“By memory you mean . . .”
“The stuff you get from the thing between your ears.”
“Right. Well, do you have a written contract?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s take a look.”
Maggie scrolls through her email.
“Do you not have it saved to your hard drive?”
“I thought I did. I was looking for it before you came over here.”
“What about your deleted items?”
Maggie grimaces. “I had a lot of time on my hands in Wyoming. I cleaned out my inboxes, filed stuff, deleted things, and, um, I emptied the trash.”
“And you’ve searched?”
Maggie types Leslie in her search box and presses enter. Nothing comes up. She tries rent and gets random emails with parent, torrent, and even Trent Reznor, but no rental agreements. “Nothing. Not even the email where she asked for an extension and claims I told her she could stay.”
“Mierda. You and your obsession for deleting.”
“Now is not the time to cure me of my ills.”
“Okay, so was she through Airbnb or HomeAway? Or what’s that other one?”
“It doesn’t matter what it is. I did it through Craigslist.”
“You what?”
“I did a direct VRBO. I didn’t want to pay the fees to those online shysters.”
“Oh, Maggie.”
Maggie holds up her hand. “Did I not already tell you now is not the time?”
Michele makes a zipping motion over her lips. “So you’ve got no contract other than your memory?”
“We had a contract.”
“Which, if you didn’t make her leave this morning, is extended and ratified.”
“I have Leslie’s verbal assurance now that she’s moving out in two days.”
“Verbal contracts are binding. If you accept it, you have a new contract. Otherwise, you’re stuck trying to prove up your old one, and force her out now. Which is next to impossible, practically speaking.”
“This blows.”
Michele’s eyes light up. “Change of subject. Let’s search for email between you and Gary. We can prove Junior was wrong. Or lying.”
“They can’t lie to me, can they? That’s like entrapment.”
“Sounds like, but isn’t.” Michele snorts. “Perfectly legal.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“You’re preaching to the choir.”
Maggie types Gary as her search, and a slew of emails appear, dating back for weeks. “This doesn’t make sense. We haven’t emailed each other.”
Michele and Maggie scan them together. Maggie’s stomach turns over. They’re the emails Junior told her about.
“I’ve never seen these before. And I deleted all my other email with him while I was in Wyoming. I would have deleted these, too. These are new. Even though some of them are before then. This doesn’t make sense.”
“Girl, who have you pissed off?”
This topic has come up more than once in the last week. “I seem to get that question a lot.”
Twelve
The doorbell chimes. Louise and Gertrude race toward the door, toenails sliding on the tile, barking crazily.
Maggie shuts her laptop, thankful for the interruption. “You’re popular today. Me, Boyd, and now another guest.”
“Introvert hell.” Michele heads for the door. “It’s probably Rashidi’s friends. Well, his and Katie’s. They’re staying for a few days.”
“Who’s Katie?”
“My law school roommate. I’ve told you about her. And Emily used to work with her.”
“Right. I remember.”
In the entryway, Michele greets a woman with an island lilt to her voice like Rashidi’s and a man with a Texas drawl.
Maggie ponders feeling guilty that her goats are still boarding at Lumpy’s place. The former Texas Ranger lives next door to a property Michele inherited from Gidget and deeded over to Maggie. Lumpy’s a soft touch, and Maggie knows her babies are in good hands. Still, they probably think she’s deserted them. They deserve to be home, eating the treats she bought them.
Her thoughts are interrupted when a man enters the great room. He’s blond and built. Shorter than Maggie normally goes for, but magnetic in a Top Gun sort of way. Michele follows him. Bringing up the rear is a black woman in spike-heeled sandals and a Lycra sundress appropriate for the heat but nothing else, trying not to fall over Louise and Gertrude. She’s eye-popping.
And Maggie’s eyes do pop. Because she knows her. Ava Butler, her old nemesis and the annoyingly omnipresent voice on her radio. The one whose singles Maggie belted out at karaoke in Amarillo.
“What the actual fuck?” Maggie hears someone say, then realizes it’s her.
