Sick Puppy (Maggie #2)

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

Twenty-Two

  Maggie plants herself on the couch after a quick shower. Before she can forget, she decides to log in to PayPal to check for Leslie’s payment. As a small business owner, she’s very familiar with all forms of taking payment. Venmo, PayPal, Square, cash, or check, please. She enters her email and password. The log-in fails. She hates logging in on a phone, but she surrendered her laptop to Michele’s computer expert first thing that morning. She types the password in again, more carefully this time. It doesn’t work.

  “Dammit.”

  After a few more attempts, she gets a message that she’s locked out for a few hours, with a link to reset her password. She never remembers new passwords, so she decides to wait and try again from her laptop, where the password is stored in memory. Since she’s still awake, she checks her messages. There’s no new texts or calls, so she decides to pop her old SIM card back in and check it, since her phone had been buzzing like mad earlier. Her heart quickens. Maybe she’ll have something from Hank.

  She has twenty-three text messages, fifty emails, and nine voicemails on her old number. None from Hank. She skips the email, which she can check anywhere. Perusing the texts, all she sees are expressions of shock and support about the Coop. Rather than listen to the voicemails, she just scrolls through the names. Franklin from the insurance company. Returning her call, no doubt. Her mom. Boyd. Her mom again. And Merritt Fuller, Gary’s mother. She sends another change-of-number text around to her close contacts. Then she hits play on the message from Merritt, but something wacky happens to her screen and it disappears before her eyes.

  “What the hell?”

  Easy come, easy go. She puts the new SIM card in and reboots the phone, then closes her eyes while she waits for it to come back up. Moments later, she’s sound asleep, Louise snoring on the floor beside her.

  Sometime later, her ringing phone wakes her. The remnants of a dream follow her from sleep. Something about Lumpy. By the time she fumbles for the phone and answers, the dream is nothing but a vague impression. Caller ID announces Michele, but the phone stops ringing. She missed it. Michele had to be calling about lunch. Maggie is nauseous with hunger.

  Before she can call Michele back, Lumpy’s image pops into her mind again. Why is she dreaming about him? She tries to remember details, but nothing comes to her. She really wants to see him, to thank him for his help with the goats. It was odd that his truck was home yesterday but he wasn’t, and that he didn’t come to her mother’s wedding thingy. Her throat closes. But it’s especially odd that he didn’t show up at the fire at the Coop. Lumpy listens to police scanners as a religion. He knows everything that happens in a five-county area before it happens.

  Maybe that’s the best confirmation that he’s traveling. Only without telling Michele or her, when he’s goat-sitting? No, it doesn’t make sense. Besides, he hasn’t answered her texts. Notwithstanding he usually does his answering in person, he never ignores her unless he’s completely out of range.

  The phone rings again.

  She answers quickly. “Michele?”

  Static crackles in Maggie’s ear. In between spurts, Michele’s voice is recognizable even if not decipherable.

  “Where are you guys?”

  Crackle—“pie”—crackle—“meet us”—crackle.

  There are two nearby restaurants with Pie in the name. Royers Pie Haven in Round Top and the Pie Shack in Carmine. “Haven or Shack?”

  “What?”

  “Round Top or Carmine?”

  “Can’t”—crackle—“you.”

  “Text me.”

  “Me”—crackle—“Lee”—crackle—“Ava.”

  “Never mind.” Maggie calculates the odds. Ava has the hots for the antique show, and that means Round Top. “I’ll meet you there.”

  After the call, she hits her hair with a diffuser and smears in as much moisturizer as her skin can absorb, plus a smidge, but no makeup. She adds the oversized sunglasses that hide her singed brows and lashes. Her burns seem to be scabbing up, so she gives them a break from the bandages. She jumps into a second-skin denim minidress with bustier top and a lace vest, plus her favorite old boots. Eat your heart out, Ava.

  As she trots toward the door, mulling whether she’ll get pie or quiche—or both—at the Pie Haven, Louise chases after her. “You. Stay with Gertrude.”

  The dog’s eyes accuse her of betrayal, but Maggie resists them. She shuts the dogs inside, then goes for Bess. The temperature is slightly less African today, so she’s not sweating when she gets to the truck. She points it toward Round Top, putting the pedal down hard. The wind through the windows dries her hair the rest of the way. She parks in front of the Humble Donkey store in Henkel Square half an hour after her spotty call with Michele. She glances at her phone before she gets out. Texts from Michele.

