“Do you? You’re just like your mother.”
“You’re my mother.”
“No, your birth mother. Running off from everyone and everything good in her life.”
“Who says I’m running?” Her mother’s words ring in her ears, an echo of Hank’s. “Mom, this conversation is going nowhere. Thank you for praying for me. I love you. Now, I have to go. It’s time for breakfast here. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Maggie—”
Maggie ends the call and presses her fist to her mouth. Her mother thinks she’s running from Texas. Hank’s accusing her of running from Wyoming, and him. They can’t both be right. But they could both be wrong. She’s not running. She isn’t.
And she’s nothing like her birth mother.
The phone rings again. Sighing, she answers. She shouldn’t have hung up on her mom.
“I’m sorry.”
“Good, so meet me for breakfast at the Busy Bee.” Not her mother.
“Who is this?”
“Amos. Is your caller ID not working?”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“No. Not until I tell you I’m sorry.”
“This I have to hear. Sorry for what?”
“For before. When you were on my radio show. I was a different person back then. I was angry at you for a long time. I blamed you that I was fired after that. But I don’t anymore. I caused my own problems. And if I hurt you, I’m sorry.”
“That’s a lot of sorry to absorb.”
“I think that’s why I started writing about you. I’ve been following you a long time. For no good reason. I don’t want revenge. I just needed to say that.”
“What if I don’t forgive you?”
“That’s okay. And I still want to finish my story on you. Can you meet me?”
Louise noses her hand—sore, but unbandaged—and Maggie massages the dog’s floppy ears. She wriggles until her upper body is splayed over Maggie’s. Maggie chews her lip. She hasn’t made up her mind about recording with Ava, but if she does, publicity sells records. The redemption of Aaron Cryor and Maggie Killian, two for the price of one. And isn’t it far better if it’s on her own terms? He’s going to write about her anyway. This could be a trial balloon. If it were to go well, maybe she’d give Amos an interview with her and Boyd.
“Fine.”
“One of these days, you’re going to—Wait. Did you say ‘fine’?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t regret it. What time?”
“How are the roads?”
“Bad, I think. But this is Wyoming. The plows have probably been out all night.”
“Give me an hour. If I’m not there, order me scrambled eggs, hash browns, and bacon. And coffee. A lot of coffee.”
Fifty-Three
Trudy is changing channels on the big-screen TV in the community room when Maggie gallops down the stairs in heavy winter boots. She fastens her scabbard to the belt loop of her jeans, then pulls her long, loose sweater over it. She straightens the Frontier Days belt that makes the sweater like a tunic. Today she’s not driving off anything less than fully prepared for whatever Wyoming has to dish out.
“Wait. You missed breakfast. Let me bring you a biscuit and some coffee.”
“I’m having breakfast in town. But thanks. Hey, have you seen Hank?”
Trudy returns her attention to the TV. “He took off after breakfast in the truck.”
So he was at the ranch for breakfast. Maggie doesn’t like that he didn’t say good morning or goodbye. In fact, she’s pissed about it. He could have texted. Left a note. Called. She’s sick of him acting like the world is ending and she’s not his partner. His mother died. It’s very, very sad. But not her fault.
Maggie’s voice is bright as she adds a scarf, wool cap, and mittens to her gear. “Okay, thanks. If you see him, tell him I’m in Buffalo.”
“Will do. Be careful. The roads are bad.”
Fingers flying, Maggie texts Hank. WTF, cowboy? Maybe I should start taking off without telling you, too? Her thumb hovers. She can tell him herself that she’s going to Buffalo in this text. Or not. She hits send.
Maggie waves goodbye to Trudy, who heads back into the kitchen. Maggie opens the door. A frigid wind knocks her back. She tucks the scarf into the neck of her puffy jacket and wraps the end over her face. Louise bounds out, dipping her nose in the snow and tossing some in the air with her mouth. Maggie stomps to her truck. It isn’t deep—maybe three or four inches—and it’s powdery soft. She turns on her truck to let it heat up while she gets after her windshields with an ice scraper. This isn’t going to be a warm or fun ride to town. A quick double check confirms she has a shovel, towrope, and chains in the bed and a blanket, bag of kitty litter, waters, flares, a first aid kit, and food bars of some sort under the front seat. Absent a satellite phone, she’s remote-Wyoming-ready.
