Maggie Box Set

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  Her phone rings. “Come on, Junior.” She answers, expecting Michele, excited to share what she learned from Merritt. “Tell me something good.”

  “Maggie?” The voice isn’t Michele’s. It’s younger. The accent isn’t Texan.

  “You’ve got her.”

  “You’d better not have my fiancé.”

  Maggie’s brain doesn’t connect the dots for several seconds. Then the answer is there with a cymbal crash. Hank’s fiancée. “Sheila?”

  “You know damn well it is.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t—never mind.” Sheila won’t believe her, and it doesn’t matter. But Maggie isn’t going to cow to her. “Come again? What’s the matter?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. Where’s Hank?”

  “I have no idea. I haven’t seen him or talked to him.”

  Sheila is silent.

  Maggie’s mind tortures her with an image of the tall blonde woman coming out of Hank’s hospital room in Wyoming. Her words had been a knife stab to Maggie’s heart. “Hank and I are getting married! My Hanky Panky’s going to be a daddy!” She imagines their future family dinners, the kids Sheila teaches, and her bright-eyed Sunday schoolers. Bile rises from Maggie’s stomach.

  She pushes Sheila’s image away, but it’s replaced by another. Hank’s face. Weather beaten. Eyes twinkling. The dimples in his cheeks when he’d smiled at her from the back of his horse. A time jump jerks her back fifteen years. Hank in his chaps, jamming his hat on as he picks himself up out of the Cheyenne arena dirt and then hops onto the rails to avoid the horns of the angry bull he’d just ridden. The first meeting of their eyes, seconds later. Hank lifting his winner’s buckle. Hank across a table in Wheatland, Wyoming. Hank kissing her in the seat of a borrowed truck. Hank cradling her face in the Buffalo Lodge in Chugwater, whispering her to sleep. Then time leaps forward again, to last week. Hank bleeding in the Wyoming dirt, shot with his own rifle. Her own crazed race to save him.

  She pushes the images away, but it’s too late. The pain is fresh, and she comes out of her reverie ready to fight. How dare Sheila treat her like this? Maggie hasn’t done anything wrong. Isn’t it bad enough Sheila stole the love of her life right out from under her by trapping the man?

  Her voice is toxic. “If you’re having trouble hanging on to your man, that’s your problem, not mine.”

  “If you—”

  Then Maggie realizes this call has come in on her new phone number. “How did you get this number, anyway?”

  “It’s not hard to look up the numbers he’s texting and calling on his account. His stupid password is the same to everything.”

  Maggie knows that password. She used it for Wi-Fi at Piney Bottoms. Buffalo2002. The year they met, the name of the hotel where they spent their one night.

  Sheila is still talking. “You called him today. And texted him.”

  “I’m not Hank’s keeper. And I don’t answer to you.” Maggie ends the call. Her tank top is molded to her belly with sweat. Her chest is heaving. “Goddammit!” she screams.

  A horn sounds from the direction of the house. Two taps. Honk-honk. Her phone rings with a call from Michele. She takes a deep breath. Rails against her rage and pain. Junior is here. It’s time to go take her life back.

  Past time.

  Twenty-Seven

  “I’ve got something big to tell you about Gary,” Maggie whispers to Michele as they file into the house behind Junior. “It’s important.”

  “Shh. After he leaves,” Michele replies, finger to lips. Then, louder, she says to Junior, “So tell us about the evidence issue at Gary’s.”

  He keeps his eyes on his feet. “I’m here about the trespassing complaint. Nothing else.”

  Michele rolls her eyes at Maggie, but Junior doesn’t say another word. The three of them congregate in Michele’s office. An hour drags by as they fill out and, at Junior’s insistence on “correcting errors,” re-fill out documents, scanning and sending them back and forth to the sheriff’s department and the county attorney.

  Maggie finally snaps. “Daylight is wasting.”

  “Evictions are tricky,” Junior explains.

