Maggie knows better than to hope, but her heart leaps. “I need a driveshaft.”
“Yeah, I think mine might work.”
“That would save my life.” Never mind that she’s under town arrest by the police. She isn’t counting on the mail-order part until she sees the whites of its eyes. The Mill Inn has an ancient Ford truck out front, she remembers. If Patrick’s truck doesn’t yield a driveshaft, maybe that one will, for the right price? “I just listed my truck on Craigslist. I figure if there’s a collector in the area who wants to buy it quick, that could solve my problem, too.”
Patrick raises his eyebrows. “Craigslist? No one around here uses that.”
“What do they use?”
“There’s a kind of swap-meet AM radio show you can submit on.”
Maggie rolls her eyes. “I need a bigger audience.”
“A lot of people use UpCycle on Facebook.”
“UpCycle.” Maggie sends herself a note to post Bess there. “Got it.”
The jukebox suddenly blares Darrell’s choice, too loud for the time of day and nonexistent crowd. Patrick drums the beat on the bar top. Maggie’s voice singing “I Hate Cowboys” rings out. “The ones from Wyoming try taking girls home, and they don’t think the word no applies.” She hadn’t realized how true that line was when she wrote the song. It feels like a dang prophecy now.
“What’s so funny?” Patrick asks.
She shakes her head. No reason to explain the joke, but she suddenly likes Darrell. “The life, times, and tragic death of Chet Moore. Time to spill.”
Darrell sidesteps behind his bar. He draws another Budweiser for Patrick and brings Maggie her refill with a wink.
In the silence after the song ends, Patrick wipes foam from his lips and says, “Mr. Chet Moore.”
The conversation amongst the people next to them stops.
Maggie feels a coolness descend over the bar. “Did you know him?”
“Of course. He’s from Sheridan, but everyone around here knows him, even back when he was just a boy. Played football at Sheridan High. Linebacker. At the University of Wyoming, too. Until he blew out his knees, people thought he’d go pro. He dropped out of college after that and came home. Kept himself busy with the ladies and nightlife when he was around, although he worked two weeks at a stretch in the oil fields, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Does he have any enemies?” Maggie hears a snort from a few stools down.
“Plenty. He’s always been too pretty for his own good. Makes it easy for him to move from woman to woman. But I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”
Maggie’s been cast as the female lead a time or two in the story Patrick’s telling, including this time. Chet had chased her. But she keeps her lip zipped and finishes her second drink.
Patrick continues. “So there’s more than a few women unhappy with him, plus from time to time he doesn’t check first whether they’ve got a fella.”
“Got any names?”
A barstool scrapes back. With no warning, the spiky blonde inserts herself between Patrick and Maggie. Up close, her dark eyebrows clash with her hair. She’s a dead ringer for Xena the Warrior Princess after a bad flu, albeit with an edgier hairdo. Her shoulders flex. When she speaks, her voice is tight with rage. “You the bitch with Chet the other night? The one the police think killed him?”
“Whoa now, missy. Calm down.” Patrick tries to block her access to Maggie, but he’s too slow.
Xena shoves Maggie in the center of her chest with two stiff fingers. The two men, even bigger than Xena, although just as undernourished, move in close behind Xena on either side.
Maggie’s had her share of bar fights, or so she’s been told, since she doesn’t remember a single one of them. She doesn’t budge. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You fucked my boyfriend, and you fucked up my life, that’s what’s wrong.” Xena’s nostrils flare, drawing Maggie’s eyes to a delicate gold nose ring.
“Who are you?”
The woman spins on a boot heel. “Come on, guys.”
They follow the angry, malnourished Amazon toward the exit, each of her steps rattling glass on the shelves. A wallet chain swings from her hip, hitting her thigh well below the exposed pocket and frayed edge of her blue-jean shorts. The men are WWF rejects. Tattooed arms wasting away jut out of their wifebeater Ts, untucked over jeans. The three are wearing identical biker boots, like they’re part of a gang, or at least a dress-up club.
