Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas) (12 page)

The stench of an unwashed human body, eye watering and rank, stung her nose. A muddy boot planted itself at her elbow. Hands squeezed her arms in a steel-like hold, jerking her to her feet.

“It’s about time, Frankie.” Her captor was around five-seven, narrow shouldered, dark haired. A bushy beard sprang from his cheeks and chin, grime stiffened his jeans and work shirt. Dark eyes glittered with outrage.

She jerked her arms. “Let go of me.”

“Fuck you, bitch.” His face was close to hers. Breath like rotten garbage smothered her.

Her stomach lurched. Swallowing her nausea, she met his gaze straight on and took a wild stab at his ID. “How long have you been up here, Zack?”

“Since yesterday.”

She’d found Frankie’s cowpoke. A squeeze of satisfaction went through her. “So you were here yesterday morning?”

“Yesterday?”

“Yesterday morning. Were you here yesterday morning?” she asked again.

His hand tightened on her arm. “Why? Were you looking for me?”

“Just answer the question. Were you up here yesterday morning?”

“No.”

“Where were you?”

Pain filled his eyes. “Around.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Do I have to draw you a picture? Sleeping in the woods. Fishing the creeks. Selling empty cans so I can eat.”

“And drink.”

“So what, Frankie. What else do I have to look forward to?”

“So you weren’t here yesterday.”

Seth’s voice boomed through the woods. “Kirby? Where are you?”

Zack tilted his head. “What did he call you?”

“A nickname.”

“Answer me, Kirby,” Seth called again.

At first she’d liked the idea of having an ally on the ranch, but Seth was turning into a liability. “Over here,” she said, and she prayed he wouldn’t holler her damn name all over the woods.

Pounding feet and the smashing of brush echoed through the trees. Then Seth appeared.

“Get your hands off her.” Seth charged at Zack, fists swinging. He caught Zack under his pointy chin, flinging him against Kirby. She landed under him, face-to-face, chest to chest, legs tangled.

Up close, his hair glistened with grease, and bits of dirt were stuck in the roots. When she got back to Frankie’s room, she was going to take the hottest shower she could bear. She shoved him away.

Huffing and puffing, hands curled at his side, Seth geared up for round two. His face was flushed, his mouth hard, a scowl wrinkled his forehead. A punch first, ask questions later sort of guy.

The thought skittered through her with a thrill. Still, this was supposed to be an investigation, and she
was
a professional. She stepped between Seth and Zack and faced Seth. “What are you doing?”

“Teaching Zack some manners.”

She widened her eyes into his and spoke under her breath. “I am trying to do a job here.”

His face turned stony. “I’ll just get out of your way, then.” He bent, picked up his hat, brushed it off. Then he pushed it down on his head and glared at her.

Regret tumbled through her. “I don’t want you to go. I just don’t need you knocking out a potential witness.”

“Don’t go riding off without me, then.”

Zack, still lying in the dirt, groaned. “I think you broke my jaw, Maguire.”

Kirby extended her hand. “Let me help you.”

“I got it,” Seth said. Brushing her arm away, he grabbed Zack’s wrists and hauled him up.

Zack staggered and spun, but he regained his footing without further assistance. “You ripped my shirt.” He thrust his arm at Seth. The sleeve of his worn denim shirt hung by a scrap of material.

“That’s the least of your problems. You’re trespassing on private property.” Seth brushed dirt from his pants, huffy and unrepentant.

“So arrest me. At least I’ll get a shower and some grub. And water. I’m dying of thirst.”

A dozen spent beer cans littered the clearing. Enough alcohol to dehydrate a fraternity. She jerked her head at the brackish quarry water. “It’s probably not the freshest in the world, but it’s better than nothing.”

Zack’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Are you crazy, Frankie?”

“There’s a canteen on my saddle.” Seth pushed out of the bushes and disappeared.

Zack studied his shoes. “I figured you’d come up this way again. Check things out and all.”

Check what out?
She studied his face. “Maybe we can check things out together.”

He threw back his head and laughed bitterly. “Sure. Let’s check things out together.”

“Where were you yesterday morning?”

“Who’s asking?”

“I am. Someone had a rifle up here.”

