“If our breakup is any indication, he was sad, he got mad, he got over it.”
“How do you know that?”
“He was with another woman last night. To me, that was the normal, confident Gary.”
A firefighter—one of rank, Maggie assumes from the patches on the uniform—pulls Karen aside. The two have a brief, whispered conversation with Troy listening in. The firefighter nods, then ducks under the barricade and trots back to the house, talking into the radio the whole way.
Karen and Troy return to Maggie.
Maggie wipes her eyes.
Karen says, “Are you okay, Ms. Killian?”
“Rough night. The fire. Gary. And all the firefighters. My dad was a volunteer firefighter here in Fayette County when I was a little girl.”
Karen’s eyes drill into hers. “And?”
“And . . . nothing. I’m just emotional. Memories and present circumstances colliding.”
Troy picks up the conversation where they’d left it before he and Karen stepped away. He drawls, “Who was the other woman with Mr. Fuller that night?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Did it upset you?”
Maggie snorts. “Not in the slightest.”
Troy and Karen look at each other. The fire marshal nods at the deputy.
Troy says, “I’d like to talk to the people close to him, to get a feel for what was going on in his life and who was in it.”
Maggie shivers. She just can’t get warm. “It sounds like you think someone set this fire deliberately. Like they killed him.”
The two answer at the same time.
Troy says, “We can’t rule anything out.”
“Premature,” Karen says. Then she adds, “I’m not at liberty to give out additional information at this time.”
Something about her tone raises hackles on Maggie’s neck and suspicions in her mind. “Am I a suspect?”
“I wouldn’t say suspect. I’m investigating the cause of the fire.”
Troy crosses his arms. “I’m investigating other potential crimes.”
Maggie says, “What would you call me, then?”
Karen shrugs at Troy.
He says, “A person of interest with potentially key information.”
Maggie closes her eyes. She’s been down this road before. Last week, in fact, as public enemy number one after the death of her cowboy fling, Chet. It’s ridiculous they’re homing in on her for Gary’s death now. She could come up with a list as long as her arm of people that would benefit from his demise, if Fayette County wants it. For now, she’ll say as little as possible beyond the facts. “I called 911. I was injured trying to save him.”
“Ah, the sheriff himself has arrived.” Karen beckons a tall man in a ten-gallon straw cowboy hat. To Maggie, she says, “You’d be shocked how often a person sets a fire then has second thoughts. Even more stick around the scene to glory in the aftermath. Or to get treated for their injuries.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“I certainly hope that’s what we find. For now, just give us your contact information for a follow-up interview.” Karen puts a new sheet of paper on top of the stack on her clipboard and holds it out to Maggie.
“And let me guess—don’t leave town.”
Troy’s eyes have been on his boss, who is consulting with a man who appears to be the fire chief. He cuts them to Maggie for a moment. “Spoken like a woman who’s heard it before, I’d say.”
Maggie fumes, but complies, the blanket falling from her shoulders, the pen digging into the paper. Gary is gone. Gone forever. Another man close to her has succumbed to violence. First, Chet was bludgeoned to death. Then Patrick, a Wyoming rancher she went out with a time or two, was shot dead. Next, Hank, the love of her life, barely survived a rifle shot. And now Gary, her former boyfriend, is dead. Never mind that the fire marshal and a deputy are eyeing her like the easy answer to a hard question barely a week after she was a suspect in Chet’s death. That pales in comparison to the more obvious truth.
She’s a freaking black widow.
Five
After Maggie’s written her list, the fire marshal and deputy release her.
Maggie drives by rote toward her house, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. It’s nearly ten p.m. The lapse of time between now and when she’d first seen the dark gray smoke is like a black hole in her life.
She groans. Louise lifts her head, checking on her. Maggie fondles the dog’s ears. How is she going to come to grips with never seeing Gary again, after he’d been in her life, in one way or another, for a decade?