Forty-five slow and careful minutes later, she pulls into Buffalo. Amos was right. The plows were out, and the interstate is snow- and ice-free. But when she nears the Busy Bee, she discovers a police blockade in front of the courthouse.
She rolls to a stop and an officer comes to her window. It’s Detective Lacey, a cop she became much too familiar with back in August when he zeroed in on Maggie as a murder suspect. His white-blond hair almost blends with the snow. His light blue eyes crinkle at the corners when he recognizes her. She’d pretty much solved his case for him, and she’s not sure how he feels about that. Spoiler alert: the murderer wasn’t her.
“Ms. Killian. Good to see you back. We’ve got a detour. If you can just turn right here, and skirt the downtown area, please.”
“What happened?”
He checks the road behind her. It’s clear of approaching vehicles. “Don’t quote me on this, but there was a double murder back there.” He points at the parking lot behind the courthouse.
Maggie’s familiar with it. She’d parked there just last week when she and Andy went to the Thursday Night Jam at the Ox. “Oh my God. Who was it?”
“I don’t know anything other than they’re early twenties, an Indian girl and boy. And if I did know, I couldn’t tell you until we notify next of kin. But keep it to yourself, okay?” He motions her on as another car pulls up behind her.
Maggie coasts along, thinking about the boy and girl found dead. Her stomach clenches. It’s not like there aren’t lots of Native Americans in the area, plenty of them in their early twenties, but the fact that she knows two has her heart in a vice grip. She cuts her wheels hard to the left, sliding across two lanes of oncoming traffic. Her tires lose traction and she slams into the curb hard enough that a newer truck would have deployed airbags. Her forehead bangs against steering wheel.
“Shit.”
She takes a moment to straighten the truck, then pushes in the clutch and turns off the ignition. She run-skates as fast as she can across the lawn of the Sheridan College annex, to the courthouse parking. When she’s almost there, she slips on an icy patch and goes down hard on her tush.
“Son of a bitch.”
She stares at the sky, her neck jarred and her butt smarting, a painful reminder of being thrown by Lily. When she’s back on her feet, she moves more slowly, all the way to the police tape. An ambulance is parked fifteen feet away. She sees booted feet, pointed toes-up. Another set with the toes of the boots splayed. Nothing definitive for identification, until her eyes fall on the beat-up banjo case covered in bumper stickers. Even from where she’s standing, she can see her own signature scrawled on it.
Penny.
With all the death in her life in the last few months, Maggie should be used to the blow to her solar plexus. But she’s not. She clutches her midsection. Penny was an enigma. Maggie hadn’t been in favor of Andy marrying her. But she was a living, breathing person, a beautiful girl, and a talented musician. She didn’t deserve to be killed. Few people do.
One of the crime scene techs stands up, holding something in her gloved hand. Her movement leaves a sigh
tline to the two people on the ground. The boy has a strong, recognizable profile.
It’s Michael, Maggie is sure of it. She stifles a cry with her mittened fist. She can’t tear her eyes away. She’d grown to care about him. Talks to Eagles had been kind to her. He’d be telling her right now that his spirit is heading skyward for another conversation with his friend.
The crime scene tech turns. A black object in her hand catches Maggie’s attention. It looks like a knife. Maggie leans as far as she can across the barrier, then nearly collapses when she gets a crystal-clear view of a Double S logo. Hank’s knife.
Fifty-Four
Maggie can’t get back on the road to Piney Bottoms fast enough. She drives without conscious thought, the miles flying by without her worrying anymore about the conditions. Just as she’s slowing to take the exit from the interstate, an owl flies in front of the truck. A witch, Michael would have said. And Louise not here to protect me.
