Dead Pile (Maggie #3)

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  Eight

  Carrying her grim package and trailing one hangdog mutt, Maggie walks to Lily’s paddock. The black horse spares her a glance, then pretends to ignore her. Using the rope halter hanging on the gate, Maggie catches her and leads her to the barn. She fastens her to the hitching post, then sets the bag of baby bird against the side of the barn.

  A tall blond man she’s seen at the ranch a time or two before is with Andy and the two day hands, examining horses lined up in a loading chute. At the other end of the chute is the trailer already half-full.

  Maggie fetches her gear from the tack room. On her way back out to the mare, Hank and the new hand, Michael, appear.

  “Hi. I’m Maggie. We met yesterday, Michael. Welcome to Double S.”

  Glittering black eyes fasten on her. “Thank you. I’m glad to be here.”

  “We didn’t expect it to be so soon, but we’re lucky you came along.” Hank claps him on the back.

  “Who’s that?” Maggie points at the man working with the hands.

  “Doc Billy. The vet. Doing wellness checks on the stock for Duncan.”

  “Gotcha.”

  To Maggie he says, “You riding out?”

  “Yeah. Pretty weather.”

  “You got your phone?”

  “Yes. And your knife.” She pats the scabbard on her hip. Her load is getting heavy, so she hoists the saddle, blanket, and bridle higher.

  “I’d feel better if you weren’t alone.”

  She grins over her shoulder at him. “I won’t be. I have nearly a ton of horse and my superhero dog.” Louise had caught the arsonist last month in Texas. She couldn’t ask for a better protector.

  Hank grunts. “At least tell me where you’re headed.”

  “Um.” Maggie knows safety should be her first priority, but if she tells him, he’ll raise a stink. “Out toward Rudy’s old house. I’ll stick to the fence lines and be back before lunch. Have a good first day, Michael.”

  Maggie grooms and saddles Lily, then ties the trash bag and its contents behind the cantle of the saddle. The men depart in a Ranger. Just as she’s about to mount, Andy rides over on Tatonka. He ties up at the space Lily and Maggie vacate.

  “Hey, Andy. Want to work on your guitar later?”

  “If I can break free. I have a lot to do with Paco gone. And that new guy here.”

  Something about his voice stops her from putting her foot in the stirrup. “You don’t like Michael?”

  Andy blushes. He turns to Tatonka and starts unsaddling him. “It’s not that I don’t like him. I just grew up on the edge of the Cheyenne reservation. My father hates them all. Some of them are okay. But a lot of them expect something for nothing, like life is all a big government handout. And they drink a lot of alcohol. Take a lot of drugs. Michael’s not from a good family.”

  Maggie has never heard Andy say a negative word about anyone before, so his words are a shock. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “Yes. Hank and Gene are counting on me. I won’t let them down.”

  “I know you won’t.” Maggie mounts Lily and whistles for Louise, who, from the sound of the squeak, is chasing something small and furry in the barn.

  Maggie makes good time, despite gates and Lily begging to graze the brown grass every few yards. Maggie urges the heavy mare into a low trot. She doesn’t want Lily to overdo it, but it’s the only way she knows to keep the mama-to-be’s nose out of the grass. Louise runs circles around them, literally. Huge circles as she hunts and digs.

  The phone rings in Maggie’s pocket. Lily is calm, so she checks the caller ID. It’s a 615 area code phone number. Her stomach flips. It’s been years since she’s taken calls from Nashville, so she picks up.

  “Maggie Killian.”

  “Maggie, this is Jeff Franke with Goliad Records. How are you today?” The voice is young and energetic.

  Goliad Records. She’s not familiar with the name. “I’m fine. What’s this about?”

  “Um, right down to business—okay. We bought your albums—Throwback, Texana, and Buckle Bunny—when your prior record company went out of business. I believe you’d already sold the royalty rights in the music to them, and we have those as well.”

  Louise flushes a jackrabbit, who bounds across the field between patches of white and brown.

  “Good for you.”

  The man laughs with an ironic edge. “Recently you’ve been getting a lot of publicity, which has been great for our revenue from your music. We—Goliad—is wondering if you’d like to cut another record. With us.”

  “You’re offering me a record deal?”

