Sick Puppy (Maggie #2)

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “I wish you could tell me who did this to you. Hell, to us, Gary.”

  Gary doesn’t answer, of course. She hadn’t really thought he would, but it would have been nice.

  Inside the house, she piles straps on her arm. A duffel bag. Her hobo bag. A laptop case. Her Martin case. With the other arm she takes the handle of her suitcase and rolls it with her to the door.

  Gertrude makes a pitiful sound when Maggie closes her in the house alone. Louise doesn’t give her best friend a second glance. She leaps in circles, then chases her tail until she collapses by the truck.

  “It’s not nice to gloat in front of Gertrude.”

  Louise grins up at her like a drunk college kid on spring break. Maggie tosses the duffel, guitar case, and suitcase into the truck bed. She looks over the side as they land in goat poop.

  Bad call.

  But it’s too late now. After loading the dog and smaller bags into the cab, Maggie drives toward what’s left of the Coop. She doesn’t even lower the windows to let the heat out. Suffering is life, life is suffering. What’s the lack of an air conditioner on top of everything else?

  She rubs one eye with a fist, then the other eye, exhausted from the month, the night before, and the hard morning. When she’d finally fallen into bed after the fire at the Coop, she’d alternated between thoughts of her ruined shop and ruined love life. Wondered where Hank is. If he’s gone back to Sheila or is still MIA. Damn him. He can’t even stay out of her head long enough for her to properly mourn the loss of a friend and the loss of the Coop.

  The truck takes the bumps in the dirt road like a downhill sled on a field of boulders. The jolts keep Maggie awake, but she can’t wait to sleep in her own bed. She’d stashed her favorite sheets away at the bottom of her cedar chest, where they’d be waiting for her when she returned. Dear God, don’t let Leslie have found them. But thinking about her sheets does funny things to her heart. She hadn’t put them there to keep them fresh for herself. Her top-secret plan was to bring Hank back to Texas with her. She’d sprayed the sheets with her perfume before putting them away. Imagined the two of them showering off after the long drive from Wyoming. Pulling the sweet-smelling sheets from the chest, the scent wafting in the air as she dressed the bed. Slipping into the sheets together, their bodies touching, his skin setting hers on fire, she not caring how tired she was from the drive, needing him right then. Right that second.

  “Fuck it.” She picks up her phone and punches Hank’s number in by memory. It rings one, two, three, four times. Then it goes to voicemail. She hangs up on it, then steers onto the county road with one hand. She voice-records a text with Siri’s help and sends it.

  Hank, this is Maggie. I hear you’re AWOL. I’m worried. Call me. I’ll pick up this time.

  She hangs up and blows wisps of hair off her forehead. Unsettling. Unsatisfactory. And unwise. She’d just contacted the one person on her new number that she’d changed it to avoid. Idiotic, Maggie.

  But she couldn’t help it. It’s been a full day since Gene phoned her. If she doesn’t hear back from Hank within an hour, maybe she’ll text Gene. Let him know she tried. Ask if Hank’s shown back up at the ranch.

  Or at Sheila’s.

  Maggie may love him, but he’s someone else’s fiancé now. She can help find him. But she can’t have him. She has to remember that.

  A noxious odor fills the cab.

  Maggie rolls down her window with the crank handle. She glares at Louise. “You suck.”

  Louise wags her tail so hard it’s like someone’s rapping on the passenger door.

  “And just so you know, it also sucks to be in love. I don’t recommend it.”

  Louise cocks her head.

  “It’s true. I’ve been in love with Hank my entire adult life, and we’ve been together a grand total of less than one week of it.” She leans out the window and pounds her hand against the outside of the door, screaming, “Fuck my life. It fucking sucks. Motherfucker.”

  Louise puts her head on her paws. Maggie doesn’t feel any better.

  Neither does driving up to the dismal remains of Flown the Coop. The complex is like a law enforcement car show at the moment. Vehicles from two counties in multiple branches of their respective emergency response. And news crews. Unfortunately, Leslie’s sedan is still there, too. Maggie parks outside the crime scene tape. She grabs a ball cap and sunglasses from her bag and puts them on, then checks the time on her phone. It’s nearly noon. Checkout time was eleven.

