Maggie Box Set Read online

“In Sheridan. Outside a taxidermy shop.”

  “Tell us about it.”

  “I was pulled over to make a phone call. He stopped to see if I needed help. I told him I didn’t.”

  “That was it?”

  She walks to the other end of the porch, putting space between herself and the detectives. “No. I was at the Occidental Saloon later. He showed up there. Bought me a drink.”

  “Go on.”

  She hesitates.

  “Ms. Killian, we have a witness that saw you at the bar with him.”

  “Is that all? I just told you I was there. So now you have two. Who was the other?”

  “That’s not relevant.”

  “Chet is dead.”

  “So you know that?”

  She scoffs. “Everyone in the area knows that. Now you’re here talking to me. That makes it relevant. Whoever sent you to me did it for a reason.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I don’t know. You’d have to ask them. But anyone in the Occidental could have told you I was talking to Chet.” She ticks on her fingers. “Hank here. His girlfriend, Sheila. Gene Soboleski and his date—sorry, I don’t know her name. The bartender. Do you want me to go on?”

  A slideshow of faces fast-forwards in her brain. The musicians. Rudy from North Dakota. Patrick. And every other patron in the place. She doesn’t kid herself. With that shitty new article out about her, Sheila could have had the whole bar gossiping about her. Add to that she’s memorable looking. Every single one of them might have recognized her.

  “Not necessary. The same witness saw you get in Mr. Moore’s truck.”

  That information chills her. She didn’t see anyone when she and Chet left. After processing this for a moment, she nods at Hank. “Is he here officially? Because I’m not comfortable discussing my personal life in front of him. Especially not if he was your witness.”

  Hank’s face is stony. “I can wait by the truck.” He stalks away, fists balled.

  When he’s gone, Maggie says. “Awkward. Hank and I used to date.” She takes a deep breath. “Yes, I left with Chet.”

  “Then what?”

  Maggie looks around for Hank. He’s leaning against his truck, arms crossed. Sound carries out here. She lowers her voice. “We spent the night at the Bison Inn.”

  Lacey doesn’t follow her lead. His voice sounds like a bellow. “And?”

  “He got up the next morning and left. I slept in. I had lunch at the Busy Bee, then came here.”

  “And you’re aware that he was killed that morning outside the hotel?”

  She shakes her head. “I wasn’t at the time. I heard about it yesterday.”

  “Why didn’t you come to us then?”

  “Why would I? Because I’d heard maybe someone I knew had died?”

  “Because you’d spent the night with him.”

  She sits on the rail, one leg on the ground. “I’m sure I’m not the only woman who can claim that honor.”

  “You were the last person to see him alive.”

  “How would I have known that? Even now I don’t. In fact, my money is on the person who killed him seeing him last. And that sure wasn’t me.”

  “But don’t you think you might have information that will be helpful to our investigation?”

  “No, I don’t. When he left, he was alive. I never saw him again. I’m sorry to hear what happened to him. Very.”

  Lacey chews on his lip and nods. “Just a moment.”

  He motions to Johnson and they step away from her, heads together, voices low. Maggie takes the opportunity to watch Hank under lowered lashes. He’s frozen in place, arms still crossed, and looks steaming mad. When their tête-à-tête is over, Lacey and Johnson box her in on her side of the porch.

  Lacey continues to lead. “So let’s go through this again. When you were still at the hotel, did you know he’d been murdered?”

  “Wait—don’t you need to read me my Miranda rights?”

  “You’re not under arrest.”

  “Does that mean I don’t have to talk to you?”

  The cops share a glance.

  “It would help us out a lot if you do. And, if you don’t, we can’t promise we won’t pick you up and read you your Miranda rights then.”

  Maggie weighs the bad options, then throws up her hands. “Fine.”

  “So we were asking if you knew Mr. Moore had been murdered. When you left the hotel.”

  “No. I knew there was a crime scene in the parking lot, but it had nothing to do with me, and I left.”

