Today she is wearing jeans, which sounds laid-back, but hers are a shade of indigo that suggests they are brand-spanking-new and might lend her thighs a blue tint by the end of the day. There is a crease ironed down the front of each pant leg. Her top is a long-sleeved, cream-colored blouse that she wears neatly tucked in, and she has a pale blue cardigan sweater tied loosely around her neck by the sleeves . . . Her superhero cape, I think with a smile. Her footwear is a pair of sensible navy blue slip-ons. Contrary to her workaday wear, today she has no accessories: no belt, no jewelry, no hair adornments. Her hair, makeup, and nails are all done to perfection, however, and I’ve never seen them otherwise. Maggie Baldwin is a single, successful professional with no children and plenty of time and money to indulge herself. It shows.
I can’t help but feel a bit dowdy beside her. I’m also wearing jeans and a blouse, but my jeans are well-worn and partially hemmed with duct tape, and my blouse, while clean and relatively new, is untucked, the shirt tails hanging down to help hide my tummy and butt. My feet may be encased in a ragged old pair of running shoes I’ve owned for at least ten years, but my socks are brand-spanking-new.
While I, too, am single and have no children, I don’t have the sort of money I imagine Maggie does. Still, I’m well enough off, thanks to frugal spending habits and a solid savings plan. I have a decent amount of disposable income, but I find it hard to spend it on things like clothes. Maggie has a long, lean build that I’m sure makes dressing up a fun and rewarding experience. I, on the other hand, have a pear-shaped body, and a stunted pear at that. I used to have to buy most of my clothes in the kids’ aisles because of my height, but these days I’m forced to hit up the women’s section to accommodate my more mature stature. Almost nothing I buy off the rack fits properly, and rather than spending a lot on trendy, fashionable new clothes, my money goes to paying for alterations. Tamela does a great job of this for me, and for a reasonable price, but the end results will never be mistaken for haute couture. Plus, because of the work I need to do to make my clothes fit, I tend to hang on to them longer than I probably should. I still have stuff I wore in college hanging in my closet.
Maggie eyes the white paper bag I’m holding, its sides turning almost transparent due to the fat content of the croissants inside. She licks her lips and I proffer the cardboard cup holder first, letting her take her latte. Then I set the drink tray down and hand Maggie the bag. She digs in with a childlike delight that makes me smile.
“I only get these when you bring them to me,” she says, removing one of the pastries from the bag and eyeing it greedily.
The croissants have either chocolate or cream cheese filling, and they are dusted with powdered sugar. I see Maggie has chosen a chocolate one and watch as she takes a bite, closes her eyes, and spends a moment relishing the flavor. I watch her with some amusement as I take a seat and pull my own coffee from the cup holder. There is a tiny chocolate-rimmed flake of croissant stuck to her lower lip and a faint dusting of powdered sugar spattered over her blouse. After a few seconds, Maggie opens her eyes, smiles happily, and hands me the bag.
“Thank you,” she says, settling into the chair across from mine. She licks her lip, snagging the tiny croissant crumb, and then brushes the front of her blouse with her hand.
“My pleasure,” I say, reaching into the bag and pulling out a cream-cheese-filled treat.
For the next couple of minutes, the two of us sit comfortably inside a cloud of gustatory silence, the only sounds the ticking of the clock on Maggie’s wall and the chewing and slurping noises the two of us make as we indulge in our morning treats.
When I see Maggie lick her fingers, I know we are about to get down to business.
“What brings you in today?” she asks.
“Several things. For one, I have someone in my grief support group who has issued something of a challenge, one that I find myself liking and wanting to meet.”
Maggie looks intrigued. “What sort of challenge?”
“She lost her son two weeks ago from a heroin overdose that may have been accidental or a suicide. But she came to our group insisting that the kid wasn’t a drug user and that something about his death didn’t ring true. She thinks someone might have killed him, and she begged us to help her investigate.”
