Chapters 93 thru 97

Dear Readers: Here, at last, are the final chapters of Maggie's adventures. I hope you have enjoyed them and will recommend the blog to your friends. Plans are to put the entire book,  in third person like these last chapters, onto Amazon.com so that it can be downloaded to Kindles, etc. I will update the blog when this is done this summer. Thanks ever so much for reading my first attempt at a novel.

               Author, Jeanne Spitler Guerra

Chapter 93

   Maggie started to stand, but he motioned her back down. She dared not move after that. 

   Winston continued, talking even faster than normal now. “I told him if he didn’t hang himself, then the two of us would wait for the newlyweds to come home and I’d kill all three of you. Make it look like a murder/suicide instead of only a suicide.”

Maggie held back a strangled sob. Jamie was protecting them. God, oh, God...

Winston interrupted her thoughts, “Damn shame I had to kill him, you know what I mean? Bright young kid. But I couldn’t take the chance that he might figure it out and talk. Hmmph ... when he understood he was to die, too, do you know what he did?”

    Maggie shook her head, too terrified to speak. 

   “He prayed for me ... prayed for my sins. Isn’t that a hoot? He’s the one about to die, yet he prayed for me.” 

   Maggie swallowed hard to keep back the tears. How could we have doubted him? I’m so sorry, Jamie. Why didn’t we know better? Keep him talking, she thought. Please come, Murphy. Please, God. She swallowed again, her throat dry but she managed a hoarse whisper, “I’ll pray for you, too, Windy. Just let me have the gun and this will all be over.” Reaching her hand out slowly toward him, she did indeed pray for them both. 

    He stood up, keeping the gun on her. “You’ll pray for me, too? Oh, how kind of you, my dear,” he said mockingly with a laugh, holding his other hand to his heart. “But no thanks.  You see, I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve only tried to set things right. Keep them on the straight path. I had no choice, you know what I mean? 

   “I mean, seriously, what if Mars had turned us in? What if Bennett talked to his son about it ... or if young Jamie figured it out by himself?” He shook his head, “Too many loose ends. It’s all their fault. I just did what I had to do to protect my windmills, my museum, my legacy, you know what I mean? Get up,” he commanded, waving the gun. “We’re going outside. Give me your attaché.”    

   She reached over for her briefcase and rose slowly, keeping her eyes on the gun, praying fervently, for both herself and for her one-time friend as she turned toward the door of the trailer. He put his coat on, then took the leather briefcase from her, and roughly gave her a shove toward the door.     

   When they were both outside and under the floodlight, she stopped, hoping someone might see them, but what would they see, really? He’d put the gun in his pocket, now directing her toward the deserted construction area where it was darker. 

   “And now you, my dear. What a shame you couldn’t leave it alone. How did you figure it all out, by the way? Connect me to Bennett? What was the last tumbler that fell into place to unlock the truth?”

   “The jabberwocky,” Maggie said flatly, frantically trying to think of a way to escape. 

   “What?” Winston replied.

    Maggie stopped before they rounded the dark corner. She turned to face him. He took the gun out of his pocket, still pointing it toward her. “The jabberwocky,” she repeated. “The nonsensical word in Jamie’s suicide note. They thought it was just a typo, but it wasn’t. ‘Bastardevil’ wasn’t ‘bastard’ and ‘evil’ with no space in between. It was ‘bastar-devil.’ Bastard plus devil. It was a jabberwocky. It was you. It’s how you wrote the tribute on the Saddle Tramp yearbook page back when you were president ... how you write your foundation speeches ... how you talk ... always with some balderdash and jabberwocky.”  

   Winston seemed impressed. “Hmmm. So you’ve slain the Jabberwock, have you, Alice? Clever girl. Didn’t really think anyone would catch that. Too bad you did. Now turn here, we’re going over to the Axtel windmill where you’ll climb up and accidently and conveniently fall off.”
   But she didn’t turn. She continued facing him. “Why, Windy? Surely you can’t seriously think you can get away with another murder? What’s the reason for my being up there at night? How will you explain this one?” God, please, she prayed, tell me the right time. “Now,” God said to her, but before she could move again, she was struck on the side of her head by her briefcase and fell to the ground. Winston stood over her and waved the gun at her, his eyes as cold and hard as his voice.
   “Shut the fuck up, bitch. Just give me a minute to think.”

