Maggie Box Set

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “Would you be willing to help with a picture?”

  “I can try.”

  Junior sits back in his chair.

  Maggie looks at Michele, who motions for her to continue. “The only other things I wanted to say are, first, Gary pissed people off. If this fire wasn’t an accident, then you need to know the truth about him. I may have been the best friend he had, notwithstanding our breakup. He was arrogant. He stole girlfriends and wives. He cut people off in traffic. He was ruthlessly ambitious. Second, about the vandalism and fire at my place, please make sure you talk to my vacation renter. Leslie DeWitt. She’s been in my house for the last two weeks, and I have not been in my home at all during that time. More than half of it I was working estate sales in Wyoming. If there was anything to see, she would have been the one in a position to see it.”

  “We talked to her last night,” Junior says.

  “Good.” Michele smiles at Maggie. “Anything else?”

  “That’s all. Other than I’m devastated.”

  Karen looks down at a notepad in front of her. “Thank you, Ms. Killian. Deputy?”

  Junior stammers a little, then finds his gear. “Um, yes. What can you tell us about the body we found in your shop?”

  Maggie’s neck twitches. “It’s awful. Do you know who it is yet?”

  “We were hoping you’d identify it for us.”

  Michele ducks her chin and looks over her nose at Junior. “Have you checked missing persons?”

  He nods. “Of course.”

  “No luck?”

  “Not yet. Maggie—Ms. Killian—do you know how she got in the shop?”

  “It’s a she?” Actually, Maggie had overheard that at the scene when someone in law enforcement mentioned the gender of the corpse. But there was no other way to answer the question.

  Junior stares without responding.

  “I have no idea. The windows were busted out when it was vandalized. Anyone could have knocked the plywood out and gotten in that way.”

  “And the fire?”

  “What about it?”

  “You have any idea how that started?”

  “As I told you earlier and also last night, none.”

  He looks at his lap as he asks, “How much insurance are you carrying on the place?”

  “I don’t remember for sure. I know it was about half the replacement value of the building and I’d estimate half the rough value of the items I had on hand. I am—was—carrying tons more inventory now than I do any other time of the year. Because of the upcoming show. Anyway, I can call my insurance company and ask. The premiums were really high, that’s all I know for sure.”

  “We’ll need you to get that for us. And give us permission to speak to them.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Is that permission?”

  “Sure.”

  Junior says, “Your witness, Fire Marshal.”

  Karen leans toward Maggie. “I think Junior here gave you a heads-up”—she shoots him a side-eye that isn’t friendly—“that we’re in possession of Gary Fuller’s phone and the texts and emails between you.”

  Michele smiles like a crocodile. “You’re in possession of his phone. You’re not in possession of their actual texts and emails.”

  “We’ll see about that. We’re in the process of obtaining corroborating records from the phone company now. And here’s a subpoena for Ms. Killian’s computer records.” She pulls a sheaf of papers from a briefcase at her feet and slides them to Michele under two fingers.

  Michele ignores the papers. “And we’re in the process of working with a computer specialist to figure out how falsified emails were sent using Ms. Killian’s email address. Meanwhile, we will voluntarily provide screenshots for you of the call logs and full text exchange between Mr. Fuller and Ms. Killian on the day of and the week before the fire.” Michele opens a manila folder and takes out the top two pieces of paper, closes the folder, and hands the pages across the table.

  Junior accepts them when Karen and Boland stare Michele down without moving.

  “The text string Junior told Maggie about is not correct as represented to her by him. There were confirming exchanges between the two of them that show Gary invited Maggie over and that he was very eager and welcoming. There was also a lengthy telephone call the previous night.”

  Junior looks up from his perusal of the papers. “Initiated by Maggie. I mean, Ms. Killian.”

  “Correct.”

  Karen leans on her elbows, hands clasped in front of her. “So, Ms. Killian, you’re claiming you didn’t send any of the emails to Gary we saw on his phone?”

  Michele laughs. “C’mon, Karen—she hasn’t even seen the emails.”

  Karen raises a brow. “Did you send email to Gary, Maggie?”

  “Very rarely. I can’t remember the last time, actually. We texted. FaceTimed. Talked on the phone. Or didn’t talk at all, for long stretches.”

  “Tell us about your relationship.”

  “Well, I already have. But we first hooked up about ten years ago, and we were together off and on ever since. I broke things off completely last spring. Then, I had a bad time of it last week, and I called him on my way home from Wyoming. That’s when he invited me over, and I said yes.”

