Dead Pile (Maggie #3) Read online

  A wheelchair appears, in it the wizened body of white-haired Mrs. Sibley, and, pushing the wheelchair, Laura, Hank’s dark pixie sister. Maggie imagines Mrs. Sibley as a younger woman. She must have looked a lot like her flinty, pretty daughter. Laura’s wearing a T-shirt that shows off lithely muscled arms that Maggie envies. Laura’s come by them honestly. A ranch kid turned jockey, she’s retired now and running an equine camp for troubled youth in New Mexico, on the family ranch managed by her husband.

  Hank is right behind them. “It’s okay, Mom. I’ve got it.” He kisses his mom’s cheek. His face has drawn in and his eyes have sunken, just in the last ten minutes.

  Maggie’s afraid his headache is back. She pours Hank a cup, black, then backs out of his mother’s sightline. It’s usually better if Maggie doesn’t attract her ire. Evangeline “Vangie” Sibley isn’t Maggie’s biggest fan.

  Laura is up to speed on Paco. She nods at Hank. “Let’s go get some tea, Mom.”

  “I want coffee.”

  “The doctor says you need to stay away from it.”

  The older woman pouts. “I want to greet our company.”

  Laura laughs. “I’m your company, Mom. I just got here last night. Let’s go have a visit.”

  Louise chooses that moment to set up coyote-worthy howling from the mudroom.

  Mrs. Sibley’s nose wrinkles and her mouth puckers. “Do something about that dog. You know I don’t allow ranch animals in the house.”

  Laura’s reply is inaudible as she pushes her mother toward the kitchen. Hank slams his entire cup of hot coffee and winces. He thunks it down on the sideboard, then heads toward the front door. Maggie follows him, still sipping from her mug.

  “She didn’t even look at me. Laura, I mean. She hates me, too.”

  “No one hates you.” Hank pulls the door open and squints as sunlight blasts him in both eyes.

  “Yeah, right.” Maggie dons sunglasses from the pocket of the jacket she left hanging on a peg by the door, then puts the jacket on, too. Her head, still protected by her knit beanie, is starting to itch. She rubs the beanie against her scalp.

  The cold is sharp now, and it freezes the hairs inside Maggie’s nose. The sky is a brilliant baby blue, with the snow a blanket of rainbow crystals sparkling in the sun. She thinks she can make out the circling buzzards over the dead pile in the distance. In the opposite direction, a single set of tire tracks snake from a white sheriff’s department Ram 1500 truck back toward the ranch gate. The rumbling engine silences. A grizzly-like deputy gets out. He’s zipped into a jacket whose size must have multiple Xs before its L. He stomps his way through new snow over to Maggie and Hank.

  The two men lean in for a one-shouldered guy-hug, clapping each other on the back and making small talk about family and football.

  Hank turns to Maggie. “Travis and I have known each other since he was a little squirt hanging out watching the big boys ride bulls.”

  Of course. Hank and his family trace their Wyoming roots back to the late 1800s, when their ancestors homesteaded their land. Deep roots mean something here, and from what Maggie has seen, Hank knows and is respected by most of the people in northern Wyoming and southeastern Montana, even east into the Black Hills of South Dakota.

  Travis grips Maggie’s hand with his cold, dry one and shakes. “Ms. Killian. Good to see you again.” They’d met the month before when there was a series of burglaries at the guest cabin Maggie was staying in, and later when Rudy Simon, a spurned fan of Maggie’s, attacked Hank.

  “Deputy Travis. I’m not sure about good. At least not for Paco.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Lopez. Bad business.” Travis nods. “Sorry I had to come alone. We’re shorthanded.”

  “You’ll do, buddy.” Hank steps onto the road back to the outbuildings. “Come on. We can talk on the way. We’ve got a Ranger gassed up and waiting.”

  Maggie takes a step and immediately feels her foot slide, so she slips her hand through Hank’s arm for balance. Hank’s changed his footwear from cowboy boots to tactical boots that look like they’re waterproof.

  Travis is wearing snow boots. “Tell me what you saw, then.”

  Maggie looks down at her feet and has a sharp and sudden case of boot envy.

