Maggie Box Set

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  A cold, wet nose presses into her palm.

  “Hey, Fucker. Help me secure the perimeter?”

  Louise rewards her with the disgusting, stabby licks.

  “Not okay.” Maggie jerks her hand away.

  The dog is certainly a mixed bag. Sweet but disgusting, protective but annoying, cute but disobedient. And she certainly seems to have adopted Maggie.

  Maggie locks the front door and searches for signs of intruders. In the cabin, the reconnaissance operation takes less than two minutes. Maggie doesn’t see any signs of disturbance. More important, Louise is calm. Maggie loads the rifle anyway—safety on. As she’s doing it, she sees HANK SIBLEY engraved on a plate screwed to the stock. She rubs her thumb across the plate, then slides the rifle on the ground under the bed, within easy reach. Then she unpacks her groceries and puts them away.

  “What now, girl?”

  Louise sits by Maggie’s guitar case and wags her tail.

  “You like music?”

  The tail wags faster, whether because Maggie is sweet-talking her or because Louise is a guitar aficionado, Maggie doesn’t know.

  Maggie looks at her phone. It’s only eight thirty. Why not? Some old habits die hard, like some old loves, and she’s neglected this habit far too much lately. She sets her drink down and kneels, her knees cracking. She opens the case. After her belt buckle, she loves this Martin more than any other material thing in the world, and she takes good care of it. On the road, other musicians had made fun of her for obsessing over it, but she’d always believed her music would only be as good as her instruments. No bashing guitars onstage for her. She became known for her natural virtuosity, her ability to play better than any of the musicians hired to back her.

  But that was a long time ago.

  As always, the first thing she does is check the ambient temperature and humidity on a portable monitor. The weather is far drier and colder here than Texas. She’s been careful not to leave her baby near any heaters, and she hasn’t opened the case in Wyoming, so conditions have remained fairly constant for the guitar inside. Fifty percent humidity and seventy-five degrees is ideal for it. Too much humidity is especially bad, which is a challenge in her old Texas house in the summer.

  Conditions in the cabin are actually quite good. The humidity is right at fifty percent, the temperature at sixty-eight. It will be cooler on the porch, but with the heat from her body, it will be perfect. She wipes the instrument with a warm, damp cloth. Then, without taking off her jacket, she puts the strap over her neck. It’s like a hug. She holds the Martin close, hugging it back. She runs her hand across the embroidered peace signs on the strap, a homemade gift from her mom when she was in middle school, pre-Martin. She’d played a cheap Kmart instrument back in the day.

  She greases her fingering hand with Vaseline, grabs her pick, and walks out to the porch with Louise and her drink. She settles on the porch swing and puts her drink on a patio end table beside it. Silvery moonlight spills over the strings on the instrument in her lap. It’s like a celestial blessing. Her stress eases. This was the right decision.

  “Thank you, mother moon.” She strums the guitar and tunes it. Louise cocks her head from side to side and whines. “Are you singing or complaining?”

  The dog doesn’t answer.

  When Maggie has the guitar ready, she pauses, waiting for inspiration. In the silence, she hears an odd cry, like a rattling bugle. Her fingers begin moving on the strings. She exhales and closes her eyes. A song takes shape, and she smiles. A confidence-building opener—her muse knows what she needs. It’s the introduction to the first song off her multiplatinum Buckle Bunny album. “I Hate Cowboys” was also her first country number one, and it hit the top spot on several other charts as well. The album and song should have been the beginning of a long, award- and reward-filled career. Instead, they were the beginning of her end as a professional musician.

  But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love every song she wrote for the album. She’s proud of them. They came from her heart, out of the broken place left after Hank, and the hopeful place that hadn’t been crushed. Yet.

  She sings the words, pouring her heart into it. People think the song is funny. She doesn’t. It’s an anthem to her heartbreak. Her voice cracks. There’s a new poignancy to it for her after seeing Hank again. Kissing him. And losing him again. Louise vocalizes along with her. Maggie pauses. She knows she plays tight. No off-key sounds to elicit the funny moans and whines coming from the dog’s throat.