  “With contingencies, of course.”

  “Contingencies?”

  “For, er, behavior. Morality clauses, if you will.”

  “Moral behavior.”

  Lily clomps onward, but Maggie feels the horse tense. She’s not oblivious to the drama unfolding from her back.

  “Yes.”

  “Like the Ten Commandments type of behavior?”

  “More like drugs. No substance abuse. Or addictions.”

  “Addictions. So if I’m addicted to, say, sex, then you’re saying no fucking.”

  “No, I mean, I don’t know, I—Shit. People warned me that talking to you is like cuddling a hedgehog. Well, they were right.”

  Riding the fence line against a dirt road off property, Maggie sees a beat-up truck pass. Something about the driver makes her double-take. She could swear he was wearing an Amish beard and hat. But hadn’t Andy said the Amish don’t drive? She has to have been mistaken.

  “What was your name again?”

  “Jeff Franke.”

  “Jeff, you realize I am a recovered drug addict. I can’t erase the addict part. So by the very nature of your morality clause, I can’t enter a valid contract with you. Or if I get desperate enough to do so, you’d have grounds to screw me anytime you want to. I may have a checkered past, but I’m not brain-damaged. Still got all my marbles.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that—”

  “What’s in it for me, then?”

  “Money, of course, and redemption. Another shot.”

  She thinks of the new songs she’s been working on. Goliad isn’t getting them, that’s for sure. “I suspect you don’t know a thing about me, Jeff, or you’d know that I don’t give a shit about redemption or another shot, and if I did, I could finance those without your help.”

  Lily snorts. The big horse lowers her head and shakes it.

  “Label backing would legitimize—”

  “I’m a Grammy winner. I don’t need a two-bit label fleecing me back to legitimacy. Fuck off, Jeff. And tell your buddies at Goliad to fuck off, too.”

  Maggie hangs up the phone. “Patronizing asshole. User. Millennial.”

  It’s a small leap from her irritation about the record company to her irritation with the insurance company. She needs to let the adjuster know the lock has been cut. She texts Michele: Confirm Rashidi cut padlock? Adjuster waiting to hear. Then she takes a chance, texting Franklin: Padlock cut. When can you go back out?

  The phone rings in her hand. Lily snorts and dances. She tosses her nose, pulling the reins looser. She half trots, half walks in an arc back toward the ranch headquarters. Maggie pulls up the slack in the reins and uses firm legs to set the horse back on course. “Whoa.” Lily huffs. There’s no doubt how she feels about Maggie’s level of attention.

  Maggie squeezes the phone tight, not wanting to talk to Jeff again. But the call is from Charlotte. All her good intentions to call her mom back disintegrate. She presses decline and thrusts the phone into her pocket. She’s had enough aggravation for now. Who did that little weasel think he was, calling up and acting like he was doing her a favor? Like cutting an album with an unknown would give her legitimacy. She’d be the one giving them legitimacy, at the cost of her pride, privacy, and peace. And leading with morality clauses. They’d never worked with her before. All they were doing was piggybacking on the conclusions drawn
in lazy journalism.

  After traversing a gulch where Louise spooks a whitetail doe with a fawn minus most of its spots, Maggie is still fighting mad, but she spies vultures. Her destination is close. Five minutes later, she crests a rise and sees the pile of dead livestock, complete with yellow crime scene tape. She’d forgotten about the tape. She dismounts outside the perimeter and drops Lily’s lead rope to the ground.

  “Don’t you run off.”

  Lily mows grass and swishes her tail.

  Maggie unties her cargo. The place feels spooky and unsettled. If she stands at the edge of the tape closest to the pile, she thinks she can heave the bird onto its final resting place. It’s not the dignified ending she’d envisioned, but she can do it without violating the crime scene. Well, without violating it with anything other than the baby owl.

  “Sorry, baby owl. My dog is an asshole.” She grasps the limp bird and turns the bag inside out. The animal looks worse for the transport, and it makes her sad. She throws it like a football toward the pile. It lands with a soft thud.

  Louise sprints after it, like it’s the ball in a game of fetch.

  “No, Fucker.”

  Louise turns to her, wagging her tail.