Ava’s male companion stops short, assessing Maggie with a professional once-over, like he’s deciding if she’s about to physically assault someone. Okay, fine, yeah, she wants to. Ava-fucking-Butler, here in Michele’s house?
Ava looks away from the dogs tripping her up. She spies Maggie and hesitates for a beat, then bursts out laughing. Cackling, really. She bends over with her hands on her thighs and literally howls.
Maggie pushes back from the kitchen table where she and Michele had been working. “It’s been a long time.”
Ava straightens and wipes her eyes. “A long hard time for you, I hear, and I believe it, the way you look.”
“Fuck you.” Maggie wants to put her sunglasses and jacket back on to hide the fire damage, but she’s not giving Ava the pleasure.
“You wish.”
Michele holds up both hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s going on here?”
The man crosses his arms and a smile spreads over his face. “Shh, Michele, it’s just getting good. Let’s see where it goes.”
Michele tries again. “I take it you know Ava and Collin?”
Maggie heads for the liquor cabinet and her bottle of Balcones. “FYI, I’m off Balcones, Michele. I drink Koltiska now.”
“Duly noted. And off topic. Answer my question, since you’ve insulted my houseguest.”
“Cussed her, too,” Collin adds.
“You not helping, baby.” Ava slips into the island patois Maggie remembers well. It made her want to slap Ava back then in Waco. It makes her want to tackle her and put her in a choke hold now.
Maggie pours a generous double. She holds it up in a mock toast toward Ava. “Ava and I met while doing musical theater in Waco. Back when she was just a backstabbing nobody.”
Ava curtsies. “And you a wash-up coke-snorting has-been.”
“Fuck you again.”
“Wait,” Michele says. “I went to a musical theater in Waco, when I was there for my law school reunion. An actress was murdered and the show was called off after act one. And you guys”—she points at them—“you guys were in it! How did I not realize that until now? Maggie, I’ve known you for years and never placed you in that show.”
“Is that supposed to be a bad thing?” Maggie drawls.
Michele frowns. “That poor actress who died. So sad. Anyway, you were both incredible!”
“So you were the one in attendance,” Maggie says.
“Maggie too wasted to notice if the theater burn down, much less how many people in the audience,” Ava says, and snaps her wrist.
Michele raises her hand with her palm facing the two women, like a teacher quieting kindergartners. “Enough of that. Maggie, if you’re pouring, does anyone else want one?”
Collin lifts a finger. “Just like yours, Maggie. And I’m Collin, by the way. Ava’s baby daddy.”
North of Dallas, his voice tells her. South of Oklahoma. “You poor, poor man.”
“Lucky man, more like it,” Ava says.
“I remember the lucky man you had when I knew you. That hot CSI actor. Really hot.”
Ava switches out of her accent and suddenly sounds boringly Middle American. “The man’s a slut. He’d fuck a dog if that was all that was handy.”
Collin whistles. “Maggie slept with Zach?”
Ava smoothes her dress over her flat stomach. “Not exactly. I’ll take a double as well.”
“Speaking of sluts, Ava did actually sleep with my boyfriend at the time.” Maggie smiles angelically. “Michele, a drink for you?”
Collin cocks an eyebrow at his girlfriend.
Ava shrugs. “Zach and I had split up. I hated Maggie. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Michele says, “I’ll wait for Rashidi.”
“The wait is over, my love.” Rashidi appears behind her and kisses her neck.
Ava launches herself at him. He twirls her in a hug. Her accent returns. “I miss you ass. How much of that you hear?”
“Enough.” Rashidi shakes Collin’s hand, kisses Maggie’s cheek, and returns to slip his arm around Michele. His accent comes out thick. “Welcome home, Maggie girl. Sorry about Gary.”
“Thank you. Drink?”
“I take a Shiner.”
Michele nods. “Shiner for me. I have a feeling some of us need to pace ourselves. And referee.”
Maggie hands out the drinks. As Ava grasps hers, Maggie holds on to it. “Baby daddy. So no more Zach?”
