Margaret

Margaret



WC 5,182



NOVEMBER 7, 2014 Both hands wrap around your morning’s first cup of French roast. It’s six twenty-three a.m. Your iPhone buzzes with a text message from Ed. It says he’s gone, it’s over, and don't look for him. Your month-old iPhone 6 flies across the room, lands against the sofa back, and bounces into the middle of your den. You sit on a stool at the quartz-topped kitchen island with you fingers interlaced around your cup, squeezing with both hands. Knuckles white. Fingers numb.



AUGUST 17, 1975 Eight days before your third birthday, you climb onto the sofa by your mother. She’s holding a tissue in one hand, a lit cigarette and a clear drink in the other. A bottle sits on the table. A pirate's patch covers her right eye. She sniffles like you do when you have a cold. She tells you the lousy bastard is gone. You don’t know who that is and ask her. She says it’s your sorry excuse for a father. It’s the first memory you have of your mother and the only memory of your father.



NOVEMBER 7, 2014 "Why did he do this?" You ask aloud. Ed is the only one who can answer and he isn't here. You begin to sob. Your body shakes with uncontrollable tremors. Coffee sloshes onto the counter. You put your head on the rim of your coffee cup to steady it. That son of a bitch. You look up, suck in a lung full of air, clench your jaw, wipe your eyes with a coffee-soaked napkin, and narrow them to slits. You pull yourself up to your full six-feet-two-inches, take two large gulps of coffee, and head for the shower. You’ll find him if it takes the rest of your life.



MARCH 14, 1978 You come home from kindergarten at lunch time. No one meets you at the bus stop; your mother must be sick again. Mrs. Roberts, who lives in the nice green and white trailer next to yours waves, says hi, and asks about your mother. Waving back, you shrug. The mold covered, tan and white trailer is your home. At the top of the three wooden steps, you open the screen door, and push the unlocked, cold aluminum door into the living room. Your mother is lying on the floor, blue. A glass lies on its side by her right hand. Three ice cubes sit in puddles on the brown kitchen linoleum. You yell at her. You beg her to wake up. You scream at her. Mrs. Roberts comes in, feels your mother’s neck, and takes you to her house.



NOVEMBER 7, 2014 The once auburn, shoulder length hair you brush belongs to an aging, erstwhile athlete. L'Oréal provides the light brown color which hides early onset graying, as you like to call it. You stare at the mirror and see a few small lines forming at the edge of your mouth and laugh lines by your eyes, but you know you still look good for forty-three.

You slip on your Navy blue Oscar de la Renta wool slacks and stare at the ecru window shades and wine curtains in front of you. They meld together. A halo engulfs them. Where did he go? Why didn't you see it coming? You shake your head snapping out of your mini-trance. The blinds and curtains return to focus. You buckle the braided black belt and stick your feet into a pair of highly polished, black Clark's Everyday Active Air Slip Ons. The matching blazer with a built-in holster for your .38 Police Special slips on easily over your white silk blouse. You run your left hand around your neck sliding your hair out of the jacket collar.



AUGUST 25, 1986 Your first day of high school. This is the fifth different school in the third different state you attend since your mother dies. The family you stay with in Sarasota is like home. The father yells and screams. The mother wears bruises under her makeup and drinks from a bottle like your mother. One day the police arrest the father and take you away. The mother says good riddance to both.



You move between foster families for a year. A family in Tennessee loses a daughter and replaces her with you. You aren't the one they lost. They can’t return you so you cycle through three more foster homes. In spite of your itinerant status and school transfers, you are a good student and stay out of trouble. You also grow and play volleyball. At one tournament when you are in the sixth grade a coach notices you. He asks if you want to live with him in California and you say yes.



NOVEMBER 7, 2014 Downstairs, you retrieve your still working iPhone from the den floor, grab your badge, identification card, and keys from the counter, and stop. You circle the small living area. The cloth-upholstered sofa, a rocking chair, and a recliner surrounding a wood coffee table. Everything brown. Ed's fifty-five-inch TV for his sports. Brass table lamps with beige shades. Beige plaster walls. Sliding glass door covered with beige curtains. Beige tile. Seems like a prison. God how you hate this dump. How did you ever let Ed talk you into this life?