“Ah,” Maggie says, a knowing look on her face. “A possible homicide investigation. That’s hitting you where you live, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I admit, “but I do think there’s something to it. I’m not jumping on it just because of, well, you know why.” She nods. “It turns out there are some irregularities in the kid’s death, and even though the case was closed with accidental death listed as the cause, the homicide detective in charge of the case has now decided to reopen it based on some things I pointed out to him.”
“You’ve always been a keen observer,” Maggie says.
I smile, basking in her praise for a moment before I say, “Well, to be honest, I had some help. Mattie Winston worked the case at the ME’s office, and she told me she felt there was something off about it. I think I just figured out what some of that offness might be. And it was enough that Detective Bob Richmond decided to reopen the case.”
Maggie tilts her head to one side, eyeing me narrowly. “And you handed your information over to him?” she says in a tone that suggests she doesn’t believe this for a minute.
“No,” I say with a sheepish smile. “I kind of blackmailed him into letting me help. He’s allowing me to ride along with him while he looks into things.”
“Ride along?” Maggie says, looking a little concerned. “What exactly does that mean?”
“It means I have to sign a form that says the police can’t be held responsible for my maiming, crippling, or death from any cause ranging from a routine car accident to a zombie apocalypse. In exchange for agreeing to that, I get to ride with Detective Richmond and watch what he does. He’s even letting me participate in the investigatory process.”
“You’ve done this already?”
“I have, for one day. Yesterday, in fact.”
“How did it go?”
“I think it went very well. I really enjoyed Detective Richmond and the work we did together. And we made some progress into the investigation of this kid’s death.”
Maggie nods, leans forward, picks up the grease-stained croissant bag, and peers inside it. “You said you blackmailed this policeman into letting you participate?”
“Detective,” I correct her. “And yes. The kid’s mother let me take his laptop to see if I could find a way to get into it. And I did. It had a fingerprint scanner on it, and I was able to collect a usable print from the kid’s bedroom and use it to gain access. Once I got in, I changed the password on the computer and disabled the fingerprint scanner. When Detective Richmond was debating reopening the case, he wanted me to hand over the laptop. I refused, and he threatened to simply seize it. That’s when I told him about the password and said that if he wanted it, he was going to have to let me in on the investigation.”
“Clever girl,” Maggie says. She has removed another croissant from the bag and she utters these words around a mouthful of pastry. She swallows, licks her lips, and then adds, “Though I’m fairly certain the cops have ways to get around things like passwords.”
“Yeah,” I say with a sigh and a smile. “It turns out the detective had an ulterior motive. He basically allowed me to blackmail him, or rather let me think I was doing so.”
“How very convoluted,” Maggie says, amused.
“I know. And there’s more to it. A lot more.”
“Of course, there is,” Maggie says arching a brow. She consumes the last of her second croissant, leans back with latte in hand, and makes herself comfortable for the long story ahead. “Go ahead. Tell me everything.”
I bow my head slightly and give her a guilty smile. “For one thing, I kind of like this detective,” I tell her. “I like him a lot, as in I see him as potential dating material. In f
act, we had dinner the night before the ride-along, and then he invited me to come with him to his gym yesterday morning.”
Maggie’s eyebrows shoot up at this. “You were with him the next morning?” she asks.
“Oh, not that way,” I say, realizing what she’s thinking. “I didn’t sleep with him or spend the night with him. I just met him at the gym early the next morning. Very early.” I roll my eyes at the memory.
“For exercise?” Maggie asks in a disbelieving tone.
“Yes.” I try not to sound too insulted. “Why is that so hard to believe?”
Maggie stalls her answer by taking a sip of her latte. I can tell she’s weighing her next words to me.
“Exercise is a very big part of his life,” I tell her before she can jump to too many wrong conclusions. “He’s lost a lot of weight over the past few years, like two hundred pounds or more. And he said he really wanted to have an exercise partner. Granted, that’s not something that’s been high on my to-do list, but it certainly could be, and it wouldn’t hurt me to get into better shape and shed a few pounds. I agreed to try it for two weeks.”