  “I’m going to kill her.”

  Louise jumps to her feet, ready to rumble with her.

  “I’ve got to do this alone.” She shuts the dog in the truck, windows down.

  Louise frames herself in the open window, standing tall with her head out.

  Maggie keeps her eyes averted from the county personnel and the painful sight of the ruined gray heap of her former store. She marches to her home and knocks authoritatively.

  Leslie opens the door with a bright smile that drops immediately to a death mask. “What now?”

  “Nearly noon. Checkout time has passed. I need in. You need to be out.”

  “You’re not very good at this rental thing, are you?”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “I’ve decided to extend my stay.”

  “Glad you like Giddings. Now, move aside and I’ll help you with your bags on your way to your new digs.”

  “No, I’ve decided to stay here.”

  “This isn’t a hotel. This is a private home. Mine. And it’s not available. Not for another night, and not to purchase, so you can quit telling people you’ve bought it.” Maggie catches the brief flicker of surprise that crosses Leslie’s face. “Yes, I’ve heard all about it. And it’s not for sale.”

  Leslie’s mouth creeps into a smile. She slams the door in Maggie’s face.

  “Open this door. Right now.” Maggie bangs with her knuckles, then pounds with her palm. “Open the damn door, Leslie.”

  Louise lets loose a cacophony of barks.

  Inside, the house is deathly quiet.

  “Son of a bitch.” Maggie tries the knob. It’s locked. She gets out her key and tries it in the lock, but it won’t turn. “What the hell?” She flips the key over and tries again, but it still doesn’t work. She repeats the process unsuccessfully with the deadbolt. She runs to the back door, Louise’s racket following her. The key doesn’t turn the lock in the back either.

  “No. Fucking. Way.”

  “May I help you, ma’am?” A deputy has come around the house. Her hand is on a gun on her hip.

  Maggie doesn’t recognize her. “Oh, how I wish you could.”

  “You need to move along now. We’re working an active crime scene here.”

  “It’s my house. No one’s told me anything other than my store burned down and a body was found in it. How does that make it a crime scene?”

  “It’s being treated as potential arson and murder.”

  “Great. Thanks, Lee County, for the heads-up. Unfortunately, I can’t get my renter to leave. She’s overstayed her lease and changed the locks on my house.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. If that’s true, you’re welcome to start eviction proceedings at our offices.”

  “Can you take a complaint from me now?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “But aren’t you with Lee County?”

  “Yes, but we have a process.”

  “My life is in shambles. I’ve lost my business. I can’t get back into my home. And your only response is that you have a process?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “So am I.” Maggie stomps through the grass that needs mowing in her side yard back to her truck. “And stop calling me ma’am. I’m no older than you. I’m not your damn grandmother.”

  She slams the door and sprays gravel on a Lee County Sheriff’s Department Tahoe as she leaves.

  Twenty-Five

  Maggie blows in under a good head of steam
when she gets back to Nowheresville. Michele, Rashidi, Ava, and Collin are drinking mimosas and eating bagels and lox. Bagels and lox. In the middle of the afternoon in the middle of nowhere, Texas.

  “Look what we found at a vendor for the antique show,” Michele says.

  Maggie stomps to the table, grabs Michele’s mimosa, and downs it. “That bitch changed the locks. She won’t leave. Then I got chased away by a deputy with a peashooter, who was no help whatsoever.”

  “Whoa, who? What?” Michele is on her feet.

  Ava puts a hand over her mouth.

  “You think this is funny?” Maggie points at her. “Five people have died around me in the last week, counting the corpse in my store last night. My so-called friends are leaking information to People.com. They’re calling me a black widow and libeling me to the entire universe.” Maggie throws Michele a look. “And you know my money is on Wallace for that one.”

  Michele’s face is pained. “We don’t know that.”

  “We might not, but I do.” Maggie directs her wrath back at Ava. “And you. You might be a publicity whore, but I’m not.”