In your leased Estoril Blue Metallic BMW 435i xDrive Gran Coupe, Queen blasts from the speakers. It's the only one in Bullhead City, AZ, and you don’t mind the stares. A more conservative model might have been wiser, yet you need something special.



The corner office of Latham and Latham Private Detectives is the sole occupant of the east end of the strip center. The neighboring five spaces are vacant, all with large FOR RENT signs covering the dust coated windows. Two adjacent spaces on the west end house a car title loan business and Chinese massage spa. Dirt streaks and water stains adorn the windows. Cracked stucco, moldy grout, and painted over graffiti embodies the facade. The pitted asphalt and gravel parking lot is empty and lines designating the spaces have long since disappeared. One lone HANDICAPPED ONLY parking sign hangs on to a metal post bent at a ninety-degree angle and looks skyward.



You unlock the deadbolt with your key and finger in a security code to release the door latch. It opens to an office full of loneliness. Something you’re all too familiar with. Your marriage to Ed ended your life of being solo. Now, it's cavernous and cold. Yesterday, he kissed your cheek when he left thirty minutes early to meet a client. Now he says he's gone for good. Did he send the message?



MARCH 10, 1987 After having a drink with Jonathan Rees, his partner in Southern Investigations, at the Golden Lion pub in Sydenham, UK, Morgan was found dead in the pub car park next to his car, with an axe wound to the back of his head. Although a watch had been stolen his wallet had been left and a large sum of money was still in his jacket pocket. The pocket of his trousers had been torn open and notes he had earlier been seen writing were missing. Subsequently, a match to the DNA sample found on Morgan's trouser pocket was made. Morgan was alleged to have been investigating drug-related police corruption in south London before his death.¹



1986 – 1990 HIGH SCHOOL YEARS Tall and lean as a youth, you move lightly and quickly. Though few are your height; two inches shy of six feet on your fourteenth birthday, you glide through the halls. You reach your current height during your senior year. The rest of your body keeps pace. Models might envy your figure. C-cup bras, twenty-inch waist, and hip size the same as your bra's circumference. You didn't wear heels at the prom you attend alone. Only half of the boys’ basketball team and three football players are taller. You could have slouched, but you stand tall, proud. And volleyball is your love. You destroy other teams with devastating smashes. More than one opponent leaves a match with a bloody nose. No one says it to your face, but you hear the words freak, giraffe, and lesbo. You write it off as jealousy.



NOVEMBER 7, 2014 A dull yellow glow from the flickering overhead illuminates the industrial, threadbare, grayish carpet you vacuum and shampoo regularly. To the right is a two and a half foot deep, five-foot wide dark walnut desk. Four dark walnut bookcases and a matching filing cabinet fill the walls behind the desk. Two chocolate leather chairs add to the office's cave-like feel. A small utility table with a coffee maker and five-in-one printer sits next to the front window. It's all dark and drab. And until the heat kicks in, cold.



The phone answering machine on the desk blinks. Ed insisted on the machine instead of using the phone company's system. Something about security. You stand by the desk and hit play.



"Ed, Randy. I need to talk to you as soon as possible. I've tried the cell but no answer. It's about your business account. Call me as soon as you get this. Thanks." You play it again. It's the only message on the machine.



Trouble at the bank? It must be Randy Hodges. Damn Ed and his friends, why didn't he just leave his number? It's not in your phone. You thumb through the stack of business cards in the top drawer of the desk and locate it.



"Randy, Margaret Latham, what the hell's going on?"

"I really wanted to talk to Ed."

"He didn't answer, did he? So you're stuck with me. Talk."

"Okay... Money's gone from your business account. Sometime yesterday. Over twenty-eight thousand."

"Twenty-eight thousand? Dollars?"

"Yeah. Someone, we don't know who yet, walked into our branch on the west side and withdrew all but twenty-five dollars. In cash."

"What are you telling me? You let someone steal our cash?"

"We didn't let anyone do anything. Someone with proper authorization cleaned out your business account. Was it you?"

"No, it wasn't me... It was probably Ed."

"Ed?"

"Yep, Ed. He left me, Randy, and when you finish your investigation, you'll find out it was him."