Maggie jerks her foot off the gas and fights the urge to swerve, but her automatic reaction is faster. The truck rumbles off the highway. If she overcorrects now, she’ll flip back onto the blacktop. If she doesn’t correct, she’ll go over the embankment and down a good thirty feet before she hits the bottom. Holding her breath, she steers gently back toward the off-ramp and braces her leg under the steering wheel. The wheels grab pavement, and she navigates into the lane. The exit is steep and curved, so she isn’t able to stop until she’s made it safely through her turn and is on flatter road.
She pulls over, panting.
Her life is so out of control. She could have died back there. She could have died yesterday in the ravine under a Ranger. Or frozen to death on top of the ridge tangled in barbed wire and stomped by a giant, pregnant horse. And all the deaths around her. She’s never been around so much death as these last three months. Just within the last week, Paco was murdered, Mrs. Sibley has died, and now Penny and Michael are gone, too—Hank’s knife beside their bodies.
She shudders. Hank’s knife may have killed them. A knife that anyone who enters the ranch house could have taken, but that was in Hank’s bedroom. Hank, who had disappeared in the night. Who’s volatile and physical, and under emotional and physical pressure right now. Who’s protective of her when it comes to Michael.
No. Other people have stronger motives. Mary was jealous of Penny. Andy had reason to hate Michael, and to resent Penny for breaking their engagement. It can’t be Hank.
She realizes she’s clutching the steering wheel with both hands, and that her arms and shoulders are rigid. She lets go, flexes her fingers. Her breathing slows down. Her heart eases in her chest, although it feels like it’s left her bruised from its wild pounding. She picks up her phone, not to call anyone, but because it makes her feel connected to the rest of the world. Convinces her she’s not dead in a snowdrift on the side of the interstate.
But of course she sees messages.
Amos: Are you coming?
Hank: Where are you?
Charlotte: Why did you hang up on me?
She gets a strong image of Lily in the barbed wire, except in her mind she’s the one trapped.
To Amos: Almost home. Must reschedule. Sorry.
To Hank she thinks about telling him about the murders over text, but decides against it: On my way back from Buffalo. I have to talk to you. Are you at the ranch?
Her mother she skips. She’ll deal with her later. Right now, she has to get back to the ranch and break the news to Andy before he hears Penny is dead from someone else.
Maggie runs into the house. Hank’s truck isn’t out front, but she calls for him. “Hank?”
Trudy appears, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. “He’s not back.”
Maggie is out of breath. “Andy?”
“Nope. What’s wrong?”
Maggie sprints to the barn without answering Trudy. “Andy, are you in here?” She hears a vehicle engine outside, then it shuts off. Footsteps, soft thuds in the snow, approach.
Andy appears from the hayloft. “Yes?” His head cocks, his eyes study her. “What’s wrong?”
Maggie doesn’t have time to explain before a Buffalo police officer walks in. Lacey.
“Ms. Killian.”
“You’re off traffic duty.”
He nods and looks up at Andy. “Andrew Yoder?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Lacey, Buffalo Police Department. I’d like to ask you to come with me.”
“Is he under arrest?” Maggie steps between the detective and Andy. Her need to protect him is strong, even as a horrible place inside her tells her that if they focus on Andy, they won’t suspect Hank.
“No, just some questions for him.”
“About what? What’s going on?” Andy’s confusion is giving way to panic, and his voice rises in pitch.
“Do you know a Penny Short and a Michael Short?”
Short. Both were named Short. Maggie doesn’t understand. Were they married? Separated? Divorcing? That might explain Michael’s reaction to Andy.
“Yes. Why?” Then he groans. “Oh God, no. Please, God, no. Don’t let something have happened to Penny.” Andy lurches and falls a few steps into the wall, where he holds himself up.
“Where were you last night, sir?” the officer asks.
“I, um, here?”
“Do you have any witnesses to corroborate your whereabouts between ten p.m. and four a.m.?”
Andy’s eyes are wide and wild. “N-n-no, sir.”