  Royers Pie Haven in Round Top. Bad news. We ran into Leslie here, and she’s attached herself to me. I’m sorry. But can I get you coffee, quiche, and junkberry?

  Michele knows her well. There’s no way Maggie will meet them with Leslie there. Ava’s already a big enough test.

  A loud slap on the back end of the truck makes her jump in her seat.

  “Maggie.” Rashidi grins through the passenger window.

  Collin’s form appears behind him with his face just out of the frame.

  Maggie slaps Rashidi a high five. “If it isn’t the middleweight boxing champion of Lee County.”

  “Don’t mess with my girls.”

  Collin peeks over his shoulder. “As a sworn peace officer, I’ll pretend I don’t hear the two of you discussing criminal battery.”

  Rashidi laughs. “You meeting Michele and Ava?”

  Maggie says, “I was. But my psycho-renter Leslie’s joined up with them. No offense, Collin, but Ava was all I could handle. Leslie puts it over the edge.”

  Collin leans in. “Don’t tell her I said so, but Ava’s all I can handle, too. Eat with us. Where are we going, Rashidi?”

  “Teague’s Tavern.”

  “Hell yeah.” She isn’t in the mood for pie anyway, or so she tells herself. Who’s she kidding, though? She’s always in the mood for pie.

  Maggie texts Michele back: No can do on Leslie. Love you, my older and kinder new big sis. Lunching with the guys instead, then on to Hades.

  She doesn’t wait for the reply.

  Twenty-Three

  In the mood to spice things up, Maggie orders blackened shrimp and cheese grits when the waiter drops off a jalapeno deviled eggs appetizer for her and Collin, which Rashidi—a Rastafarian—is foregoing. She licks her fingers and looks around. She’d requested their table. Pub-height with stools, in the bar area. It gives her a good view of the door, easy access to the bathrooms, and a direct line of sight with the bartender, in case of emergency.

  “The artwork in here is eclectic,” Collin says, then pops an egg in his mouth. He points at the trophy mount of a longhorn bull with a twist. It’s covered in vibrant upholstery fabric and fringe. On the opposite wall, a donkey stares back with a slightly Picasso attitude from an enormous canvas.

  “The food’s eclectic, too,” Rashidi answers.

  “How did you get off on a Monday, Rashidi?” Maggie says.

  “I worked this morning. But I don’t have any appointments this afternoon, so I’m giving Collin a break from shopping.”

  “My estrogen production went into overdrive,” Collin says. “Balls shriveled up, and I think I’m wearing a C cup.”

  “Hey, I hear you need me to follow you in to drop your truck at the Ford place? Michele said you need the air conditioner fixed.”

  She had told Michele that. But she realizes she needs the truck for the hard work ahead of her at the Coop and in the barn. She’d smelled a hint of dog puke on the way to Round Top, though. Remnants of Louise’s sickness driving home from Wyoming. She’d have to clean the interior herself, ASAP. “I’ve been rethinking that. I need Bess to make hauls to the dump this week now.”

  “Right. We’ll
come help you. In the evenings.”

  “You’ve got guests.”

  Collin says, “Fine. Talk about me like I’m not even here. I’ll forgive you if you’ll tell Ava I’m required to help you this afternoon.”

  “I’m not getting in the middle of anything with Ava. Self-preservation.”

  “Always smart with her. But let me tell you a secret. That video Emily sent Ava? It really knocked her for a loop. She doesn’t like being showed up. But she does like making money, and honestly, your video was the best thing since sliced bread for that.”

  Maggie nods. “I would have felt the same.” Then she rolls her eyes. “But I’ll tell you a secret. I think Ava writes catchy tunes. And for some reason, Emily knew better than to send that video to me. I hate it.” Like she hates that someone in that group of Amarillo friends talked to the media about her.

  Rashidi puts a finger to his lips. “By the way, Collin lost a fiancée over Emily once. We try not to talk about her in front of Ava.”

  “Emily or the fiancée?”

  Collin signals for the waiter. “Either one, if I want to keep my nads.”

  A squeaky-clean-looking twenty-something appears. Not the one who’d taken their order. “Yes, sir?”