“Okay,” Maggie says slowly, drawing the word out and sounding a little skeptical. She takes another drink of her coffee.
I lurch onward, eager to get everything out, wanting to purge myself. “And get this,” I say. “Detective Richmond told me the Sorenson police chief applied for a grant that will allow them to have a social worker ride around with the cops. That means going with them on calls and responding to situations where counseling or referral services might be helpful. And it got approved. They’re getting ready to start interviews.”
“Ah,” Maggie says, her eyes bright and knowing. “Now we’re getting to the meat in this sandwich. I take it you’re interested in applying for this position?”
“Heck, yeah. I think I’d be good at it. I really enjoyed what we did yesterday. We not only got to interview people about the case—Detective Richmond took me to the police lab and let me watch and participate in the analysis of some evidence. And we visited a jail and talked to a prisoner there.” I realize the excited tone in my voice isn’t the best match for the subject matter. “It was productive, interesting, and educational,” I add, trying to put a more professional spin on it.
“Yes, I can see how the day fed into your need to investigate things. But I’m not sure that’s what this job is about. It sounds like it’s going to be more frontline stuff.”
“I know,” I admit. “But I’m sure there will be some of that involved. Simply being at the scene of a crime will require some basic investigatory processes, right? I mean, if I’m talking to, or counseling, people at a crime site, isn’t that tantamount to interviewing a witness or even a potential suspect?”
“I suppose it could be,” Maggie says. “Are you thinking this job might somehow help you with your investigation into your mother’s death?”
“No.”
Maggie narrows her eyes at me.
“Okay, maybe a little,” I admit. “But it would be a secondary motivation, maybe even tertiary, not the primary reason why I’m interested in the work.” I pause, hesitant to tell her the next part. Maggie knows me well enough to sense this, and she sips her drink, waiting. “I met the evidence tech who works at the police station. He asked me out. I’m seeing him later today.”
Maggie’s eyebrows arch. “You’re dating two men? Two men who know each other? How interesting.”
“I know, it’s a potential quagmire, but I like them both. And I’m due. It’s a chance to make up for the utter lack of a social life I’ve had for the past few years. I swear I’m starting to see the word spinster in little thought bubbles floating above the heads of people who talk to me. And then there’s my biological clock. It’s moving forward faster than the national debt clock. Not that I expect to have kids of my own, though I suppose that’s still possible. I’d be happy either way. And Jonas, he’s the evidence technician, has a daughter who’s seven-ish and adorable.” I realize I’m babbling and sound a lot like Laura, the lab tech.
“You met Jonas’s daughter already?” Maggie says when I pause for breath.
“He brought her with him to the lab,” I explain. “She’s joining us for an early dinner tonight.”
Maggie frowns at this. She sits forward, setting her cup on the table between us. “That worries me a little,” she says. “Having this man involve you with his child this soon and to this degree seems fraught with potential problems.”
I sigh. “I know, but technically it wasn’t Jonas who made that happen. The kid, Sofie, did. She’s one of those precocious types, you know the kind, the ones who are much older than their physical age? She basically invited herself along.”
“And her father didn’t put a stop to it?”
“He didn’t have a chance. I’d already agreed to it.”
“I see,” Maggie says. She smiles at me, shifts in her seat, and says, “Let’s go back to this job situation. Would it mean quitting your current job at the hospital?”
“Not necessarily. It will involve night and weekend shifts in the beginning. I could do that and still work at the hospital. I’d just have to sleep in the evenings.”
“That seems like a lot,” Maggie says, though there is no real judgment in her voice. Just a statement of fact. “Do you think you’re up for it?”
“I do.” I don’t hesitate with this answer, and I’m pleased with the level of conviction I hear in my voice. Then Maggie shatters my confidence with one simple question.
“Then why are you here today?”
