Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas) (3 page)

Kirby glanced around the room. “I guess I could put them in the closet.”

“Leave everything in the suitcase and leave the suitcase in the closet. I’ve got to go.” The phone went dead.

…

From the coach house window, Seth watched the last rays of the sun drop behind the western ridge. Shadows piled up in the valley. At least darkness hid the broken fences and weedy garden, the unpainted barn, the rutted lanes.

If he owned this spread, it would be kick-ass. He’d bring in fifteen thousand head like they had before Shaw took over from his daddy. Then he’d hire on some cowboys. Open up the bunkhouses year-round. As for plowing under the lavender and damn fruit trees, he’d do that himself and savor every minute of it.

Shaw thought he could run a fifty-thousand-acre ranch like a crazy hippie commune—treat the animals as friends and the insects as dinner guests. He was farming all of fifty acres at best. And the other 49,950? Awaiting the second coming of Buddha.

What Seth wouldn’t do to buy a little piece right out from under Shaw. He grimaced. Getting his own spread was going to take a lot more money than he had in the bank.

So much for dreams.

His gaze swept across the run-down ranch one last time before night settled. The work was endless, but since Shaw’s lawyers brought Frankie and her momma to the ranch, time had become his enemy. Time and the Swallow women. They’d swooped down on Shaw Valley like a plague of pampered, perfumed locusts, threatening the ranch’s precarious existence with incessant demands for money and attention. It left little time for the business of ranching.

But Shaw was stuck with them. He was old and sick and childless, and they were his heirs. His daddy—damn him—had fixed his will to favor Shaw blood. Made it ironclad. Unbreakable. Even unbendable.

A light blinked on in the east wing. Frankie’s room. The curtains were drawn back, which wasn’t like Frankie. Something about her didn’t feel right this evening. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it, but she was different. Where was the cloud of eye-watering perfume she liked to wear? And the ass-wiggling strut that drove the boys in town crazy? That afternoon she’d wobbled up the path like she’d never worn heels in her life. And the way she’d acted. Approachable…almost normal. He grimaced again.
Yeah, right.

“What are you up to, Frankie?” He meant to keep her close until he figured it out.

Chapter Two

A sliver of sunlight pierced Kirby’s eyelids. She lifted her head and peered at the bedside clock. Quarter to eight. Then she flopped against the pillows and groaned. Day two as Frankie Swallow had begun. She’d have given anything to be home, sipping coffee as she pulled on her uniform.

For a long moment she studied the ceiling. A tiny crack reminded her of a crooked smile. It seemed to mock her. She sat up. The tawdry bedside mirror greeted her, reflecting a dark-haired girl in a rumpled tee. Not Frankie-ish at all. But Frankie’s nighties were as modest as Dolly Parton’s cleavage, which would be damn embarrassing if there was a fire. Digging through Frankie’s drawers had uncovered an extra-large Rangers shirt stuffed behind a stack of sheer panties and camisoles. Kirby had grabbed it as if it was a lifeline.

The floor creaked outside Kirby’s suite. Knuckles rapped softly against the bedroom door. A key scraped in the lock. The doorknob twisted. Her heart stopped.

Kirby slid her hand under her pillow. Smooth metal warmed her fingers. She released the safety. She’d listened to Frankie, stashing the case—locked—in the back of the closet. But she’d be damned if she was going to face Frankie’s attacker unarmed.

“Miss Frances? Are you awake?” Miss Bea’s voice was sticky sweet with ill will.

Kirby gazed in the mirror as she tried to think. A brown-eyed girl in an oversize T-shirt stared back at her. The door to the sitting room brushed over the thick carpet. No creaky hinges on Frankie’s door. Was this on purpose? Had whoever attacked Frankie wanted to make sure Frankie wouldn’t hear them coming?

“Miss Frances?”

She’d never pass as Frankie. What would Miss Bea do if she knew Kirby was an impostor? Kirby’s hand tightened on the Glock.