“Don’t look at me. I was in El Royo. Dumpster diving. Plenty of people saw me, too.”

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Come on, Frankie. Don’t play dumb.”

“Just answer the question, Robbins.” It was Seth. He handed the canteen to Zack.

Zack lifted the container to his lips and drank deeply. When he was finished, he splashed water on his face. “What I wouldn’t give for a bath right now.”

“Answer Frankie’s questions,” Seth said, “and I’ll get you a shower and a place to sleep tonight. And a few days’ work harvesting apricots if you can lay off the booze.”

Zack nodded. “Really appreciate it, Maguire.”

“First we need some straight answers.”

“Sure. Anything. Fire away, Frankie.” But he kept his eyes on Seth.

“Why did you come up here?” Kirby asked.

“Why do you think?”

“Come on, Robbins, you can do better than that,” Seth said.

Zack jerked his head in Kirby’s direction. “Ask Frankie.”

“I’m asking you.”

Zack’s gaze slid across Kirby’s face. There was a question in his eyes. Then he addressed his answer to Seth. “After Frankie wrecked her car and was sort of stuck out at the ranch last month, she called me to meet her up here.”

“Did Frankie meet you?” Seth asked.

Zack didn’t look at her. “Sure did.”

“What time?”

“She called my motel around nine. Said she’d bring a bottle of something to the ridge, and since I didn’t have any money to buy myself a drink, I went. It’s about a four-mile walk from my motel, so I probably got here about eleven thirty or twelve.”

“And Frankie was waiting for you,” Seth said.

Zack’s gaze sidled over to Kirby.

“Don’t look at her. Look at me and answer the question.”

Kirby nodded. “It’s okay. Just tell him whatever he wants to know. I don’t mind.”

“Sure. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Blame it all on me. I got nothing more to say. Maybe I’m just a drunk ol’ cowpoke, but I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut.” He stepped close to Kirby. The odor of rotting teeth pinched her nostrils and closed her throat. “And you better be smart enough, too,” he said.

“Then why did you come back?” Kirby asked.

“Nowhere else to go.” He shot her a wary look. “I was hoping you’d come up this way so I could get a little more cash to get out of El Royo and start over again. Know what I mean?”

Seth rested a hand on her shoulder. “Frankie doesn’t have any money.” Maybe he was defending Kirby or maybe he wasn’t aware of Frankie’s huge cash allowance.

But Zack was. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t that housekeeper of yours pay you first Tuesday of the month? Come on, Frankie. Share and share alike.”

“You want a job, Robbins, or not? Frankie isn’t giving you any money.”

What did Zack know? Kirby couldn’t decide if he was trying to flirt or he actually knew something about the shooter. “After the apricots are in,” she said, “we’ll sit down and talk. And I’ll pay you enough for a bus ticket to Austin or Dallas and a few weeks’ rent until you find work.”

Zack’s brows shot up. Puzzlement streaked across his face, then cunning. He winked at Kirby. “I appreciate your help, Frankie.”

Seth sighed with disapproval, but he kept his unhappiness to himself. “The bunkhouses next to the orchard are ready for the crew,” he said to Zack. “You can stay out there tonight. The rest of the guys will be here in the morning. Follow me down to the barnyard. I’ll fix you a few sandwiches for dinner and drive you up.”

A soft whistle—human?—drifted past Kirby and faded away. Where was it coming from?

She turned to Seth. “Go on down and get Zack settled. I’ll pick up the trash.”
And do some investigating.

Chapter Twelve

Brittany studied Manny from the kitchen window. Did he look mad? It seemed like it, and it was her fault. She hadn’t meant to ask him to be friends or hang out or anything. He probably thought she was dumb, which she wasn’t, although sometimes the world was a confusing place. Like right now.

“What are you doing?” It was Miss Bea.

“Nothing.”

Miss Bea came closer, and Brittany could smell the sickly sweet rose water she always wore. It reminded her of her dead granny.

“Is that Emmanuel?” Miss Bea asked.

“Guess so.”

“Have you seen Miss Frances or Mr. Maguire?”

“Uh-uh.” Brittany shook her head and watched Manny drag more crates out of the barn. So his name was Emmanuel. It sounded like a church name, but she liked it anyway. It made him seem noble, which was how men should be. Not like her dad, who ran away because he had a fat daughter.

