Made to Order

By Noelle Maptin

Maureen Riley was in deep trouble. The stories she told were difficult to believe. They seemed to be unconnected, yet Nate felt that somehow, they did all connect. Bank heists, muggings, hit and run, espionage, the Mob - what could one possibly have to do with the others? Nate Abbott and Associates had their hands full figuring out what the heck was going on. So many mysteries, so little time and lives depended on him doing what he does best – finding the bad guys.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781663221346

Noelle Maptin

Noelle Maptin lives in the Dallas Texas Area with her three dogs. Writing has always been her passion. Growing up, she was told by many that she should write a book. So she did. This is her second Nate Abbott mystery.

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Copyright © 2023 Noelle Maptin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-2133-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-2134-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023900310

iUniverse rev. date: 01/09/2023

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Epilogue

Author’s Note

For Jimmie

Sir James

The love of my life, gone far too soon.

I’ll always love you and miss you.

Oct. 1944 – Aug. 2018

Acknowledgments

When I finished my first book, Ashes to Ashes or A Matter of Murder, I was anxious to see how readers would take to my character of Nate Abbott. I was gratified to hear from readers telling me how much they enjoyed Nate’s personality and asking when the next of the Nate Abbott series would be out. They seemed to find Nate an engaging character and urged me to get the next book out so they could visit with Nate again. I hope they enjoy this adventure with Nate as much as their first encounter.

Since the publishing of that first book, I have discovered that in the world of publishing and in the reviewing media, the legitimacy of an author’s work is judged more by who his/her publisher is than on the work itself. I have found my readers to be just the opposite. They read for the enjoyment, and don’t care who published the book. For this, I am extremely grateful. Bottom line, books are for the readers, and if I reach the reader, the reviewers might just have to follow along.

There are so many people necessary to writing a book. You’d think the author was the only one really necessary. But that just isn’t the case. Once an author has completed the actual writing, the important work begins - that of editing and refining the story line. I couldn’t continue in my efforts to charm the media into acceptance of my work without the help of many people after the writing is done. Some of them edit, some read for continuity, some just encourage me. My dear departed husband Sir James, my friend Pat Flesher, my friend Bob Endicott, our long-time friends Ed and Edie Jones, have each contributed in their own way to get this book to print. Some day I hope to be able to adequately reward all of them. For now, a sincere thank you is all I have to offer.

This is a fictional story. Nate Abbott and all of the characters in this book are figments of my imagination as are the locations of Aferton, Vermont and Gladewater, Florida. To my knowledge, no such places exist. All characters are fictional and therefore nothing they say is real or true. How sad it would be to have someone sue me or any reviewer for something said by a fictional character. Any likeness to any person, living or dead is coincidental and unintentional. No characters, locations or events should be confused with or construed as actual persons, places or events.

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Prologue

What makes a long-time Vermont policeman move lock, stock and barrel to the tropical shores of Florida? Believe me, that’s a question I’ve been asked many times in the last few years. The answer is kind of complicated, so here is the short answer. Okay, maybe not short, but as short as I know how to make it.

My name is Nate Abbott and I came to Gladewater, Florida about five years ago following a case that had started in my home town of Aferton, Vermont – a case that unrelentingly tugged at my sense of right and wrong. The local authorities said accidental death. I said murder. I had no proof, just a series of odd circumstances that told me things were not what they seemed. I had very definite feelings about the rightness of my gut and the guilt of my suspect, Marnie Nichols Morgan, the dead man’s widow, and I needed to prove that guilt. Although proving it turned out to be impossible, I had no doubt that Marnie Nichols Morgan had killed her husband Donald Morgan, and later my friend Kevin Brennan. She married Kevin and he died, just like all three of her other husbands. But eventually things got settled to my satisfaction, almost.