  “Maggie’d never seen our dead pile. When she got close, her dog brought out a boot. One of Paco’s. He was buried in the pile. But the dog excavated enough that we saw his legs and the back of his belt.”

  “You didn’t see his face?”

  “No. We didn’t want to disturb anything, so we backed away, and I called 911.”

  “Good. When was the last time you saw him? Alive, that is.”

  Hank cocks his head at Maggie. “Two, three days ago?”

  Maggie counts it on her fingers. “Three. At breakfast on Friday. He was taking a long weekend.”

  Travis says, “So today is Monday. Wouldn’t you have expected him back by now?”

  “Sort of. Maybe.” Hank shrugs. “If he hadn’t come back by midweek, I would have worried. Otherwise, I would have just assumed it was Paco blowing off steam.”

  Travis’s forehead crinkles. “Did he say where he was going?”

  Hank stops at the gate to a paddock. He puts his foot on the bottom rail and leans a forearm on the top. “Actually, no. He said he was following the fun.”

  Maggie glances at the northern sky and sees a dark gray wall of clouds advancing like a steamroller. The mountains block the view of northern fronts until they’re bearing down on the ranch.

  Travis crosses his arms, surveying the ranch in a one-hundred-eighty-degree arc. “What did he mean by that?”

  Hank smiles, but his eyes are sad. “Paco liked cards, women, and whiskey. When he came back from time off, he was usually dropped here by an angry woman squealing tires out of the place, and looking like he’d been mule-kicked all the way back from Lynchburg, Tennessee.”

  “You’d suspect a woman, then?”

  “Maybe. But I’ve never seen one mad enough to kill him and leave him on our dead pile.”

  “Who would be?”

  “Personally, I wouldn’t know. Someone he beat at cards, stiffed when he lost, or ran out on when they caught him cheating? A boyfriend or husband who didn’t like to share?”

  “Any you know?”

  “Like I said, none personally. Just his legend.”

  “What about family, friends, a steady girl?”

  “His family’s in South Texas. I guess we were his friends, although he also palled around with some of the hands on the area ranches. And I’ve never known him to tie himself down to one woman.”

  “Who benefits from his death?”

  Hank rubs his chin. “I don’t rightly know. He had a little bit of life insurance through Double S. Not enough to kill over, I wouldn’t think, but maybe to someone. I don’t know who gets it or if he had anything else worth much. He had a real nice roping saddle. That’s about it.” His face darkens. “And, well, he had this job. If someone wanted it, I guess that’s something.”

  “Or if someone wanted him out of it.”

  Hank doesn’t respond.

  “Kind of hard for someone to get out to that dead pile without anyone here noticing.”

  “There’s miles and miles of unmonitored fence line on this place.”

  “Inhospitable fence line.”

  “Unwelcoming. But not inhospitable.”

  Travis changes tacks. “You said Paco was your top hand. Will someone get bumped up with him gone?”

  “We only have one other full-time hand. Andy. An Amish kid.”

  “He’ll be promoted, then.”

  “Maybe. That isn’t a sure thing. But the Amish are nonviolent, and Andy wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Hank resumes walking to the barn, Travis behind him and Maggie beside him.

  “Did you have any relationship with Paco, Maggie?”

  Maggie feels icy snowflakes pelting her face as the gray clouds close in on them. “He helped fix my truck once. But really, nothing oth
er than small talk at meals. I’ve been teaching Andy to read music and play the guitar, but Paco wasn’t interested.”

  Travis says. “Really? I read online that you’d given up music.”

  Maggie stops, and Travis bumps into her. She just loves all the media attention lately. Not. “I gave up performing music professionally a long time ago. I didn’t forget how to make it.”

  Hank snorts. He wants her to play more. Since he reentered her life, the music is coming back to her, but it owned her once before, and she’s not going through that again for anyone. This time, music is on her terms or not at all.

  The wind picks up as they reach the stable yard, where Travis greets Gene and Andy. Travis barely glances at Andy’s homemade blue pants and oilcloth coat, distinctive wide-brimmed hat, and blousy work shirt.

  Travis takes Gene and Andy through the same type of questions he’d already gone over with Hank and Maggie, making occasional notes in a spiral pad. Gene confirms most of what Hank said, although he expresses more consternation about Paco extending his vacations. The only new information comes from Andy.