Her heart hurts. Gary’s family will be devastated. They’re a tight-knit clan, all nine of them—his mother and his seven siblings and their families living in houses Gary built for them on a family compound near Boerne, outside of San Antonio. Well, six siblings, since Kelly is of the Nashville world now. Who is going to tell them? And how will they react when they hear she was there when it happened?
There will be a service for Gary. Maggie will have to go. She groans again. From day one, Gary’s mother, Merritt, hasn’t been Maggie’s biggest fan, citing ample and readily available evidence that Maggie was trouble. Merritt’s gossip rag obsession makes Wallace’s fascination seem like a passing fancy. She had to know that Maggie had dumped her golden boy. The recent smear story online about Maggie in the bad old days will just add more fuel to Merritt’s fire. Maybe Maggie hadn’t fulfilled Merritt’s worst prophecies of tanking Gary’s career, saddling him with unwanted children, dragging him into addiction, and sucking him dry financially. But Mama Fuller still mourned that he never married a Miss America, a princess, or a Hollywood actress befitting her boy’s stardom, and she laid that squarely on Maggie’s shoulders. Maggie thought it probably had more to do with the fact that Gary was tied to his trailer park mama by her short apron strings, but no one asked her.
Her phone rings as she pulls up to her dark house. Without looking at caller ID, she answers. “Hello.”
“Maggie.” It’s Hank’s voice.
For a moment, Maggie loses her sense of direction. She’s disoriented in the darkness, unsure of up, down, left, or right. She shakes her head to dispel the vertigo. “Uh, hey, Hank.” Her voice sounds scratchy. She clears her throat.
“Why did you leave? Why are you ignoring my calls and texts? I mean, really, what the fuck is going on? I don’t get it, Maggie.” His voice sounds raw like hers. Fire raw.
“Not now, Hank.”
“When, then?”
Good question. Never, maybe. “I don’t play second fiddle.” Especially not when first fiddle is carrying his child.
“What?”
“Lose my number.”
“I—”
She ends the call and turns the phone over so she can’t see the damn dimple-cheeked picture of him. She’d cry if she didn’t feel so numb from the fire and Gary’s death. It was such a mistake to go to Wyoming. She’d been right to rebuff Hank last spring. She should have just left him—them—in the past. Note to self: change my phone number.
She pulls up in front of the Coop and sees a moon-silver car in her headlights. Shit. The renter. Maggie had driven here on autopilot, but Leslie must have another night or two left in her visit. She’ll look it up later. For now, she has to find another place to stay.
It’s too late to show up unannounced at Michele’s.
Maggie texts Michele: Got room for me at Nowheresville? She uses Michele’s nickname for her property and new house.
Michele: Just tonight or forever?
Maggie: Tonight. Need shower, whiskey, shoulder to cry on.
Michele: Mi casa es tu casa. What’s wrong?
Maggie: I’ll tell you when I get there.
She reverses Bess and the trailer back onto the road and makes the short drive to Michele’s new house. She and Louise alight and traipse to the door. The cicadas buzz in the trees, vibrating Maggie’s very bones. The humidity feels oppressive after Wyoming, and the n
ight air smells to her like decay.
Michele opens the door before Maggie can knock. “You smell like smoke and look like hell.”
Maggie opens her mouth to explain and breaks into sobs instead.
“Oh, honey, come inside.” Michele pulls Maggie through the door and into her arms. “Whiskey first?”
Maggie nods, unable to speak through choking noises that seem bigger and louder in the high-ceilinged entryway. She hears scrabbling claws and a territorial growl. She chokes down another sob and steps back. The only stranger-looking dog in the world than Louise is Michele’s Gertrude, a Rastafarian-like mix of sheepdog and pug. Her locks tremble as she stares down Louise, the intruder to her peaceful domain.
Louise wags her tail and holds herself rock-still for inspection. Gertrude makes a lap around her and sniffs her hind end. Then something changes, and all of a sudden the two dogs are chasing each other around the living room, barking happy barks.
Michele raises her eyebrows. “Who’s your friend?”