  “We don’t have a statement from you.”

  “Because no one took one.”

  Lacey glowers. “No one asked you to give a statement?”

  “No.”

  “Not when you checked out?”

  “I didn’t check out. Chet booked the room.”

  Johnson nods at Lacey.

  “Did you see anyone suspicious or who might have indicated they intended to harm Mr. Moore?”

  “I was wasted, Detective Lacey. I saw Chet, naked, and the inside of the hotel room.”

  Johnson smirks.

  Lacey narrows his eyes at his partner. “What about in the parking lot?”

  “That night?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw him talking to some meth-head-looking people on his way in, but I stayed in the truck. It didn’t go well. In fact, a woman slapped him.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “A group of white people with tattoos. Two men and a blonde woman. That’s it—it was dark, I was fifty feet away. And did I mention wasted?”

  “Did you hear their conversation?”

  “No. When Chet got back in the truck, he told me she was a woman he hadn’t treated well, and that he had it coming.”

  “Anyone else you can think of?”

  “No.”

  “At the bar?”

  “He got a lot of female attention at first. Hank’s girlfriend, Sheila, seemed to find him especially attractive. But he came straight to me.”

  “Did anyone seem upset about that?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Hank?”

  “Unfortunately, not in the slightest.” She feels Hanks eyes burning into the side of her face and hopes he can’t hear her.

  “Did Mr. Moore talk about anyone being after him or upset with him?”

  “Detective Lacey, we weren’t exactly talking.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “It’s a no.”

  “Did he ever tell you where he was headed or whether he intended to meet anyone on the day he was killed?”

  “Not that I remember that night. Our first real conversation was in the morning. He asked me to take a shower with him. I said no. He asked me to marry him and be the mother of his little girl. I said no. He pouted. I said goodbye. He left.”

  Detective Lacey looks at his feet. She sees him grinning. Then his head pops up. “Moore doesn’t have any kids.”

  “I suppose he doesn’t have a crazy mother either? Because he told me he had both.”

  Johnson holds up a hand toward Lacey, stopping the line of conversation. “Anything else?”

  Maggie sighs dramatically. “What are you looking for—sexual positions? Um, missionary, doggie, and me on top. Number of orgasms? Him, three, I think, me, five. Is oral sex legal in Wyoming? Because we did that, too.”

  Johnson’s mouth opens, then snaps shut quick as a mouse trap.

  Lacey says, “No wonder he asked you to marry him.”

  “Is that all, detectives?”

  “Just one more thing. Did you have anything to do with the death of Chet Moore?”

  Maggie tosses her hair, dander up. “Zero. I did not kill him. I did not see him killed. I do not know who killed him. I don’t know anything about him, really, except that he seemed to have a hard-on that never quit.”

  Lacey’s pale skin colors. “We don’t need quite that much information, but thanks. Also, we’ll need you to come i
n and make a statement.”

  “I thought I just gave one.”

  “We need it typed up and signed.”

  “You’d make some poor administrative employee listen to this?”

  Lacey’s voice is dry. “Well, you could tone it down some.”

  “Do you need me to go in now?”

  “Tomorrow. Make it two thirty.”

  “Fine.”

  “And we need you to stay nearby until this is settled.”

  Maggie jumps to her feet, and the two detectives back up a few steps. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I live and work in Texas. You want me to stay until you crack this case? What if that never happens?”

  “We can talk about it more after you give your statement, but, for now, at least through Friday.”

  Friday. Six more days of suspended animation. “You can’t force me to put my life on hold.”

  “Don’t make us, Ms. Killian.”

  Maggie groans. “Do you even have any suspects?”

  “We aren’t at liberty to say at this time.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “It’s exactly what I said.”

  Which doesn’t inspire confidence in Maggie about them wrapping the case by Friday, or turning their attention away from her, for that matter. The detectives return to their car and make their goodbyes with Hank. Maggie walks to the porch steps.