   She dared not move and couldn’t talk with the side of her face in agony.

  “You’re right,” he said at last, in a calmer voice. “Too many questions. I can’t really let them find your body ...  but you can disappear. I’ll just shoot you and ... and then bury you — like I did the knife. Deep in the construction. That’s what I’ll do,” he said, making up his mind. “No one will ever find you. No one will ever know.”
   “No, Windy. They’ll know ...” she said slowly sitting up in the dirt and looking up at him. “They’ll know.”
   “How will they know?” he said. “We’re all alone out here and it’s too far away for anyone to see or hear anything.”
  “Let me stand up and I’ll show you.”

   He looked at her, puzzled, but decided to amuse his prey before he killed. He backed up a step, motioning for her to stand, the gun still pointing at her threateningly.
   “Here, Windy, let me reach in my pocket so I can show you.” She moved her hand slowly toward her jacket pocket.

   “No!” he said putting her briefcase down in the dirt, moving closer to her. “I’ll do it.” 

   She quickly moved her hand up in the air, and he reached into her pocket, looking puzzled as he felt something, pulling the object out and gazing at it for a long minute. Finally recognizing what it was, eyes now wide, he dropped it, stepping back as if it had suddenly burned his hand with the recognition. 

   “A transmitter? You’re wired?” he said incredulously. “You bitch!” He moved forward, this time raising the gun to strike her with it.    

   Maggie cringed, covering her already painful cheek waiting for the blow, but instead was knocked flat to the ground by the full weight of Winston P. Whitaker. 

Chapter 94

   Maggie fell hard on her right side, and thought she heard something crack, feeling immediate intense pain just below her shoulder. Am I shot? she thought. She hadn’t heard the gun go off. She didn’t smell gunpowder. But she felt like vomiting. And in fact, did, off to the side in the dirt. She spat and coughed, her arm in more pain than the remembered agony of childbirth.
   Winston had rolled off her in a flash, scrambling to quickly regain his feet. Once again, Maggie was astonished at his agility, telling herself she really shouldn’t be surprised by now.   His old and feeble act was just that — an act. 

   Maggie slowly and painfully rolled herself off her right arm and into a half-kneeling position. She spat again, trying to clear her mouth of bile. She glanced behind her and realized she’d fallen hard on a construction stake. Protectively reaching for her arm just below her shoulder, knowing it was broken, she looked up at Winston, who no longer pointed the gun at her but at something nearby. Following Winston’s malevolent gaze, she was astonished to see Colin sprawled a few feet away, staring up at Winston. 

   “Maggie, Love, are you alright?” he said with a steady voice, keeping his eyes on Winston.
   She winced in agony, but said, “Just grand, Murphy. Just grand.”
   “Get up, both of you,” Winston commanded harshly, breathing heavily. Colin put up a hand indicating his intention. Crawling over to Maggie, he noticed she was holding her arm. “You lied,” he whispered as he gently helped her up, positioning himself between her and the gun. Then he looked squarely at the other man and said in a strong voice, “Now what, Whitaker? She’s wired, I heard and recorded everything, and Chief Callahan is on his way.” 

   On cue, a siren was heard in the far distance to Maggie’s everlasting relief. Winston cocked his head, hearing it, too. 

   Holding out one hand to Winston while supporting his wife with the other, Colin said, “It’s over, Whitaker. Just like she said. Give me the gun.” 

   Winston sighed and then said quietly. “No. Get in the trailer ... both of you. NOW!”

    The siren grew steadily louder. Holding her up, Colin walked them to the trailer and up the steps. As soon as they were inside, the door slammed shut behind them. They heard the padlock clicking in place.

    Colin quickly moved them away from the door, finding the switch and killing the lights, telling Maggie to get down and stay down, an idea she was definitely in favor of. The glow of Colin’s cell phone appeared in the dark, and he quickly said, “FBI agent needs immediate assistance ...” and continued with the where and the why, giving Winston’s description, saying he was armed. When he hung up, he quickly moved toward the back of the room.          

   “I thought you’d already called Callahan,” Maggie said through gritted teeth as her head started to swim from the pain. It was definitely getting worse.
   “No, Love, I was bluffing ... just like you. Nice job, by the way.” 

