Maggie Box Set

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  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.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When me and my ex divorced, I got squat. He’d inherited his family ranch young. Before we were married. And when he died, he left it to Chet.”

  “I see.”

  “But with Chet dead, I figure it’s mine now. I’ve already moved my stuff back to the house. Honey, I don’t think yellow’s your color. Why don’t you try this orange one?” Beth Ann snatches back the yellow, replacing it with an identical blouse in orange.

  “That’s . . .”

  “Great, thank you, I know. I’ve just got to figure out what to do about the big fat mortgage Chet put on the place. And a stack of bills on the kitchen table, unpaid. I sure can’t afford the payments. Naughty boy. It’s not like he needed money. Had a ranch of his own that was free and clear until he stuck that thing on it. Mind you, he couldn’t afford to ranch it and had to lease it out for grazing to cover the taxes, but he had himself a good job. His salary better not just have been paying for that fancy new truck of his. Although I guess that’s mine now, too. I hope so, because I drove it to work today. And his bank statement right there on the table doesn’t offer me much comfort. His account is drier than the Powder River in August. I’m about to pull him out of the grave and snatch him bald-headed.”

  Mortgage? That was new information. Along with everything else Beth Ann was vomiting up. Maggie had worried the woman wouldn’t talk to her at all. Now she worries she’ll have to shove a sock in her mouth to stop her. “Which bank is it? Maybe they’ll refinance.”

  “Help me? I don’t think so. It’s Rocky Mountain National. They closed my account there after I bounced a few checks. Assholes.”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, I’m going to miss the boy. Really. But I always figured he’d outlived his time by about a dozen angry husbands already. Or at least one breakup too many with that Indian skank.”

  “Lisa Whitefeather?”

  “The one and only.”

  “She doesn’t look Indian.”

  “She’s not. Not really. Her dad is one quarter Cheyenne. If that. He hangs on to that family name like a drowning rat to a piece of driftwood. And the way he dresses native. I’m probably more Indian than him.”

  Maggie nods, thinking she and Lisa Whitefeather are both watered down too much for membership in their respective tribes. “People are saying that I killed him. I just want you to know that’s not true. Besides that one night we spent together, I didn’t even know him. And I’m very sorry he’s dead.”

  “I figured. What kind of woman bashes a man’s head in, anyway? That’s some pretty angry stuff. Messy, too. Hey, we have some new scarves that would look great with the white streaks in your hair. They’re sparkly.”

  “It was all just awful.” Maggie follows Beth Ann to a rack of scarves, considering her comment. It’s true. Very messy. She still hasn’t washed the outfit she wore to and from the Bison Inn that night. She ought to gift wrap it and drop it off at the police station with a note saying NOT COVERED IN CHET MOORE’S BLOOD. LOVE, MAGGIE.

  In a cheerful voice, Beth Ann says, “Course, if you did do it, God will send you Satan’s way, and they don’t need my help. So I figure one way or another, you’ll get what’s coming to you. If you did it. I think purple’s your color.” She throws a scarf over Maggie’s head, then tosses a tassled end over her shoulder.

  “Which I didn’t.”

  “Great. And that’s definitely the look for you. You’re going to buy it, aren’t you?”

  “Um . . .”

  “I’m paid on commission.”

  “Just one last question. Does Chet have a daughter?”

  Beth Ann’s good humor slips for the first time. She scowls, revealing her age in a spider web of creases on her face. “Are you saying I look like a grandmother?”

  Maggie isn’t in a position to alienate Beth Ann. She touches the purple scarf around her neck. “I’ll take one in red, too.”

  Thirty

  Maggie exits Reride oddly exhilarated, two scarves richer and forty bucks poorer. On the street, she pauses, her mind swamped with information. She’d hoped to learn something about Chet and Lisa, so she could paint Lisa as a viable suspect to Lacey. Her first salvo in a the-other-guy-did-it defense. But she’d gotten more than that, at the sam
e time as nothing damning about Lisa. Beth Ann, a ranch-grubber with a heart of stone. Chet’s empty bank account and new mortgage.

