Fighting for Anna

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “Thank you.” He blotted his face. When it was dry, he picked the birdhouses up and turned toward the back door.

  Curious, I opened it for him and followed him out. He stopped at the little oak in the backyard where my wildlife cam hung from a branch. He nailed the first house onto the trunk of the tree with a hammer he’d carried in his back pocket. A warmth spread through me and my emotions bubbled toward the surface.

  “Where do you want the other?” No toothpick.

  “Front yard?”

  His long strides ate up the ground, and I scrambled behind him. He hung the birdhouse in another oak.

  “Thank you.” It was all I trusted myself to say.

  He winked at me, and we went back inside.

  “Are you close to cracking the safe?”

  He waffled his hand. “I’m figuring it out. Making progress. But it’s slowgoing.”

  My handbag was on the table and I reached into it, grabbing my wallet. I pulled out two twenties. “Here you go. For more grinders.”

  Ignoring my outstretched hand, he opened the front door. “Room and board.” He flashed me a killer white smile, then slipped out.

  My phone sounded its text tone. I flipped it over in a hurry, eager for distraction from the fluttery feeling in my stomach from Rashidi’s smile.

  It was Annabelle picking up where I’d left it in our conversation: “That’s not all. I got fired.”

  I shot a text back quick as a flash. “Oh, honey. What for?”

  “Same thing.”

  That made no sense. “What do you mean?”

  I waited, but this time I got no reply. I connected to my newly installed Wi-Fi from the laptop. I opened a new tab and clicked my saved place for the adoption site of kids looking for their parents. Before I posted the entry for Gidget’s daughter, I scanned the new posts that fit my search parameters. None of them seemed to be the one—my brother. I scanned again looking for someone that could be the grown-up daughter of Gidget. Nothing. I typed up a searching-for-a-female entry with everything I knew about Gidget’s daughter and her birth. I closed the site and checked my email. Nothing there, either—nothing except one from Brian about my absence for the day, which made me feel like a heel for working on Gidget’s stuff instead of Juniper’s. No problem, Michele. I know you’re good for it.

  But not guilty enough to stop. In the same tab I opened Google and typed in a search for Lester Tillman. My mind fixed on his face in profile as he leaned out the driver’s side window of his car for a tête-à-tête with my attorney. I cursed him and his ancestors in Spanish, then Greyhound’s for good measure. He’d better have a heck of an explanation. The search results included the gallery’s website and numerous links to articles from art publications. I wanted something historical and comprehensive, as well as the most recent information and articles linking him to Gidget.

  None of the search results were what I was looking for. Short on detail, long on fluff. Also, they focused more on the artists and their shows than the gallery and its personalities. As a last resort, I turned to Wikipedia. Although it certainly wasn’t a source to rely on, I figured it would be a long shot that a gallery owner would have an entry. Scarlett had tried to put one together for me after My Pace or Yours had come out last year. I hadn’t been sufficiently noteworthy, according to them. The Montrose Fine Arts Gallery pulled right up, though.

  Its Wiki page was long and had a section on personal history near the bottom. I quickly scrolled past the various artists who had shown at the gallery and lists of high-dollar sales the gallery had made. Later I could read everything on this page, especially for mentions of Gidget, but first I wanted a fix on Lester Tillman. The personal history section was sparse. It did tell me his birthdate, which confirmed what I already suspected, that Lester was unmarried and seventy years old. It listed his hometown as Riceboro, Georgia. I Googled it. Population 829. Ha. Savannah, my big toe. Briefly married to Julie Herrington before coming out in his early thirties. There was a picture of him with her, a plain woman with brown hair.

  I was interrupted by a knock on the door. Red and blue lights flashed through the window, giving the LCSD Tahoe away. I threw the door open. Surprise, surprise, it was Tank and Junior.

  “Long time, no see.”

  Tank shoved past me without an invitation, forcing me back. Junior followed him, turning to the side so he wouldn’t bump into me.

