Maggie Box Set

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “I’m going to bed.”

  Rage explodes in a starburst in Maggie’s head. This woman is keeping her from her own home, at a time when Maggie’s lost the two most important men in her life and now her store and inventory. Tonight’s fire stripped her of her creativity, her passion, and her hard work. And Leslie won’t answer a few simple questions to help find the person who did it? She wants to throttle her, but she has a better idea.

  She speed-dials Junior from her Recents.

  He picks up on the second ring. “Maggie. Where’d you go?”

  “My short-term vacation renter is standing in the road in front of the house with me and can talk to you now.” Maggie describes Leslie, then adds, “Short, robotic, rude.”

  “Tell her we’re on our way.”

  “Bitch,” Leslie mutters as she walks toward the ruined compound.

  “Come on, hon.” Michele holds open the front passenger door of the Jeep.

  Before Maggie takes a single step toward her new sister, her attention is ripped away again. This time by a strange glow in the trees on the other side of the road. She squints at it. Not a glow. A person. A woman. A tall, pale woman with a long gray braid.

  “Hey,” she shouts.

  Without even realizing she’s doing it, Maggie runs across the road. A horn honks. Looky-loos cruising the fire. She doesn’t spare the time to apologize. She has to catch the woman she just saw. The woman from Michele’s backyard. She got away before. Is she following me? Maybe she started the fire. Or saw who did.

  Michele’s voice seems to float to her from a million miles away. “No, Maggie. Stop. Come back. Be careful.”

  Maggie keeps running.

  The pale woman is farther away from her than she’d realized. Way, way back in the trees and thick yaupon. Thorns rip at Maggie’s clothes and branches scratch her face. As hard as Maggie runs, she doesn’t seem to get any closer. There’s a tunnel between her and the woman that’s growing longer and narrower with every step, pulling the woman away from Maggie like she’s on a high-speed motorized walkway. But that can’t be. She’s just faster than Maggie. It’s the only logical explanation.

  Panting, Maggie shouts again. “Wait. Please.”

  She thinks she hears Michele, but far away. Rashidi shouts, too, the sound like his voice is coming from the bottom of a well. But she ignores both of them. All she cares about is catching the mystery woman.

  The woman stops. Her eyes lock with Maggie’s.

  Maggie slows and holds out a hand to her. “I just want to talk to you.”

  Maggie is lying, though. She doesn’t just want to talk. She wants to get the woman back to Junior. She wants her to give him answers that will explain all of this.

  Suddenly, Michele is there, in front of her, but Maggie doesn’t break her gaze from the woman. She’s so sad-looking. Is that guilt about the fire? Or does she feel empathy for what Maggie is going through? And why won’t she say anything?

  Rashidi joins Michele. He steps in front of Maggie, blocking her view of the braided woman.

  “No!” Maggie shouts and swats to move him out of the way.

  He holds his ground.

  “Shh, Maggie. It’s going to be all right.” Michele reaches up and puts a hand on Maggie’s face.

  Maggie ducks around Rashidi and away from Michele. She doesn’t see the woman anymore. She pushes Rashidi. Frantic, she yells, “Where is she?”

  “Where is who?” Rashidi asks, his voice gentle. Concerned.

  “There was a woman here. The same one I saw earlier in the backyard.”

  “In my backyard?” Michele asks.

  “Yes. She ran off then, too. I have to talk to her.”

  Michele sounds stricken. “Maggie, you can’t go running after a stranger. A witness. That’s a job for the cops.”

  “But I have to get her to tell them what she saw.”

  “Them who?”

  “The fire marshal. The deputies. Law enforcement.”

  “Give them her description tomorrow.”

  “She could be long gone by then.”

  “Well, you’re not going to find her out in the woods in the dark. And how do you know she didn’t start the fire? She could be dangerous.”

  Defeated, Maggie’s shoulders slump. “There’s no ‘could be’ to it. If she started the fire, she is dangerous. They found a dead body in the Coop.”