Of course. Maggie shouts, “Hey, you were at the Bison Inn. I saw you slap Chet.”
The blonde shoots Maggie the bird as she and the men push through the exit.
Patrick deadpans, “You’re not real popular in here.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
The door shuts behind the three people the Buffalo police can’t seem to find, one of whom just might have bashed in Chet’s head with a tire iron only a few days ago.
Twenty-Five
Patrick and Maggie are the only patrons left in the Century Club.
Darrell sweeps the used cups left by his departed customers off the bar. “You owe me another round for driving off all the customers.”
Patrick laughs. “Whoops, sorry.”
Maggie says, “Switch me to Diet Coke, and I’ll keep drinking.”
“And Jack?” Darrell asks.
“Nah. Got a long drive.” And no desire to bump uglies with Patrick.
“Bud,” Patrick says.
Maggie fans her shirt. She hadn’t realized she was sweating. “Who was that?”
Darrell’s soda dispenser spits and coughs, then emits a stream of Diet Coke. “Lisa Whitefeather.”
“Who is she to Chet Moore?”
“Girlfriend, on and off. Since high school. One of several.”
Maggie does the math, or at least guesstimates. “Ten years?”
Darrell sticks a straw in the Diet Coke and pushes it to Maggie. “Plus a few.”
“And the toughs with her are her brothers?”
“Yep.”
Ten plus years is more than long enough to get sick of Chet sleeping around, or cheating on a sister. Maggie feels a frisson of excitement. Maybe she really can crack this case and break herself out of limbo—she’s already further along than the police just by finding Lisa and her brothers. But she can’t be reckless. About the Whitefeathers or Lacey’s threat to toss Maggie in jail. “Should I be watching my back?”
“I think they just like to talk tough.”
Patrick hands Darrell another twenty. “Glad I hadn’t told you about her yet, Maggie. Who knows what she would have done if she’d heard me talking about her. I know her name, but I didn’t know her face.”
Darrell spirits the twenty away in a cash drawer.
Maggie nods. “An angry woman.”
“At you, anyway.”
“Chet and Lisa seem . . .”
“Like an odd couple?”
“At the very least.”
“Chet and Lisa were mostly off. She gets around.”
“Shocking.”
“Couple of kids by a couple of guys. But she and Chet always seem to end up together again. Like Sodom and Gomorrah.” Darrell holds up two bags of Lays. “I think you need to spend a little more money to make things up to me. Chips?”
Patrick puts his wallet on the counter. “You’ve about cleaned me out.”
Maggie pops open a bag and munches a potato chip, thinking. Lisa. Kids. Could one of them be Chet’s daughter? It might explain her anger. And if he wasn’t doing right by the two of them, it could be a powerful motive to do him harm, especially when mixed with drugs. “Who could tell me more about them?”
Darrell leans between them. “His mama.”
“If she’s heard the rumors about Chet and me, she’d probably make me about as welcome as Lisa did.”
Patrick shakes his head. “She hates Lisa. I’ve courted Beth Ann a time or two, and you should hear her complain about that girl.”
“His mother? Isn’t she . . . older?”
Darrell makes an mm-mm-mm sound. “She’s a looker.”
Patrick says, “Had Chet real young. Maybe I could vouch for you. She works just down the block at Reride.”
Maggie polishes off her Lays and licks her fingers. Or I could lie about my name. She doesn’t want Patrick along for the ride.
Darrell eyes her empty bag. He tosses a Snickers bar her way. She catches it. “On the house.”
“Thanks.” Maggie tears into the Snickers like she’s been on a week-long fast. She wishes she had a do-over with Trudy’s lunch chicken.
“Welcome. If I were you, I’d talk to his crewmates over at Crazy Woman Exploration. They live together on shift. Know each other’s business.”
“Good idea. And maybe a landlord? Or a roommate?”
