Live Wire (Maggie #1)

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  Chet’s funeral. With Sheila. But his truck is parked at the house—they must have taken her car. “Ah. Did anyone else go?”

  “No.” He stuffs half a turkey melt in his mouth.

  Maggie looks away. Manners apparently aren’t enforced at Andy’s family table. She flips a tiny piece of cheesy tortilla to Louise. It’s a terrible throw, but Louise snatches it out of the air quick as gunpowder. “So, Andy, are you a hunter?”

  He nods. A string of cheese hangs from his lip. “Yes, ma’am. I mean yes, Maggie.”

  “Have you gone yet this year?”

  “I went Friday morning, real early. Paco covered for me.” He frowns.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s . . . nothing. Just a thought.”

  “Go on and tell me. It looks painful in there.”

  “It’s bow season.”

  “So I gather.”

  “I don’t have my own.”

  “Yes?”

  “Hank let me borrow his.”

  “How nice of him.” Maggie is not inclined to think favorably of Hank yet, so her voice is dusty dry.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Obviously. Why don’t you tell me?”

  His face radiates agony. “Today at lunch, Hank’s girlfriend said he told her he was up on the mountain hunting. But he couldn’t have been, because I had his bow.”

  For a moment, Maggie exults. Suck it, Sheila. He lied to you, not me. But then all his unaccounted for hours crash down on her. Where had Hank spent the night if he wasn’t hunting, after he’d seen Maggie with Chet?

  “Did you see Hank that morning?”

  “Not until I got back from my hunt near on lunchtime. I got an antelope.” He smiles, but it’s watery.

  “Congratulations. Here at the ranch?”

  “Yes, ma’a—aggie.” He stumbles over his mishmash of words.

  She keeps her voice light. “And everything seemed okay with Hank?”

  Andy stirs the salsa with a chip. “Not really.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looks up at her suddenly, the tension ebbing from his face. “Come to think of it, he must have borrowed Gene’s bow.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he had blood all over him. You know, on his arms and clothes.” He returns his attention to eating, satisfied he’d solved the mystery, crunching through all the chips within minutes.

  Maggie throws the rest of her melt to Louise. She’s too nauseous to eat now. Hank had told them at lunch he’d been skunked on his hunt. So why did Andy see him covered in blood?

  There has to be an innocent explanation. Just damned if she knows what it is.

  Twenty-Eight

  After dinner, Andy leaves. His revelation about a bloody Hank has Maggie wound up. She crawls in bed with her guitar and songwriting notebook. Sipping Koltiska on ice, she hums a melody to match her mood, then picks it on the guitar in G minor with augmented chords, which Louise sings along with.

  When you tell your truth

  It comes in twos

  That way you

  Don’t have to choose

  Now your double

  Is my trouble

  Make it go, make it go away

  She jots down the words then writes “Double” by Maggie Killian at the top of the page. By the time she finishes roughing out the song, she’s deliciously, gloriously, totally drunk. The empty Koltiska bottle sits on the bed beside her. Even in her inebriated state, though, she knows when she’s on to something, and this song is something. It’s moodier than most of what she used to write. Hell, she’s moodier than she used to be. She’s a closing-in-on-middle-age woman with a life that’s gone off the rails. She’s earned her moody creds. Fuck happy. Fuck ironic. Fuck everything.

  “Fuck yeah.” She plays the song again, singing in full voice.

  Louise growls.

  “Don’t be so sensitive.” Her voice slurs a little. She rests her head against the wall. “Whoa.”

  A knock at the door seizes her breath. Not Hank. I can’t face Hank. She pretends she isn’t there.

  Louise keeps up a low, snarly growl.

  After a minute, the knock sounds again. What if it’s the person who stole her buckle and strap? The rifle is in the corner. She stands. The room wobbles like she’s trying to surf. She weaves over to the gun and rests a hand on the barrel. Maybe this isn’t the best idea. Her bedside lamp is on. She was singing at the top of her lungs and playing the guitar. The Tahoe is out front. Whoever it is knows someone is here.

  She calls out, voice cracking. “Who’s there?” She clears her throat, irritated that she’s being a wimp. Louder, she repeats, “Who is it?”

