Maggie Box Set

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “Maggie?”

  The Betty Boop voice breaks Maggie’s trance. “Sheila.”

  “What’s going on? Is Hank okay?” Tear tracks streak the foundation on Sheila’s cheeks. She’s in jeans, Keds, and a Buffalo Elementary T-shirt, hair in a high ponytail.

  The handful of people in the room stare at Maggie and Sheila. Old men, bones razor sharp inside jeans held up by suspenders. Matching women, only slightly softer in body, but their faces steely and inscrutable. Waiting for whom? For what news? Maggie only knows they aren’t here for Hank. She is.

  Maggie gets to her feet but doesn’t touch the other woman. “He’s out of surgery. In recovery. That’s all I know.” Because I’m not family, but then, neither are you. “Laura and Gene are with the doctor now.”

  “Oh God. Is he going to die?” For a Wyoming woman, Sheila’s near-hysteria is surprising. A woman has to be tough to live here.

  “I don’t think so.” Underlying fear laps at Maggie’s calm, but she keeps it out of her voice. Hank is alive only because Gene knew where to send the helicopter and rescue team. Hank had lost so much blood. But the doctors said the bullet hadn’t done serious internal damage. It could have been much worse. The worst. But it wasn’t.

  “I’m nearly thirty. I’ve spent all this time on him. He can’t die.” Sheila throws herself onto a couch and starts to sob.

  Maggie isn’t up for coddling Sheila. “Yes, it would be such a tragedy for you. And Chet Moore’s daughter, of course.” Maggie considers the horrible irony of it all. So many people with motives to do Chet in. All that she uncovered about the mess that was his life. None of it in the end having a damn thing to do with why he died.

  No, that was all on Maggie.

  Sheila’s waterworks shut down fast. She glares at Maggie. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.” She wants to claw at the selfish younger woman, but makes a hasty exit instead.

  Unsure of anything other than she needs to keep her distance from Sheila, Maggie paces the hallways of the hospital. Works the kinks out of her sore butt, and wonders if she should get an X-ray, but decides no—it’s not like they can put a cast on her ass. Grabs a coffee and drinks it black when she discovers the caddies are empty of creamer and sugar. Checks on Louise out in the truck for the umpteenth time. Stops at the information desk to check Hank’s status but learns nothing new.

  On her tenth lap of the facilities, her phone rings. It’s Boyd.

  “Hey, Boyd.”

  He sounds concerned. Paternal. Kind. “Maggie, I ran into Michele. She told me what’s going on. What can I do to help?”

  “Thanks, Boyd. I’m going to be all right.”

  “At least let me run interference with things on your place here.”

  “I think Michele and Deputy Junior have that taken care of.” Junior. Saying his name jars something loose in her mind. What has she forgotten about Junior? Then it comes to her. She forgot to send him the contact information for her renter, so he can get a statement from her. She’ll do it when she gets off the call. “I’ll be home in a few days, anyway.”

  “Do you need a place to stay?”

  No, thank you. Boyd’s warmth can’t make up for his wife’s chilliness, although Maggie doesn’t blame her for it. Maggie’s existence was a shock to her, part and parcel of events that torpedoed her husband’s plans to run for president of the United States. Not to mention all the baggage of the bad reputation Maggie drags around.

  Besides, Maggie plans to sleep in her own bed. “I’m good.”

  “We’ll grab dinner, then.”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  After they hang up, Maggie searches her email and finds an old string with her renter, Leslie DeWitt. It has Leslie’s home address and phone number. Maggie forwards it on to Junior with a message: Better late than never? While she’s on her phone she checks the messages she’s ignored for hours. Her mom. Gary. Nothing new from either of them.

  Michele: I talked to Lacey. Call me.

  She will. Later. Right now, she’s too anxious. She makes three more laps of the hospital, then runs into Paco, Andy, and Gene on the ground floor.

  “Cops are looking for you.” Gene gestures toward the waiting room.

  “Thanks. I think.” She enters. Buffalo Detective Lacey and Sheridan County Deputy Travis. A cross-jurisdictional dream team. She raises a hand in a sort-of wave.