  As soon as they’re gone, Hank is in her face, a soft drink can sloshing and dangling from his hand. “What the hell is going on, Maggie?”

  Eighteen

  Maggie puts her hand on a support beam and stares out at the mountains. “It seems I was possibly the last innocent person to see Chet Moore alive.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It means I spent the night with him, before he was killed in the parking lot of the hotel as he left.”

  “Innocent.” His eyes drill into hers. “Not the word I would have used.”

  “I didn’t kill the guy.” Hank’s judgy attitude and disappointment is what she’s been afraid of, and it sparks her wick. She purrs. “Although I guess you could say I nearly did, but he wasn’t complaining.”

  “Nice, Maggie.”

  “What? You object to how I spent the night?”

  Hank crushes the can against the porch beam, sending caramel liquid squirting out. “A one-night stand? Yeah, I object.”

  Maggie steps away from him. “You didn’t seem to object the times I spent the night with you.”

  “We were different.”

  Maggie can’t argue with that. “And we’re different now. Because you have a girlfriend, and what I do is none of your goddamn business.”

  His blue eyes darken. He looks away to the mountains. “I guess not. But the trouble you bring to this ranch is.”

  “Trouble? I didn’t bring Chet here, and I didn’t do anything to him.”

  Hank’s smile is a death mask. “I wondered if you’d admit it.”

  Maggie’s head spins. “Admit what?”

  “That you spent the night with him.”

  “You knew?”

  “Of course I knew. You were all over him at the Ox. You left with him. We drove out of town right behind his truck, and you pawed each other at every red light.”

  Maggie feels like she’s going to puke. How well does she even know this man? They had one night together fifteen years ago, and almost a week in the sack earlier this year. She obviously missed out on cues to some important traits. Like his temper. And that he can be a huge asshole. “You told the police about me.”

  “Nope. I didn’t tell anyone. I was too humiliated that someone I used to be with would hook up with a douchebag like Chet Moore. If you’d do that, what wouldn’t you do? And now the police are here. You know the old saying. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  “You think I killed him?”

  “Maybe not that. But I don’t know what I think about you anymore, Maggie.”

  Nineteen

  Monday morning, Maggie is updating her website from the cabin porch, skipping breakfast at the main house, again. Work is a good way to keep from thinking about the harsh words between her and Hank, not to mention the edict from the Buffalo detectives that she stay in town through Friday. She can’t do anything about the latter, and she doesn’t want to face up to the former. She uploads a photo of the Singer sewing machine and types in a price and description, then posts it to her website. It will sell fast and for a good price, she’s certain.

  Her phone rings. Caller ID announces LEE COUNTY. As in Texas. She’d forgotten about the break-in at Flown the Coop. A week ago it would have been a huge problem. Now it doesn’t even make the cut into the top two worst.

  “Maggie Killian,” she says into the phone.

  The voice is officious. “Junior Jones, Lee County deputy sheriff.”

  “Am I being punked? Like I don’t know who you are.” Maggie pictures the Ichabod Crane look-alike deputy with the Dudley Do-Right demeanor. He’s mooned over her for years. “And you realize it’s an indecent hour where I am?” With the time difference, it makes sense Junior is at work in Texas.

  He relaxes, but not much. “Sorry. I’m following up about the break-in at your store.”

  “I hear it was a break-in, vandalism, and theft.”

  She hears a car honking in the background on Junior’s end. “True. I hate it for you, Maggie. We’ll try to find who did this.”

  “It’s crap. And I’ll never get my junk back. You know it.”

  “You got any enemies?”

  “Oh, come on. How long have we known each other?”

  “Long enough. Consider it a rhetorical question. List them please.”

  “Honestly, Junior, I don’t know anyone who would do something like this. Even the people I’ve pissed off. But while you’re investigating it, look into who would sabotage my truck, because I’m broken down here in Wyoming and can’t leave.” Of course, she doesn’t know what kind of douchebag would steal the belt buckle either. A text message flashes across her screen.