  “Hey, now, watch how you’re throwing that word around.” Ava crosses her arms.

  “I’m a very private person. My heart is broken, my livelihood is destroyed, the cops are after me, and I can’t get back into my own home. This is the opposite of funny.”

  Ava raises both hands. “I wasn’t laughing. I promise. What’s happening to you makes me sick.”

  “Damn.” Collin puts a hand on Ava’s shoulder. “This sucks big-time, Maggie.”

  Rashidi hands Maggie his mimosa.

  “Thank you.” She downs his, too.

  Michele takes Maggie’s hand. “Come into my office. We’ll get her charged with trespassing.”

  “I tried that, and the deputy at my house wouldn’t help me.” Maggie allows herself to be led. “Can they haul her off my place? And what about the locks?”

  “Possibly. Probably. Maybe. All right, I don’t know.” Michele shuts the French doors behind them and pulls out her phone. “But the sooner we start, the better.” She pushes something on the screen. “Sadly, I have the sheriff’s department on speed dial.”

  It is sad, but familiar. “You and me both.”

  Michele holds up a finger. “Hello. I need to speak to Junior. Sure, I’ll hold.” She hits the screen and sets the phone down.

  After a few seconds of silence, Maggie flops into the chair in front of her. Louise paws at the French doors.

  “No,” Maggie says, shaking her finger at the dog.

  Louise flops to the floor with a long-suffering sigh.

  “Hello?” Junior’s voice fills the room.

  “Junior. It’s Michele Lopez Hanson.”

  “Ma’am. Long time no talk to.”

  “It’s your lucky day. You’ve got Maggie on, too.”

  He doesn’t reply, his silence a vacuum of sound.

  “Listen, we’ve got a problem. Maggie went to reclaim her house from her vacation renter, and the woman has changed the locks and won’t let her in.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. We have a contract past its end date, multiple verbal confirmations of the terms, and today a very heated and clear instruction to vacate the premises at the agreed-upon time. We need her charged with trespassing, and arrested and removed from the property. And Maggie needs in her house.”

  “Goddammit.”

  “That’s not a very professional response. How about ‘No problem, Michele’?”

  “This is really bad timing.”

  Maggie raises her voice to be sure the speaker catches it. “Tell me about it.”

  “Seriously, there’s, um, stuff, um, going on.”

  “What kind of stuff?” Michele asks.

  “Evidence stuff. Relating to Gary’s case.”

  “Well, that case is in Fayette County and has nothing to do with this case in Lee County.”

  There’s a long silence before Junior says, “Can you bring in the paperwork?”

  “How about you meet us with it?”

  “Goddammit.” His voice is sounding more resigned.

  “So you said. See you soon.” Michele presses the screen to end the call and shakes her head at Maggie. “Methinks something is going on here.”

  Maggie doesn’t disagree. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I have a feeling neither one of us is going to like it.”

  Twenty-Six

  While the minutes tick by without Junior’s arrival—or return visit, if the morning meeting with Karen and Boland is to be counted—Maggie checks her phone. She’s hoping to hear from Hank. There’s nothing from him, but she does have a message from Boyd.

  Got a call from a People.com reporter. They want to do a piece about us to coincide with Michele’s movie premiere. Joint interview?

  Her finger hovers. The interview would help Boyd’s political campaign and Michele’s book and movie ticket sales. But it would hurt Maggie’s own potential libel suit. Besides, she wants her star lower in the sky, now more than ever.

  She deletes the text. “Has Junior sent an update?”

  “Not since last time you asked. I’m emailing things to him, so he comes with the right paperwork.”

  “He hasn’t left yet?”

  “Hush, or he never will. Go do something and quit bothering me.”

  Maggie trolls the liquor cabinet. Gives the dogs some water. Eyes the liquor cabinet again. Checks her phone to make sure the ringer is on.

  She pokes her head back into Michele’s office. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “It’s ninety degrees out there. Or more.”

  “I can’t sit here.” Waiting for Junior, worrying about her home, her future, and Hank—it’s killing her.