  Where had his mortgage proceeds gone, besides to the shiny new truck Beth Ann is driving already? She ticks possibilities. Drugs. Gambling. An investment. Chet’s claim that he was about to come into big money, unless he was just blowing smoke up her skirt. Child support for a daughter Beth Ann didn’t believe he had. Of course, with Chet’s bed-hopping, he could have ten kids with ten women. Money for Lisa—maybe he was helping her out, maybe she was blackmailing him. Or maybe someone else was.

  The rabbit trails lead in a myriad of directions and bring her no closer to a trip back to Texas. Or to satisfying her apprehensions about Hank. She banishes him from her mind. This isn’t about Hank. It’s about getting home, not a hurtful, untruthful man who is unaccounted for at exactly the wrong time and shouldn’t have had blood on him Friday morning.

  She washes two Excedrin down with the last of the water in a bottle stashed in her shoulder bag as she ponders her next move. She could head back to Piney Bottoms. Maybe the driveshaft is in. She checks her phone. No messages from the dealership, Patrick, or Mill Inn.

  Scratch that idea.

  Call Lacey with the information Beth Ann gave her? He’d just minimize it, and he might even make good on his threat to charge her with interference.

  Definite scratch.

  She could move to the Mill Inn. Avoid another conflict with Sheila or any interaction with Hank. But that would mean no more Lily, Louise, Andy, or Gene. Okay, or Hank, dammit. She needs an explanation from him. She deserves one.

  So . . . scratch the moving idea, too.

  Down the street, past the Tahoe, she sees the Rocky Mountain National Bank, like fate. It’s here. She’s here. She can drop in, ask a few questions, and maybe figure out where Chet’s money went, possibly uncovering a few more suspects for Lacey in the process. Or maybe she’ll learn nothing. Either way, she’s on a scent, her juices flowing, with nothing better to do.

  And she knows what she’ll get if she doesn’t try.

  She starts walking toward the bank, mulling over an approach. She is and always will be a performer. All those nights in her early days, playing for bar crowds uninterested in her or her music. She’d had a few short sets to find a way to draw them to her. Sometimes she hadn’t given a shit, not wanting to feel like a sellout. Other times she’d relished the game, mostly when she was hungry and broke. Mother, sister, lover, friend, artist, wild child, daughter. When it suited her, she could play a role—and fill a tip jar.

  It had suited her with Beth Ann, and she’d nailed it.

  She feels a growing sense of purpose and optimism as she walks toward the bank. At the entrance, she wrestles one side of a double door open to the usual afternoon gale. When she stumbles into the lobby, she blinks. The inside walls are entirely lined with rock. Real rock. Big black and gray rocks with thick mortar holding them together. When her eyes adjust to the dark interior, she gawks. It’s like the inside of a volcano. Or a cave deep in a granite cliff. There’s a rock-covered counter in front of a tall, wispy teller. A rock fireplace and a brown leather couch bookending a smiling woman seated at a desk. A rock-surrounded window in an office, a suited-up man looking through it at her, his door closed.

  The decorator stalled out on inspiration after the word “rocky,” and the result was a train wreck.

  A chipper voice bounces like a rubber ball toward Maggie from the woman behind the desk. “Welcome to Rocky Mountain Bank. May I help you?”

  Maggie approaches her, downplaying her Texas accent. “I hope so. Maybe. But it’s a very private financial matter.” She makes a point of looking around the lobby at the other two humans in view.

  “Rocky is the man you need.” The cheerful woman points at the office. “Soundproofing and a door that shuts. Can’t get more private than that.”

  Rocky waves, looking like he heard every word.

  Maggie doesn’t bother debating with her. “Thank you.”

  Rocky meets her at the door to his office with his hand thrust out. Maggie gets a whiff of something chemical-y. Mothballs? They shake, then he shuts the door, takes her arm, and escorts her to the chair in front of his desk.

  He sinks into his high-backed chair. Dark brown suit in a Western cut melds into dark brown leather with brass studs. “I’m Rocky Mountain.”

  Maggie stares at him, not sure how to respond.

  “Just kidding. My name is Rocky Hancock.”

  She laughs, late, hearty, and fake. This guy is going to make her feel like a sell-out, apparently. “Maggie Killian.”

  “Oh yes, I recognize you. I’m a big fan.” He reaches out his hands, raising and lowering them with his head slightly bowed.

  “I didn’t know I had any big fans. At least not anymore. Thank you.”