“We have an extra loaf of bread. Perhaps Mr. Emmanuel would like to take it home.”

Miss Bea’s bread tasted like sawdust because Mr. Shaw didn’t believe in regular flour. Manny wouldn’t like it. Still, she wanted a chance to explain herself so he didn’t think she was chasing after him or anything. “I can take it out to him. If you want.”

Miss Bea’s gray brows hitched up a little like Brittany had said something weird. “I would appreciate it. Oh, and while you’re out there, ask Mr. Emmanuel if he has seen Miss Frances or Mr. Maguire.”

Brittany wrapped the dark brown loaf in a clean towel and trudged out to the barn. She tried to stomp walk so he would hear her coming, but he didn’t notice her until she stepped in front of him.

He pulled a set of plugs out of his ears. “Yeah?” He didn’t look pleased.

Jittery, she forgot all the nice things she wanted to say. She shoved the bread at him. “Here. It’s from Miss Bea.”

He studied the bundle in her hands but didn’t take it. “What is it?”

“How should I know? Miss Bea told me to give it to you.” He was starting to get on her nerves.

Manny took the bundle. “It’s bread. I can buy my own.”

“Don’t tell me. Tell Miss Bea. I do what I’m told. That’s all.”

He blinked at her. “I told Miss Frances that I’d talk to her, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

Her jaw dropped. Miss Frances was never going to give her thirty bucks now. “You owe me thirty dollars.”

“For what?”

“For doing my job.
I
was supposed to tell Miss Frances. Now you’ve ruined everything.”

He took off his hat and scratched his head. His dark brown hair was long, and he held it back in a ponytail. Cool. He probably didn’t want to be seen with a dork like her. A fat dork like her. With baggy overalls. Her throat got all achy.

“Are you crying again?”

She wiped at her eyes. “Of course not.”

“I, uh, I’m sorry. I shoulda let you tell Miss Frances.”

The tears rolled down her face faster, and she backed away from him. “I better go.”

He frowned at her. “What’s wrong? If you need thirty dollars that bad—”

She shook her head violently.

“What then?”

“I’m just so weird all the time, and I didn’t mean to push myself on you—”

“Is this about the guitar?”

She was so embarrassed and so stupid. No wonder Mr. Maguire didn’t talk to her much. “I’ve got to go.”

“Wait. I, uh, you could come over this weekend if you want. I can play some stuff for you.”

“You don’t have to be nice to me.”

“I want you to come. I live in the El Castillo Apartments. Two-ten. Can you remember?”

He was inviting her over. It would be nice to have somewhere to go on Sunday. “Are you sure? I didn’t mean—”

He pulled his hat over the ponytail, and he seemed more ordinary. “Sure, I meant it. Come Sunday after lunch.” Then he picked up the crate he’d been hauling and limped into the barn.

That’s when she remembered. “Oh, wait.”

He stopped walking, but didn’t turn. “What?”

“Miss Bea wanted to know if you’d seen Miss Frances and Mr. Maguire.”

He nodded over his shoulder at the ridge. “They went galloping that way a little while ago.”

She turned and shielded her eyes. Mr. Maguire emerged from the line of trees leading Darby. A man with a ripped shirt—Miss Frances’s Zack?—scrambled behind him. Strange. Had Miss Frances done that to Zack? She needed to tell Miss Bea about this.

“Thanks. See you Sunday,” she said to Manny.

She scurried into the house gleefully. Miss Frances was going crazy.

Chapter Thirteen

An unnatural silence hung over the quarry’s scarred limestone walls. Not a rustle or a chirp or squeak. As if the forest critters, sensing her presence, had fled. The outcropping cast dusky light over the quarry, the trees closed in, the black water lay motionless, shuttered, depths obscured, bottom unfathomable. It was too still, too quiet. The prickle of unfriendly eyes raised the hair on Kirby’s neck. She spun.

“Who’s there? Identify yourself.”

The silence stretched.