  “He had a girl. Back in Texas. Her father was none too happy with Paco because the time had come for him to go back for her and marry. Paco was dragging his feet. He hasn’t been faithful to her. He’s something of a ladies’ man.”

  Maggie isn’t surprised about the ladies’ man part, although the fiancée is a shock. Paco is—was—a charmer who loved to recite raunchy cowboy poetry. He had mischievous eyes, a compact, muscular build, thick, wavy dark hair, a black mustache, and a square jaw. He wasn’t her type, but he was definitely attractive.

  Travis’s eyebrows rise. “Have you met her?”

  “No. I’ve seen a picture. He keeps it under his mattress. One time he showed it to me when he’d been drinking.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “He called her Maribel.”

  “Last name?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Why was he dragging his feet?”

  Andy looks around like he’s the stray dog and Travis the dogcatcher. There’s nowhere for him to run. “He liked his freedom.”

  Travis closes his notepad. “I’ll need to search his quarters.”

  Gene says, “He has a room in the bunkhouse.”

  “I’ll swing by after we go see the body. Could we get that room locked up in the meantime?”

  Gene nods. “No problem.”

  Andy and Gene wave as Hank, Maggie, and Travis pile into a four-seat Ranger, with Hank at the wheel. They stop at the house for Travis’s crime scene bag, then continue into the white pasture. The wind has picked up, and Maggie wishes she’d brought a scarf. She dons the gloves she keeps stuffed in her pockets. It’s slowgoing. The two-tracks are rough and starting to drift. Twice the Ranger bogs down and they have to dig it out with a folding shovel from the storage compartment.

  The second time, Hank taps the gas gauge. It doesn’t move. “Andy gave us the one with the broken gas gauge, dammit. But it should be almost full.”

  When they reach the dead pile, they park and walk closer, up the hill. Maggie is glad when she hears the others breathing as hard as she is. Travis surveys the scene as he catches his breath. Maggie huddles into Hank’s chest. The snow feels pelletized and the wind is lashing it against her face, where it then slides down her neck.

  After walking a complete circuit around the dead pile, Travis retrieves crime scene tape and stakes from his bag in the Ranger. The wind whips the tape as he cordons off the area, then begins taking pictures. Several times he brushes snow aside to expose items for photographs, but Maggie is too far away to identify them. Occasionally Travis slips things into plastic baggies that he stuffs down the front of his bulky coat.

  Just as suddenly as they began, the snow and wind stop and the gray clouds move south. Even with the sun coming out, though, it feels far colder now than it had when Maggie and Hank were out here earlier. Maggie is grateful for the temperature in one respect: the dead pile is frozen and odor-free. Travis works his way carefully up the pile to Paco’s body, about ten feet off the ground. She wouldn’t want to be in Travis’s shoes, climbing and digging through dead bodies, however stiff they are. She watches as Travis excavates around Paco until his torso is visible. Hank turns away.

  “What a waste,” Hank says. He shakes his head.

  “How could he even have ended up in there like that?” Maggie asks.

  “We use the tractor to dump livestock there.”

  “You think someone used a Double S tractor?”

  Hank is facing the pile again. His voice is like sandpaper. “It’s possible. If not, it sure would have been difficult for someone to get a tractor on our land without us knowing about it. But hell, maybe he climbed up there himself. He could have been drunk and sleeping it off. Or hiding out.”

  She remembers his terse exchange with Travis earlier, when he’d insisted Piney Bottoms was easily accessible. He’s contradicting himself a little now, but she gets it. If he admits his fears to Travis, he’s pointing a finger at his own people. Protecting his own might mean failing to defend Paco. He’s in a tough spot. Either way he leans goes against the type of man he is.

  Suddenly, Paco breaks free from the space he’s wedged into, between the remains of what looks like a steer and a young heifer. Travis scrambles out of the way as the body tumbles down the pile and lands face-first in front of Hank and Maggie, the body making snapping and cracking sounds on the way down.

  Maggie gasps.

  “Son of a bitch,” Hank says.

  There’s a knife lodged in the base of Paco’s skull, its white handle sticking out like an accusatory finger pointing at Hank.

  Maggie says, “I’m guessing he didn’t climb up there himself after all.”