   “But the siren?” she asked.

   “There’s a hospital across the street, remember?” 

   Maggie smiled at that. How clever her G-man was. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, she could see the outline of furniture. A small amount of light from the museum’s outside security lights filtered in through Mrs. Fauntly’s heavy curtains, enough to make out Colin’s shadowy form moving around the trailer.

   They were both startled by a heavy thud against the outside of the trailer, and then the sound of rushing air near the door.       

          “Quick, Maggie, come here,” Colin said urgently. She tried to get up, but wasn’t steady on her feet, and said in a whisper, “Not sure I can ...” 

   He found her in an instant, putting his arm around her waist, moving her quickly to the opposite end of the trailer. He sat her in a large leather chair. We must be at Windy’s desk, she thought. “What is it, Colin?” 

    He’d let go and moved to the heavy curtains, ripping them down. More light poured in, and Maggie could clearly see him pushing the massive oak desk in front of her closer to one of the room’s windows. The window was shoulder high, and not terribly large.
   What’s that smell, Maggie thought? Then her brain pushed past the pain, adrenaline pumping as she abruptly stood, backing fearfully into the wall saying, “Smoke ... he’s burning the trailer ... Colin, we’ve got to get out!” 

   “Working on it,” he said calmly, quickly climbing up on the desk. The solid, top-of-the-line construction trailer was built for security and had only two reinforced windows that didn’t open, the other one close to the door and the fire. Air ventilation was from the top of the unit, and came in and out through two eight-inch square vents, which obviously wouldn’t work as an escape route, especially now that one was bringing smoke in.     

   After a couple of tries, Colin gave up his attempt to knock the window out with his elbow. The smoke was beginning to come across the ceiling. He scanned the room for something heavy to use as a battering ram. Maggie realized what he needed and pointed to the corner, shouting “There!” 

   He jumped down from the desk and picked up the the four-foot tall steel windmill, sending up his hundredth plea for help that night. He pulled at the blades, separating the wheel from the tower section after a few hard tugs. The tower design made a perfect pointed end. 

   Maggie was doing her own praying, as she tied a piece of the torn curtain around her arm, wincing in pain. The sticky warm wetness on her jacket and the metallic smell of blood told her the bone had protruded through the skin, and she knew the bleeding had to be stopped. She didn’t want to go into shock.

   Colin was back on the desk, head down, shoulders against the ceiling so he could stand as high as possible for leverage. Knees slightly bent, feet apart, he held the windmill’s tower halfway up and at the base, and swung it back and then forward to gain momentum, then back and forward again, ramming it into the window. He heard a crack. He rammed again, and again, and on the fourth try the window frame and reinforced glass fell out, letting in the cool night air. He threw the windmill out after it. 

   Quickly finding the other discarded curtain, he placed it across the bottom of the sill. He then helped Maggie up onto the desk as she winced again in extreme pain. By now, smoke was beginning to fill the room, and the little light they had from the outside floodlight was growing dim.
   “I’m going to let you down, but it will still be a drop for you, Maggie. Try to land on your left side, away from the glass. Understand?”

   Maggie nodded as he helped her out the window. Holding her under her arms, her stomach was flat against the outside of the trailer. Over his shoulder, she could suddenly see an orange glow. 

Hearing her gasp with fear, Colin said steadily, “Okay, Love, I’m letting you go now. Ready?”
   Looking up into his eyes, those amazing emerald eyes that had first attracted her to him, she knew she would be fine ... knew they both would be fine. She smiled and nodded and he smiled and gently let her go. Hitting the ground hard and rolling left just as she’d been told, she missed the glass, then everything went black.

    He was beside her in seconds, urgently whispering her name to rouse her, helping her up, half dragging her a safe distance away from the burning trailer. He sat her down, and leaned her against the patio wall. Holding her broken arm, thinking she might faint again from the pain, she willed herself to stay awake.

   Another siren was close now. Help was on the way this time, but Colin said, “Chief will be here in a minute, but I can’t let Winston get ...”

   Thinking he meant to go around the building to the truck for his gun, Maggie put her hand on his arm. “Your gun’s not there ...” she said weakly.

   “I know, I checked the truck ...”  A shot rang out and Colin instinctively ducked, shielding Maggie. But the bullet hadn’t come their direction. “What!” he said, frantically looking around. 

