Live Wire (Maggie #1)

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “Does that mean I don’t have to talk to you?”

  The cops share a glance.

  “It would help us out a lot if you do. And, if you don’t, we can’t promise we won’t pick you up and read you your Miranda rights then.”

  Maggie weighs the bad options, then throws up her hands. “Fine.”

  “So we were asking if you knew Mr. Moore had been murdered. When you left the hotel.”

  “No. I knew there was a crime scene in the parking lot, but it had nothing to do with me, and I left.”

  “We don’t have a statement from you.”

  “Because no one took one.”

  Lacey glowers. “No one asked you to give a statement?”

  “No.”

  “Not when you checked out?”

  “I didn’t check out. Chet booked the room.”

  Johnson nods at Lacey.

  “Did you see anyone suspicious or who might have indicated they intended to harm Mr. Moore?”

  “I was wasted, Detective Lacey. I saw Chet, naked, and the inside of the hotel room.”

  Johnson smirks.

  Lacey narrows his eyes at his partner. “What about in the parking lot?”

  “That night?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw him talking to some meth-head-looking people on his way in, but I stayed in the truck. It didn’t go well. In fact, a woman slapped him.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “A group of white people with tattoos. Two men and a blonde woman. That’s it—it was dark, I was fifty feet away. And did I mention wasted?”

  “Did you hear their conversation?”

  “No. When Chet got back in the truck, he told me she was a woman he hadn’t treated well, and that he had it coming.”

  “Anyone else you can think of?”

  “No.”

  “At the bar?”

  “He got a lot of female attention at first. Hank’s girlfriend, Sheila, seemed to find him especially attractive. But he came straight to me.”

  “Did anyone seem upset about that?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Hank?”

  “Unfortunately, not in the slightest.” She feels Hanks eyes burning into the side of her face and hopes he can’t hear her.

  “Did Mr. Moore talk about anyone being after him or upset with him?”

  “Detective Lacey, we weren’t exactly talking.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “It’s a no.”

  “Did he ever tell you where he was headed or whether he intended to meet anyone on the day he was killed?”

  “Not that I remember that night. Our first real conversation was in the morning. He asked me to take a shower with him. I said no. He asked me to marry him and be the mother of his little girl. I said no. He pouted. I said goodbye. He left.”

  Detective Lacey looks at his feet. She sees him grinning. Then his head pops up. “Moore doesn’t have any kids.”

  “I suppose he doesn’t have a crazy mother either? Because he told me he had both.”

  Johnson holds up a hand toward Lacey, stopping the line of conversation. “Anything else?”

  Maggie sighs dramatically. “What are you looking for—sexual positions? Um, missionary, doggie, and me on top. Number of orgasms? Him, three, I think, me, five. Is oral sex legal in Wyoming? Because we did that, too.”

  Johnson’s mouth opens, then snaps shut quick as a mouse trap.

  Lacey says, “No wonder he asked you to marry him.”

  “Is that all, detectives?”

  “Just one more thing. Did you have anything to do with the death of Chet Moore?”

  Maggie tosses her hair, dander up. “Zero. I did not kill him. I did not see him killed. I do not know who killed him. I don’t know anything about him, really, except that he seemed to have a hard-on that never quit.”

  Lacey’s pale skin colors. “We don’t need quite that much information, but thanks. Also, we’ll need you to come in and make a statement.”

  “I thought I just gave one.”

  “We need it typed up and signed.”

  “You’d make some poor administrative employee listen to this?”

  Lacey’s voice is dry. “Well, you could tone it down some.”

  “Do you need me to go in now?”

  “Tomorrow. Make it two thirty.”

  “Fine.”

  “And we need you to stay nearby until this is settled.”

  Maggie jumps to her feet, and the two detectives back up a few steps. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I live and work in Texas. You want me to stay until you crack this case? What if that never happens?”

  “We can talk about it more after you give your statement, but, for now, at least through Friday.”