  Four

  Dinner that night is a somber affair. At the far end of the table, Gene and Andy are in deep conversation with the two day hands—they get three squares with their paychecks, although they don’t live onsite—when Mrs. Sibley arrives, quarreling with Laura. Seated by Hank across the enormous table from mother and daughter, Maggie has a front-row seat.

  The old woman sniffs. “All I’m saying is I left my batteries in the bathroom, and they’re gone now.”

  “Mom, they were used batteries. They didn’t work anymore.”

  “They were mine. Someone stole them.”

  “No one stole them. They were trash. I threw them away.”

  “I didn’t raise you to steal.”

  Laura squeezes her eyes shut. Maggie notices dark circles underneath them, with skin that seems transparent. When they open, they’re fixed on Hank. “I couldn’t get her to nap. How do you and Tom do it?” she says, referring to Mrs. Sibley’s caretaker, who’s taking vacation while Laura visits.

  “I feel ya, sis.”

  Trudy hollers from the kitchen. “Sorry, you guys. Just a few more minutes.” Her red hair spills from its low bun. Her normally serene face is smudged with flour.

  “It’s okay,” Hank tells her.

  “Thanks, boss,” she calls.

  “Mickey’s not going to let me come anymore. I’m worn to a frazzle when I get home, every time.” Laura smiles to show she’s joking. Her husband, Mickey, doesn’t make it up to Wyoming much, Hank says. Maggie has never met him, but she’s heard good things. She figures he’s a saint if he’s survived marriage to feisty Laura.

  Hank pours himself and Maggie iced teas. Maggie thinks how much better her sweet tea would be with Koltiska liqueur in it. A sweet TKO, as it’s known locally, since the liqueur goes by the KO family ranch brand.

  Hank says, “You’re earning your spot in heaven. How are things back at home?”

  “Where’s my dinner?” Mrs. Sibley demands.

  “Soon, Mom.” Laura puts a hand on her mother’s. “Things are crazy right now. Farrah wants to quit the University of New Mexico and go to Amarillo College. To be closer to Greg, her boyfriend. He’s working in a dance club, with the lofty as
piration of being an EDM DJ.”

  “Electronic dance music? Wow. So they’re into rave culture,” Maggie says.

  “Maybe. I’ve gotten too old to get it.”

  Hank guffaws. “You were probably always too old, sis.”

  “Bite me, Hank. But I am tired all the time. I’m just thankful the equine therapy camps are over until next summer. Ever since we let Farrah go to Bonnaroo with Greg and his friends last spring, she’s been sliding off the deep end. Now she says Greg is a ghost producer for some famous DJ. All I know is he stays up all night and dropped out of school.” She laughs, a harsh sound. “I suck as a mother. I’ve never been able to nurture anything, not even a plant. The only thing I’ve ever even kept alive was a succulent from Walmart, but after I congratulated myself for my green thumb, Mickey showed me the damn plant was fake. God knew what he was doing when he made me barren after all.”

  Hank shakes his head at her. “Don’t say that. You’re a great mother to Farrah.”

  Maggie remembers Hank telling her that Mickey and Laura had fostered Farrah and only adopted her as a teenager. She’s been in Farrah’s shoes herself—she was obsessed with music at her age—so she tries to reassure Laura. “I’ve been there. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  “Really? And how did that go for you?”

  Trudy whisks in with a colossal covered platter, which she sets beside the butter plate. A bag of Cheetos is on top of the platter. She tosses the bag to Gene and winks. He catches it. His cheeks redden.

  Hank squeezes Maggie’s knee.

  She’s seething. Laura has taken the gloves off, referring—Maggie is sure—to her famous rehab stints and the undeniable reality that she is no longer in the business. She musters a sweet smile and purrs musically. “A number one album, a Grammy, and international fame.”

  Trudy reappears with a covered pot and ladle. “Keeping it simple tonight, everyone. Cornbread and chili.”

  Gene smiles at her. “Thanks, Trudy. Are you joining us?”

  “I’m busier than a one-armed paperhanger. Y’all dig in.”

  Gene seems lost in thought, watching her walk back into the kitchen.

  Laura nods at Maggie. “How wonderful for you. I’m not into your kind of music, so you’ll have to excuse me.”