   “Oh, God,” Maggie whimpered, looking up. 

           Colin turned to where she looked. “Oh, damn,” he said angrily, sitting back heavily against the wall next to her. He crossed himself, then put his arm protectively around his wife.

   Winston P. Whitaker, III, sat at the top of the Axtell Standard windmill, the one he’d brought from his family’s farm. Sat on the sturdy old wooden platform directly under the giant turning wheel, white hair blowin’ in the wind, eyes staring out over the flat West Texas horizon, gunshot hole through the side of his head. 

Chapter 95

   Lubbock’s fire department quickly dealt with the trailer fire, declaring it a total loss. Colin dealt with the police. Paramedics dealt with Maggie, and the coroner dealt with Dr. Whitaker. Chief Callahan walked up to Maggie as the paramedics finished. He kissed her gently on the forehead. 

    Smiling up at him, she said weakly,“Thanks, Sweetheart.” 

   He smiled back and then made a stern face, wagging his finger at her. “I don’t know how you get yourself into these things, Sweetheart, but you should’ve let us handle it. We were getting there, you know.”
   “Getting there?” Maggie whispered.

   Colin answered. “I’ve been working with Callahan and his task force. Winston has been the prime suspect for quite a while, but we couldn’t figure out all the motives and we had no evidence.”

   “What? Why didn’t you tell me?” Maggie croaked out, looking at Colin harshly.

   “Because the first rule in investigations is to keep the list of those who know what you know to a minimum. Honestly, Love, if you knew we suspected Winston, would you have believed us? Or would you have been able to keep it from him?”
    Maggie looked down and said quietly, “No, probably not.”

   Colin continued, “The museum fire didn’t fit the pattern of the others. It was too sophisticated, with the sprinkler system alterations. The fire burns the office, all their records and files, but not even one windmill?  President Parker told us he’d been asking to see their financial records shortly before they were all destroyed. And the engineering was too creative for it to have been done by a student, even a senior student like Jamie.”

   “Plus,” Chief Callahan  said, “your husband here convinced us young Jamie wouldn’t have killed Boyle, so we looked at Dr. Whitaker for that, too.”

“Yeah,” Maggie said quietly, shaking her head, “Boyle was Jamie’s father.”

“What?!” Callahan and Colin said at the same time. 

Maggie shrugged. “Long story. Go on, please.”

   Colin looked at her dubiously, but added, “Well none of us thought Jamie killed himself. We just didn’t have enough proof to arrest Whitaker.”

   “What made you think it wasn’t suicide?” Maggie asked. “I thought you’d only found Jamie’s fingerprints on the keyboard?”
   “We did, on every key. About a week after the funeral I had a thought and went to Callahan. He checked it out. The letters used in the suicide note? Only those letters on the keyboard had microscopic pricks in their keys, like the one my pen knife put in the mousepad when I lit the screen that night. The killer used the tip of a knife to type the note, leaving only Jamie’s prints. If I remember right, the note had, let’s see, two c’s and something like eleven t’s and there were two corresponding pricks on the ‘c’ key and a matching number on the ‘t’. In any case, the pricks exactly matched the letters in the note.”

   Maggie’s eyes widened questioningly. 

  “Well, we looked hard at everything because I knew Jamie didn’t do it,” Colin said firmly. He shook his head, thinking of Jamie and of Sean. Knowing his brother so well allowed him to know for certain Jamie hadn’t killed Boyle, or at least hadn’t confessed it. And he knew Sean didn’t think Jamie capable of murder or suicide either, and Sean was a damn good judge of character.

   “And the style of the writing on the suicide note,” Chief Callahan said, “the misspelled words and missed spaces. I’d seen that style before, years ago when I first came on the force. I showed it to your husband, here, who agreed the two notes were too similar for it to be a coincidence. Jamie’s note closely matches a suicide note of a Tech student.”

     Maggie nodded wearily, “Marsha White.” 

    “Yes,” the chief said as both he and Colin looked at her again in disbelief. 

   Maggie said wearily, “I finally remembered what Bennett Boyle whispered to me. He called me Anna and asked Mars to forgive him. Mars for Marsha.” She shook her head. “It’s a really long story,” she said flatly, shifting to try to ease the pain. 