  Twenty

  The unreality of the previous night still hasn’t sunk in. Maggie rotates a coffee mug back and forth in her fingers—her fourth cup of the day already—on the tile inlay top of Michele’s dining room table. The tiny author-athlete-sister-attorney is a miracle worker. She’s emptied her house and assembled all the hot-to-question-Maggie law enforcement personnel, on home turf. Or as close to home as Maggie can get with Leslie not out of Maggie’s house yet.

  Michele’s not only gained home-court advantage, she’s kept the law enforcement ranks thin. This despite their original demand of a crowd of nine. They’re limited to Karen—the fire marshal—along with one representative each from the Lee and Fayette counties sheriff’s departments. Junior is here representing Lee and the big sheriff himself has come from Fayette. The three uniforms circle the table like buzzards around a carcass. If Michele is the guardian of the remains whose job it is to keep the flesh eaters at bay, Maggie is the rotting hunk of meat.

  Louise peers through the back window, barking her fool head off, adding to a deep pain above Maggie’s brow. She appreciates Louise’s loyalty, though. She shifts her eyes over the dog’s head and into the backyard. She’d seen the pale woman from last night here, and she wonders if she’ll come back. Friend or foe? Maggie’s gut says the woman has something important to tell her.

  Louise tests the glass, pushing against it with her nose, then trying to dig through it with her claws. Gertrude paces beside her. When Gidget died, little Gertrude broke through a glass window and went for help, finding Michele. Maggie would bet Michele is remembering that right now, too. It brings the slightest of smiles to Maggie’s lips. If Gertrude can break glass, Louise surely can. She imagines the two of them busting through, teeth sinking into ankles, officers screaming and running like small children from the yappy, runty dogs.

  It’s a happy thought.

  “You have exactly forty-five minutes.” Michele hits record in the Voice Memo app on her iPhone. “I suggest you get started, because I’m not extending the time. Ms. Killian’s had too much trauma in too short a time frame to be forced to endure anything longer.”

  Karen presses something on her own phone. “For the record, we object to your terms.”

  “That wasted thirty seconds.” Michele smiles at her.

  Maggie watches as they waste another few seconds staring at each other. With their thumbs up their asses. She nods at Michele.

  “We’ll start, then. Ms. Killian has something she wants to say.” Michele doesn’t look at her, but she squeezes her sister’s knee. They’d talked this through for hours the night before.

  “No, I believe I will,” the sheriff says. He’d introduced himself earlier—in a voice that’s barely spent a day outside Fayette County—but Maggie’s already forgotten his name. He points at Maggie. “Did you or did you not confess to a Lee County deputy that you spilled gasoline on yourself while burning down Gary Fuller’s house?”

  Michele jumps to her feet. “If you want to talk to my client, that’s the last we’re going to hear of misrepresentations and accusations. Those you can make at the station, if you arrest her, but not in my home. And not when you haven’t even classified this fire as intentional.”

  “You can’t tell me what I can and can’t ask.”

  “I can terminate this interview.”

  “We’ll arrest her, then.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? It doesn’t escape me, Sheriff, that you’re under a bit of pressure to close this case. Traffic outside Gary’s gate now is a constant gridlock. He’s like Selena, for Texas rednecks. A fo
lk hero. And they’re convinced their guy was murdered. Their narrative is to blame a woman. This woman.” She nods at Maggie. “But their agenda shouldn’t dictate yours, and it certainly doesn’t dictate ours. Ms. Killian did nothing wrong, and you aren’t going to get away with harassing her. Not on my watch.”

  The sheriff guffaws. “Junior, hold my beer.”

  Karen looks pained. “Enough. Ms. Killian, unless your attorney is going to terminate this interview, please answer the question.”

  “Fine,” Michele says. “If she wants to.”

  Maggie shakes her head, but answers anyway. “No, I did not make any kind of admission. And Junior damn well knows it.”

  Michele holds a hand up. “Thank you. Moving forward, she won’t answer anything I tell her not to. You can’t bully us. Now, as I said, Ms. Killian will kick things off.”