  “This is arresting a trespasser, actually, one who has done damage to the property.” Michele pulls a thumb drive out of the printer, where she has scanned some documents. Again. “Private home vacation rentals are less tricky than long-term rentals.”

  “Maybe. But it’s still pretty emotional. People get nasty. Nasty people are dangerous.”

  Maggie leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Admit it. Lee County doesn’t want to help. You guys and Fayette County have a boner for me. After I’ve lived here as a model citizen and property-tax payer for ten years. And grew up here as a member of St. Paul Lutheran. But suddenly you think I’m some crazed arsonist and killer.”

  A smile quirks the side of Michele’s mouth. Both women watch Junior for his reaction.

  His face goes red, like a beet cooking in a microwave, five seconds before it explodes all over the inside. “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “Doesn’t it? Then why aren’t we at my house already? This isn’t complicated. I own that house, and you have the paperwork in front of you that proves she’s trespassing.”

  Louise comes to stand by Maggie. Maggie reaches down automatically to pet her. The dog licks her hand.

  “We need notice and an opportunity to vacate first.”

  “Which we can do, quite nice-like, when we get to my house, even though I did it two days ago, yesterday, and today already. But we can’t do it from here.” Dumbass, she wants to add, but doesn’t.

  Junior holds his hands up. “This is bigger than me, Maggie.”

  “You expect me to believe you, yet you refuse to tell me why.”

  Michele steps between them. “She has a valid point, Junior. It shouldn’t be bigger than you. It should be a simple matter of enforcing the rights of county residents. No matter who they are. Maggie hasn’t been proven guilty of anything. Whatever happened to presumed innocence? She has the full rights of any citizen in this county. No more, but certainly no less.” She lifts her phone. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to escalate this.”

  Junior hitches up pants that have sagged low over his nonexistent butt, saved only by his bony hips. “What are you doing?”

  “Calling Len,” Michele says, referring to the county attorney. She’s already pressed his number in her contacts and has the phone to her ear.

  “No. Don’t call him.” Junior’s lips continue moving as he paces over to look out the window.

  Maggie is pretty sure he’s praying.

  Michele doesn’t end the call. She holds up a finger. “This is Michele Lopez Hanson.” Michele stops, listening. “No, I’m calling about something else. I have a Lee County deputy here with me, and I’d asked him to enforce a property owner’s rights to get a trespasser off her property. We’re having some trouble. May I speak to Len, please?” Again, she waits. “Len, Michele. I’ve got Junior here. I’m putting you on speaker.”

  She doesn’t mention Maggie, but neither Maggie nor Junior interject the fact of her presence.

  “Junior?” Len’s voice is country smart. His undergrad degree is courtesy of a Texas Tech football scholarship, but his law degree from Tech came from an academic full ride.

  “Hello, sir.”

  “What’s the problem with the property?”

  “It’s not what, sir. It’s who. Maggie Killian.”

  Papers shuffle, then there’s a clack-clack like they’ve been straightened into a neat stack on the surface of a desk. “She owns the property in question?”

  “Yes, sir. Her house. Where the fire was yesterday.”

  “And she has a trespasser?”

  “A short-term vacation renter whose term is up. Maggie says she’s given the renter verbal notice to vacate repeatedly and that the renter has stayed past the term of the rental agreement and is refusing to go.”

  “Michele, can’t Maggie
work this out without law enforcement?”

  Michele’s voice is huffy, with a trace of the Mexico she’s never lived in. “What about that explanation makes you think she hasn’t tried? The renter changed the locks today to keep Maggie out and told her she’s unilaterally decided to extend her stay. Believe me, the last thing Maggie wants to do is contact any area law enforcement for help right now, not with how she’s being treated by them. But we don’t have any choice, unless you’re suggesting she take the law into her own hands. Let me know if you’re prepared to deputize Maggie and waive the consequences.”

  “Slow down. You have to understand, Michele. We’re in the middle of a homicide investigation here. Two of them. And arson.”