  “Is there anything I can do for you guys or are you just here to do what you should’ve done this morning?” I shut the door harder than necessary, rattling the windows. Well, the windows and one piece of cardboard.

  Tank grunted.

  Junior set a large tote bag on my kitchen table, knocking my laptop a few inches to the side. He mumbled, “Sorry, Ms. Hanson.”

  I shut my laptop and jerked the cord from the wall. Tank rubbed his chin. The whiskers growing in were dark and thick. They’d been less noticeable when I went in to see him and Junior that morning.

  “Anybody been here that we need to rule out?” he asked.

  I threw up my one free arm, exasperated. “You have a picture of who you’re looking for. However, the list of people who have been here is the same as when you did the crime scene for Ms. Becker’s death. Oh, plus my attorney—Greyhound Smith—the sheriff, Jimmy Urban, and Lucy Thompson. And Maggie Killian.”

  Junior’s head popped up at the mention of Maggie.

  Tank didn’t react to her name, or any of the others. “Your neighbor said a black man’s been casing your place. Have you seen him?”

  I counted to ten slowly before I spoke. “If you’ll take a look at the picture I sent you, it’s clearly not a black man. My good friend Rashidi is a black man with dreadlocks. He hasn’t cased the place. He’s a house guest.”

  They didn’t comment. I went to the bedroom for my handbag and shoved my laptop in its carrier. I stomped down the hall toting them both.

  Tank met me coming from the other direction. “Was anything missing?”

  “Like I told you this morning, nothing that I can tell.”

  He looked into the room with the safe and raised his eyebrows. “Looks like somebody tried to take something.”

  I followed his gaze to the obvious safe-cracking project. “Yes, it appeared they’d tried to get into the safe. But since then, I’ve been trying to.”

  He didn’t look at me, just kept his gaze on the safe and walked over to it, put his hands on his hips, and moved in a semicircle around it. I snapped my fingers. He didn’t turn.

  “Are you listening to me? I did that.”

  “Not yours, though, is it?” he said softly, not bothering to turn around.

  I played the attorney card. “In trying to access this safe, Deputy, I am acting on the instructions and with the permission of the independent executor of the estate, pending probate, and while I am renting this property, furnished, inclusive of everything on it, writing the deceased’s biography at her request, and assisting in the search for her daughter.” Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

  “Is Ralph here to verify that?”

  “Really? Do you see him here?”

  He locked eyes with me and didn’t answer.

  “Effing call him. Please.”

  He laughed. “Effing?” He lifted his fingers and wiggled them. “Woo. Now she means business.”

  This was going nowhere fast. I stomped toward the door. “Pendejo,” I whispered. I slammed the door behind me, even harder that time.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Maggie was surveying her piles, her arms crossed, tapping her feet. She turned at the sound of the slamming door. “What’s the matter?”

  I pointed at the deputies’ vehicle and back at Gidget’s house. “They aren’t doing anything to rehabilitate my low opinion of law enforcement.”

  She laughed. “I know what we need to do. It’ll make you feel better. Can you leave?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Twenty minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of
the Giddings pool. Maggie had steadfastly refused to tell me her plan as we drove.

  “This is perfect, except I don’t have a suit and goggles.” I heard the joy gurgling in my own voice.

  “I keep spares in my toolbox.”

  I had texted Rashidi on the drive, warning him about the deputies. He’d promised to steer clear until they were gone. The last thing I wanted was them harassing him or, worse yet, taking him in. I hoped he was true to his word.

  We greeted the woman at the entrance as we passed through. She was about our age, but didn’t look like a swimmer herself. A little softer and thicker through the middle, but not much.

  She smiled and waved us in. “Y’all have a good swim, now.”

  “Thanks, Lisa,” Maggie replied.

