Dear Maggie

by Brenda Novak

  Now that you probably know more about me than you ever wanted to, it’s your turn:)

  She signed it simply Maggie, hit the Send button, and went onto the Internet, where she quickly forgot about Mntnbiker as she scanned the major newspapers throughout the country, beginning with the New York Times. Some of the crime stories were horrible enough to curl her toes, particularly those that involved child molestation or abuse, and it wasn’t long before she decided to give up. The violence was making her heartsick, and without the coroner’s report, she knew so little about the condition of Sarah Ritter’s body that it was difficult to draw any connection between her murder and any others. She was wasting her time, just as she’d thought.

  Yawning, she decided to get up early and head to Lowell Atkinson’s house with a big bag of donuts and several freshly roasted coffees. A horse came more willingly to a handful of sugar, right? The same might hold true for Lowell.

  She climbed into bed but couldn’t get to sleep. The murders she’d read about had her spooked. The shadow of the trees outside fell across her carpet, their knotty, intertwining branches sometimes taking on the shape of a man, and she wondered if someone could remove her air conditioner and crawl through the hole it left behind. Then again, they wouldn’t even have to go to that much trouble. Because of the heat, there were several windows open in other parts of the house, even a few of the ones without bars, just so she could get a breeze going through.

  For a few moments, Maggie held her breath, thinking she heard something rustling, the creak of a footfall in the living room….

  It’s nothing, she told herself. She pulled the sheet up to her chin, resisting the urge to duck her head beneath it, too, and turned her thoughts to other things.

  Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how she chose to look at it—Nick Sorenson came readily to mind. She tried to imagine what it would feel like to kiss a man like him, someone so completely opposite to Tim, someone who was all fire and no ice. But memories of Rock Tillman kept intruding on her fantasy. The way they’d gotten to know each other that one summer, the hope and attraction she’d felt from the start, and the way he’d treated her once school started—like she had the plague.

  So she pretended to be outgoing Darla and quickly forgot all about Rock. Then she had no more problems imagining Nick’s kiss—or anything else.

  CHAPTER THREE

  BINGO! SHE’D TAKEN the bait. Nick smiled at Maggie’s message, finding the personal touches more interesting than he should have. She loved chocolate-covered strawberries and coffee ice cream and sandy beaches. Those preferences, taken together with the fact that she couldn’t cook or sew, meant they had a lot in common. Fortunately, he was damn good at ordering out. And he could certainly do worse than hooking up with a woman who knew how to change her own oil.

  Hooking up with Maggie? Who was he kidding? She thought he was someone he wasn’t. Ethically speaking, he couldn’t touch her. And he was heading back to Ogden as soon as he caught his killer, anyway.

  “Forget about touching her,” he growled at himself. Rambo, who’d been sleeping curled up at Nick’s feet, raised his head off his paws and cocked his ears. Nick absently patted the dog’s head as he tried to think of a response that would draw Maggie into friendship. He needed to get to know her and her habits.

  He needed to do his job.

  He read her message again. What could he write that would make him look like a soft, sensitive guy? Women loved men who were in touch with their feminine side, didn’t they?

  Maybe. Only, as a cop, he didn’t see himself as having much of a feminine side, and somehow it was important to him that Maggie like him for himself. Maybe it was the challenge of overcoming her initial rejection. Maybe it was something more. But he decided to be as honest as his cover would allow. He told her what he truly liked, what he hated and what he dreamed about. Then he sent the message. She might have turned him down when he’d asked her out before, but he was hoping “John” would be able to slip beneath her defenses.

  “MOMMY, I’M AWAKE!”

  Maggie squinted at the round face leaning over hers and groaned. “Zach, it’s not even light yet.”

  “Can I watch cartoons-s-s?” he added.

  Maggie smiled at his lisp, longing for the day Zach would be able to work the television without her assistance. Then she thought of how fast he was growing up and regretted the fleeting wish. At three years old, he was at the perfect stage—out of diapers, cribs, and high chairs, but still cuddly and generous with his hugs.