  “You are singing, Louise. Very nice.” Then she starts up again.

  I hate cowboys—especially bull riders—I hate cowboys.

  Their buckles look funny,

  And they call their girls bunnies.

  I hate cowboys. Damn bull-riding cowboys.

  The song’s joke has always been on her. She finishes it and plays through the entire album. As she prepares to strum the opening chords of the final song, the eponymous “Buckle Bunny,” she hears a noise just beyond her field of vision. A sneeze? At the same time, Louise barks crazily and charges toward the sound.

  “Who’s there?” she calls. Her voice is shrill. She stands, ready to run for the rifle. Why hadn’t she brought it out here with her?

  A figure materializes, both hands up. “It’s me, Ms. Maggie. Andy. I was in the stables checking on a sick horse. I heard you playing and had to come listen. Your music is beautiful.”

  Maggie exhales and sits down with a thump, sending the swing back into the wall. She’s light-headed. “Oh, Andy. You scared me.”

  He looks everywhere but in her eyes. “Is it all right if I listen some more?”

  “Sure, come have a seat.”

  Louise slumps at Maggie’s feet again, silent now that her work is done.

  Andy steps onto the porch. He’s still in boots, a cowboy hat, his denim pants, and one of his odd long-sleeved work shirts, but gone are the chaps the hands wear by day. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  Maggie points to the swing. “So you said you don’t play?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She gives him a dirty look.

  “I mean, no. But I want to learn. But I don’t have an instrument, and there’s no one to teach me.”

  “Well, you’re in the right place.” She hands him the guitar.

  “Oh no, I can’t—”

  “Hush that. You can. Do you know how to hold it?”

  Even in the dark, she can see his blushing smile. He puts the strap over his neck like Maggie had earlier and holds the guitar awkwardly in front of him.

  “Good. Now, we’ll start with something fun and easy.”

  “Could you teach me ‘Amazing Grace’?”

  Maggie grins. “Sure. You just need to learn a few chords.” Maybe she could convince him to learn “Stairway to Heaven” or “Smoke on the Water” later. Or maybe not.

  Louise puts her head on her paws, and Maggie could swear the dog is smiling, too.

  Sixteen

  The next morning, Maggie sleeps in. She’d crashed well after midnight, her sleep interrupted repeatedly by the eerie night sounds. She’s exhausted and has no desire to rub her own nose in Hank’s absence or endure Mrs. Sibley’s ire. Plus, if by some miracle Hank was at breakfast, she has delayed the difficult conversation she plans for later today. Maybe that’s the most important reason for hiding out in bed an extra hour or two.

  She pads over to the kitchen once she’s dressed, hair in a messy bun, teeth brushed, and water splashed on her face. She brews a big pot of coffee to go with her turkey melt, then enjoys them on the front porch. Sitting out in the crisp morning air, she feels peaceful, despite everything. Partly because of the sounds of cattle and horses, but also because of the music the night before.

  She’d worked with Andy on “Amazing Grace” for nearly an hour before he’d begged off to get some sleep. Sundays aren’t exempt from pre-breakfast chores. In that short time, he’d mastered the chords he needed, and they’d sung the hy
mn together. He has a rich bass voice with nice range.

  When he left, Maggie had poured herself another drink and done something she hadn’t done in ten years: written music. The song that came to her is far from complete, but she’s calling the work-in-progress “Stranded.”

  Unfortunately, after that she’d pulled up the “How the Mighty Maggie Killian Has Fallen” piece. It was horrifying. The author rehashed Maggie’s admittedly sordid past, exploiting the high profile of Michele’s Love Child book and upcoming movie. What the author had not done was make an effort to chronicle Maggie’s life since her meltdown, other than give stalkery types the name of her store and the town she lives in. Hip hip hooray for lazy journalism.