  I made a mental note of the woman’s name for next time, so I could be neighborly, too. We changed quickly and took the one free lane. Even underwater the noise from the pool deck and shallow end was a roar. Inside my head, I whispered to Adrian, You would love it. All this energy. All this youth. A deep pang of grief overtook me for a moment. I’d give up my right arm for another swim with Adrian. Then a startling feeling surged through me. I’d give up nearly that to hear my mother’s voice chiding me one more time. But I pushed my sorrow away and concentrated on reaching a no-thinking and no-feeling zone. It wasn’t long until the rhythm of my kick and strokes hypnotized me and gave me the temporary relief I needed from the mess that was my life.

  As we left the pool, I said, “That was a good call.”

  Maggie turned left where I’d expected her to turn right. “Yep.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “My place.”

  “Cool.” I smoothed back my wet hair then changed my mind. I scrubbed it as hard as I could with my hands to give it body.

  Maggie looked at me with high eyebrows, but she didn’t say anything.

  “I really do love your truck.” I rubbed my palm against the creamy leather. It was a milky tan. “Bess, you are quite beautiful.”

  The truck purred as it jiggled and jounced over the bumps in the road, garnering admiring glances as we passed through town. Bess was not an inconspicuous vehicle.

  “She came with the house.”

  “How could anyone leave her?”

  “She was a sight, then. I had her restored. I used to do a little mattress dancing with the guy that fixed her up.”

  It took me a second to realize what she meant, and then I laughed. With a straight face, I said, “You must be an awfully good dancer.”

  “Why, yes. Yes, I am.” She waggled her eyebrows.

  We rode in silence for the rest of the drive to Round Top.

  I got a text from Sam: “Fine.”

  I replied: “????”

  I’d call him tomorrow. When we were a few miles from town, Maggie pulled Bess into the old, colorful wooden house I’d noticed on the drive to Fayetteville. It had a small parking lot in front and a sign over the door: FLOWN THE COOP. The boards were painted in a kaleidoscope of colors, but weathered so the palette was muted.

  “This is amazing.”

  Maggie steered Bess around to an old barn behind the house. “I’m very proud of it all.” She parked Bess and shut off the engine. “Come inside with me.”

  We passed a busy hummingbird feeder by the walkway to the house. An emerald beauty with a ruby-colored throat had staked his claim and was busy fending off all comers. I could hear the buzz of his wings as I passed him and followed Maggie through a back door with a sign on it that read PRIVATE RESIDENCE. We entered into a little kitchen with a butcher-block island in the middle. The turquoise floorboards squeaked under my feet. Cabinets of white-washed reclaimed wood held up the cement countertops with an enormous white porcelain inset farmhouse sink. A gray subway-tile backsplash adorned the walls around the open shelving.

  Maggie leaned over and opened the bottom cabinet to the left of the sink. She reached in and pulled out a liter bottle of Texas Single Malt, one-third full of the same amber liquid we’d had the night before.

  She held it up by its short neck.

  I shuddered. The stuff terrified me.

  “Can you believe they make this in Waco?” She set it on the island then grabbed two tin mugs off of the lower shelf above the countertop. She set them down on either side of the whiskey bottle with a clang. “The swim was part one. This is part two.”

  “Part one and two of what?” I asked her and sidled away from the whiskey bottle.

  “Recovery from a hard day.” She uncapped the bottle.

  She tipped the bottle, filling the cups two-thirds of the way full. She pushed one across the island to me, or rather, along the length of it since I had moved back toward the door, and safely beyond it. The whiskey sloshed a little on its journey.

  “Take it.” She picked hers up, closed her eyes, and took a sip. She lowered the mug just enough to speak to me. “Burns so good.”

  “I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “I saw that last night.”

  “It doesn’t have a mixer.”

  “Drink it anyway.”

  The fumes hit me before I had the glass halfway to my face. I let a few milliliters of the liquid pass my lips and swallowed. It burned like fire on the way down. I coughed and sputtered out expensive whiskey.

  Maggie laughed. “It takes a few sips to get used to it.”

  “No, no.” I put the glass down.

  She narrowed her eyes at me, came around the island, picked up my cup and walked over to me. “Take a seat.” She nodded at the stools tucked under the island.

  I did as I was told.

