Dear Maggie - Brenda Novak Mills & Boon Cherish

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I’d be a horse.

      Nick knew his next question was supposed to be why, but he wasn’t the least bit interested in Dancegirl. So he moved to edge out a guy named Pete 010, who was welcoming Maggie to the chat and trying to draw her into a conversation about skiing.

      Mntnbiker: What about you, Zachman?

      Zachman: I’m sorry. I’m new at this. What was the question?

      Mntnbiker: If you had to liken yourself to an animal, which one would you choose?

      Catlover: I’d be a Siamese cat.

      Zachman: I suppose I’d be a mourning dove.

      Pete 010: Why a mourning dove?

      Catlover: Because they mate for life, right, Zachy? You’re so sentimental.

      Mntnbiker: There’s nothing wrong with that.

      Unless you were like him and had no plans to marry and settle down.

      Zachman: Beats the heck out of being a lioness and having to do all the work.

      Catlover: I kind of fancy a black widow myself.

      Pete 010: Watch out, guys.

      Catlover: Just joking. I’m a nice girl, I swear.

      Redrocket: Okay, enough inane drivel about animals. It’s time to spice things up. Let’s rate our last lovers.

      Pete 010: I’ve forgotten. It’s been too long since I’ve had one.

      Nick chuckled to himself. Either Pete 010 was trying to garner sympathy, or he was just too honest for his own good.

      Dancegirl: On a scale of 1–10, I’d give mine a 5. He was more interested in watching television than he was in me.

      Catlover: Mine wasn’t so bad in bed, but he was hell on my long-distance bill.

      Wondering what Maggie’s love life was like, Nick waited for her to comment. When she didn’t, he joined the conversation to keep it alive. He didn’t relish the idea of talking about Irene, or even thinking about her, for that matter—he hated the wave of guilt that engulfed him every time he did. But he answered honestly, anyway.

      Mntnbiker: I thought I was in love with mine. That made the sex great.

      Zachman: What happened?

      Apparently he hadn’t been as in love as he’d thought. When their relationship progressed to the point where she started pressing him to marry her, he’d finally agreed, then bolted the day of the wedding. The reception had to be canceled, all the gifts returned. Irene hated him now, and he didn’t blame her. But neither did he regret his decision to call it off.

      In the end, we weren’t right for each other, he typed, wanting to keep things vague. He certainly wasn’t proud of what he’d done, but at least he understood himself better now. He might flirt with the idea of marriage, but deep down he wasn’t willing to make the sacrifices such a commitment would require. His job wasn’t very conducive to permanence in anything, which contributed to the problem.

      Zachman: I’m sorry.

      Mntnbiker: What about you, Zachman? How would you rate your last lover?

      Zachman: That’s tough to say. I’ve only had one. I don’t have anything to compare him against.

      Catlover: Come on, I’ve heard enough about him to know he couldn’t be more than a 2 or a 3.

      Pete 010: All women say they’ve only been with one or two partners.

      Catlover: With Zachman it’s true. She’s the shy, inhibited type. She doesn’t know what good sex is all about.

      Zachman: Someday I’ll find the right man.

      The image of Maggie as he’d like to photograph her came instantly to Nick’s mind. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was in Sacramento to catch a killer, not to volunteer for a sex-education course.

      Pete 010: Hey, you don’t need love for good sex. I don’t know why women always think that.

      Zachman: Maybe some people don’t, but I do.

      Redrocket: What happened to your 2 or 3, Zachman? He’s gone, I take it.

      Zachman: I wanted a child. Tim initially agreed but ultimately wasn’t interested. I couldn’t take the indifference or the neglect.

      Mntnbiker: Do you regret pushing for a child?

      Zachman: No, I’d rather have Zach. One hug from him is worth more than anything I ever got from Tim.

      Catlover: That’s because Tim withheld affection as a form of punishment.

      Zachman: Jeez, are these chats really supposed to get so personal? What happened to our discussion about animals?

      Dancegirl: Yeah, no one ever asked me why I wanted to be a horse.

      Redrocket: Wait, I haven’t rated my last lover—

      Redrocket and several others expounded on the strengths or shortcomings of their past partners for a few minutes, then Nick saw Zachman disappear from his screen. Catlover left soon after. Evidently, they hadn’t found the chat room to be the singles haven they were looking for. But he didn’t mind. He’d met Maggie, discovered her personal e-mail address and established a frame of reference so he could contact her again.

      For now, that was enough.

      ON FRIDAY NIGHT, Maggie kicked off her slippers, which were too hot for a Sacramento summer, and sank down in front of her computer. She lived in Midtown, in an old home she’d bought with her divorce settlement when she left Los Angeles two years ago. Half the buildings on her street had been converted to small offices or retail establishments, creating a mixed neighborhood that included tenants, owners and residents from many different nationalities, along with some of Sacramento’s homeless. There were no large grocery stores, no sprawling shopping centers, only small independently-owned corner grocers, trendy coffee shops and a spattering of secondhand stores. But Maggie liked where she lived. Midtown had color and character. It had old-fashioned architecture that wasn’t quite as impressive as that found in the Fabulous 40s, several streets of beautiful old homes just a few miles away, but the neighborhood had plenty of potential. Her own house only wanted a good coat of paint and some work on the worn-out, shabby yard—something she intended to do when she had enough money and time. Meanwhile, she was removing the wallpaper in her bedroom, large bunches of faded pink roses that looked very much like something her great-aunt Rita would have chosen.

      Actually, the whole house looked like Aunt Rita—aging under protest—but Maggie had big plans for it. She gazed at the black night outside and wondered if she should start by taking down the iron bars that covered the front windows. According to her neighbor, the previous owner was an old widower, who had wanted to install them all around, but when he passed away, his son inherited the house and didn’t finish the job. Maggie thought the bars were quite an eyesore, but then she remembered that Sarah Ritter’s body had been found only a few blocks away and decided she’d keep the ones she had.

      Glancing at her watch to make sure it wasn’t too late, she called Detective Mendez on his car phone. She hadn’t been able to reach either detective since Lowell Atkinson had put her off two days ago. She always got routed to voice mail, and they hadn’t responded to her messages. Still, she was determined to lay hands on the coroner’s report, even if she had to camp out in Lowell’s front yard starting tomorrow morning.

      “Yo, Detective Mendez here.”

      Maggie sat up in surprise. Evidently miracles did happen. “Detective? This is Maggie Russell with the Sacramento—”

      “Tribune. I know who you are. Dammit, don’t you people ever let up?

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