One hand moves toward my jeans pocket in an automatic, subconscious gesture that I only realize I’ve made when I find myself fingering the stitched trim of the outer edge.
“It doesn’t sound like you’re seeking my approval,” Maggie goes on. “From what you’re telling me, I gather that you’ve made your decision already. And yet you’re here. Why?” She waits for me to answer, letting the silence build between us.
I frown at her. “I’ve found things in my pockets over the past two days. Several times.”
“So, more than usual.” I nod. Maggie is familiar with my history and my tendencies. “Why do you think that is?” she asks. One of the reasons I like Maggie is because she often lets me help myself. She doesn’t condescend, or dictate, or diagnose, and she knows I have a good base of knowledge and a decent sense of self-awareness when it comes to the psychological issues I have. Together we puzzle things out in a systematic, skilled way that helps me keep my ego intact and lets me exercise my work muscles.
“Stress?” I say with a shrug. “That’s what usually triggers it.”
“And you have ways of coping with that, things you’ve used successfully in the past. Have you tried any of those?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not? Why did you come straight to me first?” She’s forcing me to self-analyze my behavior and actions, to understand the reasons behind them.
“For one, I haven’t had the time. Everything happened so fast.” I pause, suck in a breath, and let it out in a sigh. “And for another, I can’t tell if this is good stress or bad stress. Is my subconscious trying to steer me away from all this new stuff, warning me that I’m biting off more than I can chew? Or am I simply excited at the prospect of so many opportunities on both a professional and a personal front?”
“Those are excellent questions,” Maggie says. “And I don’t have any definitive answers for you. I can’t tell you what to do, but I can help you sort through your feelings and make an informed decision . . . several informed decisions, from the sound of things. But ultimately the decisions have to come from you.”
“I know,” I say with another sigh. “I think the dating thing is an easy decision. I mean, how often does a woman like me have two men interested in her at the same time?” Even as I say this, I realize I might be jumping to conclusions. I’m interested in Bob as a dating companion, but his motivation for going to dinner with me is mixed up
in this case we’re investigating. How much of his interest is in me as a person versus in my knowledge and possession of the relevant bits of Toby’s life? Still, nothing ventured and all that.
“I’d be nervous about dating anyone, much less two guys at the same time,” I tell Maggie. “But I want to stay on this ride for as long as I can. I realize it might lead to some stressful situations, but I think I’m mature enough to handle them.”
“I think you are, too,” Maggie says. “But are the men involved mature enough?”
I chuckle at that. “I guess we’re going to find out,” I say.
“Do they know about each other?”
I think about this for a moment and realize they don’t. “Bob knows about Jonas asking me out because he was there when it happened. But I don’t think Jonas knows that I went out to dinner with Bob. And to be honest, I’m not totally sure that dinner qualified as a date anyway. Things are a little gray there.”
“You should be up front with Jonas,” Maggie says. “Particularly since he has a child. I’m all for letting adults do what they want and stumble about and get hurt in the process. But when kids are involved it gets more sensitive.”
“I know,” I say, sharing her concern. “I realize I need to handle the situation with kid gloves, pun intended.” Maggie smiles. “Though I confess, I’m no expert at this. In fact, I seriously considered giving up on dating when I moved here to Sorenson. My past experiences haven’t gone very well.”
This is an understatement of astounding proportions. My last three attempts at dating or developing a relationship with someone were utter disasters. The most recent one involved a fellow named Greg I met in Milwaukee through a coworker. Greg was a nice-looking guy who had his own handyman business. Our first date was a blind one that included the coworker who fixed us up and her husband. Greg and I hit it off well over dinner and he asked for my number. He called a few nights later and asked me to his place for dinner. I was a little wary of this but figured he couldn’t be a serial killer since my friend had professed to know him for years. This is the kind of logic you see on an episode of Dateline or Snapped that makes you yell at the screen, amazed that anyone could be so stupid, but I’m only human.
Needled to Death Page 24