourists. There were no truck or horse tracks leading from the ranch to Iron Canyon and, before you ask, Miss St. Clare, there were no tourists staying there at the time of your sister's death. The household were at breakfast together around the time of the murder."

  "Mmm, yes I see, so you have no suspects?"

  "Well, O'Donnell has no alibi but your father vouches for him." I looked up at my father and he nodded his head. However, I tucked that little nugget of information away for later discussion with him.

  Right now I had more important things to think about. "Chief, I wish to view my sister's body today." I heard my father's sharp intake of breath and turned to him. "I must, I have to see her," I told him. He looked at the Chief and, after a moment, he gave a brief nod.

  The Chief cleared his throat, "Very well, Miss St. Clare, if you're absolutely sure about this?" I nodded. "Okay then, I will telephone ahead to the Flagstaff Medical Centre and arrange that for you now."

  "Thank you." I stood up and stretched out my hand which he shook firmly before he moved to the door, holding it open for our exit.

  After a short while, we were on our way once again, this time to the hospital where Claire's body was being kept under guard.

  From there, I was to take her place and deceive her killer into thinking that he, or she, had failed wit
h the attempt on Claire's life, by tempting him, or her, to try again—was I quite mad?

  I would become Claire and by impersonating her, perhaps I would finally get to know my twin sister; this was the only thing left that I could do for her.

  I had imagined a journey of half an hour or so from the police headquarters to the hospital. After an hour of driving, I asked how much longer it would take before we were at our destination.

  "Less than an hour now, ma'am. Flagstaff is about one hundred and forty miles from Phoenix y'know." I did not know—this country was simply vast!

  There were two detectives, one was a tall, handsome black guy named Hank. He had a New York accent which I discovered only after my father had asked him which part of New York he hailed from. The other one, the driver, was an older man with a long horse-like face, a grizzled and tough looking individual who looked as if he could take care of anything that came his way. He said very little, spoke quietly and I felt safe with him driving the car. Hank called him 'Mr. Ed.' It was some kind of private joke between the pair of them. I gave myself up to the amazing views beyond the window of the car. Snow lay in patches on the ground despite the fact it was nearly the end of March. We skirted the edge of a pine forest which appeared to go on for miles and in the distance, a large snow-capped mountain stood tall. Not the scenery I had been expecting in Arizona. I had thought to find desert and flat grazing land.

  "Does this forest have a name?" I asked my father.

  "It sure does, hon'. That there is the Coconino National Forest and those snowy mountains in the distance are the San Francisco Peaks. You'll be able to see Humphreys Peak once we reach Flagstaff. That's the highest mountain at just less than thirteen thousand feet. After we leave the hospital, it's not far to The Plomosa, which is out of Flagstaff on Highway Eighty Nine."

  Despite all my fatigue and the ordeal that I knew lay ahead, I was excited. This beautiful country was the land of my birth; it was in my blood and bones and I felt that I had finally come home.

  Once again it was down into an underground car park. This time, however, a wheelchair was fetched for me because the police thought it would conceal my identity better than if I was walking. People rarely stared at a person in a wheelchair I was told by Mr. Ed. I was lifted carefully into the chair and they wrapped me in a blanket that covered my head and shadowed my face. I was then wheeled into the lift. We travelled silently up in the elevator as I was now remembering to call it, getting into my American persona.

  When the doors slid open, the hustle and bustle of hospital life rushed in on me. Swiftly, I was pushed along the corridor, weaving in and out between people. Finally, we turned into a quiet corridor and on through a pair of swinging double doors and into yet another corridor. This part of the hospital was very quiet as it was not open to the public. The smell of disinfectant and some other slightly sweet, sickly scent was much stronger here I noticed. At the end of the corridor, a doctor, the Medical Examiner, in a white hospital coat awaited us. He turned and held open the door so that my wheelchair could enter the room. The blanket was removed from my head, and I saw that we were in a plain and clinical looking room.

  In the centre of the room stood a hospital trolley with a shrouded figure laid upon it; my eyes were riveted to the shrouded mound. The Medical Examiner spoke to me but I could not take in what he was saying, though I nodded automatically. He reached for the white cloth and pulled it back. I wanted to stop him, not cool—I wasn't ready yet!

  Suddenly there she was, my twin sister Claire. She lay there as if she was simply sleeping. I stretched out a finger and gently laid the back of it against her cheek, her pale skin was cold and unyielding. I was jolted. Not sleeping, of course, but dead—my face and my hair, dead. I swayed. I felt a hand slip under my elbow and shook it free. Leaning forward, I gazed at her hungrily, wanting the knowledge of her physical form… of her reality. I traced my finger over her bow shaped eyebrows, mine. I stroked the plains of her cheeks, mine. I touched her pale, pale lips, mine. I bent to kiss them, so, so cold. Suddenly her voice seemed to fill my head and I heard her words, "sister… at last my sister, ah, too late, too late!"

  *****

  "Nicky… Nicky, sweetheart. I should never have allowed her to do this!"

  "Okay, Mr. Keedon, it's just a simple faint—there and she's back with us. Nicola, how do you feel? Drink this, it is only water, yes that's right, sip it slowly—how do you feel—better?"