  “Are you referring to the fire in Fayette County or the fire at Maggie’s store?”

  “Both.”

  “Last I checked, you don’t work for Fayette County.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m sure I don’t. When the fire marshal and Sheriff Boland were at my home this morning—and Junior—they didn’t call either incident arson or murder. But we can solve all of that by focusing our conversation on Lee County. Better yet, let’s keep it on trespassing.”

  Maggie can’t hold it in any longer. “This is all such utter bullshit. I didn’t do anything. I have information that—”

  Len growls, “Is that Maggie?”

  The smile on Michele’s face makes it into her voice. “Surprise, Len.”

  “Nice of you guys to tell me she was there.”

  “You didn’t ask.” Michele winks at Maggie.

  Junior lowers his face into his hands. “Well, um—”

  Michele doesn’t yield the floor. “Let me make this simple for you, Len. There’s nothing in your playbook that says a citizen under investigation loses her property rights. Every minute you delay is a violation of her civil rights.”

  “Her what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Then I’ll give you a road map. Point A is where we’re at now. Point B is I file a lawsuit against the county first thing in the morning. Point C is publicity, and Point D is a messy jury trial before the destination of Point E, your reelection campaign.” Michele shoots Maggie a thumbs-up.

  “There’s no need—”

  Michele pantomimes an explosion with her hands and fingers as she mouths “Boom” to Maggie, then points at her.

  Maggie nods. “Hang up, Michele. I’ve heard enough. File the lawsuit.”

  “Stop,” Len shouts. “Fine. Junior, get the trespasser out. Maggie, if you cross that barricade or do anything to tamper with evidence, so help me, we’ll—”

  Maggie’s voice sizzles. “I can’t tamper with evidence that doesn’t exist, and it sure isn’t going to be at the house I haven’t been able to enter in two weeks, which, by the way, is not barricaded.”

  Michele smiles, then draws a line across her throat at Maggie. “We have what we need here. Thanks for doing business, Len.”

  “Whatever.” He hangs up.

  “Go,” Michele says to Junior.

  Maggie points at him. “You going to make any more problems for me on this?”

  “No. I’ll give you a ride.”

  Maggie throws her words over her shoulder as she spins and stomps out, Louise scampering after her with hindquarters tucked. “No way in hell. I’ll meet you there.” She shakes her finger at Louise. “Not you. You’re staying here.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Maggie and Junior wait on the front porch of her house. Maggie is fuming, and Junior’s eyes are down and away, careful not to make contact with the death rays shooting from hers.

  He rings the bell and knocks again. “She won’t answer.”

  “We’ll see.”

  After he tries for the third time without success, he shouts. “Lee County Sheriff’s Department. I’m with the homeowner, Maggie Killian. If this door is not opened within one minute, I’m entering by force with her authorization.”

  Something makes rustling noises and soft thuds inside. Junior leans his ear toward the curtained window pane in the door. At forty-five seconds, the door opens a few inches, displaying a security chain that is as new as the deadbolt locks.

  “Leslie?”

  “No.”

  Maggie’s laugh is a near-hysterical cackle. “Right.”

  Junior adjusts his gun belt. “I’m told your name is Leslie DeWitt.”

  The woman Maggie knows as Leslie says, “I don’t care what you’ve been told. That’s not my name.”

  Maggie harrumphs. “Oh really? Well that’s the name you used for our contract.”

  The woman’s barely visible blue eyes narrow. “It’s not my name.”

  Junior sighs. “Ma’am, whatever your name is, you need to leave. Now. This house belongs to Ms. Killian. She’s told you that your contract is up and given you notice that you need to vacate the house.”

  “I have a signed lease.”

  Junior holds up the documents Michele gave him. “And the term of that lease is over.”

  “That’s not what she said.” A long finger points at Maggie.

  Maggie shakes her head. “She is the biggest liar. Ever.”

  “I asked to stay, and you said I could.”

