Sick Puppy (Maggie #2)

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “And you didn’t invite me?”

  Ava says, “Please. Like you’d say yes with me going.”

  “Depends on who would be picking up the tab.”

  Michele punches her arm. “Will you be all right?”

  “Of course.”

  “You say that, but I have news.”

  “More bad news.”

  “Not bad. Just not good.”

  “Spit it out.”

  Ava goes to the door. “Later, you two.” She wrestles past the dogs and closes the door behind her.

  Michele smooths the full skirt of a red flowered sundress. “The tech guy says the email address used to send those messages to Gary is really yours.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He thinks someone got into your account and wrote real emails. And that there are real answers from Gary’s account. Could someone have your password?”

  “I don’t see how, but anything’s possible.”

  “It’s not OmahaNebraska, is it?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  Michele groans.

  “I’m just kidding. It’s not.”

  “Do you have it written down anywhere?”

  “On my laptop. But I had that with me. And on a paper taped under my desk.”

  “Where anyone that goes into your house could get it.”

  “It’s not Grand Central Station.”

  “You could take tickets at your bedroom door. And you keep a key under your mat, with no security system, and rent to strangers you meet on the internet.”

  Maggie smacks her hip. “Kiss my ass.”

  Michele sighs. “Well, someone either got your passwords or hacked into your account. My guy said that happens all the time.”

  “But who would do something like this?”

  “Someone you’ve really, really pissed off.”

  “You know me. I piss everyone off a little, but no one off a lot.”

  “True.”

  “My real problem is Tom and Thorn, though.”

  “Who?”

  “Hold on to your pants for this one. I talked to Gary’s mom today.” Maggie relays the story about Tom, Thorn, and Gary’s money quickly.

  By the time she finishes, Michele is up and pacing the room. “Dios mío, Maggie. Why haven’t you told me this already?”

  “I tried.”

  “I’ll be on the phone with Fayette County as soon as we’re on the road. This is big.”

  “Thanks. I feel a little hope.”

  “Me, too. Now, keep the doors locked and dogs inside while we’re gone.”

  Maggie holds up her banana. “Thanks again for dinner.”

  Michele leans down and kisses Maggie’s cheek.

  After Michele leaves, Maggie eats the dessert banana first, then nibbles on the sandwich between sips of Balcones. Time to find out everything she can about her crazy-ass renter.

  She pulls up the original series of emails between Leslie and herself. Leslie DeWitt. What does she know about her? Very little, truth be told. They’d exchanged a few emails. Maggie’d thought she sounded okay. She didn’t have a lot to steal in her little house, so she didn’t worry overmuch about security. No background check was needed, because Leslie paid in advance originally. Maggie realizes that with her laptop back she can check on the supposed PayPal payment, since she couldn’t get her blankety-blank password to work on her phone.

  Louise whines at the door.

  She clicks to log in with her saved information. PayPal returns a message that her password is invalid.

  “Impossible.”

  She tries again. It doesn’t work. She enters it manually. It fails. She looks it up in her list of passwords, types it again, and gets rejected a fourth time.

  Her password has changed. It’s the only explanation. Anger starts building inside her. There could be a damn good reason she can’t find the email between Leslie and herself. And that reason could be that someone has a motive to jack with her PayPal and also has one to delete vacation rental emails, the same someone conveniently with current access to the password list. Her renter.

  Maggie seethes. Well, hopefully all Leslie wants to steal is Maggie’s house and not her money, because PayPal is connected to Maggie’s checking account with overdraft protection from savings. Maggie clicks to reset her password. She chooses a new one, changes it on her list, and saves it in her browser during the log-in process. She repeats the game for her email in a new tab and realizes she’s going to have to change all her passwords. She looks at the long list of accounts and groans. It can wait until after she’s done sleuthing Leslie.

  A niggling thought begins to worry her. If Leslie got into her email to delete VRBO messages, could she have messed with her other messages, too? The obvious answer is yes, she could have. But why would she? She had no reason to fabricate email between Gary and her. Of course, she was beginning to realize Leslie didn’t need rational reasons for anything she did.

  “Now let’s see you log in to my shit, bitch.”

  Louise barks from behind the hollow-core door.

  Maggie accesses her most recent received payments in PayPal. The Coop has been closed for nearly two weeks. First, because of reduced hours when she left for Wyoming. Next, because it was vandalized. And finally, because it burned to the ground. Her transactions have tapered off to just a few website sales, plus two rental payments. The first is Leslie’s original payment. It’s a big one for a ten-day stay. The second is for two additional nights.

  “She paid for the extra days.” Maggie is disappointed. More ammunition against Leslie would have been nice.

  She stares at the screen, feeling more than seeing a difference in the two payments. But when she studies them closer, she zeroes in on it. The payment account names used are different. The first payment is from Leslie C. DeWitt. It has an email associated with it. LesliecDeWitt39@gmail.com. The next payment is from Leslie DeWitt, no middle initial. And the email is different: simonesays, from a Yahoo account. Maggie isn’t sure what to make of it, but she has more than one account herself. One personal, one business. Maybe that’s all this is.

  Louise loses it and scratches at the door like a rabid anteater.