  They walk across the room toward her. Sheila is nowhere to be seen.

  Maggie tries to muster up the energy to deal with all of this, but her voice is dull. “I heard you were looking for me.”

  Lacey nods, his white-blond hair swinging forward, in need of a cut. “Let’s take this out in the hall.”

  She leads them, then turns.

  Lacey hikes a thumb at Travis. “Sheridan County brought Rudy in. He’s in the hospital here.”

  She sags against the wall. “Thank you.” Light-headed, she leans over with her hands on her knees.

  “An arrow was still in him. If the shot were an inch further to his right, he’d be dead.”

  Maggie curses her bad aim, but she simply nods.

  “Your arrow?”

  “Yes. He shot Hank and he was coming at me with a rifle.”

  “Did he point it at you?”

  “Yes. Did you find it?”

  Travis moves closer, his big presence oddly comforting. “Yes. In the doorway, where you said it would be.”

  “Good.”

  “It had a name engraved on it. Hank Sibley.”

  Maggie sighs. “A .300 Winchester Magnum.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “It was stolen from my cabin.”

  Travis scowls at her. “You left that out of the list of items you gave me yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry.” She makes a gesture at the world in general. “My brain was fried. Still is.”

  “Having all the information helps us solve crimes faster.”

  “At Rudy’s, you saw the other stuff, right? The strap he stole from me at Piney Bottoms? The stuff about me posted everywhere?”

  “We saw it all. It was compelling as to motive in a few recent events.”

  Maggie snorts. “Just a little. That rifle. Have you confirmed it was the one that shot Hank?”

  “We have people looking into that right now.”

  “I think it will be the same one that shot Patrick Rhodes. And Wolf, too.”

  “Who’s Wolf?”

  “Hank’s horse.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Anyway, it’s roughly the same caliber rifle that shot all three, as you seem to know.”

  “I only know what my gut’s telling me.”

  Travis says, “We saw the pictures of you with Chet and Patrick, too. And Hank.” He points at her waist. “I see you found your belt buckle.”

  “I’m sorry. It was at Rudy’s. I didn’t think, just grabbed it as I ran out. It means a lot to me.”

  The cop and deputy look at each other.

  Travis says, “I wish you hadn’t done that, but we can let it slide.”

  “I guess I’ll need to come in and give a statement?”

  “At some point. You’ve got other fish to fry today.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But first, we have something we need to talk to you about.”

  Maggie pushes off her legs and stands again. She presses the back of her hand against her forehead. “What now?”

  “We found something else at Rudy’s. Chet Moore’s wallet.”

  “He didn’t get it from my cabin. I never touched it.”

  Lacey puts a hand on her elbow. “There are fingerprints all over it.”

  “You’re kidding me, right? You’re coming back at me again, after everything you saw at Rudy’s? I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

  Travis puts a hand up. In a voice so soft it seems impossible that it comes from a man of his size, he says, “You’re misunderstanding us. Rudy’s fingerprints were all over
it. Yours weren’t.”

  For a moment, she’s confused. How did they check for her prints? But then she remembers. Her fingerprints are on file from old drug arrests. She never thought she’d be glad for her past, but she is now. Rock solid evidence tying Rudy to Chet. “That’s better.”

  Lacey nods. “And we had the Whitefeathers in for questioning. They remembered seeing Rudy in the hotel parking lot after you and Chet went inside.”

  Travis smiles at her. “Between you and me and the fence post, there’s no doubt you didn’t kill Chet Moore, or that Rudy is the one who did. Or that he took your stuff and, yes, killed Patrick Rhodes.”

  “It’s about time.” She lets her head fall back against the wall with a crack.

  “And if you ever want a job,” Lacey adds, “you should apply with the Buffalo PD. You did a great job on the case this week. You really stirred up some shit with your voicemail.”

  “But I didn’t figure it out until it was too late, and then only by nearly getting Hank killed.” And she still doesn’t have any idea how Rudy managed the break-ins in Texas at the same time as the break-ins in Wyoming. Or if he even had anything to do with them or the sabotage of her truck. But those are problems to solve another day. For now, the mess here is untangling from her and from Hank, and that’s enough.

