Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas) (4 page)

“What are you doing?” Miss Bea’s shrill voice vibrated through the corridor.

“Someone called out,” Kirby said.

Miss Bea charged at Kirby, and for a heart-stopping second, Kirby thought she might ram her. But she halted a few threatening inches from Kirby. Her eyes glittered with hatred. Her breath, hot and stale, burned Kirby’s cheeks. “Haven’t you hurt us enough? Stay out of here.”

“I heard a voice. I thought it might be my momma.”

Kirby had expected guilt or even fear from Miss Bea. Proof they were keeping Charleen inside the room. Instead she got pure outrage.

“Why would Charleen be
here
?”

“I didn’t say she
came
here. I said she might
be
here.” Kirby let her gaze swing from one shocked face to the other. She didn’t see guilt but something close. Furtiveness. They were hiding something. So had Maguire done the dirty work? Grabbed Charleen and subdued her, then handed her over to Mr. Shaw and Miss Bea to hold until…until what? If Charleen were beyond that door, she didn’t have much time. Not from the weak cries.

Kirby’s gaze swung from Mr. Shaw’s icy-blue fury to Miss Bea’s glittering black anger. If this was Tulsa, if she was Kirby Swallow, if she wore her uniform, she’d cuff them both and take them downtown for questioning. Then she’d obtain a search warrant.

But for the next few days, she wasn’t Kirby. She was Frankie.

“Can I just open that door and take a peek?” She tried to say it sweet, like Frankie did when she wanted something.

“Your momma’s not here. Go on now, Frances. Don’t disturb this part of the house again,” Mr. Shaw said. She could ignore the old man. One step and twist of the handle was all it would take. She met his eyes and read in them that he knew it, too. But he didn’t move, didn’t threaten. Because he expected to be obeyed or because he expected Frankie to back off?
The latter.
Frankie would back off and find another way.

She had no choice but retreat. So. How would her sister retreat? Kirby thought about the pile of stilettos in Frankie’s closet and the porno portrait in the sitting room. Frankie would swagger off like she owned this place. Like she didn’t give a damn what Mr. Shaw and Miss Bea thought.

Kirby forced her chin up and looked down at Miss Bea. “See you later.”

She pushed past Miss Bea and Mr. Shaw, bidding a silent, temporary farewell to the west wing.

At the stairs, Miss Bea caught up. “You know what will happen if we catch you in here again,” Miss Bea croaked.

Kirby was getting damn sick of the she-hawk’s attitude toward Frankie. It wasn’t Frankie’s fault she was family and Miss Bea had been edged out by a will written a hundred years ago. “As a matter of fact, I don’t.”

The woman’s pinched mouth dropped open. “You can pretend all you like. Mr. Cargill is coming in a few weeks. He said he might have some good news for Mr. Shaw.”

Mr. Cargill? Good news?
What was she talking about? Would Frankie know? Kirby tried a noncommittal—soothing—response. “Well, good,” Kirby said.

Miss Bea didn’t move. She was waiting for Kirby to say more.

“I, uh, hope Mr. Shaw, uh, is looking forward to the, uh, news.”

Miss Bea’s face hardened into granite. “You think you’re so smart. Something tells me you’ll be singing out of the other side of your mouth once we know the truth.”

There she went with the truth thing again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Very well. Have it your way.” She pulled a cell phone out of her capacious khakis and pressed a number. “Miss Frances is awake and wandering about the house.”

A man barked a word. It sounded like “shit.”

Miss Bea jerked her chin in the direction of the stairs. “Mr. Maguire will meet you down in the kitchen.”

“It’s not necessary. I can manage on my own.”

“Sure, you can.” Miss Bea dug in her pockets again. “Here’s your allowance.” She grimaced, as if the word “allowance” tasted bitter in her mouth. “Don’t bother asking for more. Eenie said no advances. That’s done.”

She slapped an envelope into Kirby’s hand.
Bank of El Royo
curled across the front in gold script. One-hundred-dollar bills spilled from the top in green profusion.

“Now get out of here.”

Chapter Three

Kirby wandered through the first floor, jiggling tarnished brass knobs on at least a half dozen doors. At one door, she just plain stopped and rested her forehead against the wood to catch her breath. The confrontation with Mr. Shaw, then Miss Bea, happened so fast, she barely had time to react much less analyze the details. She felt her adrenaline ebb, replaced by shock at what she’d heard.

They were hiding something. No. They were hiding
someone
, and that someone had to be Charleen. Right? And yet when Mr. Shaw denied it, he was either telling the truth or the best actor in the world.

Kirby shuddered. Whether they had Charleen or not, Mr. Shaw and Miss Bea were up to no good. But how Charleen’s disappearance figured into their game was a mystery that would only be solved when Kirby got a look in that room.

Another name floated up. Mr. Cargill. Who the hell was Mr. Cargill? From the way Miss Bea said it, Kirby had the sense Frankie would know and be upset by his arrival. She lifted her shirt, pulled out her cell phone, and pressed Frankie’s number. No answer. Knowing Frankie, she was still asleep. Kirby put the phone away. There’d be a lot to talk about tonight when she called Frankie for an update.