  Friday. Six more days of suspended animation. “You can’t force me to put my life on hold.”

  “Don’t make us, Ms. Killian.”

  Maggie groans. “Do you even have any suspects?”

  “We aren’t at liberty to say at this time.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “It’s exactly what I said.”

  Which doesn’t inspire confidence in Maggie about them wrapping the case by Friday, or turning their attention away from her, for that matter. The detectives return to their car and make their goodbyes with Hank. Maggie walks to the porch steps.

  As soon as they’re gone, Hank is in her face, a soft drink can sloshing and dangling from his hand. “What the hell is going on, Maggie?”

  Eighteen

  Maggie puts her hand on a support beam and stares out at the mountains. “It seems I was possibly the last innocent person to see Chet Moore alive.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It means I spent the night with him, before he was killed in the parking lot of the hotel as he left.”

  “Innocent.” His eyes drill into hers. “Not the word I would have used.”

  “I didn’t kill the guy.” Hank’s judgy attitude and disappointment is what she’s been afraid of, and it sparks her wick. She purrs. “Although I guess you could say I nearly did, but he wasn’t complaining.”

  “Nice, Maggie.”

  “What? You object to how I spent the night?”

  Hank crushes the can against the porch beam, sending caramel liquid squirting out. “A one-night stand? Yeah, I object.”

  Maggie steps away from him. “You didn’t seem to object the times I spent the night with you.”

  “We were different.”

  Maggie can’t argue with that. “And we’re different now. Because you have a girlfriend, and what I do is none of your goddamn business.”

  His blue eyes darken. He looks away to the mountains. “I guess not. But the trouble you bring to this ranch is.”

  “Trouble? I didn’t bring Chet here, and I didn’t do anything to him.”

  Hank’s smile is a death mask. “I wondered if you’d admit it.”

  Maggie’s head spins. “Admit what?”

  “That you spent the night with him.”

  “You knew?”

  “Of course I knew. You were all over him at the Ox. You left with him. We drove out of town right behind his truck, and you pawed each other at every red light.”

  Maggie feels like she’s going to puke. How well does she even know this man? They had one night together fifteen years ago, and almost a week in the sack earlier this year. She obviously missed out on cues to some important traits. Like his temper. And that he can be a huge asshole. “You told the police about me.”

  “Nope. I didn’t tell anyone. I was too humiliated that someone I used to be with would hook up with a douchebag like Chet Moore. If you’d do that, what wouldn’t you do? And now the police are here. You know the old saying. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  “You think I killed him?”

  “Maybe not that. But I don’t know what I think about you anymore, Maggie.”

  Nineteen

  Monday morning, Maggie is updating her website from th
e cabin porch, skipping breakfast at the main house, again. Work is a good way to keep from thinking about the harsh words between her and Hank, not to mention the edict from the Buffalo detectives that she stay in town through Friday. She can’t do anything about the latter, and she doesn’t want to face up to the former. She uploads a photo of the Singer sewing machine and types in a price and description, then posts it to her website. It will sell fast and for a good price, she’s certain.

  Her phone rings. Caller ID announces LEE COUNTY. As in Texas. She’d forgotten about the break-in at Flown the Coop. A week ago it would have been a huge problem. Now it doesn’t even make the cut into the top two worst.

  “Maggie Killian,” she says into the phone.

  The voice is officious. “Junior Jones, Lee County deputy sheriff.”

  “Am I being punked? Like I don’t know who you are.” Maggie pictures the Ichabod Crane look-alike deputy with the Dudley Do-Right demeanor. He’s mooned over her for years. “And you realize it’s an indecent hour where I am?” With the time difference, it makes sense Junior is at work in Texas.

  He relaxes, but not much. “Sorry. I’m following up about the break-in at your store.”

  “I hear it was a break-in, vandalism, and theft.”

  She hears a car honking in the background on Junior’s end. “True. I hate it for you, Maggie. We’ll try to find who did this.”