"Do you still want me to check it out?"

"Just in case. Then close the account and send me a check."

"I'll let you know one way or the other. Can I do anything else?"

"No. Thanks," You say as you lay the receiver on the desk.



1999 You notice another customer, a uniformed cop, at The Bad Ass Coffee Shop. One day, halfway through year three at Father Bishop Senior Academy where you teach English and Writing, he smiles. Heat surges throughout your body. You lower your eyes and smile back. You exchange glances and grins for three weeks before he speaks. You join him for dinner, once, twice. After your third date, you go to bed with him, a first for you. Two years later, he proposes, all six foot six of him, and you marry Ed Latham during Christmas break in the midst of your fifth year of teaching.



NOVEMBER 7, 2014 Dirt filtered sunlight creeps through the closed, dusty window blinds. You lean back in your chair and dab at the tears forming in your eyes. You lean the chair forward, grind your teeth together, put your elbows on the desk, and say to no one, "All right, damn it, I'm a detective. Find him."



You start the desktop computer, log on, and stare at a Windows startup screen with no applications. "This sucks," you say out loud. Computers are not your thing, but you've learned enough working with Ed to get around. You start reinstalling missing apps.



Starting with the Find My iPhone app. You sign in to your combined account and discover he didn't change its access code. Ed's iPhone is at Lazy Harry's Bar and Grill about four miles away on the Colorado river. Ten minutes later you're talking with the waitress at Harry's. She remembers him. Had coffee, black, looked at the menu, left a ten-dollar tip, and disappeared without his phone. She put the phone behind the counter. They don't have security cameras, and Ed's six-year-old dark blue Explorer is not in the parking lot.



SEPTEMBER 9, 1987 A new girl sits next to you in sophomore English. She smiles and introduces herself as Lisa. You smile back and introduce yourself. The blonde, blue-eyed, diminutive Lisa is from Indiana. Her father is an FBI agent transferred from Indianapolis to the LA office. Lisa comes to watch volleyball practice and you go to the library with her. She introduces you to literature, your new love. Every week you read the same book she does. While on a volleyball scholarship, you major in English and Creative Writing at Stanford University. She goes to Cornell, majors in English Literature, graduates, and accepts a Rhodes scholarship. You turn professional and play beach volleyball.



NOVEMBER 7, 2014 Did he leave or was he forced to go? He password protects his phone and your common password doesn't open it. Why does he let you find his phone, but not let you open it?



Ed is a cop, first and forever. He hates the politics of police work, especially as a detective. Accused of planting evidence, of which he was later cleared, he had had enough. He convinces you to give up the job you love, your career, to join him in an adventure. Not only as husband and wife but as business partners in Bullhead City, Arizona, of all places. He teaches you how to be a detective. You learn how to follow people, how to shoot a gun, and how to defend yourself. You do it, reluctantly. Now he is gone, somewhere.



AUGUST 14, 1995 In your first year of professional beach volleyball, you jump, smash, and land wrong. Lightening shocks radiate up your spine and down to your toes. You collapse in the cold sweat of shock. A dislocated knee, one of the worst injuries for an athlete. Emergency services rushes you to the hospital, alone, as usual. Your adopted family is on vacation. Your best and only friend, Lisa, is fifty-five hundred miles away in England. An hour after surgery, your playing partner, Terri Monroe, visits.



"When are you going to get out? Are you going to play again?"

"I hurt like hell, thanks for asking."

"Well, I mean, we have the playoffs coming up. Are you going to make it?"

"Terri, I just got out of surgery. I hurt all over. I'll let you know when I know."

"No reason to be huffy. I brought your stuff from the locker. Call me when you know something."



You go home two days later. The next morning your knee is red, swollen, and painful. MRSA. Emergency surgery and intravenous doses of antibiotics saved the leg and your life, but not your career.



NOVEMBER 7, 2014 Steve and Rex, two of Ed's acquaintances on the local police force, assist with filing the missing persons' report. They give assurances you can't believe. No one knows the outcome of a case before it's over. Less than an hour after filing the report, your cell phone vibrates.



"Margaret. Steve. I've got some news."

"Okay...Let's have it."