  “Shiner, please.”

  “Of course. For you, miss?”

  Maggie wasn’t going to order a drink, but how can she resist a young person who doesn’t call her ma’am? “Balcones, on the rocks.” She only feels guilty for a second. She hadn’t promised Michele she wouldn’t drink today. Only suggested it wasn’t planned at the time.

  “Let me check if we have that.”

  “You do. Unless you’re out. In which case, I’ll take Jack in its place.”

  “And you, sir?”

  Rashidi shakes his head. “I’m good with my ginger ale.”

  When the waiter leaves, Maggie turns to Collin. “I’ll bite. How did you lose a fiancée over Emily?”

  Collin blows a raspberry. “I was a drunken idiot. I had a crush on Emily all during her first marriage. By the time she got a divorce, I was engaged. I declared myself to Emily anyway—or hit on her, or whatever—and my fiancée, Tamara, saw the whole thing. Emily turned me down flat, by the way. The rest is history.”

  “Man, you blew that one.”

  “No complaints. Every woman I’ve ever known fades in comparison to Ava. The real story is how I can like this joker so much when he used to live with my woman.” Collin slugs Rashidi in the arm playfully.

  Maggie laughs. “My God. It’s like incest around here.”

  The waiter returns with their drinks. “Would you like a chilled glass, sir?”

  Collin takes the bottle. “Nah, why ruin perfection?”

  Maggie holds her nose in the mouth of the whiskey glass and swirls the rich mahogany Balcones. The strong fruity smell reminds her of bananas.

  Rashidi takes another bite of egg. “Michele said it went well this morning, Maggie.”

  She savors a sip of the whiskey in her mouth. Buttery, like toast and orange marmalade. As she swallows, the flavor turns to spicy caramel. “To say it like Michele would, más o menos.”

  “Much more than less,” Collin says. “I’m a cop. You didn’t get arrested, even though they like you for Gary’s death. You had a good day.”

  “We’ll see how good it ends up being after I spend the afternoon reclaiming my desecrated house and ruined store. I hope the insurance company continues being helpful. I wouldn’t love me right now if I was them.” She combs her fingers through her hair and is sorry she tried. The wind through Bess’s windows had really done a number on it. “Proving my lost income opportunity from the fall antique show is going to be a daunting, depressing task.”

  An accent straight from the wrong side of the small-town Texas tracks whips Maggie’s head around. “Well I’ll be dipped in shit and rolled in bread crumbs. If it isn’t Maggie Killian.”

  Rashidi’s mouth drops. Collin grins ear to ear. Maggie closes her eyes for a split second and gathers herself. What are the odds she’d miss a call from Merritt and run into her in the same day?

  She stands and holds out her arms. “Merritt Fuller. Sorry I missed your call earlier. Then my phone ate your voicemail.”

  “I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.” Gary’s mother moves close enough to give Maggie a stiff hug while still making it obvious that she doesn’t want to touch her. “Maggie. You remember my youngest daughter, Kelly?”

  Maggie barely registers Merritt’s nonsensical comment. She’s too busy choking back surprise at seeing Kelly.

  The bleach blonde in painted-on jeans and a tight Western-cut shirt, open to show young, firm cleavage, simpers at her. “Maggie.”

  “Kelly. Wow. You’re all grown up.”

  “Have been for years now.”

  At seventeen, the girl is overstating her case a bit. “I heard you did backup with Gary this year. Congratulations.”

  “Yeah, well, that didn’t last.”

  Maggie feels like she’s stepped in a steaming pile of dog shit and can’t get it off her shoe.

  Merritt pats her daughter on the shoulder. “It’s okay, sweet pea.”

  Kelly tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I’m going out on a tour of my own. And my single is higher than his on the charts. Or it was. Until he died.”

  Maggie pastes on a sorrowful expression to cover her distaste. “Merritt, I’ve been meaning to call. I’m so, so sorry about Gary.”

  “Why are you sorry? He got rid of you a long time ago, didn’t he?”

  Behind her, Rashidi sucks in a breath. Collin coughs into his hand. It comes out sounding a lot like bitch.

  Maggie doesn’t flinch. “Will there be a service?”

  “Family and close friends only.”

