Maggie Box Set

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  Michele opens the door before Maggie can knock. “You smell like smoke and look like hell.”

  Maggie opens her mouth to explain and breaks into sobs instead.

  “Oh, honey, come inside.” Michele pulls Maggie through the door and into her arms. “Whiskey first?”

  Maggie nods, unable to speak through choking noises that seem bigger and louder in the high-ceilinged entryway. She hears scrabbling claws and a territorial growl. She chokes down another sob and steps back. The only stranger-looking dog in the world than Louise is Michele’s Gertrude, a Rastafarian-like mix of sheepdog and pug. Her locks tremble as she stares down Louise, the intruder to her peaceful domain.

  Louise wags her tail and holds herself rock-still for inspection. Gertrude makes a lap around her and sniffs her hind end. Then something changes, and all of a sudden the two dogs are chasing each other around the living room, barking happy barks.

  Michele raises her eyebrows. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Consolation prize from Wyoming.”

  They move to the kitchen. Maggie climbs onto a cowhide stool and leans on the tan granite countertop. Michele pours from a bottle of Balcones and adds a few ice cubes. She hands Maggie the drink and guides her to the couch with fingertips between her shoulder blades. “Start talking.”

  So Maggie takes a deep breath, and she does, until there’s nothing left to tell.

  Six

  The next morning, Maggie is officially cried out and even more sleep-deprived. Hank. Gary. The roar of the fire. The work in front of her to restore her shop. More Gary. More Hank. On repeat, all night long.

  Throwing off the quilt, Maggie staggers to the en suite bathroom. Michele’s Mayan art looks like it was created to hang on the earth-toned tile wall. A multicolored glass butterfly figurine takes flight from a sage green soapstone countertop. A glass-walled shower with a river-stone floor promises tranquility. She ignores the shower, opting only to splash water on her puffy eyes. She stares into the mirror, seeing herself in the light of day for the first time since the fire. Without eyebrows and lashes, she looks like a minor actress in a slasher flick, right before her short role ends. She peeks under the bandages on her arms. The EMT told her to put aloe vera on them—Neosporin if they start to look infected—and change bandages daily. So far, it doesn’t look bad. Just ugly. She’ll pick up supplies later.

  She pulls on jeans and a snug T-shirt that says Vintage Model across her free-range breasts. Her Martin guitar in its hard case is propped against the wall. Good. She remembered to bring it in last night. Now that she’s returned Hank’s belt buckle, it’s her most prized possession in the world. It and everything else in her truck bed and trailer could have been destroyed last night. Fire. Water. Whatever other shit the firefighters dumped on the blaze. Her material things are nothing compared to Gary, of course, but they still matter to her. She presses her temple. Coffee. She needs coffee. She tiptoes barefoot to the kitchen. Gertrude and Louise are playing tug-of-war with a thick braided rope in the doorway to Michele’s office. Maggie joins them at the door and pokes her head in.

  Michele is sipping coffee from an oversized mug, sitting behind the compact antique desk Maggie found for her the year before. The moment Maggie saw it, she knew it was the perfect size and style for her friend.

  “I’ve been reading about Gary.”

  Maggie asks, “Does my name come up?”

  Michele winces. “It does.”

  “As a suspect?”

  “No. Just as a former girlfriend, and the one that found him.”

  “Well, that’s something, at least.”

  “They’ll find out who did this. I’m so sorry, Maggie.”

  “Me, too.” Maggie flops into a chair. It rolls backward, and she arrests it with her feet. “Thanks for the ear last night. And everything else. The shop. The investigation. The insurance claim. My goats.”

  “Thanks for the pie.” Michele had insisted on helping Maggie unload Bess, which was a good thing. All the Royers bags and boxes had made it into her refrigerator.

  “Not in the same league.”

  Michele blows a raspberry, making light of Maggie’s serious tone. “You’d do the same for me.”

  “Still. I owe you.”

  “I’ll claim it in decorating advice.”

  “Your place is looking great.”