Florida was a big change from Vermont for me. For one thing, the weather in Florida is a lot better than in Vermont. The local flora and fauna were more colorful, more fragrant, and the bugs were bigger and bolder. In Vermont, I never had to wrestle my Sunday paper away from a giant palmetto bug who had already helped himself to a cup of my coffee and parked his carcass in my recliner. But in spite of the vast differences, I love it here in Florida. I’ll never have to shovel snow again!

In the years since I opened and expanded my private investigation firm, Abbott and Associates, we have handled many cases here in Gladewater. Most of our cases have been little nothing cases - just plain boring. Others could be rated semi-intriguing. The outright scary ones are the ones we wish we had never taken. Thankfully, those are few and far between. But this case. . . this case was one of the most puzzling cases we’d ever had.

I know better than to make snap judgments . . . they’re seldom accurate. My first encounter with this case and with Maureen Riley was at the FBI offices. She called my office from their lockup because she had my card and she didn’t know a lawyer. She was angry, injured and at a loss to understand why she was in this mess at all. I couldn’t help thinking after this brief meeting that she just might be what she appeared to be - a clever nut case - beautiful, personable, but still a nut case. With great effort, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and tried to believe she was what she told me she was. . .innocent.

Now I know there is a stereotype that comes to mind when you first meet a cop turned private investigator. I’m not like Sam Spade, Mike Hammer, or any of the other book and movie P.I.’s. First off, I don’t think I’m Hollywood leading man material – I’m just six feet tall, have brown hair and gray eyes. I don’t scare small children, but I don’t make women swoon either. Secondly, I am not the stereotypical anything. As a cop, I was a little like your favorite English teacher. . .except that I used to carry a badge and a gun instead of a stick of chalk and a Thesaurus. I now carry my PI license and sometimes, when it is very, very necessary, I carry a gun.

In college I had a professor who was forever saying, It’s all in the details. She must have said it forty times a class period. Bright woman, this professor. She was short of stature, long on smart. She’d say, In the real world, you have to get the details right. The details were very complicated, and for some time I wasn’t sure I had them right, but the details were what helped me solve this case. Thanks, Professor Stewart.

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Chapter One

1992, UCLA Off Campus Housing, Los Angeles, CA

The barefoot young man crept across the bedroom floor, the moonlight streaming through the wide window Fell on the shadowy figure next to the bed. The sleeping woman stirred briefly and then settled, murmuring incoherently in her sleep.

Just sleep on, my lovely, he whispered softly.

Without disturbing the soundly sleeping redhead, the young man took a pair of manicure scissors from the bedside table and snipped a lock of hair from the peacefully sleeping woman. He held the curl to his nose and for one long moment inhaled the fragrance that lingered there. He crept out of the bedroom and into the living room where he tied a narrow blue ribbon around the tendril and tucked it into a plastic sleeve in his wallet. Smiling serenely, he crept back to the bedroom. Noiselessly he shed his clothing and gingerly slipped into the bed without waking her and fell asleep gazing at his oblivious sleeping beauty.

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The sun shone full in through the windows of the young woman’s bedroom. It was Saturday and the lithe redhead stretched luxuriously and opened her eyes.

What she saw on the other side of the bed made her heart pound so loud she was sure it could be heard in the next room. Holy Crap! she exploded, scrambling to the far side of her bed, pulling the bed covers to her chin.

What the hell are you doing here? How’d you get in here? she demanded.

Good morning, the handsome Adonis answered, propping his head in his hand. You look ravishing this morning, dearest. You must have slept well. I tried not to wake you when I came to bed, the young man said, his voice still a little thick with sleep.

Slowly he sat up and swung his legs onto the floor and stretched, unabashed by the fact that he was totally naked. He seemed unaware of the woman’s look of fear. He rubbed his eyes. He was more than merely good looking – six foot three, tanned and muscular, tousled blond hair, and dark fringed blue eyes the color of spring skies.

What would you like for breakfast? he inquired innocently, again stretching and flexing his muscular golden body.

She leapt out of the bed, pulling the covers with her, too upset to be impressed with his sculpted tanned body.

What would I like for breakfast? I’d like your head on a platter. How the hell did you get into my apartment and what were you doing in my bed?