  The squeaky female who answers is a surprise. “Sheila.”

  Maggie picks up the guitar, plays a wah-WAH, then puts it on the open case, without falling over after it. Sheila’s possibly the only person she wants to see less than Hank. She tries hard to sound sober and indignant. “I’m in bed.”

  “This will only take a minute.”

  Fine. You want some of this, you got it. Maggie pads to the door in bare feet and a worn white T-shirt that shows off her long, lean legs. She’s never been scared of skin, and she’s not putting on clothes for Sheila’s sake. The young bimbo is not her favorite person, especially after forcing her out of bed.

  Maggie throws the door open with the lamp backlighting her form. Louise presses against her ankle. In a husky voice, she says, “Someone better have died.”

  Sheila is in a black knit dress and black boots, her hair clipped in a messy fall. Her eyeliner feathers below her eyes like she’s been crying. “He did. His funeral was today. But then you know all about that, don’t you?” Sheila’s eyes pop. “Don’t you have a robe or something?”

  Advantage, Maggie. She loves the role of aggressor. The cool night air rushes in. Her nipples harden and she arches her back. “How nice of you to think of me, but no, sadly, I don’t.” Even though it’s chillier than she’d like, Maggie turns on the porch light and steps outside. Louise follows. “You, back in the house.”

  Louise slowly walks back in, head down.

  Maggie lets the screen door shut behind the dog. She turns back to Sheila, moving into her personal space. “Now, what’d you drag me out of bed for?”

  Sheila steps back, stumbling when her boot heel catches in the planking. Maggie catches her by an elbow, then grabs the other. She pulls Sheila close, most of her nearly naked body touching Sheila somewhere.

  “You smell like a distillery.”

  “You don’t like it?” Maggie knows well the impact of her sexuality. It doesn’t discriminate on the basis of gender. She disturbs everyone, whether in a good way or a bad way, and right now, she’s enjoying Sheila’s discomfort.

  “Let go of me. What’s wrong with you?”

  Maggie makes a purring sound in her throat. She disengages slowly. “You seem to be having a strong reaction to me. Don’t worry, honey, that’s natural. You should see what being this close to me does to a red-blooded man.”

  “Like Chet?”

  “Hmm. You seem about his age. Did you go to school with him?”

  “I did, as a matter of fact. He was . . . nice.”

  “You’re the only one who thinks so. You must have been friends. So do you know anything about him having a daughter?”

  Sheila’s face blanches. “No. Who’s saying that?”

  “He did. When he asked me to marry him.”

  “You’re full of it.”

  Maggie leans toward Sheila again. “Hey, did Hank tell you about us?”

  Sheila twists away. “He did. He said it’s all in the past.”

  Maggie straightens and runs the bottom of one foot up the inside of her calf, stopping at her knee in a half tree pose. It’s suddenly very breezy between her legs. “That’s cute.”

  “You need to stay away from him.”

  “Why? Are you afraid you can’t hold on to him?” Maggie licks h
er lips. “Maybe I could share. The three of us might have a good time together.”

  “Are you some kind of lesbian?”

  With the alcohol coursing through her veins, Maggie can be anything. “I’m an equal-opportunity fuck, Sheila darlin’. It’s one of my many charms.”

  “You’re a sick . . . witch, and I want you gone from here.”

  “Sheila, do you think Hank always tells you the truth?”

  “I mean it. Tomorrow. You leave. Or I’m going to tell the cops you confessed to me that you killed Chet.”

  “You do you. I’ll do me.” Maggie laughs. “Maybe I’ll do someone else, too.”

  “You’ve already done enough.”

  “We’ll see.” She twirls on tiptoe.

  “Oh my God, cover your ass. And put on some underwear.”

  “You’re the one who dragged me out of bed.” Maggie winks over her shoulder. “Something to remember me by.” In the distance, a tall woman with long dark hair, dressed entirely in white appears. “Wait.” Maggie reaches out toward her.

  Sheila’s expression mirrors Maggie’s. Surprised. A little frightened. “What is it?” Sheila turns, following Maggie’s gaze.