  Maggie shakes her head, remembering the aftermath of Cheyenne, the crash that killed her touring band, and all the highs and lows since then. Then she banishes it from her mind. She’s already got ten pounds of shit to stuff into a five-pound bag today without forcing the past in, too.

  She stretches and yawns. Louise had run off when she let her outside at dawn, Maggie assumes to go for her own breakfast at the barn. She’s still nowhere to be seen. The fog that had rolled in the night before is slowly lifting, fashioning a white skirt around the waist of the mountains with the dark rock and forests of the higher elevations sticking out like a women’s top above it. A white cap sits on the tallest peaks. With a start, she realizes that white is new snow. The changing of seasons is early and abrupt. Maybe winter’s initiative is a sign to get her ass in gear, too. She doesn’t have to be in Texas to work. There’s a whole trailer-load of junk here with her, waiting for her attention, and she’s sure any tool she needs she can find on this ranch.

  In minutes, she’s at the trailer with a pen and notebook. She’s unfastening the tarp when Louise appears. “Where’ve you been?”

  The dog grins, wiggles, and wags.

  “I don’t suppose you can help me with this?”

  The dog flops into the dirt in a shaft of sunlight streaking through the clouds.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  Maggie folds the tarp and secures it with the tie-down straps. It’s high time to identify, inventory, price, photograph, label, and post the pieces that are salable, and to make a list of items that need an intervention or reinvention. She sets to it, moving like a dervish between the trailer, the piles she assembles by category, the notebook, a Sharpie and masking tape for labeling, her phone for pictures, and her laptop for pricing research and inspiration.

  She tackles the bulky items first. A Singer pedal sewing machine cabinet. A coffee table with legs made of horseshoes. A sideboard that has a future as a TV stand. Within half an hour, she sheds her jacket. The piles grow. The dog sleeps. She fills pages in her notebook. Hours pass. She stands back and surveys her half-empty trailer. She’s kicking ass. If she keeps after it, she can be done by lunch, reload the trailer except for items she wants to work on here, then spend the afternoon updating her website. She decides she’s earned a short break.

  With a banana and more coffee, she settles on the porch with her laptop. Hank hasn’t driven past since she’s been working, and from here she can confirm his truck is not home. Good. That means she can put off the yucky conversation even longer. She turns her attention for the next half hour to a project she thinks of as Operation Escape from Hell—researching travel options.

  It sucks the life out of her. She can’t find any combination of flights and junk shipment that costs less than a thousand bucks. She can shave off five hundred by hopping a bus. But all of that is before repair and transport of Bess.

  And what does this expenditure buy her? Not much. The earliest she can leave is Monday. If she’s lucky, Bess will be fixed by Tuesday or Wednesday. Is a day or two worth it? And, if it is, can she even afford it without selling off a kidney or one of her inheritance treasures? She pulls up her bank account and compares it to her budget for show season.

  It’s a gut punch. She’ll be lucky to fix the truck, limp home, and survive the show. She can admit to herself, too, that she’d secretly hoped to find an option that got her out of here before confession time.

  Louise noses her hand. The dog is like an emotional barometer.

  Maggie strokes her floppy ears. “I should have never left Texas. Everything’s broke. My piggy bank, my heart, and my truck.” She sighs. “I’ll put a few paintings up for sale, but without a miracle, I’ll have to tough it out. Do what I can from where I am.” Face the music with Hank.

  Her phone rings from somewhere. The in and out cell reception is enough to drive her bonkers. She puts the laptop down, and follows the sound. She runs to the trailer and finds the phone on the ground under the tailgate.

  “Hello,” she says, out of breath, without taking the time to look at the caller ID.

  “Hey, it’s Michele. Are you exercising?”

  “Do you know me even a little? Running for the phone at fifty-two-hundred-feet elevation nearly killed me.”

  Michele laughs. “That’s my girl.”

  Maggie walks back to the shaded porch and her laptop. “What’s up?”

