Every cozy mystery needs someone to keep our sleuth on her toes, and for Maxine Gerimatter, that someone is Detective Shepherd Malone. Calm under pressure, sharp-eyed, and a stickler for the rules, Malone is the kind of man who notices more than he lets on.
From the moment they meet, Maxine senses he’s not the type to be easily charmed — but that doesn’t stop her from trying. Their conversations are part cat-and-mouse, part verbal fencing match, with just enough begrudging respect to make you wonder which one will crack the case first.
Recently, after reading the community’s “Nostalgia Diaries” — heartfelt letters residents had written to their younger selves — Maxine flipped the idea on its head and challenged Malone to write a letter to his future self, thirty years down the line. She told him to tuck it away in his wallet, just in case he needed a reminder of who he hoped to be. Whether he shares it or not, Maxine’s betting the exercise will reveal more about him than he’s ready to admit.
One thing’s for sure: whenever Detective Malone’s around, you can bet Maxine’s mind is working just as hard as his… even if she’s doing it with a cup of coffee in hand.
The atrium carried its familiar stillness, the kind that made voices sound softer. Normally, this was Maxine and Fannie’s spot, the place for coffee, conversation, and the occasional good-natured gossip, but today Fannie was off visiting her daughter. Maxine had the space to herself, a warm patch of sunlight spilling over her notebook as she jotted a few lines.
Detective Shepherd Malone appeared in the doorway, his leather-bound notebook in hand. He always carried it, part case notes, part personal musings, and today it looked a little fuller than usual.
“Well now,” Maxine said, looking up over her glasses, “don’t tell me you’re here to interrogate me in my own hideout.”
“Not today,” he said, settling into the chair across from her. “I, uh… took your advice. Wrote that letter to my future self.”
Her brow lifted. “Oh, so you didn’t chicken out.”
He smirked. “Tempted, but no.” He flipped open his notebook, but she held up a hand.
“Before you read it,” she said, leaning back, “I want to know something personal. You’ve been hanging around here enough, you might as well spill a little. What was Shepherd Malone like before the badge?”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… I’ve got a twin brother named Sherlock. Yes, really. Our parents were die-hard Sherlock Holmes fans. They figured if they named us right, we’d have no choice but to become detectives.”
Maxine laughed. “And did you?”
“Pretty much,” he said with a shrug. “Sherlock went the private investigator route, I joined the police force. At first, I was doing it more to please them than myself. But somewhere along the way… I realized I actually loved the work. Solving puzzles, helping people, it got under my skin.”
“And the guitar?” Maxine asked, tilting her head.
“That’s my escape. I play in little nightclubs when I can. Helps clear my head after a long case. I also love to cook, big family dinners, the works. Someday, I want that for myself… a wife who laughs at my bad jokes, a couple of kids, maybe a dog. But in a small town, where life’s slower.”
Maxine’s smile softened. “Sounds like you’ve given it some thought.”
He opened his notebook, pulling out the folded paper. “That’s what I wrote about, actually. Thirty years from now, I hope I’m still playing guitar, still cooking, still solving puzzles… just with fewer stakeouts and more Sunday dinners.”
Maxine tapped her pen against her notebook, then reached across the table and patted his chest, right over his heart. “Keep that tucked away in here, Malone,” she said gently. “Thirty years from now, I won’t be around to tell you if you nailed it… so you’ll just have to know it for yourself.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the rustle of leaves outside the atrium’s glass walls, and somewhere, deep in the silence, the quiet weight of a truth they both understood.