  “You figured out more than we did. As your attorney stressed several times when she was reading me the riot act earlier.”

  Ah, yes. Michele did talk to Lacey. Maggie almost smiles. How she loves her Chihuahua-size friend with the chops of a pit bull.

  “Maggie?” Gene’s voice interrupts.

  The officers step aside for Gene and Laura.

  Maggie throws her arms around the short cowboy. “Do you have an update?”

  “We do. He’s going to be fine. You saved him, Maggie.”

  Maggie shakes her head. “More like I nearly got him killed.” She buries her face in his shoulder. “It was my fault. Hank getting shot. Chet dying. Patrick. They were my fault, too. Everything is my fault.”

  “Not everything.” He pats her.

  She turns her face to him like he’s the sun in December. “Nearly.”

  “What are you talking about?” Laura asks. “What did you do, Maggie?”

  Gene’s voice is firm and his face hard. He faces Laura. “She solved the murders and saved Hank’s life.”

  “She said it was her fault.”

  “She’s very much mistaken about that, as you’ll hear confirmed from law enforcement if you don’t believe me.”

  Laura glances at Lacey and Travis, who are still close enough to hear every word. Both men nod.

  Laura lifts her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m on edge. Worried about my brother.”

  Gene shrugs. “It’s okay. We all are.”

  Maggie grabs Gene’s elbow, pulling him away from Laura and bumping into Lacey as she does. “Gene, I was wrong.”

  Gene pushes her back and holds her by the shoulders. “Wrong about?”

  “Hank. Me and him. Us. I can’t let Sheila have him. We belong together.”

  Gene smiles. “Don’t tell me. Tell him.”

  “I sort of told him I loved him earlier. When I thought he was going to die.”

  Gene chuckles.

  “But, Gene, I don’t deserve him. Even that annoying twit Sheila deserves him more than me.”

  Behind her, Lacey laughs. Maggie turns and glares at him.

  He wipes the mirth from his face. “We’ll just be getting out of your way.”

  Travis says, “I’ll call you about a statement. That’s all for now. Good luck, Ms. Killian.”

  The two law enforcement officers retreat down the hall and out of sight.

  Gene shakes his head at Maggie. “Love isn’t about deserving.”

  Maggie sniffs and wipes her eyes. “I’m a dangerous person. I hurt everyone. Hank especially.”

  “But you really love him, don’t you?”

  “I do. So much.”

  “Then you should let him know. Not when he’s bleeding to death on a mountain. Let him decide whether you’re too dangerous for him. He’s always been something of a risk taker.” Gene winks.

  Maggie laughs.

  Pounding feet interrupt the moment. Sheila sprints down the hall toward them, ponytail bouncing.

  “Where has she been?” Maggie asks.

  Gene whispers. “They moved Hank to recovery.”

  Laura moves in to rejoin their conversation. “She forced her way in when I went out to talk to Gene.”

  Sheila practically skips up to Laura, Gene, and Maggie.

  “What is it?” Laura asks. “Good news about Hank?”

  She beams. “We’re getting married. Hank and I are getting married! My Hanky Panky’s going to be a daddy!”

  Laura and Gene gawk at the girl.

  Sheila is having a baby? Maggie takes a deep breath. Yes, Maggie is dangerous. She’s not the best person in the world. But even a mess like her won’t wreck this for Hank. Fatherhood. It’s bigger than her. It’s more important than her feelings. Hank’s girlfriend is pregnant. Maggie loses.

  She chokes the words out like a hairball, but she does say them. “Congratulations, Sheila.”

  “I have to go call my mother.” Sheila runs out toward the lobby, her phone to her ear.

  After she’s gone, Gene says, “Well, son of a bitch.”

  Laura looks conflicted. “Hank’s always wanted children. Maybe this is a good thing?”

  Head buzzing, Maggie takes a deep breath. She pulls the belt and buckle from her waist and hands them to Gene.

  He pushes them back to her. “Don’t, Maggie.”