  Dragging herself out of bed, she hauled him into her arms for a big kiss, then deposited him on the couch in front of Disney’s Ducktales while she started the coffeemaker and put a frozen waffle in the toaster. It was actually later than she’d realized; when she opened the blinds, she saw that the sun was already up. She needed to get showered so she could begin her siege of Atkinson’s house.

  “Hungry?” she asked Zach.

  He didn’t answer. He was already engrossed in his cartoons, so she prepared his waffle with peanut butter the way he liked and brought it to him on a tray.

  “I’m going to have a shower, okay, buddy?”

  “Okay.” Silence, then, “Mommy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’ll be right here,” he said, digging in to his waffle.

  Maggie ruffled his hair, then hurried to her bedroom, but before she turned on the shower and stripped off her nightgown, she checked her e-mail to see if Mntnbiker had written back.

  Sure enough, there was a message from him, right at the top of the list.

  Dear Maggie—

  You sound beautiful, and sweet.

  Beautiful? How did he get beautiful out of what she’d sent him? Or sweet? This guy was either an eternal optimist or extremely lonely, but despite that, the flattery felt good.

  As for me, I like mountain biking, sailing, sand volleyball and legal thrillers. I hate spinach, regardless of its food value, clueless drivers and people who try to convince the rest of the world that men and women have to be the same to be equal. I like our differences.

  I grew up in a large Catholic family of three sisters and two brothers, a stay-at-home mom and a father who was manager of a large copper mine in Utah before he retired about four years ago. My parents were strict, but we knew they loved us, which has probably saved everyone a fortune in therapy. Right now, my parents are hoping I’ll find a nice girl and settle down to have a bunch of kids; but don’t let that worry you. My job is pretty demanding. I doubt I’ll be getting married any time soon—

  Mntnbiker: Hi, Maggie.

  Maggie blinked at the blue box that had suddenly appeared on her screen. Mntnbiker was sending her an instant message. She felt a moment’s panic because she’d been out of the dating game for so long, then shook it off. She wasn’t sixteen anymore. She wasn’t that girl with braces and clothes so well made they’d last a century, and this guy was a total stranger. She didn’t need to impress him. She didn’t even know where he lived.

  Zachman: Hi, John.

  Mntnbiker: Did you get my message?

  Zachman: I was just reading it. I have to admit I like the part about me being beautiful and sweet the best, although it would certainly have been more convincing if you’d seen a picture of me first.

  Mntnbiker: I have a good imagination.

  Zachman: Then send me a photo because I don’t have a clue what you look like.

  Mntnbiker: Does it matter?

  Zachman: I’m curious.

  Mntnbiker: I’m 6’2”, 195 lbs., brown hair, brown eyes.

  Zachman: Do you still live in Utah?

  Mntnbiker: Yes.

  Zachman: How old are you?

  Mntnbiker: 33.

  Zachman: Divorced?

  Mntnbiker: No. Never married.

  Zachman: Any close calls?

  Mntnbiker: I’ve been engaged once.

  Zachman: To the woman you mentioned in the chat?

  Mntnbiker: Yeah.

>   Zachman: How long ago was that?

  Mntnbiker: Three years.

  Maggie tapped a fingernail on her front tooth, thinking. She hated to come on too strong, but she didn’t want to waste her time with a guy who was still in love with someone else. Emboldened by the anonymity of e-mail communication, she decided to get right to the point.

  Zachman: Are you over her?

  Mntnbiker: I think so. Are you always so direct?

  Zachman: Usually. I’m a journalist, remember? It’s my job to ask tough questions. So, do you ever see her anymore?

  Mntnbiker: No, she’s married.

  Zachman: I’m reading between the lines here, but the break-up sounds like it was pretty rough on you.

  Mntnbiker: I wish I had taken the brunt of it. Unfortunately, I think it was rougher on her. How about you? Anyone special in your life?

  Zachman: Just my son, Zach.

  Mntnbiker: Tell me what he’s like.