She hovered near the bedroom door, not wanting to look at him, but afraid to take her eyes from him. She wanted to run and yet couldn’t…equal parts of fear and anger kept her rooted to the spot.

The young man cocked his head and stared at her silently for a moment. When he spoke, his voice had a weird off-center quality that ran chills down her spine.

Well, it’s like this, dear one. Remember when you lost your keys in the Student Union the other day and I returned them to you?

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He continued.

I simply had a copy of your apartment key made before I gave them back. And I’d think someone as smart as you would be able to figure out what I was doing in your bed – what I intend to do every night from now on - sleeping. You need my protection. Anyone could have found your keys and done exactly what I did. It just proves to me that you need me around the house.

He tilted his head, raised his eyebrows and nodded once as if to say, I’m right and you know it.

With an alarming quickness his expression changed and his voice took on a brisk no-nonsense tone. Now, give me a minute and I’ll make you the best breakfast you’ve had since you left your mother’s kitchen.

He rose slowly from the edge of the bed and after only the briefest pause to give her one more chance to admire him, he bent to retrieve his blue jeans. He smiled at her and with no particular rush, pulled his pants on and zipped them.

Dismissing his unselfconscious show with an exasperated shake of her head she stepped toward him, covers trailing behind her.

You really are just incredible! I’ve managed to take care of myself so far without your help!

Caution forgotten, she dropped the covers and stepped closer as she spat her next words.

I don’t know what the hell you were thinking when you sneaked in here, but get this. I told you – I’m not ready to make a commitment to a serious relationship with you or any one else right now. And your surprise, uninvited, naked presence here this morning is totally unacceptable! From the looks of things, the only one I need to be protected from is you! Her finger punctuated the last word with a sharp poke to the center of his chest.

With a nonchalant shrug, he turned from her poking and stopped where the sun made a warm, inviting patch on the hardwood floor.

Come on, Lovey, he said turning to face her, his tone patronizing. You’ll feel better after you’ve had your coffee and a good breakfast.

She crossed her arms across her chest and rolled her eyes. Her fear of him was abating. . .slightly. Crossly, she pouted. There isn’t any coffee. I couldn’t afford it this week.

Moving cat quick, he recovered the short distance between them. His skin was still warm from basking in the bright morning sunshine streaming through the window. He took her chin in his right hand as he wrapped his left arm around her shoulders.

As soon as I pass my boards, I’ll be able to provide you the most exquisite coffee you’ve ever tasted and anything else your little heart desires.

She pulled against his superior strength. He tightened his hold.

I don’t want to hurt you. And I’ll do whatever necessary to prevent anyone else from hurting you. Women who look like you are always in danger. His eyes caressed her features, while his strong arms maintained his possessive hold on her.

Looking deeply into her eyes, he spoke softly. For the sake of argument, you and I just met. The date went well and I put my arm around you to kiss you goodnight. What will happen now? Hmmmmm? What will happen now?

The woman stood very still. Her pulse raced, afraid of what he might do next. As if reading her mind, the man’s voice grew softer.

I could snap your neck from this position, my pretty, he crooned, as he moved his left hand up to caress her glossy hair. But I adore you. I would never hurt you. I promise you that I’m going to protect you from anyone who even thinks about hurting you. Just give yourself some time.

He leaned forward, locking his eyes with hers and kissed her hard.

As he released her lips, she made her move. With a mighty thrust of her right knee to his groin, she sent the muscular young man to his knees. He fell forward, clutching his nether region and moaning.

Who needs protecting now, Bozo? she demanded, furiously scrubbing his kiss from her mouth.

He remained bent over for several minutes, moaning, his face an ashy green. Lifting his head slightly, he moaned, Oooooh, I think I’m going to be sick. . .

She grabbed the waste can from under the desk and shoved it under his head.

Here. When you finish, clean up the mess. Then get your clothes on and get the hell out of my house!