  “It’s crap. And I’ll never get my junk back. You know it.”

  “You got any enemies?”

  “Oh, come on. How long have we known each other?”

  “Long enough. Consider it a rhetorical question. List them please.”

  “Honestly, Junior, I don’t know anyone who would do something like this. Even the people I’ve pissed off. But while you’re investigating it, look into who would sabotage my truck, because I’m broken down here in Wyoming and can’t leave.” Of course, she doesn’t know what kind of douchebag would steal the belt buckle either. A text message flashes across her screen.

  Michele: Did Tank or Junior call you?

  While the answer is obvious, Maggie can’t send it now.

  Junior says, “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. My truck was sabotaged. I’m stranded.”

  “It wasn’t somebody up there who did it?”

  “I don’t know. But I barely know anyone here. And someone in Texas vandalized my shop. Stands to reason they could have been the one to take a blowtorch to the end of my driveshaft, too.”

  “Like Gary Fuller?”

  “Definitely not Gary. He’s too careful of his public image. He’s never even admitted our relationship in public.”

  “He was yesterday, loud and proud.”

  “Jim Beam probably factored into it.”

  “No doubt.” In the distance, she watches Andy and Paco rope a bull that had gotten out of its pasture and refused to be herded back. One over the horns, one catches a back heel. “Maybe one of Gary’s ex-girlfriends. One in particular. Jenny. She’s a nutjob. And some dumbass reporter just released a bunch of personal information about me, including the name of my store and the location. You could get her number from Gary.”

  His words come out slowly, and she imagines him licking a pencil and writing it down. “Oh. Kay.”

  “Are you at my place now?”

  “No.”

  “Next time you go by, can you check on my tenant? She’s not answering me.”

  “Do you have reason to think we should enter forcibly?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t mind if you peeked in the windows.”

  “When will you be back?”

  Leaving out the reason why, Maggie says, “A week or less. You can coordinate with Michele about access until then.”

  “I’ll need a statement from you when you get back.”

  “Fine.” Get in line. “Oh! And can I get started on an insurance claim, send an adjuster out?”

  “Sure. Have them give me a heads-up, though. Criminals revisit crime scenes. We don’t want him getting hurt, by the bad guys or the good guys.”

  “Thanks, Junior. Keep me posted.”

  “Of course. Drive safe, Maggie.”

  She smiles at the last bit. That’s more like the Junior she knows. She hangs up. She responds to Michele’s text: Just hung up the phone with Junior. Calling insurance now.

  After she initiates a claim, she holds her coffee mug to her face to warm it. The morning air is chilling her nose. She sets the cup down. Movement along the road catches her eye. Someone heading her way. Hank lifts his hand, and the pressure in Maggie’s chest is immediate. She doesn’t wave back. She’d spent the night tossing and turning, regretting that she’d napped instead of booking tickets Saturday afternoon. That she’d played music instead of doing it after dinner. She could have been out of here first thing Sunday morning, before the police showed up. Before the ugly scene. Staying at Piney Bottoms before was hard. It’s become cruel and unusual punishment, and counterproductive. Now she’s stuck in Wyoming.

  But she doesn’t have to be stuck here. She can ask Patrick for a ride to Sheridan. Check back into her hotel. Rent a car. Drive down to Buffalo. Push things along with the Buffalo police and their investigation. Keep working on Flown the Coop business from afar until Friday, when she will run like the wind and never come back. She quickly types a search in a new tab: Rental cars Sheridan, Wyoming. In another, she pulls up the Mill Inn site. As soon as Hank leaves, she’ll make it happen.

  Hank’s voice is cautious. “Good morning. Missed you at breakfast.”

  She looks up. As he draws nearer, she sees he’s wearing something odd across his shoulder.

  “I missed you there the last two mornings.”