  “I thought you’d be on the road home, but it doesn’t sound like it.”

  “No, I’ve run into a snag with Bess. I’m waiting on a part and a fix.”

  “Well then, you’re not going to like this call. More bad news.”

  Maggie slumps against the wall of the cabin. “I’m a human punching bag—hit me.”

  “First off, the goats are fine. Lumpy is watching over them like Papa Bear.”

  “Bears eat goats.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Go on.”

  “Jerry called me,” Michele says, referring to the kid Maggie has working Flown the Coop on the weekends. “He said he tried getting ahold of you first.”

  Maggie scrolls to Recents. She has a missed call from the kid. And a voicemail. “Crap. I missed it. Signal up here is the shits.”

  “Okay, well, I’m with him now. And with Lee County’s finest. Your store was broken into last night and ransacked.”

  Maggie moves to a rocker and sits heavily. “No.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s more.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear it.”

  “Jerry said Gary came by yesterday, right before closing time.”

  “My Gary?”

  “Well, your former Gary, unless there’s a new development you haven’t told me about.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “Throwing a temper tantrum that you weren’t there, especially after Jerry told him you were in Wyoming.”

  She should have answered his messages. “Not good.”

  “Jerry’s telling the deputies about it now.”

  “Gary wouldn’t.”

  “Probably not, but I wanted you to know. Sounds like he was pretty pissed.”

  “If he wasn’t before, he will be after he gets dragged into the investigation.”

  “The deputies said they’ll call you later. I gave Tank and Junior your number.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m hanging around until they’re done. Rashidi is with me. He’s going to board up the windows and door.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  A Buffalo Police Department cruiser pulls through the gate and slowly makes its way up the drive. Hank’s truck is following it. Maggie’s stomach threatens to eject coffee, turkey melt, and banana.

  “Honey, it’s really bad. A lot of damage. Maybe some theft. Jerry’s trying to help the deputies figure it out.”

  “Well, thank you. You, Rashidi, and Jerry.”

  “One more thing. I went to your house to let your guest know.”

  “Leslie.”

  “Yeah. There’s a car there, but no one is answering. There’s vehicles from the sheriff’s department all over the yard now because of the break-in at the store, and still no one has come out.”

  Maggie kicks herself for not pushing harder with Leslie. She has to get ahold of
the woman. “And she hasn’t answered me either. I’ll see when she’s supposed to check out.” Should she ask Michele to let herself in to check on Leslie? Before she can decide, the police car and truck stop in front of her cabin. “Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you later. Thanks again.”

  “Sorry. Love you.”

  Maggie ends the call. Hank gets out and meets the officers beside the vehicle. They talk like the old school chums they probably are, then head toward the porch, and Maggie.

  Seventeen

  The first officer to speak only has an inch or two on Maggie, if that. She suspects he’s wearing lifts in his shoes. His hair is white-blond and his blue eyes milky. “Maggie Killian?”

  Shit. I’m too late. She avoids looking at Hank. “That’s me.” She stands and smooths the legs of her jeans. Her heart is racing so fast it hurts.

  “I’m Detective Lacey. This is my partner, Detective Johnson.” He thumbs toward his colleague, a woman taller than him. Her head is mostly covered by incongruous Shirley Temple–like curls.

  “Nice to meet you.” Which it isn’t, but she can’t say what she really wants to: Go away and leave me alone.

  Lacey continues. “We’re here to talk to you about Chet Moore. Did you know him?”

  Out of her peripheral vision, she sees Hank. His mouth is open, his arms crossed. “I met a guy last Thursday named Chet. I don’t know his last name.”

  “Can you describe him for us?”

  “Early thirties. Taller than him. Thicker.” She points at Hank. “Curly hair. Light brown, dark blond. Unusual eyes. Gray.”

  The detectives look at each other. Lacey nods.

  “That’s him.” Lacey leans against the porch railing. “Where did you meet him?”