“They were murdered. We’d like to talk to you about it.”
Andy nods. Tears gather in his eyes.
“Can’t you talk to him here?” she says.
“We’d prefer not to.”
She knows what Andy will say before he says it.
“It’s fine.”
Maggie takes his arm. “You know the drill, Andy. You’re riding with me.” She’ll just have to tell Hank and Gene later. Andy is the first priority now.
Fifty-Five
In the police department reception area, Maggie waits for Andy. She kills time rearranging her schedule for the next week and soul-searching her options in Texas—Hank’s absence makes it impossible to reach a decision. She’d thought Hank would respond after she group-texted him and Gene about Michael and Penny. Gene had. He was upset and also understandably worried about the ranch and finding a replacement for Michael, even more so after she told him the police had Andy in for questioning. She hadn’t heard back from Hank.
“Ms. Killian?” the receptionist says.
Maggie gets up and walks over to her. “Yes?”
“Detective Lacey asked me to tell you he expects a long interview. Would you like me to text you when they’re done?”
“Yes. Thank you.” She recites her phone number.
Freed, Maggie walks down Main Street, with no enthusiasm for the cute stores. Luckily, she runs into Amos. She lets him interview her over a cup of coffee at the Busy Bee. It goes well enough. He’d heard about the murders and their link to Double S, but he doesn’t spin it as related to her. At least not to her face. When they’re done, she gets up to go.
“I really am sorry about before,” he says.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll send you a link when I post an article.”
“I hope I didn’t make a mistake talking to you.”
“You didn’t. And text me if you have any news. Please.”
“I’m not newsworthy.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Back outside, she stands at the railing of the bridge over Clear Creek and calls Travis, even though he’d never called back after her message about Mary and Doc Billy.
He picks up. “Ms. Killian.”
“Deputy. Thanks for taking my call.”
“I got a call from Lacey in Buffalo.”
“So you already know about the deaths there.”
“Long since.”
She takes a quarter from her pocket and feeds it into a machine
that dispenses fish food. Doling the pellets out one by one, she watches the trout dart from the shadows for the treats. “You’re the one that pointed them toward Andy, aren’t you?”
“I mentioned his name.”
She throws another pellet. “I’m in Buffalo now, waiting on the police here to be done with him.”
“And you’re calling me why?”
“Andy and Penny were engaged.” With an emphasis on were, she thinks, but doesn’t elaborate. With Michael and Penny dead, who will there be to contradict the old information?
“So?”
“He adored her. He wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head.” A fish jumps out of the water to beat a competitor to a pellet.
“The greater the love, the greater the crazy. That’s what we’ve been discussing with respect to your relationship.”
She tosses the rest of the food, creating a frenzy in the water below. The fish thrash, their bodies like writhing serpents. Then the food is gone, and the turmoil ends. “I’ve never discussed my relationship with you.”
“Fine. We’ve talked about Hank, then.”
This is a subject she wants to avoid at all costs. “Did you follow up on the information I gave you about Mary Marton and Doc Billy yet? There’s got to be something there. Mary was very jealous of Penny.”
“Maggie, you’re like a horse with blinders on. I’m doing my job. Now, if there’s nothing else?”
Horse with blinders? Takes one to know one. “No. Nothing. You have a nice day, Detective.”
She hangs up, fuming, and checks her texts. Travis is so . . . so . . . so . . . smug. And close-minded. Nothing from the police department receptionist. The gurgle of the creek is less now that the water level is fall-low, but it’s still soothing. Taking deep breaths, she lets it do its magic on her until she’s breathing calmly and freely again. She can only think of one more way to pass time, so she takes Bess to the gas station, parks at a pump, and starts filling her up.
“Maggie.” A female voice makes her name a statement instead of a question or greeting.
Sheila. What the hell is she doing in Buffalo? Maggie looks at the display on the pump. She has a long way to go before the tank is full. “Sheila. You get around.”
Dead Pile (Maggie #3) Page 24