  “Belle tells me it looks too new for a country home named Nowheresville.”

  “Your stepdaughter is a smart young lady, but rustic takes time. We’ll find the right pieces, one by one. Speaking of your brood, how are Sam and the baby?”

  “Good. Charlie is visiting Sam’s father. It’s a busy time of year for Sam with baseball, and Robert needed his baby fix.”

  Maggie smiles. It’s sincere, if droopy. Michele’s teenage son had a baby boy his senior year of high school. Halfway through his freshman year on a juco baseball scholarship, his young wife was murdered. To say the kid had been having a rough time was an understatement. As a result, Michele balances very hands-on grandmothering with her writing schedule, the pro bono legal work she insists on doing to help out in their rural county, endurance triathlon training, and a super-sexy boyfriend—Rashidi, a hydroponic farming expert from the Virgin Islands who works for the Texas A&M Extension Service. Hydroponic as in “plants grown in water, fed by fish poop from live fish in the same tanks.” Maggie doesn’t understand his field, but she likes him almost as much as she likes Michele’s stepdaughter and son.

  “So where’s your man?”

  “Refugio today. He’s doing workshops and helping with installations. He’ll be back tonight.”

  Maggie walks into the kitchen to Michele’s Keurig. She prefers a good percolator, but Michele has tossed out even her old drip pot in favor of pods.

  “Are you ready to talk about Flown the Coop?” Michele follows her and leans against the countertop, cradling her mug.

  “Give me some good news. Please.”

  “I do have one good bit. It turns out your renter, Leslie, is super nice.”

  “My renter.” Maggie pops in a pod and positions a thick, oversized plain white mug with a chip under the spigot, then closes the handle and presses start.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you finally meet her?” At the time of the vandalism to the Coop, Michele had been unable to track Leslie down.

  “She’s been around the house and chatty the last few times I’ve been over to meet adjusters and deputies and contractors.”

  “Well, that’s good, I guess.”

  “Yep. What’s better is that you have Gidget’s old Jaguar in storage and the Andy Warhol you inherited from her in a museum.”

  “Tell me about it. If they’d been damaged in the shop, I’ll bet the adjuster would have gone ballistic.”

  “And all Gidget’s paintings. Thank God they were in your house.”

  Maggie’s stomach tightens at the thought. Besides being worth a fair amount of money, they are emotionally irreplaceable to her. “Oh, I talked to Junior again,” Maggie says, referring to the Lee County deputy working the Coop vandalism case. “I gave him a few suspects to run with.”

  “I wonder how Gary’s death will impact his investigation.”

  “Me, too. Did you talk to Gary after he found out he was under suspicion?” Maggie tests her coffee. Too hot. She blows on it, then sets it down.

  “Yes, he came by the Coop to see the damage for himself.”

  “I thought he was supposed to stay away.”

  “You know he was never any good at doing what he was told.”

  Maggie smiles sadly. “One of the things I loved best about him.”

  “Anyway, he was none too happy. He gave me and Leslie an earful about the incompetence of Lee County. And he threw in a few choice words about you, too.”

  “She was there?”

  “Yes.”

  Maggie purses her lips, thinking. Gary had been really angry at her. Humiliated by her. Jealous of her other men. But he
sure got over it quickly when she called. Besides, his method of revenge was to screw younger women, not to trash her livelihood.

  Michele points at the refrigerator. “Greek yogurt. Blueberries. Granola in the pantry.”

  Maggie gathers ingredients, a bowl, and a spoon. She moves her coffee to the island beside Michele and assembles her breakfast. An apple fritter fits her mood better, but she’d never find one here. Michele tends toward boringly healthy.

  “So, how did you end up with a date planned with Gary last night, anyway?”

  Maggie’s compromised emotional bandwidth had led to limited details in her storytelling. She’s not much better this morning, but coffee is helping. Yogurt will, too. “I drunk-dialed him from Amarillo.” She takes a bite.

  “You were getting back together?”