  He stops short of the porch. Now Maggie recognizes his shoulder ornament as a compound bow and quiver of arrows. They stare at each other. Hank’s eyes look tortured. Maggie’s are flinty.

  “It’s bow season. I thought I’d get in a little practice this morning. Want to come?”

  His angst is like fingers of flame reaching out for Maggie. She glances down at her laptop. The time in the upper right corner is seven thirty. She opens her mouth to say no, then closes it.

  “Please. I need to talk to you.”

  Like kindling, her yes ignites. “Okay.”

  “I’m headed there now.”

  She nods and follows him through a gate and into a pasture behind her cabin, to a grassy section against a stand of pines. There are three targets backed by round bales of hay six feet high. Louise bounds to and fro around the two of them.

  Her voice is still flat. “I didn’t know there was a shooting range out here.”

  “Only for bows. We have some heavy-duty backstops for guns, farther from the buildings.”

  Hank’s phone rings. Maggie tenses and looks away. An intrusion from his girlfriend is even worse after his judgment about her tryst with Chet. Never mind that she judges herself and expected him to. It still sucks.

  “It’s the dealership.”

  Maggie’s insides unclench.

  Hank presses the screen. “Hello. Hank Sibley here.” He pauses. “She’s right here.” He hands Maggie his phone.

  “This is Maggie Killian.”

  The Southern mechanic’s voice is instantly recognizable. “Good news, Mrs. Killian.”

  Maggie wants badly to correct the Mrs., but she holds her tongue. “I like good news.”

  Hank sets down his quiver and nocks an arrow into his bow.

  “We found you a part.”

  Mixed emotions flood her, Hank’s nearness causing a short in her circuitry. The Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go” was one of her favorite songs as a young teen. The Clash. Appropriate. Running through her head now, it amps up her giddiness and confusion. Lust. That’s it. Any time she’s within three feet of Hank, she’s lust crazy. She needs to go home. Period. “That’s great. How soon can you have it installed?”

  “Welp, first we gotta get it here. It’s in Florid
a.”

  “Florida.”

  “Yes, ma’am. They can overnight it.”

  “So, tomorrow.”

  “Actually, no. Wednesday. Overnight in Wyoming takes two days, if they get it out for shipment today, and if the weather holds.”

  “Weather holds? You mean like snow. It’s only September.”

  “Right. It should be fine. But sometimes it isn’t. You just never know.”

  She squeezes her eyes shut. She hears a thud and opens her eyes again. There’s an arrow just left of the bull’s-eye in the center target. Louise whines. Maggie strokes her ears.

  “So do you want us to order it?”

  “Yes. Please.” She recites her credit card information.

  “We’ll get you up and running as soon as it comes in. Don’t you worry.”

  “Thank you.” She hands the phone to Hank.

  “What did they say?”

  “Wednesday. Or Thursday.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah.” Then, despite herself, she smiles. She’s becoming as mercurial as Wyoming. It wouldn’t have made a difference if the part could come earlier. The police have grounded her until Friday. The part will be installed before she can hit the road. Her voice is almost cheerful as she says, “Fuck my life.”

  “About that.” He lays the bow on the ground. “Um, I was wrong. Yesterday. I’m sorry.”

  “No argument here. You’ve got no right to be jealous.”

  “I don’t know what came over me. Seeing you with Chet, well, there’s more to it than you know.”

  Maggie snorts. “To it, or to you?”

  “Both.”

  In her strange new mood, another song from her distant past comes to her. She hums a few bars, then sings a line about a live wire.

  “What’s that?”

  “‘Psycho Killer.’ By the Talking Heads. I thought it was appropriate.”

  He pinches his lower lip. “I know you’re no murderer.”

  “Just a slut.”

  “No.” He takes her hand. “You’re you, which is exactly who I think you should be.”

  “You could have fooled me.” Her words are light, but her voice is husky. She summons her pheromones. Channels the lust that’s tormenting her.

  “We’ve had our rough patches.”