  “I wonder if I’ve just broken any Game and Fish laws?”

  Lily nickers, low and rumbly. Maggie turns to see Deputy Travis, this time on a gray horse half Lily’s size with big dapples on his rear end. She doesn’t recognize the animal or the brand, which looks like a T intersection.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Ms. Killian?”

  Maggie lifts her hands and flexes her palms up and out with a shrug. “Shit. I’m sorry. My dog killed an owl. I didn’t want her to get in trouble, so I brought it out here where no one would know she’d done it.”

  Travis’s squinty eyes and wrinkled brow tell her he’s not buying it. “Out of thousands of acres, the only hiding place you can find for it is in the middle of my crime scene?”

  “When you put it that way, it does seem crazy, but I promise it made perfect sense to me.”

  Travis stares at the owl. “So this has nothing to do with Paco?”

  “Nothing. How could it?”

  He turns his horse so that he’s facing her. “Have you seen anyone out this direction in the last few days?”

  Maggie frowns. “I haven’t been out here. I see Hank, Gene, and the hands headed out from the ranch buildings all the time.”

  “Did any of their movements seem out of the ordinary?”

  “Um, no, I don’t think so. The only odd movement I’ve seen around here was today.”

  “Odd in what way?”

  “Just that I saw an Amish man driving a truck on the road, as I was riding out here.”

  “So not odd in relation to Paco or this pile?”

  “No.”

  “What about at night?”

  For an instant, she remembers seeing someone running to the bunkhouse the night before. Someone in red boots. But her gut tells her not to mention it, so she doesn’t. “I can only speak for Hank. And he spends the nights with me.”

  Travis’s horse spins in a circle, but Travis quiets and reorients him. “Last time we met, he was with Sheila.” His tone suggests he’s Team Sheila. He’s local, so chances are he knows her or is related to her, but that doesn’t numb the sting.

  She drills him with laser eyes. “What’s your point?”

  “None. Sorry.”

  “If there’s nothing else, then?”

  “We’re waiting on the conclusions about manner and time of death. When we get that, I may be back.”

  “Fine. Do I have to remove the owl?”

  “Hand me your bag.”

  Maggie gives the bag to him. Travis dismounts, gives her his reins, and walks carefully to the pile. He rebags the owl and ties the bag closed. He hands it back to her.

  “Thanks.” Her voice mocks the word.

  He grunts. “Have a good day, then, Ms. Killian.”

  She wheels Lily, whistles for Louise, and sets off at a trot for home. Halfway back to the ranch, she stops in a patch of grass that doesn’t seem too rocky. Using her borrowed knife, she digs a hole just deep enough for the little owl and buries it, bag and all.

  Nine

  Back at the ranch headquarters, Maggie unsaddles Lily. As she’s walking into the barn to put up the saddle and tack, a man is hurrying out, and runs into her.

  “Oh, sorry.” He grabs her by both arms to keep from knocking her down. “The sun was in my eyes.”

  “That’s okay.” She remembers the blond man. “Hey, are you the vet who was checking out the horses this morning?”

  “Yes. Folks call me Doc Billy. Or just Doc.” He releases her arms and clasps her hand instead. They’re standing too close to shake.

  “I’m Maggie Killian. I’m a friend of Hank’s. Do you have a moment to look at my mare?”

  “Um—” His eyes dart to his truck, parked on the other side of the driveway to the barn.

  “She’s just tied to the hitching post right there. The black Percheron. She got caught out in the storm yesterday, out by the dead pile, and she’s really pregnant. Just a once-over.”

  He sighs and looks at the hitching post. “Oh, Lily. A Double S mare.” Then he smiles. “A quick look. All the way out by the dead pile, huh?”

  “Yes.” Maggie leads him to her. “Normally, I’d have just asked Paco to doctor her up. He was my go-to for that kind of thing. Did you know him?”

  Doc Billy stiffens, then shakes it off and runs a hand along Lily’s neck, back, and rump. “Yes.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think he had a way of intruding on other people’s territory.” His voice is icy cold, but he doesn’t look at Maggie, just continues examining Lily, looking at her gums, her eyes, pinching her skin, prodding at her udder, and lifting her tail.

  She’s taken aback. “He was just trying to help the ranch.”