  “Think of this as an analgesic.”

  My voice trembled a little. “What do you mean?” Why was I being such a big baby? It was only whiskey. Maggie was still holding the mug out at me, so I clasped my hands around it and nodded. “Thank you.”

  She took a seat, the feet of the stool squeaking against the wood as she pulled it out. I tried another sip. This time I held the liquid in my mouth a little longer. I got a sensation of butter and molasses and overripe pears. I swished it in my mouth and tasted honey. I swallowed and thought of apples. As I opened my mouth to take another sip, the apple morphed into apple pie with a rich cinnamon and clove aftertaste.

  I swallowed. “It’s better than I gave it credit for.”

  Maggie finally relaxed and tipped her tin cup back. “It’s all I drink. The best I’ve ever had, and it’s Texan to boot.” She raised her cup to me.

  I took a few more slugs and enjoyed the warming sensation, from my shoulders out to my fingers and to the tip of my nose. The whiskey enhanced the pleasant silence, and I admired the adorable kitchen, until Maggie set her cup down with a clank.

  She refilled it. “So what’s going on with you and Rashidi? Or is it you and Blake?”

  I sprayed a little bit of Balcones across the island toward the sink as I sputtered. “Nothing. Nothing is going on with me with either of them. They’re friends.” I covered my face with my cup, drinking.

  “It doesn’t look like nothing with Rashidi.”

  “My husband died a year ago. He was, he is, the love of my life—”

  “I didn’t know—”

  “—and my mom just died, too. It’s scary loving people. I’m on a break from it.” I tried to divert her. “What about you?”

  Maggie jumped to her feet, nearly knocking her stool over. She turned and caught it, then pushed it back underneath the island. “My dad died ten years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I was actually asking about whether you’re in a relationship, though.”

  She turned around and opened a curtain, revealing a pantry that had a slanted ceiling like it was underneath a staircase. She pulled out a bag of tortilla chips and set them on the island, then grabbed a Tupperware container out of the refrigerator. She peeled the top back and set it beside the chips.

  “Nothing fancy.” She pulled the sides of the chip bag apart until it released along the top. �
��Just a little something to line our stomachs.” She took her seat again. “I’ve never been married. I have a long-term non-relationship based on secrecy and spending as little time together as possible.” She dipped a chip into what looked like hummus.

  I did the same. It was hummus. A nice roasted-garlicky one. I popped one loaded chip then another into my mouth. Through chip and hummus, I said, “Who is he?” while savoring the delicious melding of olive oil with lemon juice and chickpeas.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Did you make this?” I asked her. I chased my chips with some more Balcones.

  “Yep. It’s a secret.”

  “So who’s the guy?”

  “That’s the secret.”

  My lips were starting to feel numb. I bit into a chip. Yes, definitely numb.

  “Besides,” she said. “Who said it was a guy?”

  She picked up my tin cup, sloshed it around, then filled it from the whiskey bottle, which was now nearly empty. She slid it back over to me, not spilling any this time. Just as I was about to laugh at her joke, she leaned in and kissed me on the lips, soft and long. I was too startled to pull back, and I didn’t want to be rude. Then I felt giggly because I was worrying about whether or not I was being rude in the middle of the first kiss I’d ever had from a woman. What would have mortified my mom worse: being rude to Maggie, or letting her kiss me?

  She pulled away from me, watching me with amused, calculating eyes.

  “Oh. Well. Okay.”

  She laughed so hard she leaned over with her hands on her knees. When she stood up again, she was still laughing. “You should see your face.”

  “Why?” I could feel the heat in my ears, so I was sure my Mexico tan was red at the edges. I gulped my whiskey.

  “Oh, chiquita, I’m sorry. You’re so adorable. I couldn’t resist teasing you.” She squeezed my elbow. “Yes, the relationship—or the non-relationship—is with a guy.”

  My brain was misfiring, thanks to the whiskey and the kiss. I was just sober enough to be aware of it and just drunk enough that I didn’t care. “So, you’re not a—”