“God, no.”
“Good call. He’s a little effeminate.” Maggie releases the drink.
Ava freezes, then giggles. “True dat.”
“How many babies with Tom Cruise here?” Maggie nudges her head in Collin’s direction.
Ava turns off her island accent again without missing a beat. “One. I have a daughter, and we have a son.”
“Handsome devil, like his dad,” Collin says.
“They’re staying with Collin’s sister, Katie, while we’re here. She sings with me sometimes, too.”
Maggie nods. She remembers that Ava’s newer music includes a soprano with a twangy voice, more than backup, less than shared top billing. Ava Butler with Katie-somebody-or-other. The relationships start to make sense to her. Katie, law school roommate of Michele. Singing partner of Ava. Sister of Collin. Old boss of Emily. Thinking of Emily reminds her of Amarillo, and of karaoke. “Just so you know, I sing your songs better than you.”
“Oh, I know.”
“Huh?”
“Emily sent me the video.”
“Wait. Emily what?”
“Somebody put it up on YouTube. You’re trending on social media. Thanks for making me money—it kicked my sales up.”
“I haven’t even gotten online since I did it. I had no idea.”
Ava raises an eyebrow and sips the Balcones. “You like my songs, then?”
“They’re all right.” Maggie remembers singing them driving home the day before. Catchy for sure, dammit.
“I’ll admit your versions were the best I’ve ever heard from anyone but me. Talent never held you back.”
“No, I did that all by myself.”
“Seriously, even though I’m not big on folk or whatever—”
“Alt-country. Texana.”
Ava bobs her head. “Whatever. But even though it’s not my thing, your stuff is good. Respect.”
“Thank you. Yours, too.”
“Not like the already-been-chewed bubblegum all over the place lately. Kelly-what’s-her-name.”
Maggie can’t disagree about Gary’s little sister.
“Do I sense a truce?” Rashidi says.
Ava and Maggie give each other the slant-eye.
Maggie nods. “For Michele’s sake.”
Ava smiles. “As long as she doesn’t come near my man.”
Maggie smiles back. “Good thing for Collin I don’t have one for him to worry about you with.”
Michele says, “Speaking of which, I can’t vouch for Maggie’s mouth or behavior. She’s having the bad day to end all bad days, which includes three dead ex-boyfriends and getting dumped by the fourth.”
“Damn, girl.” Ava lifts her glass at her.
“Thanks for the share, Michele. You left out being a murder suspect and having a squatter living in my house, but I think you hit the major high points.” Maggie stretches her arms over her head as she arches her back. She purrs, “But I can’t catch nobody doesn’t wanna be caught.”
“Bottoms up to that,” Collin says, raising his glass.
Thirteen
Too much Balcones later, Maggie falls asleep in her semipermanent room at Michele’s. She bolts upright in the wee hours of the morning. Her room is pitch dark, but her heart is hammering. There’s someone in the room with her. Or is it just an impression left from a bad dream?
After long moments with her breath held, listening, she punches her pillow and digs her head into it. There’s no one in the room. She’s being ridiculous. Half an hour passes. Maggie doesn’t fall asleep. She tries to count sheep, but all she sees are disgustingly happy couples jumping the fence. Rashidi and Michele, Ava and Collin, Emily and Jack, Wallace and Ethan, Hank and Sheila. Hank and Sheila? That pisses her off and brings her fully from relaxed and groggy to wide awake.
She sits up, then gets the feeling again. Like someone is watching her, from close by. She slinks down and pulls the covers over her head. That gives her the bed-spins. She sits up.
And screams.
A woman with a fat gray braid tied with a scarf in a big bow at its end is rocking in the chair next to the window. Her legs are long, her hands clasped in her lap. Are those roses and skulls on her plaid shirt? Wisps of hair frame a moon-shaped, moon-colored face. Her eyes are so dark they’re like cutouts against the night sky.
She turns her face toward Maggie and puts a finger over white lips.
“Who are you?” Maggie whispers.