  A quick review of payments made reveals nothing unusual. She double-checks in her bank account to be sure there are no unexpected withdrawals. There’s not. Leslie hadn’t been after her money.

  Louise whines, barks, and scratches more.

  “I’m fine, Louise.” Maggie tears off a big bite of sandwich with her teeth, struggles to chew it, then washes it down with Balcones. “Go find Gertrude. Mama has to get to work.”

  Her phone vibrates. She’d turned the ringer off earlier when she and Michele were meeting with Junior. Caller Id announces her mother. She picks up, reluctantly, and swigs more Balcones before saying hello.

  “Hi, sweetie.”

  “Hi to you and Edward.”

  “I’m so sorry about your shop.”

  “Thank you. And I’m sorry I had to leave your reception early.”

  “I understand. Do you want to come stay with us?”

  Charlotte’s house is in LaGrange. Maggie assumes Edward has moved in there, but she hasn’t asked. She feels like a terrible daughter because of it and so much more. “No, Michele’s place is closer to my stuff. Besides, we’re sisters now.”

  “You are. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “It is.” She decides not to fill her mother in on everything else that isn’t. Her life is a shit show.

  “Maybe it’s for the best, honey. You staying there instead of here.”

  “Why?”

  “Leslie called. She told me you’ve gotten a deputy to evict her. She’s on her way over to say goodbye on her way out of town.”

  Yes! Leslie is leaving! “Probably so, then.” She can’t believe her mom is taken in by such a lunatic, but there’s no use debating with her. Maggie always loses, even when she wins. “Hey, Mom, I was thinking about Dad today.”
<
br />   “Oh?”

  “Yeah, he pops into my mind every time I have another big failure.”

  “Stop that. You haven’t failed. Your store burned down. That’s not your fault.”

  “My memories today were of the good times, years ago. They don’t jive with my later memories, before he died.”

  “There were lots of good memories. Before.”

  “What was wrong with him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He changed. A lot.”

  The silence is charged. “Why do you ask now?”

  “Because I’m a grown-up, and I wonder. Plus, I just spent time with a woman in Wyoming who has Alzheimer’s. She used to be sweet, but now she’s a pit viper. It reminded me of Dad.”

  “Oh.”

  Maggie takes a sip of Balcones, then blurts out her real question. “Mom, did Dad have Alzheimer’s?”

  After long, silent seconds, Maggie hears soft crying on the other end of the line.

  When Charlotte speaks, her voice quavers. “He, uh, he didn’t want anyone to know.”

  The news should help, but it doesn’t. For so many years, Maggie had worried that the change in her dad was because he hated the person she was becoming. But that hadn’t been it at all. It wasn’t Maggie. It was a disease. Yet he would rather I think he hated me than admit to me he was sick? His feelings were more important to him than his only child’s. Maggie tries to contain the anger that rolls through her like thunder. Deep down, she knows that once he had Alzheimer’s, he was no longer rational. The decisions he made then weren’t the decisions he would have made as the dad she wants to remember. That dad would have put her first, not make her wait ten years to find out the truth. Easy to say, hard to accept. Maggie stashes acceptance away as a project for the future.

  “I should have told you sooner.”

  “I wish you had.”

  “There’s more.”

  “More what?”

  “To his story. He got sick—real sick, real fast—but it’s not the Alzheimer’s that killed him. Not directly.”

  Maggie steels herself. She’d always been told her dad died of a heart attack. Whatever’s coming can’t be good. “What was it?”

  Charlotte takes a deep breath before she speaks. “He killed himself.”

  The words are like a barrage of barbed arrows digging into Maggie’s flesh. Painful. Under her skin quickly, finding their way to the grudge she’s held against her father and working their way in. “How?”

  “Hanging. In the barn. I—I found him. The church helped me keep it quiet.”

  “Oh, Mom. I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Her mother sobs. “For him. Because of that, he can’t be with God.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “The Bible is clear on it, Maggie.”

  “You and I will have to disagree there.” She puts her drink down. “Thank you for telling me this. But let’s not talk about sad things anymore. How about we plan happy things instead. Can I take you and Edward to dinner tomorrow night?”

  Charlotte sniffs, and Maggie can picture her dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “That would be lovely.”

  “Good. Let’s do it.”

  “And when we’re together, I can show you that awful article online.”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “There’s one that just came out tonight. Leslie. She’s my friend. But she said some pretty un-Christian things about you. If they’re not true, anyway.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like that you show up drunk all the time, all hours of the day, and that she’s scared of you and thinks you had something to do with the death of Gary and the person in your store.”

  “Oh my God. Most definitely not true.”

  “She didn’t feel safe there. I wouldn’t have either.”

  “Then she should have left.”

  “Not everyone has the means to just pick up and go, Maggie.”

  “I can’t speak for her. All I know is she was supposed to be out this morning, and she’s refusing to leave.”

  “Such a shame.”

  “I agree. She shouldn’t blockade me from my home. You understand that, right?”

  “What I know is that the Lord calls for us to help others in need. ‘For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in.’ Matthew 25:35.”

  “She’s not in need. She’s stealing from me.”