  Michele: Did Tank or Junior call you?

  While the answer is obvious, Maggie can’t send it now.

  Junior says, “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. My truck was sabotaged. I’m stranded.”

  “It wasn’t somebody up there who did it?”

  “I don’t know. But I barely know anyone here. And someone in Texas vandalized my shop. Stands to reason they could have been the one to take a blowtorch to the end of my driveshaft, too.”

  “Like Gary Fuller?”

  “Definitely not Gary. He’s too careful of his public image. He’s never even admitted our relationship in public.”

  “He was yesterday, loud and proud.”

  “Jim Beam probably factored into it.”

  “No doubt.” In the distance, she watches Andy and Paco rope a bull that had gotten out of its pasture and refused to be herded back. One over the horns, one catches a back heel. “Maybe one of Gary’s ex-girlfriends. One in particular. Jenny. She’s a nutjob. And some dumbass reporter just released a bunch of personal information about me, including the name of my store and the location. You could get her number from Gary.”

  His words come out slowly, and she imagines him licking a pencil and writing it down. “Oh. Kay.”

  “Are you at my place now?”

  “No.”

  “Next time you go by, can you check on my tenant? She’s not answering me.”

  “Do you have reason to think we should enter forcibly?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t mind if you peeked in the windows.”

  “When will you be back?”

  Leaving out the reason why, Maggie says, “A week or less. You can coordinate with Michele about access until then.”

  “I’ll need a statement from you when you get back.”

  “Fine.” Get in line. “Oh! And can I get started on an insurance claim, send an adjuster out?”

  “Sure. Have them give me a heads-up, though. Crimin
als revisit crime scenes. We don’t want him getting hurt, by the bad guys or the good guys.”

  “Thanks, Junior. Keep me posted.”

  “Of course. Drive safe, Maggie.”

  She smiles at the last bit. That’s more like the Junior she knows. She hangs up. She responds to Michele’s text: Just hung up the phone with Junior. Calling insurance now.

  After she initiates a claim, she holds her coffee mug to her face to warm it. The morning air is chilling her nose. She sets the cup down. Movement along the road catches her eye. Someone heading her way. Hank lifts his hand, and the pressure in Maggie’s chest is immediate. She doesn’t wave back. She’d spent the night tossing and turning, regretting that she’d napped instead of booking tickets Saturday afternoon. That she’d played music instead of doing it after dinner. She could have been out of here first thing Sunday morning, before the police showed up. Before the ugly scene. Staying at Piney Bottoms before was hard. It’s become cruel and unusual punishment, and counterproductive. Now she’s stuck in Wyoming.

  But she doesn’t have to be stuck here. She can ask Patrick for a ride to Sheridan. Check back into her hotel. Rent a car. Drive down to Buffalo. Push things along with the Buffalo police and their investigation. Keep working on Flown the Coop business from afar until Friday, when she will run like the wind and never come back. She quickly types a search in a new tab: Rental cars Sheridan, Wyoming. In another, she pulls up the Mill Inn site. As soon as Hank leaves, she’ll make it happen.

  Hank’s voice is cautious. “Good morning. Missed you at breakfast.”

  She looks up. As he draws nearer, she sees he’s wearing something odd across his shoulder.

  “I missed you there the last two mornings.”

  He stops short of the porch. Now Maggie recognizes his shoulder ornament as a compound bow and quiver of arrows. They stare at each other. Hank’s eyes look tortured. Maggie’s are flinty.

  “It’s bow season. I thought I’d get in a little practice this morning. Want to come?”

  His angst is like fingers of flame reaching out for Maggie. She glances down at her laptop. The time in the upper right corner is seven thirty. She opens her mouth to say no, then closes it.

  “Please. I need to talk to you.”

  Like kindling, her yes ignites. “Okay.”