Trudy brings in a platter and lifts a dish towel from it. “Too bad the Sibleys had to miss dessert.”
Maggie tries to lighten things up. “Yum, apple strudel. Thanks, Trudy.” She helps herself to a slice and passes it to Andy.
He takes one and slides it to the middle of the table. The day hands grab pieces. So does Michael.
There’s a knock at the front door.
“I’ll get it,” Trudy says, and cuts through the dining room.
Maggie and the hands eat apple strudel in silence heavy as a down comforter.
Trudy comes back in, shivering, and points at Andy. “Deputy Travis is here. He wants to talk to you, Andy. But take a coat. I can’t believe this weather. There’s another storm blowing up.”
Andy says, “M-m-me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
Maggie knows what it’s like to have the cops up in your grill for no reason. “Want me to come with you?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Lunch was great, Trudy.” Maggie walks ahead of Andy into the common room.
“Thanks.” She watches them with concern in her eyes.
In the great room, Deputy Travis is staring out the window. He speaks without looking at them. “Yesterday was a dusting of powder. Today’s storm is supposed to get wicked. Winter is coming early.”
In the last half hour, frost has crept from the edges of the windows, working its way to the centers, but thick gray clouds are still visible through the center of the panes. The house groans and creaks as the wind batters it. The trees struggle to stay upright. Maggie can’t believe she was out riding comfortably an hour before.
Travis turns to Andy. “What’s your full name again?”
Andy catches the back of a couch and grips it. “Andrew Reginald Yoder, sir.”
“What’s this about?” Maggie asks. She walks all the way up to Travis and crosses her arms.
Travis ignores her. “So your initials are A-R-Y?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you own a folding knife with a bone handle?”
“Yes, sir. I bought it for myself after I took this job.”
“Are your initials, A-R-Y, etched into the blade?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you get it for me and show it to me?”
Andy clears his throat. He starts to speak but only a croak comes out. On his second attempt, he says, “No, sir.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I haven’t seen it in a week.”
“That’s convenient.”
“I’m not trying to smear your eyes. I left it in the barn, and I haven’t been able to find it.”
Travis rubs his chin. His five-o’clock shadow looks closer to two days old. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you to come in with me for some more questions.”
Maggie bristles. “Whoa. You’ve been watching too much Amish Mafia. Why can’t you just ask him what you need to here?”
Andy’s eyes are terrified, but now his voice is steady. “No. It’s okay. I don’t have anything to be afraid of, because I ain’t done nothing wrong.”
“Is he under arrest?” Maggie demands.
Travis inspects his nails. “If he was, I’d be reading him his rights.”
She gets between Travis and Andy, facing her friend. With all the protection Michele has showered on her recently every time the cops have harassed Maggie, it’s time to pay it forward. “I’m driving you, then.”
Travis talks to her back. “I’d prefer he ride with me.”
She doesn’t turn to face him. “I’m sure you would. Andy, you’re with me.”
Ten
The blizzard hits full force from the north while Andy and Maggie are on the road to Sheridan. Visibility is shit, and Maggie creeps along the interstate in Bess, her vintage magenta Ford pickup. Not the best vehicle for the conditions, and without chains. Hank had encouraged her to get snow tires a few days before, but she’d put it off, not understanding why it was important when she was just visiting. Now she gets it.
“Should we go back?” Andy asks.
“We’re over halfway. Maybe we’ll drive through the storm and out the north edge. If we turn for home, we’ll be in the thick of it. I think we should keep going. We made a commitment to get you in for an interview, anyway.” What she doesn’t say, since it’s pessimistic, is that she wants to be as close to Sheridan as she can get in case they end up on the side of the road. She glances at her phone. Especially since there’s no cell service where they are.
“Okay. I hope Michael got the animals taken care of.”
Before they left, Andy had overcome his issues with Michael enough to have an urgent conversation with him about bringing in the expectant mares. Most had foaled in the spring. It’s not ideal for them to give birth in the winter, and usually doesn’t happen unless by accident. Lily the escape artist had managed to get herself knocked up at the wrong time of year when she let herself into a pasture with a stallion while she was in heat. So she’s on the short list of mares that need to be stabled, which is why she’s being kept in a paddock near the barn. The cows are all pregnant but not due until spring.
“He seemed to have it under control. And the day hands will be doing their part.”
“It’s his first day.”
“Gene and Hank wouldn’t have hired him if they didn’t believe he’s capable.” Although Gene hadn’t gotten around to Michael’s background check yet.
“Then it’s on them, because I wouldn’t have picked him.”
“He’ll get it done.”
“If he doesn’t knock off at the dinner bell.” His eyes are blazing. “A cowboy works until he gets it done. The animals come first.”
Andy seems more upset about Michael and the animals than he is about being under suspicion and questioning for a friend’s murder. Something about it gives Maggie pause.
“Is all this distrust about Michael just because he’s Cheyenne?”
Andy’s face clouds. “It’s funny timing. Him showing up asking for work on the day Paco is found dead.”