The woman stops rocking. Sad tears flow down her cheeks in a silver river. Like Maggie has disappointed her somehow.
“What are you doing here?”
A knock sounds at the door. Maggie jumps. The woman in the rocker disappears.
“You okay in there?” It’s Michele’s voice.
“Bad dream.”
“You drank too much.”
“You didn’t drink enough.”
“Night, Maggie.”
“Night.”
Maggie looks back at the rocking chair. Moonlight streams into a seat empty except for a blue scarf with a field of white stars. No, she thinks, that can’t be from the woman she’d seen. She wasn’t real. It was a dream. The scarf has to be something Michele or someone left there earlier.
Michele is right. She drank too much.
Fourteen
Morning is a gut punch to Maggie. Had she slept at all? She groans, rolls to her stomach, and puts a pillow over her head. She hears Louise even through the pillow. Maybe that’s what woke her. A dog needing to go out. Shit. She sits and hangs her feet over the edge of the bed. Her stomach lurches. A tongue laps at her toes.
“Louise, stop.”
Floppy black-and-white ears rise above the mattress, followed by a black button nose and shining eyes.
“What time is it?”
The dog cocks her head.
Maggie leans down into her hands, elbows on her knees. The room tilts. Last night is a blur. Why did she drink so much? The string of awful events of the last two weeks wash back over her, ending with the appearance of Ava Butler in Michele’s living room. As bad as all the rest is, Ava is the explanation for the hangover.
“As long as you don’t like her, we’re all right.”
Louise gives the wood floors a good sweeping with her bushy tail.
The dog goes to the door and whines again. Maggie opens the door just enough for Louise to push her way out. Seconds later, she hears barking and human greetings for Louise and a “What did you do with Maggie?” which she ignores in favor of a shower and toothbrush.
Fifteen minutes later, the world is less like the rocking deck of a ship. The morning after drinking never gets any easier, no matter how much she practices. She soft-foots into the kitchen. The clock on the stove says it’s nine. Too damn early. Is it too much
to hope that Ava and her hunky man have left for the day?
“Good morning, Maggie. You look like shit.” Ava sets a pod into the Keurig. “I was making this for me, but you clearly need it more than I do.”
Maggie shoots her a bird. “Good morning, everyone.”
Rashidi is standing behind Michele, his hand on her shoulder, an empty plate in front of her. “We saved you some breakfast.” He points to a plate with corn tortillas, scrambled eggs, refried black beans, salsa, and a sprinkling of shredded cheese.
“Thanks.”
Michele sees Maggie scanning the room and guesses what she’s looking for. “Dogs are outside.”
“Ah, good.”
The front door opens and Collin appears in running shorts and shoes, dripping sweat down his bare, bulky chest. “Damn, it’s humid here.” He walks straight to Ava. Before she can get away, he wraps her in a wet hug.
“Ick, Collin, no.” But she turns in his arms and kisses him, long and hard.
Maggie snatches her plate, looking away. She doesn’t bother warming her food, just plants herself at the bar and shovels it in. Her stomach rebels, but she’s not about to let it win, especially not with all the mushy-gushy lovey-dovey going on around her—just like when she tried to count sheep. It’s enough to toss breakfast over, if her hangover isn’t.
Collin releases Ava. “Maggie, that funny-looking dog of yours is carrying a possum around in its mouth.”
Maggie flinches. “Dead?”
“Well, I didn’t stop and check its pulse, but that’s my guess.”
Louise, a bloodthirsty killer? Her golden retrievers had tried to catch squirrels and other small animals, but they were too floppy and goofy to ever succeed. Maggie pictures Gary’s finger in Louise’s mouth. Bile rises in her mouth. But Louise had been trying to save Gary. That was different. Must think of something else.
“That’s disgusting,” Ava announces.
“What’s up with you today, Maggie?” Michele rises, gathering empty plates and taking them to the dishwasher.
Ava sets the fresh cup of coffee beside Maggie’s plate. “Here you go. Maybe some caffeine will take a few years off around your eyes.” She points at them. “Dark circles.”
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