"Are you sitting down?"

"Tell me what you found."

"We found his car at the airport. He took a flight to Rio."

"The one in Brazil? Alone?"

"Yep. He was alone in the video. But, he's a cop. He knows the tricks."

"Any guesses? Tell me the truth."

"Maggie, we just don't know. I'm sorry, but it looks like he left on vacation."

"Can you find out where he went?"

"Look, there's no evidence of a crime. I can't do it officially. For you, I'll look into it and let you know what I find out."

"Thanks for your help."



AUGUST 30, 1996 You start teaching English classes at Father Bishop Senior Academy. Quiet and self-contained before, you find your voice and become the talkative sharer of knowledge to advanced placement high school students. Everyone destined for the fast track. You extoll your love of reading and writing and your belief in the importance of it to any successful future. You love what you do and can't imagine doing anything else. In 1998, you are selected Teacher of the Year. Then you meet Ed.



NOVEMBER 7, 2014 You hang up Steve's call. Stunned. You grab a tissue, wipe your mouth, and daub your eyes. Alone again. Isn't there a song about that? You've had three loves in your life: volleyball, Ed, and teaching. All are gone. Can you recapture anything in your life? You need to talk to someone who is not one of Ed's friends.



Lisa, you must talk to Lisa.



Eight hours' time difference but that's not too much for friends. Lisa picks up immediately.



"What's wrong?"

"How do you know something's wrong?"

"You're calling me at midnight."

"Yeah, well, Ed's gone."

"Gone. That son of a bitch. I knew it."

"You knew it?"

"You were always too good for him. I knew he'd leave."

"You're really not helping. I need some sympathy, not some I told you so."

"Look. I'm sorry he's gone. When did it happen and are you sure something didn't happen to him?"

"He took our business money, three thousand from savings, left his cell phone in a diner, and flew to Brazil."

"Oh, Maggie, I'm so sorry. Really, I am. I know how you loved him."

"I still do, but...I don't know what to do."

"Come visit me. Oxford is wonderful. You'll love it here."

"Oxford? England? I couldn't do that. I mean, I just couldn't."

"Give me one good reason why not."

"I, uh, I've got to pay for a house and a car. I need a job."

"Sell the house and car. Get a job here. There are lots of private schools that would love to have you. Hell, even coach volleyball."

"I don't know. Volleyball?"

"They love it here. You'd be great."

"I don't know. It's such a big change."

"Think about it. A big change is what you need. I'll call you in two days. You know it's what you need to do."

" Thanks, love. I'll think about it."

"And you can always call me, it doesn't matter about the time."

"I know. Thanks. You're a doll."



MARCH, 2014 Ed gets phone calls in the evening, talks in hushed tones, and moves out of your presence. He says it's a case concerning someone you know. You have few friends of your own, so it must be one of his friends. The calls stop for three months, then restart four weeks before he leaves. You and Ed are at the grocery store. His phone rings, he walks off, then ambles back with a half-gallon of butter pecan ice cream. You never eat butter pecan. You question him with furrowed brow and narrow eyes. He says it's the old case.



NOVEMBER 7, 2014 Actions on the computer bring up your shared bank accounts. At least, you can survive for a while. Still, an unexplained withdrawal yesterday of three thousand dollars piques your curiosity. It was withdrawn from a branch on the other side of town. When you visit it, you take what Ed didn't, and open an account in your name at another bank. Just in case.



NOVEMBER 8, 2014 The condo seems colder than normal. It's empty except for you. No big man wandering around, no snores on the sofa, no waiting for a stakeout to end. His suits hang neatly in the closet, dress shoes aligned under them. Thirty or more ties fill the rack. Wherever he is, working doesn't appear to be on his to-do list. His two duffel bags are missing along with his shorts, polo shirts, sneakers, flip flops, two ball caps, and toothbrush. He left and didn't have the courtesy or guts to tell you. That son of a bitch.



MAY 17, 2015 The flight to London's Heathrow Airport takes six hours from Philadelphia after a three-hour layover. You are on an adventure for sure. Before leaving, you ship your clothes and relics of your past life to Lisa. Ed's possessions are finding use at a homeless shelter run by the Salvation Army. Your fully-furnished condo rents quickly. Just you, your carry on, and computer are winging it on FinnAir. You splurge for the business class ticket; extra legroom is essential. The wine service helps dull your thoughts. Ed, why did you leave?