Fear sliced through her, melting her courage, hacking away her resolve. Why hadn’t she brought her Glock? Even if she had to duct tape it around her waist, it would be better than looking for a shooter unarmed and alone. She shook her head at her own silliness. The shooter didn’t have a gun, either. Not anymore. It stood to reason if he—or she—had filched the only gun on the ranch, they didn’t have access to a cache of weapons.

She steadied herself, pressing a palm against the rough bark of a black walnut, gulping in a lungful of air, tightening her spine as her nerve came back. It had been misguided to let Seth leave, but she was here, and Charleen wasn’t going to find herself.

She examined the flattened grass where Zack had slept. There was nothing but empty beer cans and the shape of his body in the crushed vegetation. That’s all he’d left behind. Beneath the outcropping, the sun never penetrated, and the grass gave way to bare earth. A set of boot prints—small for a man—appeared in the dirt. She pulled out her phone and took a photo. Zack was on the short, wiry side, so maybe they were his. Tomorrow she’d look at his boots.

Her eyes swept the quarry and woods. Where would the shooter have stood? Not here. He—or she—would set up near the road for a quick getaway. Kirby followed the gravel lane, kicking at stones, trying out different angles in her head. A smooth object glinted among the pebbles. She bent. A shell casing. Using the hem of her shirt, she picked it up and dropped it in her pocket.
Risssh.
Leaves rustled nearby.

“Who’s there? Identify yourself.”

The bushes rustled again. Kirby grabbed a thick branch lying on the ground. “Whoever you are, I’m here to help. Identify yourself.”

She lifted the stick over her head and waited. It was coming closer. Her skin tightened; her nerves were live electric wires, blood pounding in her ears. Eyes seemed to bore into her. Always at her back. Whichever way she turned, the eyes were at her back. The grass quivered at her feet. Then a garter snake slithered past, thin as a whipcord, slick and black, a white warning stripe painted on its back.

It lashed out at her, mouth wide, its fangs glistening like needles in the pale forest light. The blow glanced off Miss Bea’s heavy leather shoe.

Fly away, Kirby-nee. Fly away.

She flung the stick away and flew, pushing past twisted oak trees and crashing through low bushes. Blackberry thorns clawed at her arms. A twisted tree root caught her foot. She broke through the wall of trees. Old Tom, grazing peacefully, lifted his head. He shook his mane and whinnied.

She leaped onto his back, not bothering with the stirrup, urging him to a gallop. The back of her neck prickled again. Kirby glanced over her shoulder. Deep in the woods a pale face watched her. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them. The face—if indeed it had been there—was gone.

Old Tom burst from the tree line to the safety of open space.

Kirby’s heartbeat slowed. As her panic fled, common sense filled in behind it. Why had she gotten so spooked? The garter snake had pushed her into full-out retreat, but she’d been rattled before it slithered across her path. Something was going on up there. She was sure of it. But what?

She slowed Old Tom. He’d had a long day. So had she. She looked again at the receding forest. The late-afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the green canopy, illuminating the gnarled branches and weathered trunks of old wood. From a distance, it seemed peaceful, almost welcoming.

She let her body sway to Old Tom’s lazy gait. A light breeze tossed the lavender from side to side like waves on a purple sea. Their peppery scent hung in the warm air. Honeybees flitted at her feet. Her eyelids fell to half-mast, and she could almost believe in pure happiness. Mr. Shaw said it true. Land could get in your blood.

Old Tom snorted, and Kirby’s eyes popped open. He pawed at the dirt.

“What is it?”

He shook his head at the acre of woods near the house.

Her eyes swept the ranch. The barnyard was abandoned. Seth’s old Jeep was missing from the garage. He’d probably driven Zack out to the orchard.

Old Tom snorted again. Louder this time, more insistent.

Leaning forward in her saddle, she studied the shadowy trees and hulking house rising behind it. The house was quiet, the windows blank, back door shut. Had Miss Bea been at the quarry? Was she the ghost? If she kept low through the lavender and ducked into the woods, she could slip into the west wing through the hidden door.

No one would ever know.

Was that what Old Tom was trying to tell her?

Clucking softly, she pointed him toward the house, guiding him over wide furrows and between rows of lavender. At the edge of the field, she looped the bay’s reins over a fence post and trudged the last few yards on foot.

She called softly into the trees. “Is someone there?”