“He doesn’t have either of those. Inherited the family ranch when his pa kicked it a few years back.”
“Why didn’t it go to his mother?”
“Jeb Moore owned it before they married. And long after they divorced.”
“So who gets it now that Chet is gone?” Maggie’s no lawyer, but having just been through the distribution of Gidget’s estate, she’s pretty sure the ranch would pass to the child, unless Chet willed it to someone else.
“I’ll bet Beth Ann can tell you.” Patrick stands. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”
Maggie stares into her Diet Coke. A heavy silence falls. Patrick doesn’t seem to notice. Maggie looks up at Darrell.
He nods. “Gotta get something from the storeroom.” He disappears through a door toward the back of the establishment.
Patrick cocks his head. “What storeroom?”
Maggie puts a hand on his arm. “I need to talk to Beth Ann alone.”
“You’re gonna get buffaloed again. You need me to make sure your drinks are served and people talk to you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re trying to tell me you’re not interested, I hear you. But I didn’t get where I am by taking no for an answer.”
Maggie almost sings the line of her cowboy song. “I’d expect no less. Thanks for the drinks. And the information.” She slings her bag over her shoulder and makes for the door.
Patrick’s spurs jangle as he walks behind her. “Good luck, Maggie.”
During the short walk to Reride, Maggie remembers the driveshaft Patrick promised her. Shit. Well, even if he gave it to her today, she couldn’t get it up to Sheridan to the dealership before they close. She’ll text him later and arrange to pick it up tomorrow. A sign in a window announces she’s reached Reride. It’s only four fifty-five, so Maggie pushes the door. It doesn’t open. That’s when she notices an index card taped inside the glass door: CLOSED FOR FUNERAL. NORMAL HOURS TOMORROW.
Twenty-Six
Well, shit on a stick. Nothing more Maggie can accomplish in Buffalo today, then. She retrieves the Tahoe and sets off for Piney Bottoms. She hasn’t driven north for five minutes before her phone rings.
“Hello?”
Michele’s voice is far too clear, so Maggie can’t miss the irritation in her tone. “You’re in so much trouble, missy.”
“Super. Let me put my headphones in so I can enjoy every second.” Maggie steers with her knees while she gets set up. “Okay. What did I do now?”
“You talked to the police without having counsel present.”
It’s terribly inconvenient for Maggie that Gene and Michele have discovered they are siblings. Both had been lonely onlys before and are now practically joined at the hip. So, duh, Maggie doesn’t need to fill Michele in on Chet’s death. Or the cop’s visit. Or probably even the last time she visited the loo. “I’m sorry?”
Michele sounds more like the Mexican side of her family when she’s upset. “Mierda. The cops are not your friends. You should have called me the second they showed up. I could have found you an attorney. Or stayed with you on speakerphone.” In addition to being a best-selling author, Michele is also an attorney. And an annoying overachiever, from Maggie’s point of view.
“Michele, I didn’t kill the guy. I didn’t even see who did. Honestly, I don’t know anything about it.”
“It’s a murder investigation. It doesn’t matter if you did it. They need a suspect. They have all the power. You could go to jail. For life. Or worse.”
Maggie almost asks Michele how long is worse than life in jail. “Calm down. You’re going to blow the speaker on my phone.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know. I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have called. My brain froze when they showed up.”
“You should have called when you found out he was murdered. Much less when they showed up.”
“When you’re done boxing my ears, can you tell me what I should do now?”
Michele growls. “Where did you leave things?”
“I went in and did a written statement today.”
“Let me guess—still without a lawyer.”
“You’re my lawyer. So that’s a good guess.”
On Maggie’s right, Lake Desmet looms, like a miniature ocean in a moon crater. She’d read about it in a pamphlet in Sheridan. It’s a natural lake, the undrained basin between two creeks, formed from a collapse over an underground coal seam fire. Around the shores, the red hills are rugged and barren, without a tree in sight other than the anemic ones planted at a few houses on widely spaced tracts. The wind has died down. The late afternoon sun throws sparkles on the rippling surface of the water. It’s calm. Peaceful. A stark contrast to Maggie’s life.