  “How can I help? You said it was”—he makes big air quotes with his fingers—“a very private matter?”

  She lowers her voice to a husky whisper. “Yes. I’m, uh . . . well, I don’t suppose you’ve heard about me and Chet Moore?”

  “I heard. You two. An item. Maggie Killian and a fellow Sheridan High Bronc.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Lucky bastard.” Like her sleeping with a local is a credit to all men in the area.

  “For a short period of time.” She starts to minimize their relationship, but his expression changes her mind. “Not long enough. He asked me to marry him.”

  “You were getting married? Congratulations. I mean, I’m so sorry he’s gone.”

  She wipes at her eyes, sidestepping his question. “I was just talking with Beth Ann, and—”

  “Oh, that woman.” His eyes roll, but then he assumes a solemn expression. “She’s . . . a former customer.”

  Maggie looks up under her lashes, glad for the second coat of mascara she applied to cover her rough night. “He knew she had her problems, but he loved her. I feel responsible for her now that he’s gone.”

  “You’d be taking on a big project, I tell you.”

  She nods sadly. “Beth Ann said Chet mortgaged his place, was behind on payments, and has an empty bank account. I’m worried he unintentionally left her in a bad position.”

  He looks down his nose like he smells a fart. “How did she claim to know that?”

  “A stack of mail on Chet’s dining room table. She can’t figure out what he needed all that money for, and I didn’t know what to tell her. Do you know?”

  He shakes a finger at her like she was a naughty child. “If I knew, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “You can’t?”

  He winks. “I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “No, I don’t know what he needed it for. Get it?” He laughs.

  Maggie can’t muster a smile. He’s making no sense. And isn’t funny. “I hoped talking to you would help me understand what happened to him.” She sniffs, tries to look like she’s holding back tears. “If there was something to celebrate, I could be proud of him. Or some problem he had, I could help. Especially with his mother left holding the bag.”

  Rocky chews the inside of his bottom lip, like he’s working a wad of chewing tobacco. “Well, there’s one thing I can tell you, because I didn’t learn it from him. But you’d need to keep it between us.”

  “Oh?”

  “My wife works the front desk at the law firm here in town. She said he came in and left a big fat retainer check with them a few weeks ago. Right after he got the mortgage money from us.”

  “Really? For what?”

  Rocky looks around like the walls have ears. “I’m not disclosing attorney-client privileged information here, because Jaycee isn’t a lawyer. Plus, it was written right on the face of the check her boss sent her here to deposit. When she told me, it finally made sense why he was driving down from Sheridan to do business here.”

  “Why?”

  “To keep other people out of his business.”

  “Oh.” The irony is so rich
it nearly gags her. When Rocky doesn’t continue, she adds, “Well, what did it say?”

  “For custody of my daughter.”

  Maggie leans forward, gripping the edge of his desk. “That’s wonderful news. We had such a whirlwind courtship that he didn’t tell me the name of his daughter. What is it?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  “Her mother, then?”

  “An even better one.”

  Thirty-One

  Maggie’s phone vibrates. She pulls it from her bag. The words LEE COUNTY flash onscreen. Rocky gave her what she came here for, and Junior’s call is as good a way as any to end this interview. She holds her phone up. “I have to take this. Thank you for your help, Mr. Hancock.”

  “Rocky. And of course. My condolences again for your loss.”

  Maggie shakes his hand again then presses accept call as she exits the office. “Hello?”

  Rocky rushes ahead of her toward the entrance.

  The male voice in her ear says, “Maggie Killian, please.”

  “Speaking, Junior.” She waves goodbye to the woman who helped her earlier.

  “Hi, Maggie.” She can almost picture Junior’s blush. “I got your message. I’m sorry to be bothering you on vacation again.”

  Rocky opens the heavy exterior door. She smiles sweetly and nods to thank him. “I’m not on vacation.” She walks toward the Tahoe, glad for the big sky after half an hour in the dark cavern of the bank.

  “Oh—uh, okay. I, um, I’m calling you with an update on the break-in at Flown the Coop.”

  Maggie feels like her life is a treadmill set faster than she can run. The break-in at her shop. Not to be confused with the break-ins at her cabin here. “Thank you. Tell me something good.”

  “Wish I could. We met with Gary Fuller. He wasn’t too happy about it.”

  “I can only imagine.”