  Maggie reaches for the back of her stool, digs her fingers into the wood. As hard as she’s trying not to react to Merritt, she’s not sure she can hold her tongue much longer. “Great. When and where?”

  Kelly’s smile is smug. “Let me spell it out for you, Maggie.” She raises her voice and speaks slowly. “You’re not invited.”

  Merritt holds up a hand. “Kelly, enough.” To Maggie she says, “I got a call from the fire marshal who’s investigating the fire.”

  “I tried to get in, to get to him. I was too late.”

  “That’s not—”

  “He loved you so much. And he was a great guy. Even if we weren’t together anymore, I still thought the world of him.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I would have called. I should have. Things here got crazy and someone burned down my shop and there was a body inside. But I’ve been thinking about you all. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Maggie, I don’t want to hear this.”

  A loud humming noise starts in Maggie’s ears. “Just tell me where and when it will be.”

  “You’re a suspect in my son’s murder.”

  “But you know I would never harm Gary.”

  “Maybe. I hope so.”

  The lump that forms in Maggie’s throat grows until it blocks off her breath. She can’t swallow it down, can’t speak. She’s uninvited to Gary’s funeral. She may not have loved him, but he’s been a big part of her life. His death is a huge loss to her. She works her jaw until her throat relaxes and the lump moves out of the way. “Fine. I’ll stay away.”

  Kelly pops a hip. “Good. Don’t make me tell you again.”

  “Hey, Kelly.” Maggie leans in and whispers into the blonde’s ear. “How’s it feel to be a no-talent slut who’ll never amount to anything now that her big brother isn’t around?”

  “You bitch.” Kelly hauls back to slap Maggie.

  Maggie catches the younger woman’s arm in midair and mimics the accent of the two women. “Let me save you from splitting your pants and showing us all your religion.” She smiles at Merritt. “So nice seeing you two. Again, my condolences.” When she feels Kelly’s arm relax, she lets it drop.


  Merritt and Kelly glare at her. A wide-eyed waiter walks up carrying a loaded tray above his shoulder.

  “Y’all skedaddle now. I won’t tell anyone about Kelly’s hissy fit.”

  Kelly huffs, but Merritt gives her a push and the two women walk to a booth on the far side of the bar. Two men are waiting for them there. Maggie doesn’t want to care, but when she realizes who they are, she can’t help it.

  Tom Clarke and Thorn Gibbons. Together. Meeting Mama and Daughter Fuller.

  Still in a redneck voice, Maggie sinks into her chair and says, “Butter my butt and call me a biscuit.”

  Collin snorts. “What the hell was that about?”

  Maggie slams her Balcones, no longer caring about its nose, taste, or finish. “Gary’s family. See ’em in that booth? They’re cozied up with Gary’s former manager and someone who is most definitely not Gary’s buddy.”

  “What’s going on?” Rashidi asks.

  Maggie picks up her spoon, the better to dig into her shrimp and grits as soon as it’s in front of her. “I don’t have the slightest, but it can’t be good.”

  “Ms. Killian,” a familiar voice says.

  She looks up. It’s the cub reporter she’d seen a few days ago at the Valero station. She points across the bar. “There’s your story.”

  The waiter puts her bowl in front of her. Maggie pounces, her spoon in attack mode.

  The reporter looks in the direction she pointed, looks harder. Then recognition sweeps across his face. He lifts his phone and points the camera lens at the foursome.

  Maggie blows on a spoonful of the hot shrimp and grits. “You’re welcome.”

  Twenty-Four

  Maggie returns to Michele’s for Louise and her things.

  As she unlocks the front door, she finds herself talking aloud. “If you’re out there, Gary, you know I didn’t hurt you. Would never hurt you. I will always miss you. We had some good times. And I’m not upset with your mother. She loves you. Kelly? Well, someone needs to kick that girl’s ass, and I’m only sorry you’re not here to do it.”

  The sun beats down on her. She thinks she feels Gary’s presence in the warmth. Live, his voice was like sitting on a warm, tumbling dryer, rubbing worn flannel against your cheek. Recording flattened it, took out some of the texture and channels. It was still nice, and it served him well, but she loved the warmth of Gary’s live voice. The door swings open and the dogs greet her. She pats them, but keeps walking and talking to Gary like he’s in the house with her.