“Jeez, there’s never anything to eat in here.”
Folding her arms, Maggie turned and leaned back against the counter, watching her youngest child rummage through the fridge. Her light brown hair was slipping loose from its French braid, giving her a gamine, almost-fragile look. But Kelly Lynn was no porcelain doll, much to her father’s and stepmother’s distress. There was a big grass-and-dirt stain along one hip of her worn blue jeans, the neckband and cuffs of her sweatshirt looked like a dog had chewed on them and her sports socks, which were also grass stained, each had different-color trim. The kid did not look like a doll; she looked like an orphan.
Amusement lifted one corner of Maggie’s mouth. “Were you playing baseball with the guys again?”
Kelly turned and looked at her mother, a telltale tint creeping up her cheeks. “Yeah.” She lifted her chin in a slightly belligerent way. “How’d you know? Did Mr. Casson call again?”
Mr. Casson was the phys-ed coordinator at the high school Kelly attended, and he’d phoned Maggie several times, upset that Kelly didn’t seem to want to participate in the girls’ programs. Maggie knew that Kelly was desperately unhappy at high school, and that her daughter never made new friends easily. She’d had the same best friend since kindergarten— Scott Anderson, who lived four houses down the street. And there were a couple of girls on her swim team who had become pals. But if she hung around after school at all, it was with Scott.
Maggie gestured toward her sweatshirt. “You’ve got grass stains all down your back. It was either baseball or you got dragged home by a bus.”
Kelly’s expression relaxed into a sheepish grin. “I tried to steal home.”
The kettle started to boil, and Maggie turned to the counter and unplugged it, then opened the cupboard and got down her favorite mug. Dropping in a bag of herbal tea, she poured the boiling water. “So what do you have planned for the weekend?”
Kelly closed the fridge door. “We swim at six tomorrow morning—the swim club is bringing in a sports therapist to talk to us. And we have pool time again on Sunday.”
“Will you need a ride tomorrow morning?”
“No. Scott and I are going to bike over. We thought we’d go down to Prince’s Island after.”
Not yet ready to deal with Bruce’s letter, Maggie pushed aside the pile of mail on the table, then pulled out a chair and sat facing the kitchen window. Bracing her chin in her hand, she stared out, wishing she could regain that happy, bubbly feeling she’d had when she’d left work. With a small grimace, she looked down and began sloshing the tea bag up and down in her mug, watching the amber color swirl through the hot water. Okay, so maybe life wasn’t a bowl of cherries; she still had a lot to be thankful for. She had a good job close to home. She hadn’t had one shred of trouble with any of her kids. And she had a very comfortable home with no debts. It was just that her life was so darned humdrum and dull. She’d trained herself not to think about it, because if she did, she could put herself in a real funk.
“I forgot to tell you,” Kelly said as she washed two apples under the tap. “Shawn left a message on the answering machine. Said he was heading out to a new site, but he’d call home as soon as he could.”
Her chin still propped on her hand, Maggie turned and looked at her daughter, feeling suddenly very depressed. Shawn was her twenty-two-year-old son, who was also attending university down east. He was spending his summer working with a reforestation project on Vancouver Island; Maggie had hoped he would come home this year. He’d been ten when things had unraveled between her and Bruce, and Shawn had stuck by her like glue. He’d always been grown-up and responsible, but after his dad left, he’d become even more so. He had become the man in the family—and Maggie still felt guilty about the responsibility he had shouldered when she’d gone back to work. And this was the second time in a row she’d missed him when he called.
Her throat suddenly tight, she glanced at her daughter. “Did he say when he’d be back out?”
The two apples and a baseball hat clutched in one hand, Kelly paused at the entryway to the back door. “Nope. But he did say he’d be in touch again as soon as he got a chance.” Sticking the cap on backward, Kelly glanced at her mother. “Scott and I are going to bike around the reservoir, okay?”
Her chin still propped in her hand, Maggie tipped her head, experiencing a sharp rush of aloneness. “Okay. But be home by six for dinner, okay?”