“Miss Frances? Are you awake?” The softness in the woman’s croaky voice sounded sinister, witchy and up to no good.

But Kirby had come here for evidence, and catching a suspect in the act of a crime would surely be irrefutable evidence of everything Frankie and Charleen had faced in this house.

Kirby plunked down in bed, landing sideways so she could keep a hand under her pillow. With her other hand she yanked the sheets over her shoulders.

“Miss Frances?” The voice came from close by. The words sounded almost intimate. Miss Bea was in the bedroom.

A jolt of adrenaline zapped through Kirby’s body, but she held her position. The rustle of Miss Bea’s blouse pushed close. Kirby tensed, prepared to spring.

But Miss Bea stopped just short of the bed.
What is she doing?

“Answer me, Miss Frances. Are you sleeping?” She spoke in a low voice, but loud enough to wake most sleepers. Still Kirby had the impression that Miss Bea didn’t expect Frankie to wake up.

Although Kirby dearly wanted to do just that.

But the green contacts were soaking in the bathroom, and Miss Bea didn’t seem like anybody’s fool. She’d know right away something was off. What would she do? Call the police, who would report Kirby to her sergeant up in Tulsa if they didn’t lock her up. If Miss Bea and Mr. Shaw were holding Charleen, would they realize Frankie was suspicious of them and hurt Charleen? Kirby pictured the endless, empty miles of Shaw Valley land she’d passed through yesterday. If Charleen was dead—and as much as Kirby didn’t want to admit it, nothing else made a lot of sense—would the discovery of Kirby lessen the chances of at least recovering Charleen’s remains?

Mmm-phew, mmm-phew, mmm-phew.
Kirby forced her chest muscles to rise and fall and added a delicate snore.

Miss Bea bent closer. An electric current vibrated over Kirby’s skin. The cloying scent of rose petals and hand sanitizer pressed against her nose. Carefully, so no movement was visible, Kirby’s hand tightened around her weapon. Every muscle in her body tensed, preparing for an assault.

Miss Bea hung over the bed, so close Kirby could almost feel her thoughts. She was waiting, but she was watching, too. For what? A signal to pounce?

Her breath blew hot against Kirby’s cheek. Rose and sanitizer twisted together and sharpened. Kirby’s nose twitched. Her lungs tightened into a fist. She was going to sneeze. She tried to pull her shoulder blades together, to push back the reflex without breaking her shallow breathing. But her lungs sputtered.

A cool hand touched her check. “Miss Frances?”

If only she’d worn her contacts to bed. If only she could open her damn eyes. She took another shallow, sleepy breath and prayed hard.

Miss Bea withdrew her hand. Kirby could feel her hesitation. Then the tension suddenly fell out of the room, as if Miss Bea had gotten whatever she’d come for. The thick odors that whirled around the woman drifted away, and the skin-crawling sense of malevolent curiosity faded.

Miss Bea’s soft footsteps moved away from the bed. A few moments later, drapes scraped shut. Kirby let her eyelids flutter once. The bedroom had been plunged into tomb-like darkness. “Sleep tight, Miss Frances.” Words covered in ice.
Swish. Click.
The door to the sitting room closed softly and locked.

Kirby released the trigger on the Glock, rolled over, and sneezed hard into her pillow.

Beneath the window, an engine sputtered. Kirby threw aside the sheets. Hooking a finger between the drapes, she inched them back just enough to see what was going on.

A black Escalade pulled up to the back of the house, and Maguire emerged from the driver’s side. Miss Bea scurried from the house. They must have settled their battle from the night before, because both seemed cordial when Miss Bea reached the car. They spoke for a few minutes—or rather, Miss Bea spoke and Maguire nodded. But his relaxed slouch and the way he nodded at her words seemed to say that he approved of whatever she was saying.