  “You broke up with him.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not what he said.”

  “Actually, it is. He complained about it to everyone who knew about us.”

  “What do you mean ‘everyone who knew about you’?”

  “We were very private about our relationship. Only a few people knew about it, until I told you guys Friday night at the fire. Now the whole world knows. Before, most people just thought we were longtime friends.”

  “So give me an example of people he told that you broke up with him.”

  Michele raises her hand like a schoolgirl. “Me. My boyfriend, Rashidi.” She winks at Maggie. “I’m happy to provide you with affidavits.”

  Karen doesn’t look at Michele. “So your only communication to Gary between the breakup and now was the call the night before the fire?”

  “And the texts.” Michele points at the paper.

  Maggie shakes her head. “I’ve also answered some of his other texts. And I texted him the week after the vandalism at the Coop, because I felt bad he was getting sucked into it. I don’t hate him. I care—cared—about him. I was just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  Maggie wipes away a tear.

  Michele puts her hand out, palm up, and Maggie takes it. “In love with someone else.”

  Twenty-One

  “That was a shit show.” Maggie ruffles Louise’s ears. The dog won’t leave her side after the tense morning.

  “Al contrario, senorita. A huge success. You have witnesses for Gary’s admissions that you dumped him, screenshots of your phone disproving the contents of his, and no one arrested you. You gave them additional suspects. And a potential witness.”

  “They’re going forward with the subpoenas, they don’t believe me about the lady with the braid, and in general they have a massive hard-on for me as a suspect. I’ve been down this road before.”

  “I know, and me, too, but you do have a great attorney and two tickets to her movie premiere.”

  “Two tickets—who’m I gonna take? Louise?”

  Michele smiles. “Sell one if you want. Bring a bodyguard. Put your purse in the seat. I don’t care. But you have two. Oh, and you have mail.” She holds out a cardboard envelope.

  Maggie snatches it. “T-Mobile? My SIM card.”

  “Are you changing your number?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “Nunya.”

  “Seriously, why?”

  “So Hank can’t torture me anymore.”

  “Maggie, it’s a breakup. He’ll stop soon.”

  Maggie pops out her old SIM card, pockets it, and puts the new one in. “You want my new number or not?”

  Michele g
ets out her phone. Maggie recites the number to her. Then she sends a quick group text to everyone whose number she can remember, announcing her new digits.

  “Now, would my client allow me to take her to lunch?”

  “Your client would love that. I need strength for this afternoon. And someone to give me a ride back from Brenham after I drop the truck off for air-conditioning repair.”

  “I’ll ask Rashidi if he can do it. Are you going back to the Coop?”

  “What’s left of it. And afterward, to reclaim my house. Can I get the goats later?”

  “They’re no bother.” Michele laughs. “Or very little.”

  “Seriously, thank you.”

  “De nada. Anytime.”

  “In that case, I don’t have to leave. Really.”

  “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

  Maggie crosses her arms over her chest. “Uh-uh. No take-backs.”

  That earns her a smile, but it fades quickly to Michele’s serious face. “Speaking of take-backs, I’ve been meaning to ask—did Leslie ever PayPal you for those extra two days?”

  “Shit. I haven’t followed up on that. I need to, so I can take it out of her in blood if she didn’t actually pay.”

  “All right. Now, can you be ready in five? We have to meet Ava. She’s shopping the stores that have opened early for the antique show. There’s a gallery I’m dying to see. We’ll grab lunch after.”

  Maggie’s nonexistent brows rise an inch. “Um, no?”

  Michele laughs. “You and Ava. What’s with the two of you? You’ve both grown up. Moved on. Time to get over it.”

  “Her massive purchase yesterday at Flown the Coop helped thaw me toward her a little. But I’m still not up for the shopping. Call me when your lunch plans are set. Then, maybe.”

  Michele laughs. “I foresee a future where the two of you are best friends.”

  “You’re all the best friend I need, amiga. Now go. So I can do the other thing I need to give me strength for this afternoon.”

  “Please tell me it’s not Balcones.”

  “Nope, although that’s a great idea. It’s . . . a nap.”

  “Good. Because we’re out of whiskey, and I’m not buying you any more.” Michele winks as she grabs her zebra handbag and flounces out of the house.

  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 an
d 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.”