  “I told you to leave. Repeatedly.”

  “You said you’d pick up my check later.” A check slips out the crack in the door.

  Junior reaches for it and Maggie slaps his hand down. “Don’t touch it. We never talked about a check.”

  “Assault of an officer,” he whispers at her.

  She glares at him and gestures to the door with a jerk of her head that doesn’t move the hair sweated to her face.

  Junior speaks to the door. “I need you to remove the chain so we can have a conversation out here on the porch.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. You have no right to enter, and I don’t know if you’re who you say you are. I do know I’m scared of her.”

  Junior’s lips move again and his head shakes like he’s arguing with himself. Maggie steps on his toe and digs her heel in.

  He jerks his foot away.

  “She made unauthorized changes to the home by changing the locks.”

  Junior holds his badge up to the crack between door and frame.

  Maggie jangles the chain. “And adding this. And God knows what else.”

  “I told this woman how scared I was after that fire and the dead body they found in her store. She told me I could change the locks so I’d feel safer.”

  Maggie looks up at the sky and grabs the hair above either ear. “Argh. It’s all total crap.”

  “A word, Maggie?” Junior points at an oak tree in the yard. He walks over to the shade.

  Maggie stomps after him. “What?”

  “This isn’t as straightforward as you led me to believe.”

  “Of course it’s not straightforward. She’s lying like a dog on a rug. She’s also been going around town telling people I’m selling the house to her.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Of course not! She’s catfishing me. Stealing my life.”

  “It doesn’t help your case.”

  “Do you see a for-sale sign out front? Come on.”

  “Can’t you see it makes it sound like you’re okay with her being there and are thinking about leaving?”

  “Junior, it’s not true. You have the paperwork, and what I’ve told you, which refutes that.”

  “It’s your word against hers about the locks and the extension. And the sale.”

  A 2000-era Oldsmobile floats to a stop in the driveway. Maggie and Junior turn to it as one. Two doors open. Two sets of sensible shoes hit the ground, and two ladies with beauty-parlor-fresh hair climb out. Two doors close. Two sets of feet walk toward the house.

  Maggie’s voice is choked. “Oh Jesus. The church ladies. My mother’s friends.”

  “Yoo-hoo, Maggie, hello!” Gray Bob calls to them, waggling her
fingers. “Deputy.”

  Maggie pastes on a smile. “Hello, ladies.”

  Junior lifts a hand. “Ma’am. Ma’am.”

  Blue Hair stops at the bottom step. “How are you dear? I swear, I was just praying about you an hour ago.”

  “That’s great. What can I do for you?”

  “We’re just dropping in to talk to Leslie about joining the church.”

  Junior shoots Maggie a long look.

  Maggie smiles grimly. Leslie has said she’s not Leslie. So she says, “Leslie’s not here.”

  “That’s her car.”

  “Yes, but Leslie definitely isn’t here.”

  The ladies hem and haw, finally leaving with farewells and more promises to pray for Maggie, for the sake of her dear mother and departed father.

  When they’re gone, Maggie closes her eyes. Their visit makes her turn to prayer herself. Dear God, please make this hell stop. Amen.

  Junior interrupts her confab with the big man. “Listen, I know you’re upset. I know you want back in your house. But it’s almost dinnertime. Can I get with the county attorney tonight and we do this first thing in the morning?”

  “Really? Really?”

  “If you’ll just give the renter real clear notice that her permission to stay here is revoked—”

  “Which I’ve done until I’m blue in the face.”

  “Work with me, Maggie. Revoke it, and let me hear you say that you did not give her permission to change the locks. I’ll tell her I’ll be back to arrest her tomorrow morning. I promise.”

  Maggie holds up a finger. She speed-dials her sister and updates her. “What do you think?”

  “Sounds reasonable. I hesitate to say smart, even. Let’s do this ultra-legal.”

  “I’m drinking heavily tonight.”

  “I release you from your promise to cut back, for one night only.”