  Maggie stared, disbelieving, at Mntnbiker’s words. He wanted to know about Zach? For some reason, she hadn’t expected him to ask about her son. Maybe Tim’s attitude had colored her view of what most men were like. Maybe Mntnbiker—John—was different.

  Smiling, she told him that Zach had a lisp, that he was blond and big for his age and that he loved basketball. The two of them played in the backyard all the time, using a pint-sized hoop and ball. Zach could already dribble.

  Mntnbiker: He sounds like a great kid. What happened to his father?

  Zachman: After I got pregnant, Tim demanded I get an abortion. He said he wasn’t ready, after all. But I refused to terminate the pregnancy, and that was pretty much the last straw in our relationship.

  Mntnbiker: What does Tim do?

  Zachman: He’s a podiatrist now. When we were married, he was going to school.

  Mntnbiker: You supported him?

  Zachman: Yeah.

  Mntnbiker: As a journalist?

  Zachman: Not exactly.

  Maggie hesitated. She wasn’t proud of this part of her life. She’d sold out, plain and simple, and she’d done it because Tim had asked her to. He had a way of making her career seem inconsequential next to his and, for a while, she’d actually bought into it.

  Zachman: In order to get on at the paper in L.A., I would’ve had to intern for several years, which doesn’t pay anything. We needed money for Tim’s schooling, so he convinced me to hire on at one of the tabloids. We weren’t living too far from Hollywood, so our location was perfect for that sort of thing.

  Mntnbiker: You sound like you regret it.

  Zachman: I do. It certainly wasn’t the kind of writing I’d aspired to in college, but Tim can be very persuasive. He craved success more than anything, and he had a plan to achieve it. The only catch was that his plan depended on me making a sizable salary. Kids weren’t initially part of the deal, and he wasn’t happy he’d relented on that.

  Mntnbiker: So is he successful?

  Zachman: I guess. He has his practice, a new wife, a fancy car and a huge house.

  Mntnbiker: And you have…

  Zachman: An old house that needs central air and paint, a job that can eventually lead me in the direction I want to go, and Zach. Zach is worth all the cars and houses and money in the world. I actually feel kind of sorry for Tim. He’s missing out on so much.

  Mntnbiker: Don’t feel sorry for him. He probably doesn’t deserve it. Does he pay you child support, have any relationship with Zach at all?

  Zachman: No. He never really wanted Zach and wasn’t interested in visitation rights, so I didn’t have the nerve to ask for child support. I thought it was better to make a clean break and to do what I can for Zach on my own.

  Mntnbiker: What did you ever see in this guy?

  Zachman: We met in college. He was driven, ambitious, successful, confident. I fell in love with him almost right away. I fell out of love with him shortly after the wedding, for the same reasons.

  Mntnbiker: And now? Are you seeing anyone?

  Zachman: Oh, yeah. Lots of guys. On weekends, they form a line at my door.

  Mntnbiker: How long’s the wait?

  For the right man? Maggie sighed in longing. There’d be no wait for Mr. Right, but she didn’t have any hope of finding him soon.

  “Mommy, you doing your e-mail?” Zach interrupted, coming into the room.

  “Yeah, babe.”

  “Can I have s-s-some more milk?”

  “Just a minute, honey.” When her son drew close enough, she pulled him onto her lap and shifted him to one side as she considered her response to Mntnbiker.

  Zachman: It depends.

  Mntnbiker: On looks or personality?

  Zachman: Definitely personality.

  Mntnbiker: How am I doing so far?

  She chuckled.

  Zachman: Better than most, but we probably live a thousand miles apart.

  Mntnbiker: We might live closer than you think.

  Zachman: What if we do?

  Mntnbiker: Who knows? Maybe we’ll meet someday. Maybe I’ll show up with chocolate-covered strawberries and coffee ice cream and whisk you away to the beach.

  Zachman: Are you asking for my address?

  Mntnbiker: No, because I don’t want you to give that kind of information out over the Internet, to anybody. Ever. It’s too dangerous.

  Maggie raised an intrigued brow. This John guy seemed nice—caring and responsible. Maybe he was someone she could really like.