NOVEMBER 8, 2014 You spend the morning reading about computers and how to restore lost programs and files. You are able to restore most of the data by reverting to the last saved point of one month ago. You can't see what he's done recently, but you have old case files, records of contacts, and saved email. You load them onto a DVD. Studying these files may lead you to Ed.



MAY 17, 2015 Lisa is smaller than when you saw her last, but last is fifteen years ago at your wedding. She waves as you walk from customs. Her naturally blonde hair is in a pixie cut. The glasses are gone. She wears dark red lipstick and is sporting a long-sleeved, black and white, knee-length dress. Her well-formed legs lead to a pair of white socks and Nike running shoes. Just like Lisa to keep her feet comfortable. She runs and hugs you, her head hitting you in the middle of your chest.



"God, I'm so glad to see you, Mags. So glad."

"I'm glad to see you, too. It's been too long. Too long."

"Let's take the coach to Oxford. We have so much to talk about."

You sit near the rear of the coach and talk privately.

"I got some guy, a drug dealer, I think, to take over the lease of the BMW. The bank said okay, so I'm good with that."

"What about the condo and furniture?"

"Martina, my real estate agent said renting it would be better than selling it. She did it in two days. I left it furnished, so if I ever go back."

"What did you do with Ed's stuff?"

"What wasn't good enough to give away went in the dumpster."

"Good."

"I left what was left of Ed's wine collection with Martina. One thing about it, Ed knew about wine."

"The office is closed?"

"All gone. Turned in the carry permit, the PI badge and license, and shut her all down. I'm so glad. I hated that business."

"You're looking good. Maybe this will be the best thing for you. Have you heard from him or anything about him?"

"A detective friend of Ed's and, as it turns out, mine too, tracked him to Rio. He deplaned and disappeared. I filed divorce papers, and it'll be final in three weeks."

"We're coming up on the station. Let's get a drink before heading to my flat."



NOVEMBER 8, 2014 Two cases pique your interest. One is about a woman and her son running from the authorities. He was convicted of killing four people while driving drunk as a fourteen-year-old. The judge, for some unknown reason, gave him probation. He later got caught violating his terms of parole. He and his mother ran to Mexico. Ed found them hiding in Puerto Vallarta.



The other case is about a man who took everything he and his wife had and went to Brazil. Ed tracked him down nine months later in Peru. He noted in the case file that it was the best hideout he'd ever heard of. Ed saw him in the background of a picture about a group hiking the Andes. "Pure, dumb luck," he added to the file.



AUGUST 13, 2015 You begin teaching at the prestigious Cherwell School. Not only do you get to expound about British literature, but you get to help the English learn how to write English. You love the irony. You and Lisa settle into life as friends who share a flat. She teaches at the university while writing her Ph.D. dissertation on the difference between craft and art. On weekends you and she walk around Oxford, take the train to London, and, once, go to Paris. You wonder why you've waited so long to do this.



You are fully divorced and free of Ed, yet you can't let the thought of him go. You need to know why he left. It's not your nature to drop a decade and a half of your life and not find out why.



DECEMBER 16, 2015 You fly into Cusco, Peru. Mid-morning Thursday you rent a car and set out across the Andes for Catca. The trip involves a 2,600-meter elevation change while you navigate a sharply curved road bordered by cliffs on either side. The right side cliffs go straight up, the left, straight down. You white-knuckle the Nissan Versa across the steepest, most winding road you have driven on. More than once a bus tries to share your lane. At least, the drop offs are on the other side. The highway flattens out and the sheer drops merge into farmland. Your knuckles regain their color as you relax your grip on the steering wheel.



The pinkish, terracotta building sits on the left. Two old vehicles wearing various shades of rust share the parking lot. A burro is tied to a stout bush. The midday sun blanching a crystal sky greets you as you step from the car. Clean air spiced with aromas from steaming iron caldrons tickle your nose. Your stomach growls. You understand why someone would like it here. Two men sit at separate tables drinking beer while a teen tends the aromatic pots. At the door of the building, the proprietor, most likely a Yine, identifies Ed from the photograph you show her. She pushes aside a red and beige striped serape used as a curtain, points a finger upward, and heads up the steps. She says, "Un momento por favor."