“Consolation prize from Wyoming.”
They move to the kitchen. Maggie climbs onto a cowhide stool and leans on the tan granite countertop. Michele pours from a bottle of Balcones and adds a few ice cubes. She hands Maggie the drink and guides her to the couch with fingertips between her shoulder blades. “Start talking.”
So Maggie takes a deep breath, and she does, until there’s nothing left to tell.
Six
The next morning, Maggie is officially cried out and even more sleep-deprived. Hank. Gary. The roar of the fire. The work in front of her to restore her shop. More Gary. More Hank. On repeat, all night long.
Throwing off the quilt, Maggie staggers to the en suite bathroom. Michele’s Mayan art looks like it was created to hang on the earth-toned tile wall. A multicolored glass butterfly figurine takes flight from a sage green soapstone countertop. A glass-walled shower with a river-stone floor promises tranquility. She ignores the shower, opting only to splash water on her puffy eyes. She stares into the mirror, seeing herself in the light of day for the first time since the fire. Without eyebrows and lashes, she looks like a minor actress in a slasher flick, right before her short role ends. She peeks under the bandages on her arms. The EMT told her to put aloe vera on them—Neosporin if they start to look infected—and change bandages daily. So far, it doesn’t look bad. Just ugly. She’ll pick up supplies later.
She pulls on jeans and a snug T-shirt that says Vintage Model across her free-range breasts. Her Martin guitar in its hard case is propped against the wall. Good. She remembered to bring it in last night. Now that she’s returned Hank’s belt buckle, it’s her most prized possession in the world. It and everything else in her truck bed and trailer could have been destroyed last night. Fire. Water. Whatever other shit the firefighters dumped on the blaze. Her material things are nothing compared to Gary, of course, but they still matter to her. She presses her temple. Coffee. She needs coffee. She tiptoes barefoot to the kitchen. Gertrude and Louise are playing tug-of-war with a thick braided rope in the doorway to Michele’s office. Maggie joins them at the door and pokes her head in.
Michele is sipping coffee from an oversized mug, sitting behind the compact antique desk Maggie found for her the year before. The moment Maggie saw it, she knew it was the perfect size and style for her friend.
“I’ve been reading about Gary.”
Maggie asks, “Does my name come up?”
Michele winces. “It does.”
“As a suspect?”
“No. Just as a former girlfriend, and the one that found him.”
“Well, that’s something, at least.”
“They’ll find out who did this. I’m so sorry, Maggie.”
“Me, too.” Maggie flops into a chair. It rolls backward, and she arrests it with her feet. “Thanks for the ear last night. And everything else. The shop. The investigation. The insurance claim. My goats.”
“Thanks for the pie.” Michele had insisted on helping Maggie unload Bess, which was a good thing. All the Royers bags and boxes had made it into her refrigerator.
“Not in the same league.”
Michele blows a raspberry, making light of Maggie’s serious tone. “You’d do the same for me.”
“Still. I owe you.”
“I’ll claim it in decorating advice.”
“Your place is looking great.”
“Belle tells me it looks too new for a country home named Nowheresville.”
“Your stepdaughter is a smart young lady, but rustic takes time. We’ll find the right pieces, one by one. Speaking of your brood, how are Sam and the baby?”
“Good. Charlie is visiting Sam’s father. It’s a busy time of year for Sam with baseball, and Robert needed his baby fix.”
Maggie smiles. It’s sincere, if droopy. Michele’s teenage son had a baby boy his senior year of high school. Halfway through his freshman year on a juco baseball scholarship, his young wife was murdered. To say the kid had been having a rough time was an understatement. As a result, Michele balances very hands-on grandmothering with her writing schedule, the pro bono legal work she insists on doing to help out in their rural county, endurance triathlon training, and a super-sexy boyfriend—Rashidi, a hydroponic farming expert from the Virgin Islands who works for the Texas A&M Extension Service. Hydroponic as in “plants grown in water, fed by fish poop from live fish in the same tanks.” Maggie doesn’t understand his field, but she likes him almost as much as she likes Michele’s stepdaughter and son.