   Colin said, “When I finally heard the two messages tonight, I was—”
   “Two? I only left one message,” Maggie said, interrupting him. 

   “One was from me,” Chief Callahan said. “I called him right after you called asking me to read Jamie’s note to you. You neglected to tell me where you were going, so I called you back and the line was busy, so I tried to find your husband.”
   Colin continued, “Once I heard your message, I was afraid you’d found something we hadn’t—which obviously it seems you did— and I ran here from my studio to try to stop you from talking to Whitaker and raising his suspicions. I thought it might ruin our investigation. Sorry I didn’t call you, Callahan.” Looking back at Maggie, he said, “I did call you back, Maggie, but you didn’t pick up. Sorry I was a little late.”

   Maggie smiled wryly, reaching again for her arm and said, “I’d put my phone on mute so I wouldn’t be interrupted. Actually, Murphy, your timing wasn’t too bad. I got the whole story.”

   Chief Callahan said, “So, Sweetheart, can you fill in the blanks for us? Feel up to answering questions now, or do you want to wait?” 

  “Don’t need to,” she said, weary beyond exhaustion. “Windy told us everything.”

  Colin, thinking the pain was making her mind fuzzy, gently said, “No, Love. The old wire transmitter wasn’t connected to anything, remember? It’s broken. No one heard a thing except you.”
  “You will. My briefcase, out there in the dark someplace? I recorded it all.”

   Chief Callahan grinned at her and turned to go find the briefcase with Maggie’s tape recorder.

   She called out after him, “Colin’s gun is in there, too. And be careful with the yearbook. I need to return it to the library!”

   Colin looked at her in amazement and not without a little pride. “Clever girl. Sure you weren’t ever a G-Man?” 

Chapter 96

   Safely settled back at the Nest, cast on her reset arm, Maggie was now sitting alone in the den with Charlie White, tears running down his cheeks. “All these years,” he said quietly, “I wondered how my baby sister could do that. She was so happy and fun-loving. To kill herself over some guy? I never did believe it. Now you’re telling me it wasn’t true?”

   “No, Charlie, it wasn’t true,” Maggie said, continuing to speak gently. “She died because she was trying to do the right thing. It was a horrible freak accident.” 

   “Dr. Whitaker? She dated Dr. Whitaker? Isn’t he much older?”

        Maggie shook her head. “You ... your family ... never knew who she was dating?”
   “No. I lived in D.C. when she was here in college, and Mom and Dad were never ones to pry. And when Mars died, we were so devastated we didn’t really want details. Then her roommate, Anna, she’d disappeared right after the funeral so there wasn’t anyone to ask. Funny, Marsha had told Mom that when she came home that summer she would have a surprise for us. Mom said she was so happy. I guess Mars thought she’d be engaged. And now to find out she didn’t ...” He sighed heavily, and wiped away his tears. “Thanks, Boss. It means everything to me. To my parents. I’ll need to go see them.”

   “Of course, Charlie. Take all the time you need.”  

   Jake Humphrey’s well-written article in the A-J exonerated Jamie Chavez and named Winston Whitaker as a murderer and an arsonist. Chief Callahan saw no reason to mention it might have been Jamie who actually started the first three fires to punish his newly discovered father – they had no real evidence after all – so he allowed the White Rabbit to take the blame for everything. Bennett Boyle’s long-secret relationship to Jamie was also left out.    

   Callahan did disclose that evidence pointed to the accidental death of Marsha White 25 years ago at the hands of Whitaker, rather than to suicide. The entire story was picked up by the wire services and quickly spread across the country. 

Winston would have loved the publicity. 

   Mrs. Fauntly and the Arbuckles asked the Museum Foundation to immediately appoint Miss Katherine as the new director of the Wind Museum, and the construction of new offices and the educational wing resumed once the murder weapon was found. 

   Colin and Father Sean contacted all the Saddle Tramps, now scattered across the country for summer break, to let them know that Jamie, their much-liked president, had committed neither suicide nor murder. 

   Together the brothers traveled to the little churchyard in Canyon to place flowers on Jamie’s grave, ask forgiveness from him for their doubts and arrange for the local florist to have a weekly bouquet placed there. 

   Jamie’s grandparents presented Maggie and Colin with a wooden crucifix exquisitely handcarved from mesquite wood by the abuelo in gratitude for finding the truth. The Murphys proudly hung it in a place of honor in their new home.