“Being your lawyer is giving me a headache.” Michele’s sigh is withering. “Do they have any suspects?”
“Just me, apparently.”
“They told you that?”
“A Detective Lacey said I’m the closest thing they’ve got.”
“This is serious.”
Maggie signals too late as she takes the steep, winding exit ramp off the interstate. “I know. But they’re ignoring the obvious. I came up with a list longer than his johnson, which I don’t think is saying much, without half trying. Starting with the guy’s nutso ex. And did I mention the victim is that young cowboy I spent a night with?”
“Your hookup is the victim?”
“Yes. His name’s Chet. It feels disrespectful to call him my hookup now that he’s dead.”
“Did they read you your rights or anything else weird or scary?”
“No, unless you count being on town arrest through Friday, at a minimum. And them threatening to throw me in the pokey if I interfere with their investigation.” Maggie slows the Tahoe by Fort Phil Kearney, then stops altogether for two Angus cows crossing the road in front of her. They leisurely chew their cud and deposit cow patties halfway. She honks. They lift their tails and waddle off.
“I count those.”
“I thought you might.”
“Okay, give me a name. I’ll call them.”
Maggie almost argues with her, then changes her mind. Michele on fire is a force of nature. She wants the inferno on her team. She gives her Lacey’s name. “And, Michele, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I hear you talked to Junior, too.”
“I did. And left him another message. I’d already told him about my truck being sabotaged, but I needed him to know about the break-ins.”
“Yes, I heard about those, too.”
Gene is nothing if not thorough. A fly fisherman whips his line back and forth over his head, then lets it settle on the waters of Little Piney Creek. He waves at Maggie as she drives past him kicking up a cloud of dust.
“Hopefully the adjuster has contacted you about going out to the shop.”
“Already taken care of. And your goats are alive and calling Lumpy ‘Daddy.’”
“What would I do without you?”
“You’d be an even bigger menace to society. Did you talk to your mom?”
“Yes, why?”
“Hey, Rashid
i’s on the other line. I’ll call you after I’ve talked to Lacey. Try not to draw any more attention to yourself in the meantime, okay?”
“Who, me? Never.”
Twenty-Seven
Louise is so excited to see Maggie that she chases her tail in a circle until she falls in a heap.
“You’re not the smartest dog I’ve ever met.” Glancing up the slope to the main house, Maggie sees Hank’s truck. She hustles into the cabin to minimize the chance of interaction with him or other humans, but shuts only the screen door. Earlier, she’d told him she’d talk to him later about the break-ins. Now it seems like a crappy idea. The weather is a perfect seventy degrees. She might as well enjoy it, because it will be hotter than Satan’s house cat when she gets back to Texas.
She’s jacked up and motivated to regain control of her life, so she sets up her laptop and jots down a to-do list, drumming her short fingernails between items as she thinks.
UpCycle Bess
Text Patrick about driveshaft
Mill Inn about their truck
Crazy Woman Exploration?
Beth Ann Moore
Avoid Hank
She’s made it through number one—posting Bess to UpCycle—when there’s a knock on the doorframe of the cabin. Louise wags her tail and goes to greet the visitor. Maggie closes her eyes and prays for a natural disaster, just in case it’s Hank.
“Maggie?” It’s Andy’s voice.
She cancels the prayer. “Hey, Andy. Come on in.”
“Um, maybe you could meet me out here?”
Maggie’s instantly suspicious of another bad surprise. But his request makes sense. He’s religious. The cabin is small. There are no chaperones for their mixed-gender interaction. “On my way.”
She opens the door, relieved to see he’s alone. “What’s up?”
Andy scuffs his feet. “I was wondering . . . could you give me another guitar lesson?”
“Of course. Is now okay?”
“If it’s not a bother.”
Maggie Box Set Page 18