Ed tosses the curtain at the bottom of the stairs aside.



"Who the hell… Oh."



The color leaves his face. The hanging serape swings back into place. He runs his hand over his forehead wiping away non-existent beads of sweat.



"Hello, Ed." You say as you stare into his eyes.

"How did you find me?"

"It's good to see you, too. I'm well, thanks."

"Yeah, you look good. Let's sit down and get something to drink."

He puts his hand on your right elbow, which you yank away.

"I'll follow you," you say.



Ed leads you to a weathered, wood table in front of a window that opens to the bubbling cauldrons. Two wood, slat-back chairs stand ready. A curtain made from a flowered sheet flutters in the mild, mountain breeze. The proprietor brings two Taquiña Stout beers and two water-spotted glasses. Ed pours his; you leave yours on the table. You're not going to drive through the Andes after drinking any alcohol.



"Maggie, it's good to see you."

"Yeah, right. What are you doing here and not with me in Bullshit City, Arizona?" You look at his left ear; he stares through the window.

"I don't know. I'd had enough." He turns to you and drinks half his beer.

"You had enough? You drag me to the desert, away from a job I love, force me to become a PI, and you had enough?" The chair shrieks as you shove it back from the table. You walk to the back door covered by a bamboo curtain.

"Maggie."

"Don't call me that anymore. You've lost the right."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run off. I know--"

"Yeah, you shouldn't have but you did. And now we're here." You face him with your arms crossed over your chest and squint your eyes.

"Eddie, are you all right?" A small, barefoot woman, a younger image of the proprietor says in Spanish.

You say, "Eddie, are you all right?" using your best Spanish sarcasm.

"I'm fine, go back upstairs." She turns and leaves.

"So that's it?"

"It's not what it looks like, it's--"

"Horse crap, Eddie, it's exactly what it looks like. You've kicked me over, run down here with our money, and you're shacking up with someone half your age."

Ed empties his beer into the glass and fills it the rest of the way with yours.

"Yeah, I guess it is. What do you want?"

"Not a damn thing. I've learned everything I need to know."

You stare at him like you wish he'd burst into flames. Spinning on your heel, you head for the entrance, stop, and face him, "I loved you Eddie. I would have done anything for you. Right up until you left."

"I still love you."

"Really? Yet you could pack up and leave? I don't think that's called love."

Ed turned toward the window and slowly shook his head.

"Sit for two minutes and I'll tell you why I left like I did. Come on, two minutes. You came all this way, what's two more minutes?"

You pull your chair up to the table. "Tell me what was so bad about living with me and what's so good about here?"

"Maggie."

"I told you not to call me that."

Ed drinks the rest of both beers and orders another. After downing half of a glassful, he says, "Maggie, I just couldn't do it anymore, and I couldn't tell you."

"I was your wife, Ed. You should have talked to me."

"How do you tell your wife of twelve years that you are still married and will be going to jail or worse?"

"Still married? You didn't tell me you were married before."

"I know. I was a kid. I thought it was annulled. It wasn't."

"Those were the calls you started getting a couple of years ago?"

"Yep. I didn't know how to tell you. She wanted money. Lots of money. I thought if I was gone..."

"Ed. You're a fool. We could have gotten a lawyer and fixed all this. Are you sure that's all there was to your running off?"

"It's not that easy. Her dad's a heavy in the mob and he'll do anything she asks."

"That's the big file on the computer with no names in it?"

"You got that open? I thought I'd destroyed all that."

"You didn't. I used your notes to figure out where you were."

"God, I should have guessed."

"Well, you're only married to one now. Our divorce was final last September. You can make up with your mob honey and live happily ever after."

"I don't want to live with her."

"I don't care. I'm going home. Don't come looking for me, don't call, and don't even think about me too loud. I'm finished with you, you coward."

"Maggie."



"Goodbye, Ed," you say as you dust your hands and walk out. Tall and proud.



1 Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel_Morgan_(private_investigator)