“Did they know each other?”
“I don’t know.”
Doc Billy’s reaction to the mention of Paco flashes through her mind. “I’ll tell you who didn’t seem to like Paco, and that’s the vet. What’s that all about?”
An eighteen-wheeler suddenly bears down on them, driving far too fast for road conditions. It honks, then whips around them, fishtailing as it passes them. Maggie gasps as her own truck veers to the right. She fights to keep it under control and lets off the gas. The deeper snow on the shoulder grabs the tires and moves the steering wheel of its own accord. She taps the brakes three times, and the truck straightens. She steers it gently back into the right lane.
“Idiot,” she says, her voice squeaky. She shakes a fist after the truck.
Andy’s face is pale and his eyes wide. “Good job.”
When her heart slows, she quickly checks her cell again for service. There’s none. Not only does she wonder what would happen to them if they went off the road here, it kills her that she can’t call Hank, Gene, Michele—who is an attorney in addition to being a successful author—or John Fortney, the only lawyer she knows in Wyoming, to get help for Andy.
And Maggie is very sure Andy needs help.
She’d left a message with Trudy to tell Hank where she and Andy have gone, but by the time he gets it, it will be too late. She slows the truck more as they encounter more traffic. Only a few miles to go to the first exit into Sheridan now. She keeps one eye on the rearview mirror for more tractor-trailers, and the other on the road, where she can barely tell where the pavement edge is under the swirling snow—it’s hard to even tell up from down. Thank God for the hazard bumps on the side of the road that alert her when she loses her way.
Her tension eases a little when they reach the Fifth Street exit. Bess takes the ramp like a champ, and they do well on the city street, too, thanks
to the snowplows already at work.
As they near their destination, she says, “If they had more evidence, you’d be under arrest.”
“What do you mean by evidence?”
A snowplow flings snow and road debris onto her windshield.
She slows down to a crawl. “Fingerprints. DNA. A witness.”
“They won’t find any evidence.”
“Have you been fingerprinted before?” She takes a right on Main. There’s road construction ahead, but she can’t see the hazards through the snow. Her stomach tightens. She remembers a section of this road where she’d seen a three-foot drop the week before.
“No.”
“They’re going to ask to do that today, then.”
“Fine.”
“Not fine. I don’t think you have to unless you’re charged.”
“But I didn’t kill Paco.”
“It doesn’t matter. They need a suspect. If they focus on you, they’ll lose any interest in finding another one. No fingerprints unless charged.”
“What about justice?”
She sighs. How sheltered his life in the Amish community has been from the “English” ways of justice. “Oh, Andy. I wish we could trust in justice. Even more, I wish I could have reached an attorney to meet us there.”
“Hiring a lawyer’s mighty spendy, ain’t it?” He pounds his fist in his hand, his first outward sign of intense emotion over his situation. “I really had the bull by the tail, moving along. And now this.”
“Let me worry about how much it costs.”
“I don’t take handouts.”
“I know you’ll work it off in trade if you have to, and that’s fine with me.”
Maggie parks Bess, sure that she’ll never make it out of the already drifted lot when they’re done. She’s also sure that she needs a pair of winter boots. Andy catches her by the arm and prevents her from going down on the slick sidewalk. Just as they’re entering a tan brick building that looks like any other government structure built in the 1970s, her phone chimes. She has cell service.
“You go on in. I’ve got signal. I need to call to get you some help.”
“Out here?”
“I don’t want people in there hearing your business.”
“Can you call and leave a message at my father’s country store phone? I want him to know what’s going on.”
“I don’t see how he could get here in this weather.”
“Father often works here in Sheridan.”
Maggie takes the number from him and makes the call. After she leaves the message, she says, “Good luck. I’ll be waiting for you when you’re done. If I’m able to get an attorney, I’ll send them in. And Andy, say as little as possible. Don’t explain. Just yes, no, or I don’t know, if you can.”
The look he gives her is defiant, and she knows his ethics dictate cooperation and create an expectation in him that others will operate by a strict code, too. Maybe he’s morally right, but in her experience, the code in the actual justice system is so different from his.
He disappears into the lobby. A blonde woman exits through the interior vestibule door he holds open for her. She’s bundled up in a puffy jacket, scarf, and furry boots. Her ponytail cascades through a hole in her wool cap like Maggie’s from the day before. She looks Wyoming-winter fashion-forward, if there is such a thing.
Her blue eyes meet Maggie’s when she gets to the front steps, and she stops in her tracks. “You.”
Maggie’s finger is poised to speed-dial Hank when she realizes who the woman with the unlined face is. Sheila. His sort-of fiancée, until Hank ditched her to come after Maggie in Texas. But only sort of, since Sheila did the asking while Hank was medically incapable of operating heavy machinery or making matrimonial decisions.
Maggie’s voice would curdle milk. “Sheila.”
“What are you doing here?”
“You mean in Wyoming, or here at the Sheriff’s Department in particular?”
“Never mind.” Sheila starts to push past her.