“I will. I’ve got a lot of homework to do.” Tossing one apple in the air, Kelly disappeared into the entryway.
When the screen door slammed behind her, the house suddenly felt too quiet, too empty to Maggie. Maybe Frank was right. Maybe menopause was creeping up on her.
The back step faced north, but it offered an unobstructed view of the western sky, and Maggie sat with a sweater draped over her shoulders, her back braced against the aluminum siding. With her arms locked around her knees, she watched the last of the color fade from the sky, trying not to think at all. It was after ten, and Kelly was in bed because of her early morning swim, but Maggie still hadn’t been able to shake the downer she was on. She had finally read the letter from Bruce, which was basically another lecture. He was upset that Haley had taken the cruise job, and Maggie suspected that writing to her was his way of venting his hurt feelings that his daughter had selected four months at sea instead of four months with him and his family.
Maggie smiled to herself. If you could call one uptight, superorganized wife, a permanent housekeeper and two Pekingese dogs a family. She rested her chin on her upraised knees, wondering for the trillionth time what had happened to the Bruce she had married. It was as if something had occurred twelve years ago to change him into a different person—maybe the fact that he’d been approaching forty and hadn’t accomplished half the things he’d wanted to. Maybe he had woken up one day and realized he was married to the wrong woman, or that he was plain dissatisfied with his life. Whatever the reason, he had changed, turned into a man obsessed. Obsessed with Registered Retirement Savings Plans, with investing for his retirement, and fervently obsessed with planning what was best for his kids.
Bruce had been an accountant with a major Calgary accounting firm, and one day he had come home and told Maggie he was leaving her. Leaving her for a workaholic, RRSPendowed CPA with mutual funds. He had moved out that night, and a month later, he and Miss Compound Interest had both taken jobs with an even bigger accounting firm in Vancouver. The day he’d left Calgary was the day that Maggie had dug out her accounting certificate and applied at Frank’s for a job.
Her head still resting on her knees, Maggie continued to watch the darkening sky, thinking about her ex-husband and his wife. In many ways, Bruce and Jennifer deserved each other, and Maggie was certain they had a wonderful time hoarding their money, calculating their accumulating interest and slavering over their blue-chip shares. Their idea of a good time, she was sure, was watching their bonds mature.
Which, she supposed, was more than she had. She didn’t even know what her personal idea of a good time was. She went to work, came home, and the only outside interest she had, if she wanted to call it that, was her volunteer involvement with Kelly’s swim club. If she was being honest with herself, she would have to admit her life was pretty damned dull. And she’d also have to admit that she and Bruce had developed a weird relationship over the past few years. Her exhusband had been very upset when her father had died, and he’d flown back to Calgary immediately. He had been the one who had taken care of everything. And when her car had conked out last year and she had decided she couldn’t really afford to buy a new one, he’d had one delivered within days. And a couple of times, when there had been trouble between himself and Jennifer over the kids, he had come to Maggie to talk about their problems. She also had to admit he did his damnedest to be a good father. He had been the one who had insisted they start an education account when each child was born, and he had continued to contribute toward them after the divorce.
Realizing that thinking about her ex-husband was driving her deeper into a depression, Maggie shifted her head and stared at the back alley. It was in almost total darkness again. Which meant there was another problem with the electricity. Ever since the city had installed underground cable, the alley lights were off more than they were on. She supposed they were going to have to dig the whole mess up again and start all over. She wondered what that would do to her taxes.
Releasing a despondent sigh, she tightened her arms around her knees. She was feeling sorry for herself, and she knew it. Her life was drab, and so was she. It was pretty damned pathetic when the big thrill of a week’s vacation was that she was going to have time to paint her living room.