  “Junior should be here within an hour.”

  Maggie calls for the dogs. She tucks a cold water bottle under her arm, then goes to the front door. Both dogs shrink back.

  “What? Don’t like it out there in the heat of the day? Prefer the air-conditioning, little princesses?”

  Gertrude tiptoes to Michele’s office. Louise wags her tail but won’t budge.

  “Wimps.” Maggie leaves without them.

  First she heads to the goat pen. The goats are lying down in the shade. They don’t get up.

  “You guys, too?”

  Omaha flicks his tail. Nebraska closes his eyes. They’ve eaten everything green inside their fence. She refills their feed and changes out their water. Cold, fresh water tastes so much better in the heat, something her father had ingrained in her as a child with her 4-H animals.

  “Treat them like you want to be treated, Maggie. They’re God’s creatures, too,” he’d told her.

  “I’d want to go in the house,” she’d replied.

  “So give them the next best thing.”

  She’d cracked ice trays into the stock tank for her lambs in the worst of the heat after their conversation. That had been so long ago. A lifetime. She was a different person then. One who’d left her 4-H past behind for Nashville. Until two orphaned goat kids fell into her lap. They’d taken her back two decades to memories of her father. Good ones. Not the angry man who couldn’t relate to his rebellious teenage daughter. Or the devout Lutheran worried for Maggie’s eternal soul. But the kind farmer who passed respect and love for animals down a generation. The firefighter who risked his life to help others.

  Unexpected tears sting her eyes. She hasn’t cried for that old bastard in as long as she can remember. She swipes them away. She’s not going to start now. By her mid-teens, he was a different person. Judgmental. Authoritarian. Yes, she’d run away, but when she came home to visit, he hadn’t welcomed her. Because of his hardened heart, she hadn’t repaired her relationship with her mom until after he passed.

  She’d hurt him by leaving, Maggie knows. But pain is a two-way street with potholes big enough to swallow the John Deere tractor he used to drive.

  She calls goodbye
to the unimpressed goats.

  She walks into the trees, seeking shade since there’s no breeze. Why is she thinking about her dad now? It takes a few minutes before the answer hits her. She’s at a crossroads. Again. Her reinvented life has caved in on itself. He would be pushing her for decisions, to finally make something of herself more pleasing to God. And even beyond the grave, he’s found a way to be here doing it again.

  “I’m fine, Daddy.”

  He’d criticize her distance from the church. The absence of a husband and kids. The profession, the career, or even a job—or lack thereof—wouldn’t bother him as much. He wanted her to live a life of piety, a biblical life.

  “Never going to happen, old man.”

  The funny thing is, her tears well up again at the thought. The image that comes into her mind is Hank. His ranch in Wyoming. The Bighorn Mountains casting a long evening shadow over the cabin in the foothills and overlooking the barns, stables, pens, and livestock. Horses, all ages, in every color, serene in the tall buffalo grass. Some of them superstars of the bucking horse circuit, but there on the ranch, just part of the herd. Cattle, the massive bulls separated from the rest, destined for rodeo greatness. At dusk, white-tailed deer appearing out of gulches, gullies, and trees, grazing with the livestock. Antelope crouching and crawling under the fences. Lily, the horse she’d come to think of as hers in one short week, nickering to be fed. The hands, Gene, and the family at the long dinner table in the main house, Hank’s mother chastising someone, everyone. Maggie actually smiles remembering the sharp tongue on the old woman in the tiny body. Alzheimer’s didn’t keep her from ruling that roost.

  Maybe some of the things her father wanted for her, that her mother wants for her now, aren’t so bad. But they aren’t ever going to be hers. Hank and Sheila will have a baby within a year, and a yard full of rug rats in five. Sheila will ride Lily. And Maggie will move on, without Hank. Without love, she’s sure, because she knows now Hank was it for her. She’ll find something to occupy herself. To sustain herself. Or maybe she won’t. Maybe she’ll sell the Andy Warhol and vintage Jaguar and travel the world.