“What are you doing here? A little trouble with the law?”
Sheila stops, eyes blazing. “As if. I’m renewing my concealed carry permit.”
That doesn’t give Maggie a peaceful, easy feeling. She frowns.
Sheila smirks. “Don’t like guns? I’m an instructor. Why don’t you take a class from me? We rarely have fatal accidents. I could make an exception for you, though.”
“Pass.”
Sheila starts to walk on, then flounces to a stop. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘Live by the sword, die by the sword?’”
“Excuse me?”
“In this case it means if you have to steal a man to get him, expect to lose him the same way.”
“I didn’t steal Hank. He was mine long before he was yours. And I didn’t have to trick him into an engagement while he was sedated, either.”
“You’re engaged?”
Maggie hadn’t anticipated that interpretation. “What we are is together. What you are is not.” Maggie shoos her with her fingers. “Now move along. Hank’s waiting on my call.”
“Is he, now? I just saw him in the bar at the Rib and Chop. With some woman that wasn’t you.”
“Don’t you have young minds to brainwash?”
“They let out before lunch because of the storm. And don’t you even want to know who he was drinking with?”
“No, because I already know.”
Sheila smirks. “You’re looking at her.”
Maggie controls her reaction, unwilling to give Sheila satisfaction.
“Yeah. So you have a nice day thinking about him having a drink with me without telling you.” She waggles her fingers in a goodbye gesture that mocks Maggie’s earlier shooing motion.
Maggie turns her back on Sheila and presses Hank’s number. The message Maggie leaves for Hank is less lovey-dovey than it would have been before running into his ex.
“I’m at the Sheridan County Sheriff’s Department with Andy, who was strong-armed into coming in for questioning. I’m also worried about how we’re going to get home in this blizzard. If you’re still in town, can you come here? I hope your time with Laura was good and that your mother is okay. Oh, and how was that drink with Sheila?”
She tries Michele. No answer. Gene. No answer, but not surprising since he’s on the road in a state not known for excellent rural cell signal. She calls John Fortney, the attorney in Buffalo. An outgoing message announces his offices are closed for the day due to the blizzard. And she’d heard how Wyomingites are so weather-tough. What is this, the storm of the century?
She texts Michele: Need legal advice. Hank’s top hand being questioned in a murder. Big storm. I can’t find anyone to help me. Call if you can.
The snow has worked its way into her coat. In Texas, what she has on would be considered severe-weather wear, good for anything except rain. Her heavy brocade coat is lined with fleece and flares over her hips. But it’s yet another thing for her list of items that need a Wyoming upgrade. She hurries into the lobby and takes a seat, grateful for the double doors of the vestibule that are keeping most of the cold out where it belongs.
Minutes tick slowly away. She asks the receptionist for an update and gets nothing. She checks her phone and ringer obsessively, to no avail. To pass the time, she surfs property for sale near hers in Giddings, focusing on acreage. A three-hundred-acre ranch seems promising, so she emails the realtor for more information. After about half an hour, the inside door opens to let in an Amish man with brilliant blue eyes and a long beard. He looks familiar. Her mind offers up an image of the Amish man she’d seen earlier talking to Andy at the ranch. Could this be the same man? Whether he is or not, he can only be here because of Andy. Before Maggie can intercept him, he approaches the receptionist.
The man’s voice booms. “I’m here for Andrew Yoder.”
“And you are who, sir?”
“His father. Reggie Yoder.”
Eleven
&n
bsp; The receptionist confers with a colleague, then returns to the glowering man. He slowly turns a round-brimmed hat between his fingers.
“Sir, he’s in an interview. You’re welcome to take a seat.”
“How long will he be?”
“There’s no way to know at this point.”
“But he will be free to leave with me when the deputies are through with him?”
“That’s my understanding, sir. Subject to change if they find a reason to hold him over.”
“Such as?”
“Well, if they arrest him.”
Anger hangs over Reggie like a dark cloud. He wheels and stalks stiff-legged to a chair several feet away from where Maggie sits.
“Sir?” Maggie says.
At first he doesn’t register she’s addressing him.
“Mr. Yoder?”
His head jerks in her direction. “You speaking to me?”
Reggie has a medicinal odor to him. She wonders if it’s cough syrup, but he’s not coughing. “Yes, sir. My name is Maggie Killian. I understand you’re Andy’s father?”
“That conversation was not for your ears.”
Maggie grinds her teeth. “Andy asked me to be on the lookout for you.”
“Who are you to my son?”
How to explain this? “My boyfriend, Hank, is one of the owners of Double S, where Andy works. I gave Andy a ride to town today.”
“This is a family matter. Your services are no longer needed. He’ll be coming with me.”
Heat consumes her ears. She’d expected politeness, if not gratitude. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Maggie hears the door from the interior of the station open. She looks up to see a visibly distressed Andy. He notices his father immediately, and she sees a mask of self-control slip over his features.
“Ms. Killian. Father.”
Dead Pile (Maggie #3) Page 7