He stood unsteadily, hunched over, his hands protecting his injured groin. He swallowed several times and with a great effort managed to quell the urge to vomit. Tears of pain beaded on his long dark eyelashes.

Why are you being like this? Don’t you understand that I love you?

Bullshit! I don’t know what this is, but it sure as hell isn’t love. What it is defies description!

Sure that she had the upper hand she picked up his shirt and shoes and held them out to him. Here. Put them on and get out.

As he took the clothing from her, she held out her other hand. I want the key you made. NOW! I don’t ever want to see you again and you’d better not try to get into my apartment again. Next time, I will call the police. she gritted, her fists clenched in fury, her breathing ragged.

He looked up at her. Her knee had done more than double him over. It had cut deeply into his ego, a cut he would not soon forget.

His eyes narrowed, burning with suppressed rage, he spat out, "You’ll be sorry for this. I’m going to make you sorry if it’s the last thing I do! Then when, not if, you decide you want me back, I won’t have you!"

Ignoring her outstretched hand, he slammed the key from his jeans pocket onto the table next to her and stepped into his shoes, every step made with great care, the rapidly swelling nether regions keeping him bent and cautious. Her knee jab had done its job and he limped out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter Two

February, 2000, Gladewater, Florida

Susan! I called from the bedroom. Where’s my screwdriver? The knob fell off the dresser drawer again.

That would have to be our next weekend project – getting a new dresser. I was getting tired of putting the knobs back on every other day or so. I walked into the living room with a dresser knob in my hand.

Susan, did you hear me? I need the screwdriver. It isn’t in my toolbox.

My beautiful wife Susan looked at me and looked back at the TV, grunting in disgust. But she didn’t move from in front of the TV.

I could tell she was aggravated. I just didn’t know at what. I hoped it wasn’t me. She has a pretty good redheaded temper when pushed.

After a few seconds, she grunted again and turned the TV off, pitching the remote onto the coffee table in front of her.

Nate, I swear, if I have to watch another news break about this damned bank robbery! I think I’ve heard the same information fourteen times a day for the last three days. If they don’t have anything new, why do they keep bombarding us with the same news over and over and over again?

I looked at her, her hands on her hips, eyes flashing. She was not a fan of the media. She said that most of the time they have nothing to say but take hours to say it. And they repeat that nothing every hour on the hour. No, not a big fan of the media…not at all.

As she looked at the dresser drawer knob in my hand, Susan read my mind.

You know, we probably should get a new dresser. And do it this weekend.

I just shook my head in amazement. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how she did that – say exactly what I’d been thinking. It was just freakin’ amazing.

You know I was going to spend a little quiet time today watching TV, but if all they’re going to talk about is that bank heist, I think I’d rather help you. I used the screwdriver the other day and put it in the kitchen junk drawer. Wait here. I’ll get it.

My lovely wife stood up from the couch and walked toward the kitchen. Man, how I loved to watch that woman walk! I followed her, enjoying the view the whole way. After five years of marriage, I still thought she was the most gorgeous woman I had ever laid eyes on. She was stunning with her deep red hair and luminous green eyes. With a little mental leer, I remembered that it was Thursday. The twins were with Gamma. When my mother finally decided to move away from the frigid winters in Vermont, she bought a condo here in Gladewater so she could see more of her youngest grandchildren. And every Thursday, my mother came over and picked up the twins and took them home with her – leaving us time alone to do whatever we wanted or needed to do. That meant we had the whole day to ourselves. I suddenly thought it would be a shame to waste our day alone just tightening knobs on a dresser. Then Susan did it again – read my mind. She stopped and turned back to face me. "Are you sure you want to spend the day fiddlin’ with those knobs?" Her voice was low and throaty. We never did get around to those dresser drawer knobs that day.

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Around six o’clock that evening, my mother brought our twins home. Thursday was also homemade pizza supper night - Thursday was our babies’ favorite day, what with going to Gamma’s house and having pizza for dinner, the two things they liked best in the world. They were always pooped out when they got home from Gamma’s, so bedtime