Finally Miss Bea stopped talking. Maguire lifted his hat and scratched at his dark hair. For a moment Kirby thought they were done, then they raised their eyes to Frankie’s window. Kirby drew deeper into the shadows. But she could see. Miss Bea’s lips formed two words.
She’s sleeping.
Or at least that’s what it looked like. Maguire’s chin jerked, and he blew out one word.
Good.
No extra points for lip-reading that. Maguire stepped back, holding the driver’s side door wide so Miss Bea could hoist herself into the SUV. She drove away, and Maguire strode toward the barn.

The yard below was empty. Kirby pulled the drapes aside and got her first bird’s-eye view of Shaw Valley Ranch. The acres adjacent to the house were green and lush and glittered like an emerald against the sunburned Texas Hill Country.

To her west, beyond a stand of pines, a carpet of lavender stretched to the ridge of hills rimming the valley. Lavender—such an odd sight in central Texas. She traced the gardens rolling away from the back of the house, named the vegetables growing from raised beds—tomatoes, beans, corn, brussels sprouts, peppers, eggplant—and then frowned at the orchard of twisted, sunburned fruit trees hunkered beneath a cloudless sky.

Stretched between the garden and a white-fenced paddock holding two horses were three rough-hewn buildings. Long ones. Bunkhouses? Made sense, but where were the cattle? Beyond the log cabins, the deep green ended abruptly, and the Texas summer landscape—rough and pale—rolled out to the horizon, cattleless.

A shaft of sunlight blasted across the valley. Kirby stepped closer to the window. The light came from the ridge. She studied the dark space between two drooping pines where a narrow dirt path disappeared. Nothing but pine, live oak, and cypress was visible. Did someone live on the ridge? Had they seen anything the day Charleen disappeared?

Kirby dropped the curtain. With Miss Bea gone, this might be a good time to check out the west wing. Then she’d check out the ridge. She judged the distance to be two miles at most. Maybe Maguire would lend her one of the horses.

Kirby grimaced. It might be a mistake to ask Maguire for a horse. Kirby loved horses and riding, but Frankie wasn’t an enthusiastic horsewoman. Grandy had made Frankie learn, because “you are a Swallow and a Cherokee and you
will
ride.” That’s what he used to tell her when she put up a fuss about the smell and the shit and the flies, all things Kirby never minded, not if she got to feel the smooth gallop of a great horse beneath her. She eyed the horses again. It might be worth a shot.

Depending on how much time she had left after checking out the ridge, she could run into El Royo, the local town, and see if any progress had been made on Frankie’s missing-person report. Hopefully when she called Frankie tonight, Kirby would at least have some progress to report in her investigation. Possibly a solid lead, too.

Kirby gazed around the shadowy room. More like a fancy prison, truth be told. Last night, a scowling Brittany toted a tray with brown rice and an earthenware bowl of yogurt sprinkled with sour blueberries into the sitting room for dinner.
Miss Bea said to tell you she’s locking up the house at nine, so you better stay put unless you want to sleep somewhere else tonight.
Then Brittany snickered, and Kirby had wanted to wallop her. After the girl left, Kirby could only manage a bite of rice and one blueberry. She’d flushed the rest of her bland, inedible dinner down the toilet, then spent the evening pacing Frankie’s rooms like a ravenous caged bear.

Frankie’s closet was like the dressing room at a strip club. A snarly, sparkly tangle of miniskirts, eye-popping leather shorts, sleeveless shirts, and stilettos. But then Kirby hit pay dirt—a pair of jeans. Okay, skinny jeans. Also gleaned from her sister’s strip club–looking wardrobe—ballet flats and a black silk tee with sleeves.

She had to lie flat to zip the pants, but if she didn’t eat, she’d be fine. Her stomach growled at the thought. Of course, tight jeans and clingy tops didn’t lend themselves to concealed carry. She slipped the Glock into Frankie’s underwear drawer, burying it beneath dozens of brightly colored panties and bras, then bade it an uneasy farewell.

