Maggie Dove by Susan Breen Read Free Book Online

Edgar Blake must have lice again.”
    The pharmacy was across the street from the hair salon. Sure enough, Edgar Blake’s mother was clutching her son with one hand and a bag with the other, the bag distorted by a familiar shape. Edgar was renowned for his lice; his mother said they kept reappearing, but the general consensus was they never went away.
    “Such thick hair, the son has,” Iphigenia said. “I think maybe I cancel her appointment for tomorrow. Just to be safe. I don’t want any creepy-crawly things in my salon.” She shivered dramatically.
    “He’s in your Sunday School class, isn’t he?” Agnes asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Better wear a hat this Sunday,” Agnes said. “Or maybe tell the reverend to call and ask them not to come to church.”
    “Dear God,” Maggie exploded, “if the worst thing that ever happens to me is I get lice from one of my Sunday School students, I’ll consider myself lucky. For all we know, it’s a home pregnancy test. Am I going to cut a six-year-old boy off from salvation because we saw his mother with a bag?”
    Agnes laughed at that. “You’re a good Sunday School teacher, Maggie, but I don’t know that you’re that good. Do you seriously think young Edgar’s salvation hinges on going to one of your classes?”
    Maggie blushed. What was wrong with her lately? She didn’t recognize herself.
    “Are you going to Bender’s funeral?” Agnes asked.
    “No,” Maggie said, determined not to get pulled into this discussion. On the street one of the young skateboarders shot by, a tall Asian boy with pants that looked like they would slide right off his hips. He jumped to go over the curb and the skateboard seemed to attach itself to his feet, a move so dangerous and graceful that Maggie almost cried out.
    “I can understand that,” Agnes said. “I wouldn’t go to his funeral if I were you. But I wonder if Peter will go.”
    “Why wouldn’t he,” Maggie asked, a twinge of anxiety pinging through her.
Please don’t let Peter get swept up in this mess,
she prayed.
Not this time.
    Agnes peered toward her curiously. “Let’s just say that Bender was not a fan of our assistant chief of police. One might even say that Bender was trying to get him fired.”
    “Why would Bender want Peter fired?”
    “I didn’t say he was. I said he might be.”
    “I don’t know what that means, Agnes. Are you saying Peter’s in trouble?”
    She laughed at that. “My dear, Peter’s been in trouble since the day he was born.”
    Maggie started to reply, but before she could go further, Iphigenia shouted, “Ping. Time’s up. Color’s ready. Time to do some blow-drying.” She swept Agnes out of her chair before she could speak. Then aimed the blow-dryer at her like a gun, humming loudly, fluffing her hair. Agnes sat rigidly throughout, a prisoner awaiting execution.
    Iphigenia was a whirl of fluffing and blowing for the next few minutes, and when she was done, Agnes surveyed herself in the mirror, obviously pleased with the result. She took a check out of her pocketbook, pre-written, and handed it to Iphigenia and walked out the door, stopping, for just a moment, in the doorway.
    “Don’t you worry, Margaret. Peter’s not the only one who doesn’t mourn Bender’s passing,” Agnes said. “I could name ten other people in this village who would have been happy to kill him too.”
    Having said that, she exited through the door, sailing onto Main Street like the queenliest of ships, bowing to those who passed.
    “Brrr. I don’t like her,” Iphigenia said.
    “Me neither.”
    “What makes someone like that?” Iphigenia said, eyeing Maggie’s hair speculatively, snipping every so often.
    “I don’t know,” Maggie said. “She had a crazy family, I can tell you that. There were eight of those Jorgenson children, each one stranger and meaner than the next. But the father, he was really a piece of work.” He’d been thrown out of town after fondling some girl, or so the