A light across the alley went off, and she heaved another sigh. Obviously La Goddess and Le God were heading out for the evening. But then, no forty-three-year-old woman should have to face Stephanie—otherwise known as Stevie—Coombs on a regular basis. Maggie’s across-the-alley neighbor was tall, gorgeous and had a figure to die for, and she also owned a tanning salon and fitness center on the main drag of Marda Loop. Maggie got depressed every time she saw her. Stevie’s housemate and significant other was as equally depressing. Tall, blond and handsome, Mitch had the build of a Greek god, drove a Porsche and was some kind of hotshot advertising executive. He took Stevie on incredible vacations to incredible places. Together they were enough to make Maggie want to stick her head in a brown bag. They were the beautiful people. She wanted to hate ‘em, but she couldn’t. Stevie was just too damned nice.
Giving herself a mental shake, Maggie sighed and straightened her legs. Not only was she was thoroughly depressed, she had herself feeling as dull as dishwater at the same time. She was really batting zero tonight. Stripping off her sweater, she drew up her legs to stand, but just then heard the crunch of gravel in the back alley. Only there was no sound of a motor, no illumination from headlights. It was as if a vehicle was coasting down the steep incline that ran past her house. Going dead still, she moved back in the shadows, an uneasy feeling making the hair on her neck rise. She had just about convinced herself she was imagining things when a dark shape drifted past—the shape of a man on a motorcycle.
Alarm making her stomach churn, she remained absolutely motionless, her heart suddenly jammed in her chest. The bike slid into the shadows behind the old tire store, and her alarm mounted as she watched the rider dismount, then soundlessly start toward the stairs leading to the second story. Unable to see him from that point on, Maggie flattened her back against the house, her heart suddenly too big for her chest. Oh, God, there was a drug-crazy biker next door, and she was out here alone. Tomorrow she was going to go buy a big, mean dog.
A softly muttered curse sent another jolt of alarm through her and she held her breath, certain she’d been spotted. But instead of a roar of rage, there was the sound of glass shattering, and her heart did another panicky barrel roll. Envisioning someone with long greasy hair, tattoos on his arms and big black boots with chains on them, she clenched her hands into fists and pressed herself tighter against the wall, thinking about Kelly asleep in the house. No one would lay a hand on her baby. No one. Not even Attila himself.
The sound of a door being closed released the tight muscles in her body, and she got to her feet, her knees trembling. Trying not to make a sound, she eased open the aluminum screen door just wide enough for her to slip into the house. Once inside, she eased it shut with a soft click, then closed the heavy wooden door, shaking so badly she could barely slide the dead bolt into place.
Stumbling against a chair in the dark, she grabbed the portable telephone and went into the hallway. A mindless prayer circulated in her head and her fingers trembled as she pressed the buttons for 911.
The dispatcher answered on the first ring, and with her back pressed against the wall, Maggie slid to the floor. “I’d like to report a break-in,” she whispered unevenly.
Five minutes later, she was standing at her front-room window anxiously watching through the crack in her drapes. Her pulse was still pumping pure adrenaline, her legs felt like strands of spaghetti and her heart was hammering so hard she felt as if someone was dribbling a basketball in her chest. She should have asked. She should have asked if she should get Kelly out of the house. She should have asked if they would be safe inside. But she hadn’t. And now it was too late.
She was considering the wisdom of crawling downstairs to wake her daughter when three police cruisers appeared, lights off and sirens silent as they converged on the old tire shop. Nearly undone by the surge of relief, Maggie watched as five officers slipped from their vehicles, leaving the car doors open, their guns drawn. Gripping a fold of the drape, she closed her eyes and weakly rested her head against the cool windowpane, her insides trembling. She didn’t give a damn what her taxes cost. It was worth every red cent to have those uniforms surrounding that building right now. Every red cent.
The sound of male laughter jerked her out of her reverie and she yanked open the curtains and looked out. The headlights of one cruiser had been turned on, illuminating the cement pad at the front of the shop, and she stared at it, trying to assimilate what she was seeing. Three cops were escorting a man dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt to the front of the building, his arms handcuffed behind him. That part of the picture tabulated, but the rest did not. The two other officers were standing with their arms hooked over the open vehicles doors, and they were laughing. As if it was some big joke.