  “No. Just planning to engage in adult activities.”

  Michele shakes her head.

  “What?”

  “I’m really sorry for what you’ve been through. I’m sorry Gary is dead. I know you have a lot of history, and you cared about him.”

  “I hear a but in there somewhere.”

  “But I know you, and there’s no way you’re getting over Hank without someone to, um, you know. Help you exorcise the demon.”

  Maggie takes a big bite and talks with her mouth full. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  Michele laughs and swats her. “Speaking of Hank, I’ve noticed you’re not wearing your belt buckle.”

  “His belt buckle now. Like it always should have been.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Not really.” She’d filled Michele in on his engagement and great expectations last night. “But I gave it my best shot.”

  “You did. I’m proud of you. And I’m jealous you got to see Gene. I want to go visit him.”

  “He’s really awesome. If only he wasn’t business partners with and living on the same ranch as Hank, I’d go with you.”

  “Listen, I have some conference calls, and my editor is expecting my input on her revisions to my work-in-progress later today.”

  “Baby’s Breath?”

  “Yep. Are you going to be all right if I bail on you?”

  Maggie waves a spoon at her. “Lots to do.”

  “Don’t forget to put calling your mother on that list. And Boyd.”

  “I texted Mom last night. No answer.”

  “Yeah, she’s on a cellphone hiatus.”

  “So my timing is perfect.”

  “Not nice.”

  Maggie grins. “Seriously, what do you mean?”

  “Charlotte is on a getaway without her phone. She has news, but I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

  “No fair. How long has she been gone?”

  “Just since yesterday. But that’s all I’m going to say about it.”

  “Oh, goodie. If she’s not here Sunday, she can’t try to drag me to church.”

  Michele smirks and disappears back into her office.

  Maggie finishes her yogurt parfait, then lets Louise and her new best friend Gertrude out. She returns to the bathroom and makes herself more hygienic and presentable, then flops onto the bed to brave her phone. She has a voicemail from Junior asking for a meet on her shop. Fine. She’ll call him in a minute. Condolence messages on the Amarillo friends group text. Had Michele told them, or did Wallace get the news from People.com? She replies with a sad face and Thank you.

  Then, a text from Hank, shortly after their call the night before: I thought we were good. What have I done? And by the way, thanks for saving my life.

  Maggie deletes it. She can’t let his gratitude soften her resolve. But she was pretty amazing, if she does say so herself. When Hank was shot while he and Maggie were out antelope hunting, she’d gone for help, first nailing the shooter with an arrow shot from Hank’s compound bow, then arranging for a helicopter and rescue team. She’d do it again if she had to. But that doesn’t mean she’ll answer his texts.

  The doorbell rings. She hears two barking dogs, then Michele greeting someone. A male voice answers.

  Michele hollers. “Maggie? It’s Boyd.”

  Maggie sets her phone down. Well, that didn’t take long. She joins Boyd in the great room.

  Michele’s phone rings. She glances at it, then holds it up to show she has a call to take. “Sorry.” She answers it as she’s closing her office doors behind her.

  Boyd beams at Maggie. “There’s my beautiful daughter. I heard you were back.” He holds up a palm. “No, actually, I heard you left town. Not from you. Then I heard you were back. Again, not from you. I’m starting to get a complex.”

  Maggie hugs him. “Hi, Boyd. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, in both directions.”

  “I also heard some bad news. About Gary Fuller.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Just sad.” Maggie brushes hair back from her face, tucking it behind an ear.

  “I’ll bet. I’m really sorry. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

  “I will.”

  “Hey, what’s wrong with your arms? And your . . .” Boyd leans closer, staring at her face.

  “The fire. It’s not as bad as it seems.”

  “Tell that to your eyebrows, because they’re not looking so good.”

  “They’ll grow back.”

  “It’s all over the news that you were there. Not just local. CNN, et cetera.”

  “Swell.”