  “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

  “This isn’t a forgiveness thing. I want my damn house back. The Bible calls for double restitution, though—thanks for reminding me to think biblically. Her price just went up.”

  “We should all worry about our own sins first.”

  “I’m flat out of unblemished rams covered in silver to sacrifice for mine.”

  “Now you’re just being sacrilegious.”

  “Mom, she lied to you. She lied to me. She lied to everyone. I didn’t illegally break her lease, show up drunk—” Maggie has to ponder that one for a moment, but she thinks she’s right. “—or kill anyone. You understand she’s slandering me, suggesting I killed people?”

  “I’m sure that’s not what she intends.”

  Maggie throws her hand in the air. It’s not like her mom can see her, but it makes her feel better. “Whose side are you on, anyway? A relative stranger, or your only daughter?”

  “I can’t believe you’d even ask that.”

  Maggie stares out the window. The waning light shortens her sightline, and she feels like Princess Leia with Han Solo and Luke Skywalker in the trash compactor room in Star Wars. Imprisoned, with everything shrinking in on her. She’s not going to win this argument. Her mom has an unearthly ability to see the good in everyone. It’s helped Maggie tremendously at times, so she can’t fault it when it’s working against her. Not completely, anyway.

  She softens her voice. “I love you, Mom. I’ll call you tomorrow about dinner.”

  “Love you, too, Maggie. Goodnight.”

  Maggie lets her head thunk back against the wall. The conversation was exhausting. Relationships are exhausting. People. People are exhausting. And another damn online article? Why isn’t she getting a chance to comment before they’re being posted? It could be her changed phone number, although she just did that today. Or maybe it’s because her shop is closed and her house is under siege. She doesn’t want to give junk journalists too much credit, though. Or herself. Lord knows she usually hangs up or says, “No fucking comment” on the rare occasions that she gets the calls. Now the news cycle of her life has accelerated, like a hit and run over her back.

  Outside her door, something emits an eerie howl. Maggie jumps up, ready to lock herself in the bathroom against an invasion of werewolves, until she realizes it’s just Louise. She opens the door a few inches.

  “Hush your face, Louise.”

  She hops back on the bed. She doesn’t want to, but she needs to read the latest tripe. She wakes up her laptop and types her name into the Google search bar. In the two seconds it takes for the results to appear, she bites her lip and tastes blood. She’d walked away from the pursuit of fame after rehab. In the past decade, she hasn’t read a single word about herself until the last week, other than the true crime novel Michele penned, and that was different. A favor to a friend. Maggie doesn’t lie about who she is, but she doesn’t offer it up. Her real self deserves protection.

  Louise pokes her head in the door.

  Maggie sucks the blood from her lip and reads.

  “Superstar Gary Fuller and the Black Widow, Former Music Sensation Maggie Killian.” “How the Mighty Maggie Killian Has Fallen.” “Where Are They Now? Maggie Killian.” And many more of their ilk.

  The dog hops up on the bed beside her. Maggie gives her a quick pat.

  “Parasites will say anything to sell ad space.”

  She scrolls do
wn further, finding the one she’s looking for but doesn’t want to see. “Does Black Widow Maggie Killian Have a Black Heart toward Her Renter?”

  “Nice.”

  Former recording artist Maggie Killian has been making news lately. It seems like every man close to her is getting murdered, and law enforcement in Wyoming and Texas have been looking hard at her for the deaths, reminding us of her old hit “I Hate Cowboys.” Maybe she truly does.

  She’s still under investigation in Texas.

  “She’s like a black widow,” an anonymous source says.

  Maggie snorts. “Whatever.”

  But that’s not all the mischief the washed-up alt-rocker has been up to lately.

  Maggie clenches and unclenches her fists.

  A renter of hers in Texas reports that a drunken and belligerent Ms. Killian has attempted to break her lease and even have her thrown out by the local sheriff.

  “It’s scary enough living here, with all the people that conveniently die when Maggie Killian wants them out of her life, without her targeting me for removal, too,” the renter, a school teacher from Houston, says. “This isn’t new behavior for her. I heard she broke her contract with her old band and kicked them all out in the middle of a tour once. And she’s been doing stuff like that ever since, no matter whose career she destroys.”

  Maggie’s split with her band isn’t new news, and we’ve written about it on this site before. You can read more about the fate of Davo, Brent, Celinda, and Chris here in “Breaking Up with the Band: Maggie Killian.”

  We couldn’t reach Ms. Killian for comment. Maybe the woman once famous for singing about being a “Buckle Bunny” is back for a much-needed stint in rehab. Or otherwise indisposed by law enforcement.

  “That bitch,” Maggie screams.

  She clicks on the author’s name. A hoodied millennial stares at the camera ironically, holding up a Monster Energy drink as if mocking her.

  “Cocksucker. Lazy journalist.”

  Below the article is a picture of Maggie with her old touring band. She takes in the faces she tries not to remember. Yes, she feels guilty that she dumped them, but she didn’t cause their deaths or ruin any careers. Maggie’s gaze lingers on Celinda. She had felt sorry for her. Chris had used her and pushed her over for a real buckle bunny he picked up in Cheyenne.