  Zachman: I can trust you, though, right?

  Mntnbiker: With your life.

  Zachman: What do you do for a living?

  Mntnbiker: I guess you could say I’m sort of a security guard.

  A security guard? That wouldn’t appear too impressive on a resumé. Tim would have laughed and told her she was stupid to befriend a $5/hour rent-a-cop. What kind of breadwinner could he be?

  Good thing she and Tim had never measured success the same way. Good thing she wasn’t looking for a meal ticket. She could earn her own money. She might never be rich, but she’d get by. She wanted a man who cared about life and love and didn’t forget the simple things. Someone who valued her above his new BMW.

  I’m having a good time, she wrote, marveling at the fact that she really was, but I have to go to work right now. Can we talk later?

  Mntnbiker: You have to go in on a Saturday?

  Zachman: I usually work graveyard, Tuesday through Saturday, but this week I traded with the guy who has the day shift on Wednesday, which gave me last night off and enough sleep to tackle some things I have to get done.

  Mntnbiker: Like chase down that story you mentioned? The murder?

  Zachman: Yeah.

  Mntnbiker: How does a journalist track a story like that?

  Zachman: It’s not easy. Right now, the county coroner isn’t being very helpful. He won’t give me any information on the body that was found last week, so I’m going to head over to his house with breakfast and see if I have better luck.

  Mntnbiker: Maybe the police told him not to say anything.

  Zachman: I’m sure they did.

  Mntnbiker: But you’re a reporter. You’re not going to let that stop you, huh?

  Zachman: Sort of. It’s my job to get the truth.

  Mntnbiker: What if there’s a good reason for keeping you out of the loop?

  Zachman: I’m not sure I’d buy it. Sometimes the police try to manipulate the media, just to make the department look good.

  Mntnbiker: Everybody has a different perspective, I guess. Are you going to send me a message later?

  Zachman: If you want.

  Mntnbiker: I want. Do you work tonight?

  Zachman: Yeah, I start at ten.

  Mntnbiker: Then log on around seven o’clock, and I’ll take you on a cyber-date.

  Zachman: What’s that?

  Mntnbiker: You’ll see—I hope. I’m making this up as I go along.

  Maggie typed LOL, the symbol for “laughing out loud,” then, teasing, told him sh
e insisted on going Dutch. After that, she signed off.

  MAGGIE HAD PLANNED to have her seventy-one-year-old neighbor, who normally watched Zach, come and sit with him while she visited the Atkinsons. But a denture crisis sent Mrs. Gruber off to the dentist, and Maggie decided that taking her son along might actually work to her advantage. She certainly couldn’t look too threatening with an endearing three-year-old in tow, not when he was carrying a box of donuts and she was toting a tray of coffee and hot chocolate. Besides, she liked having him with her.

  She parked beneath one of the big, leafy trees that lined most of 36th Avenue, turned down the cop radio in her car and surveyed Lowell Atkinson’s house. She’d always admired it. It wasn’t large by modern standards but it definitely had class. Small, detached garage, well-tended shrubs, lots of flowers, big shady trees, and a new coat of paint on everything, including the fence. Maggie thought she might like to live in this neighborhood, if she could ever afford it. It was the kind of place where people bought and stayed. They mowed their own lawns, drove family cars and remembered to wave at the neighbors.

  “Can I have another one?” Zach asked, lifting the lid and eyeing the donuts as she cut the engine. His face and hands were already covered with chocolate icing. Maggie considered his almost-clean shirt and decided not to tempt fate a second time.

  “I think we’ve done enough damage already, buddy.” She retrieved a napkin from the glove box and did her best to spit-polish him, the way her grandmother used to do with her. When his patience ran out half a second later and he started squirming too much to make further improvements, she said, “Let’s go.”

  Tall and willowy, Mary Ann Atkinson answered the door in her robe, but she looked as though she was in the process of getting ready, not getting up. Her dark hair was brushed back off her face and she’d already applied mascara and violet shadow to her brown eyes. “Hi, Maggie. Lowell said you’d be over today.”