  “The price of celebrity. Speaking of which, how would you feel about me running for office again?” He locks his eyes on her and leans in, his signature move. Voters love it. People think it shows his sincerity. Maggie thinks he knows he’s still a handsome and charismatic man, even at nearly sixty.

  “Ambivalent.”

  “That’s a ringing endorsement.”

  “It’s up to you. Not my business.”

  “It will impact you. Keep your name in the news. You’ll have to deal with reporters and talking heads.”

  Michele rejoins them, watching the father-daughter exchange like a tennis match.

  “You do you. I’ll worry about me.”

  “It just seems like with Michele’s movie about us and all, the timing is good. My name recognition will be high.”

  Only a politician would look at the disclosure of his secret love child and the murder of his baby mama by his sister and former campaign manager as good PR. Maggie shoots him a thumbs-up, out of words.

  Michele grins. “You guys are coming to the premiere in Austin, right? I have tickets for everyone.”

  Maggie grumbles. “If my eyebrows grow back in a week.”

  “Two words: eyebrow pencil.”

  “Do you promise me I won’t hate the performance of the actress playing me?”

  “You’re such a snob. She’s great.”

  “She’s all flash-bang-boobs. Big-budget movies. You know I wanted a real actor.”

  Boyd says, “My wife and I will be there. Thanks for the tickets. I’m sure that’s what my churlish daughter meant to say.”

  Maggie shrugs. “Or not. Thanks for coming by, but now I have things I gotta do. Lunch later this week?” She kisses Boyd’s cheek.

  “Perfect. And I can introduce you to my campaign manager. Run through some ideas she has.”

  Maggie rolls her eyes. “Let’s not and say we did.”

  Seven

  Later in Giddings, Maggie drops by the feed store for dog food and goat treats, then the grocery store for bandages and ointment. She can’t pick up her goats from Lumpy until she has her house back, but it makes her feel better to buy them something. Her sunglasses and the light jacket of Michele’s she’d borrowed on her way out the door help cover evidence of the fire, for which she’s grateful. At both stores, she fends off curious stares and condolences, gestures she knows are meant more to elicit information about Gary than to make her feel better. Barely anyone knew abo
ut the two of them until he died.

  Leaving the parking lot of the grocery store, she sees a man who looks familiar. He’s tall. Very, very tall. Handsome, too, from what she can see under a John Deere ball cap pulled low on his forehead. His hands are jammed in his pockets. He passes, walking the other direction, and she sees a Skoal-can-like faded outline in the back pocket of his city-boy jeans. Not from around here. Maybe she doesn’t know him after all.

  Before she goes anywhere else, she needs gas. She stops in town at the Valero c-store. As she’s pumping, a man’s voice calls her name. She looks around, hoping he’s speaking to a different Maggie.

  “Yes, you. You’re Maggie Killian, aren’t you?” The voice belongs to a grungy-looking guy with acne on both cheeks.

  “Who are you?” The pump clicks off. Tank full.

  “I’m a reporter. I was hoping for a comment about Gary Fuller’s death.”

  Maggie jerks the nozzle out so fast she spills gas on the concrete. She jumps back to avoid getting splashed. It gets on her hands anyway. She replaces the nozzle, then screws the gas cap back on. “Buzz off, cub.”

  “Were the two of you back together? Did you catch him with another woman?”

  She ignores him.

  “Did he tell you he was going to be the newest coach on The Singer and whether it ended his friendship with Thorn Gibbons?”

  She opens the door to Bess. Thorn Gibbons. The guy in the grocery store parking lot had looked like the TV and music superstar from Connecticut, the one who likes to pretend he’s real country and is just as famous for beating a charge that he and his college lacrosse team had roofied a teenage girl and taken turns with her as he is for his music. He and Gary had never been friends. Just acquaintances in the biz. And Gary hadn’t said a word about The Singer. Maybe that had been his good news. Hmm, if he was Thorn, why would he come to Giddings?

  “Give up, already.”

  “Is it true he fired his sister Kelly from his band? And that you’re a suspect in his murder?”