  “I wasn’t talking about—oh, never mind. Yes, he was good with the horses.” Doc Billy stands and pats Lily. “She isn’t scratched up, and she doesn’t seem stressed or dehydrated. But I do think she’s going to have this foal early. I was around for her first few, and she hasn’t gone to term once. Her udder and teats are filling, her pelvic area is relaxing, and she’s starting to wax a little. Keep a close eye on her. Call me if she looks like she’s having any trouble.”

  “Can I still ride her?”

  “Pleasure riding, sure. Exercise is good for her.”

  “Thank you, Doc.”

  “I’m late for lunch with my wife. Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.”

  Maggie returns Lily to her paddock with some sweet feed, then hustles into the main house just in time to catch the end of lunch.

  Hank’s eyebrows lift when he sees her. “You ever think about checking your cellphone?”

  Maggie checks. There’s no missed calls. Her phone also claims she has no service. “T-Mobile, remember? I don’t always get them. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Well, Laura and I are leaving now to take Mom to a doctor’s appointment. If you eat fast, you can meet us at the truck after we get her loaded up.”

  Laura shakes her head. “No, Hank.”

  “What?”

  “I said no.”

  Mrs. Sibley, who is clutching her sandwich like it will run away if she relaxes her grip, sets it down. Her expression is reptilian. “I don’t want that woman with me at the doctor.” Then she attacks her sandwich again, chewing as if her life depends on it.

  Maggie ignores the bite of the words. She wishes she’d known Hank’s mother before Alzheimer’s. She concentrates on building her sloppy joe. She adds salad and chips to her plate. “I can sit in the waiting room while she’s in with the doctor.”

  Laura gives Maggie the side-eye. “I’m sorry, but I get practically zero time with my brother, and we have things we need to talk about.”

  Hank’s voice is deadly. “You’re being a b—”
>
  “No problem. I have things to do anyway.” Maggie cuts him off before he can escalate the awkwardness in front of the hands, who already look like they wish they’d eaten at the dead pile or manure dump. Anywhere but here.

  Laura nods. “Thank you. Hank, I’ll meet you and Mom at the truck.” She pushes her jet hair behind one ear as she leaves.

  Hank says, “I’m sorry about that. Laura hasn’t had any sleep.”

  Mrs. Sibley speaks through a mouthful of food. “Don’t talk about your sister behind her back.”

  Hank sighs. “And neither has my mother. Andy, the place is yours. I’ll be back before dinner. Maggie . . .”

  “I already told you. I have things to do. Including a guitar lesson for Andy, if he’s done in time.” She lifts her sandwich. Filling falls to her plate. She takes a bite and more gushes out.

  Andy wipes his mouth. “I’m taking Michael to check the herds, ride fence, and trade out some pastures. Probably best after dinner.”

  Maggie smiles at him, finishes chewing, and swallows. “That’s best for me, too.”

  Maggie knows Hank stood up for her to Laura, as much as she let him, anyway. But Laura’s words still hurt her. It’s not rational, but even though she’s not choosing Andy over him, she wants Hank to feel her pain, too.

  A hurt look flickers in Hank’s eyes. “All right. Well then, we’re off. Mom, let’s go.”

  Mrs. Sibley jerks her sandwich toward her shoulder, like Hank is trying to pry it from her hands. “I’m not finished. The portions that new cook serves are far too big. Wasteful.”

  “Can you wrap it up for her?” he asks Trudy, then mouths, “Sorry.”

  She winks at him. “Let me save this for you, Mrs. S.”

  Mrs. Sibley relinquishes her sandwich and her plate to Trudy, who disappears into the kitchen.

  “Laura served your plate, and Trudy isn’t new here, Mom. It wasn’t nice to talk like that in front of her.”

  “Are you saying I’m not nice? I was just being truthful.”

  He pulls her wheelchair back from the table. “I’m not saying anything.”

  They’re still arguing over whether or not she was nice as they exit. When the door slams shut behind them, the room grows even more tense. The hands are evenly divided on each side of the table, with Andy and Michael stark contrasts across from each other. Andy is blond and self-contained, with a full beard and homemade clothes. Michael is clean-shaven, dark, and bristling with energy.