  I sat up and stared around me. "Did you hear?" I whispered, dazed.

  "Hear what, hon'?" My father asked with a frown.

  "Claire, she spoke to me!"

  "Aw now... hon... come on!"

  "Mr. Keedon, this is quite normal." The doctor hunkered down beside me. "Nicola, lots of people experience hallucinations on the death of a loved one and people often think they see their dead relatives moving and even speaking to them. Is that what happened to you just now?"

  I nodded, "Yes, but I didn't imagine it, Claire spoke... she spoke to me." I appealed to my father holding out my hand to him.

  He clasped it in his and raised it to his lips before saying, "No, hon', no, Claire didn't move or speak or anything. Claire is dead, Nicky. Honey, look... I want to take you back to England. The strain of this is all too much for you, it was a crazy, crazy plan. I can see that now."

  "No! No! No! I am fine. You believe what you like, but I am going to find my sister's murderer, just as she wants me to!" I glared at him while the doctor patted my shoulder and shook his head at my father as he made to speak to me again. Finally he cleared his throat, nodded and turned away. I glanced back at the shrouded form of my twin and made my silent oath to her and to this day, I swear that she heard me. The doctor assured me of his discretion regarding my identity, shaking my hand before ushering us out into the hospital corridor. Once again I was covered by the blanket and wheeled into the bowels of the hospital. The next stop would be the room where I would change, becoming my twin Claire.

  *****

  The route back to the main part of the hospital was travelled in uneasy silence. I could sense my father's worry. After numerous twists and turns, we came to a room and I was manoeuvred inside. A young man sat beside an empty bed, next to it stood a bedside cupboard on which stood a vase of beautiful hothouse lilies. A night-dress was laid out on the pillow. The young man stood up, his burning gaze riveted on me. He held his hat in his hands, which he turned and twisted agitatedly. "Jeepers creepers," he gasped, turning white as he stared fixedly at me.

  "Matt, hi there, son, how're you doing?" My father went over to him and clasped the young man's shoulder.

  "Um, I'm okay I guess, Mr. Keedon. Jeez, man... it is Claire!"

  I held out my hand shakily. I didn't like this young man's reaction at all. "You must be Matthew Lane. I'm Nicola and I am so sorry for your loss," I said as gently as I could.

  He stumbled forward and I noticed that his hand shook as he took mine. "N-Nicola, right? Shit, but you are the spitting image of Claire. I'm real sorry, it's just… the shock I guess."

  "That's cool, I understand." I patted his hand and let him go. He was a very pleasant looking man, in his late twenties I guessed—fair hair, hazel eyes, even features, he looked a nice type. "I have a couple of questions for you, Matt… is that okay with you?"

  He nodded. "Sure."

  "Why didn't you tell anyone else at the ranch that Claire was dead after you found her body?" This was something my father had not explained and I had been curious about it ever since he had conceived this plan.

  Matt looked at my father who gave him a brief nod. "I was worried that Claire was dumping me when she didn't arrive for breakfast, so I rode out and followed her horse tracks to Pinto Rock…" Matt stopped speaking. He was obviously distressed; he rubbed his hand over his face before continuing. "I-I... er... found Claire on the flat rock which is about four feet off the ground and about fifty feet in diameter. Sasha was real agitated down on soft ground pawing at the edge as if she wanted to cl
imb up there y'know?" I nodded, I hated to upset the guy, but I needed to understand this. "I felt for Claire's pulse but I knew she was dead when I looked at her, her throat... so I grabbed Sasha's reins and started back to the ranch to get help. That's when I met Mr. Keedon and told him what I had found." Matt finished talking and pulled a handkerchief from his jeans pocket giving his nose a loud blow.

  My father continued the tale. "Matt lead me to Claire and I began to think about you, Nicky, and how it might be possible to trick her killer into thinking Claire was still alive. I persuaded Matt to keep quiet about the murder until after I had spoken to Chief Stewart."

  Matt looked at me and said, "I didn't want to go along with this charade you know. I've been bunking down in town rather than spending time up at The Plomosa since it happened. Just so's you know, I thought this whole plan was crazy hogwash but, now that I see the likeness, well y'know, it jus' might work at that!"

  I put my hand on his arm and gave him a squeeze before turning to the two detectives. "So, what now?" I asked.

  Mr. Ed. answered me, "You are to change into night clothes and get into bed and await Detective Jules Danker who will be along real soon. She's going home with you tomorrow as your physiotherapist. We will stand guard outside your room tonight. A statement will be made to the press to the effect that you remember nothing at all of the fall from your horse or of anyone attacking you. You will dismiss the whole idea as ridiculous to anyone at the ranch and appear not to take the suggestion by the doctors that there are signs of strangulation around your throat seriously."

  "What about the evidence? My throat for instance, the plan is that I whisper, yeah, due to my injury and to cover my English accent."

  Hank conferred with his colleague. "You could say your scarf must have got caught when you fell and, while you were unconscious, your horse dragged you."

  Matt interrupted. "That's plumb crazy. Sasha would never have dragged Claire and everyone will know that, her horse adored her!"