  Maggie peers harder into the darkness, then blinks to focus. The woman disappears. Maggie’s unsettled, but she covers it with a grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Twenty-Nine

  Maggie wakes to a crushing headache and a bad, bad feeling. She pats the bed around her. Her hand strikes glass. Cylindrical glass. The Koltiska bottle. She must have drank it all. She keeps patting. Next, her hand finds her notebook and pen. She pushes herself up. Songwriting. The bad feeling returns. If she was writing, she had to have been playing her guitar, too. Her guitar. Where is it? Had she crushed it in her sleep?

  Squinting, she looks around her. The guitar isn’t on the bed. She gets up on her hands and knees. Her head pounds and the bed spins. On one of its rotations, she catches sight of the guitar lying across its case. Safe. On another rotation, she sees Louise lying at the door with her head on her paws.

  Relieved, she lowers herself onto her elbows and presses her cheek into the quilt. Her mouth is dry. The water glass on her bedside table looks upside down from this angle, but she can tell it’s empty. She drags herself off the bed and stumbles to the kitchen to refill it. The bad feeling returns.

  She lets Louise out, then, as she’s climbing back in bed, she has a flash of memory. Herself, on the porch. Feeling angry and vicious. Sheila there, shell-shocked.

  Oh God. Sheila. She’d toyed with the girl, taunted her, punished her. Not that Sheila didn’t deserve it for dragging her out of bed to order her off Piney Bottoms. But Maggie isn’t proud of indulging herself. If this was a test of her emergency response system, then she’s uncovered a weakness in her coping mechanisms. Maybe she isn’t as wise, strong, and steady as she thought. What if she’d been out somewhere? If someone had come along with a dime bag and she’d had a pocketful of change? Dear God, protect me from myself.

  The last thing she remembers from the night is imagining Hank alone in his bed a few hundred yards away. She had an idea. She could crawl in with him and remind him of her best qualities. Fuck him so hard he wouldn’t even be able to whimper the name of his wrinkle-and-gray-free girlfriend.

  She hadn’t. The younger Maggie would have.

  Maybe she is strong and steady enough. But man oh man. Hank is going to kill her when he finds out the things she said. If he doesn’t already know.

  Maggie peeks out her blinds. Lily is pacing in her paddock. Maggie feels a longing to saddle the horse and ride far, far away, if only she wouldn’t barf the second she walked out her door. She closes her blinds. Sheila threatened to lie to the cops about Maggie if she wasn’t gone today. Maggie puts a cool hand to her forehead. Screw Sheila. Maggie feels like dog crap, and she’s not going anywhere.

  She chokes down a banana and coffee with Excedrin, then forces herself into Coop business to keep her mind off last night. Once she gets to work—processing orders, emailing with the adjuster about her claim and her college-age helper about packages to mail, and uploading new items to the website—time speeds up. Her stomach doesn’t reject the food. After three glasses of water, she starts to feel somewhat better. Good enough to look at Facebook. She’s surprised to see fifteen notifications, roughly fifteen times her normal haul. They’re inquiries about Bess.

  I saw that truck last week. It’s fine. So are you. Can I get a test ride?

  Delete.

  Hey gurl, nice wheels. Do you take cheks? I’ll pay full price for delivery.

  She Googled the address in the middle of nowhere in northeastern Wyoming.

  Delete.

  More of the same. Delete. Delete. Delete.

  Ms. Killian, We resell classic vehicles. I’m very interested. Please call. Rod w/ HotRod Motors

  So she calls, and Rod is legit. Scary legit. Wants-to-come-see-Bess-today-and-take-her-away-forever legit. Makes-her-stomach-hurt-so-bad-she-knows-she-doesn’t-want-to-sell-Bess legit. She stalls him until Wednesday afternoon. By then she’ll know for sure whether she’ll be able to get a driveshaft before the cops let her leave, from Patrick, the custom-parts shop, or Mill Inn. Which reminds her of her list from the night before. She picks up where she left off: number two.

  She shoots Patrick a text: Do you have the driveshaft? Maybe I can pick it up this afternoon, if so?

  Mill Inn: she pulls up the Contact Us form on the Mill Inn site since she’s not in the mood for a phone call.