  Maggie nods. “I’ve already told Junior everything I knew about the vandalism of my shop, including the only people I could think of who might have a grudge against me. With respect to last night, I have no idea how the fire started. I’d spent the day there cleaning up from the last break-in and getting merchandise and displays ready for the antique show. I went home, did yoga, took a walk, went to Los Patrones and then to St. Paul Lutheran Church, where I was when I got the call about the fire from Junior. But some weird things have been happening, and my attorney thinks I should tell you about them.”

  “With all due respect, counselor, Ms. Killian is eating into the time we were told we’d have to question her,” the sheriff drawls, his tone mocking and disrespectful of the tiny lawyer.

  Michele ignores him. “Go on, Maggie. Just tell them what you told me.”

  “I’ve had a few odd visitors to the Coop since I got back. The first and most concerning was Rickey Sayles. He’s opened up a rival business not far from here. He showed up uninvited trying to buy the Coop. He didn’t make a threat per se, but his attitude was threatening. He was at the fire last night, too. With Jenny, no less.” Maggie speaks directly to Junior. “The one I told you hated me because she didn’t like sharing Gary. Strange coincidence that they’re together now.” She returns her attention to the officers as a group. “Given that he’s been going around town telling people he’s going to kill off the Coop, I find the timing of his visits very suspect.”

  “When was that first visit?” Junior says. He’s looking a little green around the gills, working side by side with such senior Fayette officials.

  “Saturday afternoon.”

  “I’ll look into it.” Junior makes a note.

  “Go on,” Michele says.

  “Tom Clarke came to see me on Saturday, too.”

  “Who’s he?” Junior asks.

  “Gary Fuller’s manager.”

  Karen’s eyes bore into Maggie. “What was that about?”

  “I’m not really sure. He said he was in town to meet with Gary on Friday.”

  “What?” the Fayette sheriff barks.

  Karen puts her hand over his arm. “Sheriff Boland. Please.”

  Sheriff Boland. Boland is the asshole’s last name. Maggie doesn’t remember the first, if she ever knew it. “With all that happened, I’d forgotten about it, but Gary told me he planned to meet with Tom Friday. When we talked Thursday night.”

  “Did Gary tell you why he wanted a meeting with Tom?” Karen asks.

  “He said he was going to fire him.”

  Karen and Boland share a long look. Karen doesn’t remove her restraining hand from his arm.

  “But when I saw him on Saturday, Tom claimed he was late getting to Gary’s and by the time he got there Friday, Gary was long gone.”

  “What did he mean by that?” Karen asks.

  “He didn’t say. He was acting crazy. The whole conversation went down on the side of the road near the Coop, and it didn’t last long. I told him he needed to go to the authorities, but he said he couldn’t because people would think he killed Gary.”

  Boland smiles at her, but it’s really more a leer. “That’s awful convenient, seeing as he’s not here to confirm your story.”

  Maggie balls her fists. “Well, it’s your job to find him and talk to him, not mine.”

  Karen says, “Why would people think he killed Gary?”

  “According to Gary, Tom is a thief and was putting other clients’ interests ahead of his.”

  “Why would Tom do that?”

  “You’d have to ask Tom. But if I had to guess, he’s been hedging his bets for if and when Gary’s star falls. Gary was no sellout. Tom’s been on him to become more commercial for years, but he wouldn’t compromise his artistic integrity.” If singing about Lone Star longnecks and Friday night lights is artistic.

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “Why would I have proof? I’m not a cop and it’s not my business.” Maggie narrows her eyes at the sheriff. “But from what I’d seen and heard, that was my belief, and it had come to be Gary’s. In my opinion, firing Tom was long overdue. It shouldn’t be hard for you to confirm Tom’s been in town, if you don’t believe me.” She takes a deep breath. “I also ran into another person on the outs with Gary. Yesterday. At Los Patrones.”

  Boland smirks. “Suddenly no one is Gary’s friend, or so says Maggie Killian.”

  “Do you want her help or not?” Michele retorts.

  Boland makes a rolling “go on” motion with his hand and shuts his mouth.