  “I’m not getting in the way of that.” She looks straight into Laura’s dark eyes. “No matter what anybody here thinks of me, I’m better than that.”

  Laura looks at Gene, then back at Maggie. Tears glisten in her eyes. “I’ve never—”

  Maggie shakes her head. “Just stop, Laura. You’re his sister. I get it.”

  She squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, and walks away. Past Sheila jabbering on the phone, past Paco and Andy hovering over coffee cups near the front door, all the way to the parking lot, all the way to Bess.

  Maggie stalls, letting Louise out for a potty break and dumping her water bowl, then putting her back in the truck. What she’s waiting for, she can’t say. She knows she can’t be waiting on Hank. He’s in a recovery room bed. Engaged to Sheila. With a baby on the way. He’s not coming after her. She and Hank are through. After fifteen years, she’s truly lost him.

  A tall woman with long black hair in a low ponytail and some kind of buckskin-colored suede pants and matching top eyes Maggie good as she walks toward the hospital. Maggie watches her go, feeling a magnet pull to follow her back inside. To beg Hank to change his mind, be a daddy to his child, but to love her. To make it okay for her to stay. Which is insane. When all she has wanted for the last week is to be gone from this godforsaken state of pain. Her heart is just playing tricks on her mind.

  Well, she’s too smart to fall for her own shit.

  She’s going to get her trailer of junk and go home. She’ll make it there in time for the fall antique show. Fix up her shop. Browbeat Junior until he solves her case. Smooth things over with Gary. Shower Michele with appreciation. Hug her goats. Eat with the only father she’ll have for the rest of her life. Let her mom tell her whatever secret it is she’s dying to get out. Yes, that’s what’s going to happen. And she’s not going to cry a single tear, because Hank is going to be happy, something she could probably never make him—not as mercurial and dangerous as she is, as they are—and she is not going to screw that up.

  But she waits another five minutes anyway. The sunlight is incandescent on the mountain range with its jagged black teeth chomping at the sky. She breathes in the scent of the Russian olive trees wafting up from the creek one last time—the invaders on their way out, like her—and savors the fingers of wind in her unruly hair.

  Wh
en no one and nothing stops her, she reaches in the half-open window and ruffles Louise’s ears. “It’s just you and me now, Fucker.”

  She hops in, eyes dry, and puts the truck in gear, pointing Bess toward the interstate, south and home to Texas.

  * * *

  Sick Puppy

  A Maggie Romantic Mystery

  One

  Maggie brakes for a tumbleweed the size of a small pickup. The giant weed rolls across Highway 87, bouncing off a DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS sign before resuming its course south. In the rearview mirror, the New Mexico sunset is a Technicolor backdrop to the zombie chorus line the dead bush and its brethren form on a barbed-wire fence. They’re like the display of coyote carcasses Maggie’d seen a few miles back. If the hanging coyotes are a warning to predators, what are the tumbleweeds warning? By the brown, barren look of things, the fauna thinks the message is for them.

  She rescues a whipping strand of hair from her ChapSticked lips. Lipstick and a headband had been out of the question when she left Colorado Springs without sleeping, in a hellfire hurry to get back to Giddings. Home. Her home.

  She turns to the panting border collie–corgi mix in the passenger seat. The dog’s black-and-white hair is levitating, but the wind is hot. “This is as good as it’s gonna get, Louise.”

  Louise whines, circles, then sticks her nose out the window.

  Maggie’s phone plays a portentous series of chords on the seat beside her. She’d set new notification tones last night, as soon as she was out of Wyoming. Time for change, across the board. This sound is for a text, and it tells her two things. First, she’s back in the land of cell service. Second, her phone survived being thrown at the door of the bathroom stall in Raton, after flaunting a text from Hank, the love of her life and breaker of her heart.

  Hank’s text had read: Was it something I said?

  Something he said. Funny.

  Defying death now, she presses the phone for his contact information. His picture pops up, and she enlarges it. He’s in profile, smiling and showing off his delicious dimple. A Stetson covers his dark hair. His shirt is open at the neck, right where she used to like to kiss him.