  I was a guest last week. Random question. Your old Ford pickup out front—what year is it, and would you sell the driveshaft if it will fit my truck? I could have a replacement sent to you ASAP, but I’m broken down and need to get my truck fixed and be on my way back to Texas.

  Crazy Woman Exploration: she jots down the number and address.

  Beth Ann Moore: she hunts for the woman’s contact information online, but with no luck. This isn’t unprecedented, in Maggie’s experience. She does her fair share of online people-searching, since she tracks obituaries in hopes of getting first looks prior to estate sales. Numbers are getting harder to find with the widespread use of cellphones, and if people don’t own or lease homes in their own names, their addresses aren’t instantly available either.

  Maggie opts not to spend money on a people-finding website. She’ll try Reride, see if they’ll give up Beth Ann’s info. And if the past is any indicator, she’s much more likely to be successful in person than on the phone. She fries the last of her tortillas, turkey, and cheese in a skillet and eats them while driving into Buffalo.

  As she pushes the front door of Reride open, a bell jingles. She smells something with a sweet just-out-of-the-oven scent as she enters a huge unpartitioned space with flickering fluorescent lights. Sales merchandise crowds the floor. Women’s clothes. Men’s. Saddles and tack. A section for cowboy hats. Tall shelves of footwear. Books. Jewelry. Knives. Trinkets, kitsch, and whatnot. Above an opening on the far wall, a sign reads THE COLD DISH FROZEN YOGURT.

  And she’d thought her own Flown the Coop was an overload to the senses.

  A curvy, fit woman with a chic gray haircut that matches Chet-gray eyes pops up from behind a circular rack of blouses. “Welcome to Reride. Let me know if I can help you with anything. All T-shirts are half price, on account of tourist season is over.” She picks a hanger off the rack and waggles a pink shirt at Maggie. The words CRAZY WOMAN are emblazoned across the chest. “Crazy Woman. It looks like it fits you.”

  It takes Maggie a second to realize the woman means the shirt, and not the words on it. “Thank you. I’m actually looking for Beth Ann Moore.” Maggie steps closer. A large box of blouses is sitting on the floor in front of the woman.

  Her smile sparkles, and she juts a hip in her tight jeans. “You’re looking at her.”

  Maggie had expected to come, hat in hand, begging for Beth Ann’s phone number, address, or work schedule. Chet’s funeral was yesterday. Wouldn�
��t a grieving mother be in the fetal position under layers of blankets in a cave-like room this soon after losing her son? What is his mother doing at work? And she’s not just here, she’s perky. Her attitude, her breasts, and her butt.

  Maggie masks her thoughts with a smile. “Oh, good. I hope it’s okay I came here. My name is Maggie Killian. I’m so sorry about Chet.”

  “Maggie Killian? I just read an article about you on the internet. You look great. Obviously my son thought so, too, if the rumors are true about you two.”

  “Um . . .”

  “I can’t believe it. My son sleeping with someone famous like you. That’s so cool.”

  Maggie takes a few steps and presses a hand against a pillar. The woman is giving her vertigo. “Well, yes, um, thanks, I guess. That’s not actually why I came by. Or not really.”

  Beth Ann eyes her up and down. “You don’t look as old as I thought you would, either. Maybe this fitted shirt would work for you?” She puts the pink one back and holds up a baby blue shirt the size of a postage stamp.

  “No, thank you. I don’t do bare midriff. But I’m only thirty-seven.”

  “Oh, well, that’s not so bad. Chet was about to turn thirty.”

  “A very mature thirty.”

  Beth Ann puts a hand beside her mouth like she’s telling a secret, but she doesn’t lower her voice. “Half the women my age would have jumped in the sack with him, too, or so they tell me. Don’t be embarrassed. He was a beautiful boy. A good-looking man. His dad, Jeb, was like that, too. Exactly like him. Both of them complete horndogs until the end.”

  “I’m . . . sorry?”

  “Me, too. If Jeb could have kept it in his pants, we might have stayed married.” She snatches a yellow blouse with fancy white embroidery from a different display and thrusts it at Maggie. “Try this one.”

  Maggie takes it, holds it up to herself. At least the size is right, even if nothing else about it is.

  “But I’m getting what’s mine in the end, anyway.”