“So where’s your man?”
“Refugio today. He’s doing workshops and helping with installations. He’ll be back tonight.”
Maggie walks into the kitchen to Michele’s Keurig. She prefers a good percolator, but Michele has tossed out even her old drip pot in favor of pods.
“Are you ready to talk about Flown the Coop?” Michele follows her and leans against the countertop, cradling her mug.
“Give me some good news. Please.”
“I do have one good bit. It turns out your renter, Leslie, is super nice.”
“My renter.” Maggie pops in a pod and positions a thick, oversized plain white mug with a chip under the spigot, then closes the handle and presses start.
“Yes.”
“How did you finally meet her?” At the time of the vandalism to the Coop, Michele had been unable to track Leslie down.
“She’s been around the house and chatty the last few times I’ve been over to meet adjusters and deputies and contractors.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess.”
“Yep. What’s better is that you have Gidget’s old Jaguar in storage and the Andy Warhol you inherited from her in a museum.”
“Tell me about it. If they’d been damaged in the shop, I’ll bet the adjuster would have gone ballistic.”
“And all Gidget’s paintings. Thank God they were in your house.”
Maggie’s stomach tightens at the thought. Besides being worth a fair amount of money, they are emotionally irreplaceable to her. “Oh, I talked to Junior again,” Maggie says, referring to the Lee County deputy working the Coop vandalism case. “I gave him a few suspects to run with.”
“I wonder how Gary’s death will impact his investigation.”
“Me, too. Did you talk to Gary after he found out he was under suspicion?” Maggie tests her coffee. Too hot. She blows on it, then sets it down.
“Yes, he came by the Coop to see the damage for himself.”
“I thought he was supposed to stay away.”
“You know he was never any good at doing what he was told.”
Maggie smiles sadly. “One of the things I loved best about him.”
“Anyway, he was none too happy. He gave me and Leslie an earful about the incompetence of Lee County. And he threw in a few choice words about you, too.”
“She was there?”
“Yes.”
Maggie purses her lips, thinking. Gary had been really angry at her. Humiliated by her.
Jealous of her other men. But he sure got over it quickly when she called. Besides, his method of revenge was to screw younger women, not to trash her livelihood.
Michele points at the refrigerator. “Greek yogurt. Blueberries. Granola in the pantry.”
Maggie gathers ingredients, a bowl, and a spoon. She moves her coffee to the island beside Michele and assembles her breakfast. An apple fritter fits her mood better, but she’d never find one here. Michele tends toward boringly healthy.
“So, how did you end up with a date planned with Gary last night, anyway?”
Maggie’s compromised emotional bandwidth had led to limited details in her storytelling. She’s not much better this morning, but coffee is helping. Yogurt will, too. “I drunk-dialed him from Amarillo.” She takes a bite.
“You were getting back together?”
“No. Just planning to engage in adult activities.”
Michele shakes her head.
“What?”
“I’m really sorry for what you’ve been through. I’m sorry Gary is dead. I know you have a lot of history, and you cared about him.”
“I hear a but in there somewhere.”
“But I know you, and there’s no way you’re getting over Hank without someone to, um, you know. Help you exorcise the demon.”
Maggie takes a big bite and talks with her mouth full. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Michele laughs and swats her. “Speaking of Hank, I’ve noticed you’re not wearing your belt buckle.”
“His belt buckle now. Like it always should have been.”
“Are you okay?”
“Not really.” She’d filled Michele in on his engagement and great expectations last night. “But I gave it my best shot.”
“You did. I’m proud of you. And I’m jealous you got to see Gene. I want to go visit him.”
“He’s really awesome. If only he wasn’t business partners with and living on the same ranch as Hank, I’d go with you.”
“Listen, I have some conference calls, and my editor is expecting my input on her revisions to my work-in-progress later today.”
Sick Puppy (Maggie #2) Page 5