Silence.

“Cousin Eenie? Miss Bea?” The long shadows of sunset shimmered in the dying heat. Something both bright and dark at the same time glittered among the branches. “If you can hear me, identify yourself.”

No answer.

She slipped into the woods, moving furtively, darting between thick oak trunks and rough pine. From the lavender, Old Tom snorted a warning.

She stumbled on a root and half fell into the glade where she’d sat with Mr. Shaw. Above the bench, a dark, stiff shape swung at the end of a low branch. It was Bobby, his neck broken, his body frozen in rigor mortis. The bell on his collar dinged sadly.

Her stomach lurched, and she pressed a fist to her mouth.

On the bench below, more silver. A chain. Attached to a pair of reading glasses. Miss Bea’s reading glasses.

Hot tears filled her eyes.
Not Bobby.
The forest spun; she swayed and fell, legs buckling like a newborn colt’s. She couldn’t move, so she knelt, half praying, half sobbing. How could anyone hurt one of God’s innocent creatures? She felt her heart breaking just as it had when Grandy died. She hated death. She hated its cold finality. She hated being the one to pick up the pieces after it had done its work.

“Kirby?” It was Seth.

She brushed the tears from her eyes, but they filled again. Darn contacts. She felt his warmth before she saw his feet beside her.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. Reluctant to look up at him—he’d see her waterworks—she pointed in Bobby’s direction.

“Wha— Shit! Fuck! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

His horrified roar tore through the woods. Rough hands pulled her to her feet. Dark blue eyes, furious eyes, burned into her. Wide shoulders squared, itching for a fight. “What the hell happened?”

Fresh pain ripped into her.

When he saw her tears, his body sagged. “I keep forgetting you’re not Frankie.” He pulled her against him, and she buried her nose in his neck, grateful for his solid strength.

His mouth moved against her ear. “Take a deep breath, Kirby. Tell me what happened.”

She struggled to rein in her emotions, reminding herself of her duty and why she’d come to Shaw Valley. “I don’t know.”

His arms loosened, and he released her. She shivered with the loss of his warmth.

“What were you doing over here?” he asked.

“I was riding back from the ridge, and Old Tom started going nuts, so I came over to see what had riled him.”

“How did you find Bobby?”

“I saw his collar.” She nodded at the glasses on the bench. “Those glasses are Miss Bea’s.”

He blinked. “Are you sure?”

“She was wearing them this morning.” Kirby rubbed the long scratch on her arm.

“Why would Miss Bea hurt Bobby?”

“You’d have to ask her. Actually, we should call the police and let them ask her,” Kirby said.

His eyes widened. “What are we going to tell the police? We found a dead squirrel?”

“He was murdered, Seth.”

“I—we—would be the laughingstock of the county. I doubt it’s a felony to murder a squirrel, and even if something’s on the books, trust me, the boys in El Royo aren’t going to give a shit.”

It was true, but it hurt. In fact, the El Royo cops didn’t seem to give a shit about much. Frankie had reported Charleen missing ten days ago, and no one had been out to follow up. Tomorrow, after her meeting with Manny, she was going to the station. Get the measure of the local cops and find out what they’d done about Frankie’s report.

Kirby gazed up at the house. “How are we going to break the news to Mr. Shaw?”

“You better let me,” he said.

She wanted to see Mr. Shaw’s reaction. He might know who did it. “It should be both of us. We can go up to the house together, break it gently, let him know we share his loss. But I want Miss Bea down here first. Let’s see what she has to say.”

“We should go see Shaw now,” Seth insisted. “If Miss Bea gets to Shaw before us and tells him her version, Shaw’s not going to believe a word we say. Especially you.”

“The evidence points to Miss Bea, and I’ll admit, it’s almost too obvious, but getting her reaction is important. I’ll be able to tell if she’s guilty or not.”

“Kirby—”

Anger boiled up inside her. “Charleen has been missing for ten days. Ten freaking days! Someone did something to her. A few nights ago, Frankie was attacked. Here. In this creaky old house. She has the scratches and bruises to prove it. I’m not giving Miss Bea—a prime suspect—a pass because you’re afraid she’s going to run to Mr. Shaw with a tall tale about me or Frankie. Is that clear, Mr. Maguire?”