  “Thorn Gibbons is a musician and television personality. He claimed to me that he came to town to surprise Gary, and that he hadn’t known he was dead. He quizzed me about whether Gary had mentioned him to me, and whether anyone knew how Gary had died yet. That was all weird, because Gary and Thorn weren’t friends and didn’t have business together, but the weirdest part was I saw him Saturday morning, too. I asked him about it, and he denied being in town.”

  Boland grunts. “Case of mistaken identity?”

  “There’s no such thing with Thorn. He’s very hard to miss.”

  “But does he have a beef with Gary?”

  “Gary didn’t mention anything, but Google their names. The internet thinks so.”

  “Why don’t you tell us about it?” Boland says, his voice rising.

  “Because your forty-five minutes is ticking, and I don’t have a lick of firsthand knowledge. And I’m not done.”

  “Go on,” Karen says, ignoring Boland’s glare.

  “Three things stick out at me from Friday night, as I think back on it, things I didn’t remember in the heat of the moment.”

  “Convenient again,” Boland says with a snort.

  “Sheriff Boland, you’re not helping,” Karen says.

  Maggie tries to block out Boland and focus on saying the things she and Michele planned. “The first was that Friday when I drove from Round Top out to Gary’s, the road was pretty clear. I only saw one car the whole time. It was a silver sedan. I don’t know the type. It wasn’t overly old. It wasn’t overly new. Unremarkable. But given the timing, I wanted you to know. I didn’t notice the driver. The other thing was that as I was running to the back of the house, I tripped over a hose. I was in a hurry, and I didn’t stop to get a close look, but it had a cut in it. A long one. That may not be significant, but, there you go.”

  “We found the hose.” Karen nods at Michele.

  Maggie hesitates. She’s scared to tell the last thing. She and Michele had talked for a long time about how to spin it.

  Michele pats her knee. “One last thing, right?”

  Maggie swallows. “Last night at the fire, as I was leaving, there was a woman in the woods across the street from the Coop.”

  Junior interrupts. “Who?”

  Michele raises a brow at him. “Let my client speak, please.”

  Maggie answers anyway. “I don’t know, but I’d seen her at least once before. Here.” Maggie points past the agitated dogs. “In the backyard, looking in the windows at me. That time, I got up to go out and see what she was doing, but she disappeared. Wh
en I saw her after the fire, I chased her. But she got away.” She remembers the braided woman in her rocking chair, but she doesn’t mention it. It’s enough that they know about the other times, or so she tells herself, because it had to have been just a dream. She’ll sound crazy if she tells them about a woman who broke and entered just to rock in a chair by her bed. Even Maggie doesn’t believe the woman was really there that time. Booze. Dreams. Hallucinations. Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been real. The scarf, yes, it was real, but it doesn’t mean the woman was.

  Deafening silence fills the room like a screaming banshee. She’s surprised them, and she has their full attention now.

  Maggie clears her throat. “I don’t know who she is. I’d only seen her that one other time, as far as I know. But if she’s following me, maybe she saw something I didn’t. Or, I don’t know, maybe she’s involved somehow.”

  “Did anyone else see her?” Junior asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  Michele squeezes Maggie’s knee again. “Rashidi John and I went after Ms. Killian in the woods and reached her after she’d lost sight of the woman. We didn’t see her, but we can attest that she was running after someone and yelling for them to stop.”

  Boland grins. “So no other people saw her.”

  Michele’s voice is a whip crack. “Ms. Killian answered that and said she doesn’t know. It wasn’t her job to go look for witnesses. That’s for Lee County to do. Go on, Maggie.”

  Karen holds up her hand. “Wait. Can we at least get a description?”

  “Gray hair. Long. She wore it in a single French braid the times I saw her. She’s tall. I don’t think she’s old. Maybe fifty, sixty at most? Or prematurely gray. She was medium build. Not fat. Not skinny. Pale. Very, very pale.”

  Junior guides the questioning now. The woman is a potential witness to the incident in Lee County. “Eyes?”

  “Too far away to see.”

  “How did she dress?”

  “Jeans and a buttoned shirt, tucked in.”

  “Country.”

  “Seemed so.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not that I recall.”