Charlie White took assignments in the Biology Building.

   Maggie threw away the Jabberwocky poem when her entire department moved back downstairs into the larger offices next to the presidential suite. 

   Colin bought a new Texas Tech University Red Raider Bobblehead Doll to place on the dashboard of his truck. 

    

Chapter 97

   End of June

           “You guys need to seriously think about coming over with us next summer. Maybe we could get Carol and Robert to join us for a while. It’d be great!” Sharon said brightly, taking another sip of wine.

   The four friends were comfortably seated on the back porch, enjoying the quiet of the country setting and the cool evening air. Maggie, Colin and Miss Priss had moved ten miles northwest of Lubbock to a cotton farm, where earlier that evening Monsignor Fitzpatrick and Father Sean had belatedly blessed the fields, as well as provided a special blessing for the couple’s new home. 

   Slightly to the left at the back of the house was the massive old barn, being slowly renovated by Colin into a sun-filled studio for painting and furniture building. All around, they could see the distant rows of the cotton fields, strong dark green plants growing tall and sturdy in the well-tended fields. A sizable vegetable garden was thriving off to the right, bordered by Maggie’s once-again-transplanted irises. The setting sun glimmered off the playa far beyond the garden. Their Aermotor windmill turned slowly and steadily in the light breeze. 

   Colin smiled as he surveyed it all, amazingly comfortable with his new wife, new life and new home — not just an investment property. “Italy next summer?” he said. “We might be able to work a trip into our schedules. What say you, Mrs. Murphy?”

  “I say it’s a great idea, Professor Murphy,” Maggie said, smiling. “Think Miss Priss would watch the place for us?”

   Colin looked at the fat tabby cat curled on the far edge of the porch, sleeping with one eye open next to a barrel of blooming red bougainvillas. “For us? She thinks she owns the place and we’re just visiting. She wouldn’t even miss us with all the mice she’s catching. I’m sure we can get away for a few weeks.” He raised his wine glass. “Here’s to Doug and Sharon, for their loyal friendship, for letting us stay in their cottage for so long, for loaning their muscles to get us moved in —”
    “Oh, Maggie,” Sharon interrupted. “I just remembered ... I love the new couch you moved in the other day. I forgot to ask where you found it?” 

   Both Colin and Doug looked at her in mock exasperation, rolling their eyes. Colin lowered his glass.
  “I didn’t find it,” Maggie said. “Colin did. Isn’t it perfect!”

   “It is ... but Colin, since when do you buy furniture, or even have an interest in buying stuff ... besides the bed, I  mean?” Sharon asked, truly surprised.

   “Actually, I’m finding it’s kinda not too bad to shop for stuff for a house — a home. Never done it before ... never needed to ... but it’s not bad ... not bad at all.”
   Maggie’s heart swelled with love for this man who had transformed for her and with her. What a gift from God to have this life, she thought, especially after being blessed with another whole life before. It was as though she’d gotten her second wind. Thank you, God, she murmured for the ten thousandth time.

   “If you don’t mind, Dr. Phelps,” Colin said in a teasingly harsh voice, “I’ll continue my toast.” He gave Sharon his newly learned version of “the look” – not quite as effective as Maggie’s, but nonetheless impressive. 

   Cowering in feigned fright, Sharon said weakly, “Sorry, Professor! Go right ahead. Don’t let me stop you!”

  He smiled smugly and raised his glass again, “Now where was I?  Oh, yes ... and to their annual trip to Italy starting tomorrow morning. A whole month roaming beautiful countryside, seeing magnificent art, ogling gorgeous Italian women ...”
   “Say!” Sharon cried, looking at Doug who quickly put his hands up and said, “I don’t, I won’t, I’m innocent!”

   Laughing, Colin continued, eyes twinkling, “And to enjoying family while there, to exploring the history, to finding new recipes, to eating gelato ...” Suddenly lowering his glass once again, he looked at Doug. 

“Seriously, man, the best gelato in the whole of Italy is at Rome’s Piazza Navona, just to the northwest of Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers. Try the pistachio.”
   Surprise registered on Maggie’s face. “You’ve been to Rome?”
  

The End

                                                                            Go Red Raiders!