His eyes narrowed. “You are stomping in quicksand, lady.”

“It’s my job to stomp in quicksand.”

Although his eyes still blazed, he shrugged. “What are you going to say to her?”

“I’m going to ask a few questions. Like, ‘Where were you this afternoon?’ and ‘Who were you with?’”

Seth sneered at her. “You might want to tone down the third-degree shit, Officer.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He came close so she had to look up at him. His face was hard, and she sensed he didn’t lose many arguments. “Zack’s an idiot, but he even was wondering what—quote, unquote—happened to Frankie.” He pantomimed quotation marks under her nose. “He said you sounded like a detective on a TV show. Miss Bea’s not stupid or drunk. She’s going to figure out that you’re a fake if you start up with the
Dragnet
shit.”

She dug in, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her foot.

“Fine. I’ll go get her,” he said. “But let me do the talking.”

Behind Kirby, the bushes rustled and Miss Bea’s irritated scold tumbled into the woods.

“Slow down, Mr. Maguire. This isn’t a marathon.”

They appeared in the glade, Miss Bea in a ruffled calico apron, Seth in an all-business frown. Miss Bea put her hands on her hips and glared at Seth. “Okay, I’m here, Mr. Maguire. Now will you tell me what this is about?”

Seth’s eyes, a question in their depths, met Kirby’s.
How should I start?

Kirby tilted her head toward the bench
. Start with the evidence.
He nodded.

“Are those your glasses?” he asked Miss Bea.

“What are they doing here? Is that why you dragged me out at dinnertime?”

Seth’s eyes slid past Kirby. He lifted his arm to Bobby’s limp body. “No.”

Miss Bea’s gaze followed Seth’s hand. Her jaw dropped. Long seconds of stunned silence ticked by. She was either truly shocked…or an award-winning actress. Of course, Miss Bea did have a flair for the dramatic so Kirby wasn’t ready to eliminate her from the suspect list.

Kirby stepped forward. “Are you okay?”

Miss Bea recoiled from Kirby, the glasses, the bench, and Bobby. “How could you? What have we done to deserve this?”

Seth slid between them. “She didn’t do it.”

“How do you know? Were you with her all day? I know you weren’t, because I watched her ride down the ridge on Old Tom.” Her brows rose. “Alone.”

“So what? She wasn’t alone long enough to kill Bobby. But you were.”

“Are you accusing me of—of hurting Bobby?” Her face turned red; her hands bunched into fists.

Letting Seth question Miss Bea had been a bad idea. Of course, he wasn’t actually questioning her, he was arguing with her. An angry witness was an impossible witness. If he liked you or needed you or feared you, he’d talk. Eventually. If he was mad at you, he—or she—could hold out forever. Kirby placed a hand on Seth’s arm to slow him down, but he jerked it away. She shook her head at him. He narrowed his eyes and took another run at Miss Bea anyway. “Those are your glasses, right?”

Miss Bea jerked her head in Kirby’s direction. “
She
probably put them there. I had them this morning when I caught her with Mr. Shaw and Bobby. That’s where she got the idea.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“How dare you!”

“I dare because Frankie was with me all day. Out in that godforsaken orchard you and Shaw have pinned your futures on. So was Manny. You had opportunity, lack of witnesses, motive…”

“Motive?”

“You hate Frankie.”

This was turning into a free-for-all. A runaway train. The perfect storm. Kirby tried to jumped in before disaster struck. “I don’t think Seth is accusing you, exactly. He—we—just want to understand what happened.”

Miss Bea spun on her. “You. I know you did this. Maybe you can fool Mr. Maguire, but I’m not charmed by your loose ways.” She shouldered past Kirby and Seth. “Mr. Maguire, since you can’t seem to keep your mind on your job, you’re fired. Have your gear cleared out by noon tomorrow.” She stomped off, calico ruffles flapping in the breeze.

Seth looked stunned. “That bitch.” He said the words softly.

“I’m sorry.”

He turned to her, dark brows knitted over blazing eyes, mouth pinched into a hard line. “You’re sorry? If you hadn’t insisted on seeing Miss Bea’s reaction, none of this would have happened.”