Wondering if they’d all lost their marbles or if she had, she opened the curtains wider, totally confused. No doubt about it. They were all laughing. Feeling as if she’d just stumbled into a really bad movie, Maggie numbly watched as one officer, sporting a huge grin, broke away from the others and started toward her property. It took a minute for comprehension to kick in, but it finally dawned on her that he was, in fact, heading toward her front door.
Her insides still trembling like jelly, she girded herself and made her way across the darkened living room, pinching her thumb when she unlocked the dead bolt. Swearing under her breath, she turned on the outside light and the light in the sun porch, trying to erect at least a semblance of composure as she opened the outer side door.
The cop was big—no, immense. At least six foot four, he had shoulders that made her think of the Incredible Hulk. He looked as if he was pushing fifty, and he wore sergeant stripes. With a reassuring smile, he presented his ID, then braced one arm on the railing of the front steps. “Sergeant Cooper, ma’am. We’re here in response to a 911 call. Are you Ms. Burrows?”
Folding her arms against the night breeze, Maggie leaned against the door frame, partly to play out her false calm, partly to keep from collapsing in a heap at his feet. She glanced at the scene on the garage pad, unable to make any sense out of the taunting catcalls and the laughter.
Confusion leaving her bemused, she turned her attention back to the giant in front of her, who was clearly enjoying himself. Clearing her throat, she spoke, hoping that her voice didn’t crack. “Yes, Officer. I’m Maggie Burrows.”
He took off his hat, grinning broadly as he glanced back at the men in front of the tire shop; then he turned back to her, his eyes twinkling. “We appreciate your call, ma’am. Prompt public response makes our jobs that much easier.”
Another burst of laughter erupted from next door, and Maggie glanced over, again feeling as if she was in the middle of a massive practical joke when she saw one of the uniforms slap his thigh in merriment. A different kind of flutter taking off in her chest, she glanced back at the sergeant. His eyes were twinkling as he drew his thumb across his mouth, as if to erase his broad grin.
Not liking the feeling unfolding in her stomach, Maggie tightened her arms, her tone one she used on Kelly when she wanted an answer, and wanted it now. “What’s going on, Officer?”
He chewed on his bottom lip and looked away, obviously trying to refrain from laughing. Finally he turned to her, his amusement under control. His tone w
as almost officerlike when he finally answered, “Well, ma’am, it’s like this. The owner of the property inadvertently locked himself out, and he, um…” He stalled, again fighting to restrain another grin. “He accessed his property with his usual disregard for locked doors.”
With none of this making any sense at all, Maggie looked back at the small parking lot, confirming that, yes, the man in the white T-shirt was handcuffed. She glanced back at the sergeant, who was also watching the scene in front of the tire store, obviously enjoying what was going on.
Maggie suddenly wanted to shake somebody. As if sensing her frustration, Sergeant Cooper looked up at her, cleared his throat and indicated the handcuffed man. “Um, it’s like this, ma’am. The gentleman next door is an ex-cop by the name of Tony Parnelli. And, um, and since he had the habit of giving us sleepless nights when he worked undercover, the, um, the boys figure he deserves something of a hard time.”
Maggie gave a stunned squeak. “He’s a cop?”
Sergeant Cooper’s voice was definitely choked with laughter. “Ex-cop, ma’am. But we know him pretty well.”
Her own voice rose in horror. “You mean I called 911 on an ex-cop?”
Her tone wiped the grin from Sergant Cooper’s face, and he looked up at her with real concern. “No, ma’am. You called because you thought someone was breaking in next door. And that was absolutely the right thing to do.” A fresh glint appeared in his eyes, and the corner of his mouth lifted with barely contained amusement. “And off the record, ma’am, you’ve pretty much made the boys’ night. It isn’t often they have a chance to even the score, especially after the fact.”
Driven To Distraction Page 2