The corridor was deserted except for a galaxy of dust motes orbiting a beam of morning sunlight. Last night the doors along the corridor between the main hall and Frankie’s room had been locked. What secrets were hiding behind them? She padded down the hall to one of the rooms and bent, squinting through the tiny hole in the old-fashioned lock. There was nothing to see but the shadows of furniture stacked in great piles, tables sitting on tables, small chairs set upside down on large ones, and a flock of lamps that reminded Kirby of hatted ladies at a garden party.

She straightened. Miss Bea could return at any time. If Kirby wanted to take a look around the west wing, best get on with it.

The great hall lay silent. Below, the macaw peered up at her from behind gold bars but kept its peace. Across the staircase, the doors to the west wing yawned. Nothing stirred.

Kirby crossed the landing quickly, keeping her back against the railing and turning to check behind her every three or four steps. When she reached the great doors that marked the boundary of the west wing, she paused. If she got caught, she’d need a story. But what? According to Frankie, Mr. Shaw was old and ailing. What if he needed help while Miss Bea was gone? Would he cry out? Could someone like Frankie hear him and go to his rescue? She’d tucked her cell phone into her waistband. It hurt like hell, but it wouldn’t fit in the pockets of Frankie’s jeans.

Should she call Frankie? Ask for advice? No. She’d attract someone’s attention if she had a conversation here. Plus, hadn’t Frankie specifically said to stay out of the west wing? She had. But Kirby could take care of herself. Gun or no gun.

She pressed her heel against the worn hallway carpet, then the ball of her foot, testing for creaky floorboards. The walls of the wing leaned in, locking arms over her head. She glanced back, but nothing moved behind her. She passed two doors, squinting through keyholes at more dark rooms, firmly locked. As she approached the third door, the air around her grew humid. The smell of disinfectant seeped from beneath doors and rose in a misty cloud. It was how Miss Bea had smelled last night.

The silence bore down on her like a living thing, vibrating through the hall in waves as deafening as the beating of her heart. Someone was close by. Someone who watched her and meant her harm. She paused and took a breath to slow her heart.
Go back and get your weapon.
The voice of survival, of common sense spoke inside her head.

Far off she thought she heard Maguire calling. Was Miss Bea back already? There was no time. Kirby sidled over to the next door.

She pressed her ear to the carved oak panel and whispered. “Hello? Charleen?”

A voice, female and weak, called plaintively.

“Charleen?” Kirby twisted the knob. “Hello? It’s me. Kir—” She stopped and straightened. Footsteps brushed softly against the carpet and halted behind her. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck stood up. Whoever it was had positioned himself or herself between Kirby and her escape route.

“How dare you.”

Kirby spun around. For a moment, all she saw were heavy shadows and black doors. A shadow detached from the wall and became an old man.

If Humpty-Dumpty had survived to middle age, he’d look like this. Paper-white skin, large misshapen head, moony face, skinny neck, feeble, bent body. His snowy hair was pulled into a ponytail. His pale eyes glared at her. He wore black pajamas and a red velvet robe.

From far away, the macaw suddenly screamed out, “She’s here, she’s here. Hurry, he’s this way, she’s here.”

Kirby backed away from the door. “Mr. Shaw?” She realized her mistake immediately. “Cousin Eenie?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Charleen. She’s disappeared.”

A light flickered in his eyes. He didn’t believe her.

She finally remembered her story. “And I thought I heard something.”

“You heard me.”

“No. A woman.” She jerked her head at the door. “In there.”

“Why would you think Charleen is over here?”

“Because she’s not over there.” Kirby pointed at the east wing.

“As you have pointed out at least a dozen times, you and your mother don’t owe us an explanation for your whereabouts.” He leaned into her. His mouth tightened until his lips nearly disappeared. “I might be putting it more kindly than you or Miss Charleen did.”