The macaw screeched again, reminding her that Maguire would be coming to fetch her. Was he in on whatever Mr. Shaw and Miss Bea were up to? Based on his reaction when Miss Bea told him “Frankie” was snooping, it seemed likely.

She’d reached one end of the house with no sign of the kitchen, so she retraced her steps. The hall and the landing were quiet, and when she glanced up at the west wing, the doors were shut.

“Hurry, he’s this way.”

She turned in the macaw’s direction. Dazzling sunlight filled an archway at the corner of the parlor. She aimed herself at the first open door she’d found on this floor. It turned out to be the kitchen. As she stepped over the threshold, she nearly banged into Maguire. He peered at her from beneath the brim of his Stetson. “Hey, Frankie. What’re you up to?”

She stuffed the envelope into the back of her jeans. “I’m looking for coffee.”

Her gaze swept the unpromising kitchen. Doorless cabinets jammed with mason jars of flour, sugar, rice, pasta, grain. Cracked linoleum counters piled with mixing bowls, chipped earthenware plates, jelly jar glasses, bowls. A sagging farm table, an ancient ceiling fan, black-and-white linoleum floor scrubbed to gray, an avocado fridge from the sixties and its cousin—the oven from the fifties.

No Mr. Coffee. Not even a percolator or a teakettle.

Kirby brightened. A reasonable excuse to drive into town. She’d regroup, get a decent meal, check the police station.

“I guess I’ll go into El Royo. Where did you put my keys?”

“Coffee?” He tilted his head and examined her.

“I’d like my car keys, please.” She thrust out her hand.

A tight smile pushed at his mouth. “No need to waste gas. I have a fresh pot going in the coach house.”

“I’d rather go into El Royo.”

Lines appeared at the corners of his eyes. A shadow crossed his face. Fatigue? “Please, Frankie. Just this once. Can we do it my way without a fight?”

“I’m not fighting. I’m asking for the keys to my car.”

“You just got back to the ranch. Come on.” He tilted his head and squeezed a tight, almost charming smile to his lips. “I make a mean cup of coffee. You’ll see.”

The man was as transparent as glass. Still, he had the keys to the Mercedes, and she didn’t. Not yet. She surrendered. Temporarily. “Okay. We’ll do it your way.”

“You won’t be sorry,” he said, waving her outside.

She already was. But she pressed her lips together and followed him.

“So you’re up early,” he said.

It was a statement spoken too casually. The kind that demanded an answer. She hesitated, suddenly cautious and on alert. Maguire was cooler and smarter than Miss Bea. That made him more dangerous. And he’d already noticed cracks in her Frankie act. She glanced at him. He was studying her closely. Her throat thickened.

Be Frankie.

“So are you,” she said, pushing a smile to her lips.

“I just mean you usually sleep in. Never seen you up at this hour.”

“I’m trying something new.”

His steps slowed. He studied her suspiciously. “Really? And what would that be, exactly?”

He was being a condescending ass, and it irritated the hell out of Kirby. He was probably the type who screwed a girl then thought he could treat her as yesterday’s trash. Her eyes met his and stared him down. “Exactly?”

“Yeah, exactly.” Challenge sharpened his words and tightened his mouth.

“Well, let’s see here. It would be—exactly—that I’m getting up early. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Something else is going on. Answer my question.” He sounded frustrated, although why it mattered what time she woke up Kirby couldn’t quite see. But it did, and that was interesting.

“Why the third degree over a cup of coffee?” she asked.

She let her gaze roam across the horizon. The top of the ridge sharp as it hit the sky, the rolling plain soft as it disappeared over the edge of the world. So much open space. So much room for everyone. Or there should be.

He stopped. “We took Shaw to the hospital last week. Right after you disappeared. He can’t handle any more stress.”

“I’m twenty-three and quite capable of looking after myself. Surely you aren’t implying my absence caused my cousin’s illness?” Which was exactly what he seemed to be implying. Was he going to blame Frankie for the lack of rain, too?

He came closer, pushing his face close to hers. Black stubble covered his cheeks and chin. Beneath his eyes, dark circles of sleeplessness bruised the skin. He smelled of spicy soap and anger.

She couldn’t breathe. Whether from outrage or fear, she didn’t know.

He gripped her shoulders, his hands hot as branding irons. “Dammit, Frankie, look at me.”

Her eyes locked onto his. The blue depths flickered. Heat rocketed through her body. She jerked away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

“Sorry.” He raised his hands but didn’t move. “Look, I don’t know what the problem is between you and Shaw. Miss Bea won’t say. But they can make your life pretty damn difficult if you don’t ease up on them.”

So Mr. Shaw had a beef with Frankie.

“Well?” Maguire was waiting for an answer.

She lifted a brow, met his gaze straight on and tried to ignore the fluttering of her heart. “I could really use that cup of coffee.” It was all she could manage.

His mouth tightened. “Right. Let’s go.”

When they reached the coach house, Maguire said, “Wait right here. I’ll run up and get your coffee.” He looked nervous. As if he had Charleen tied up in the closet.

“I can come with you.”

“My place is a mess.”

“I don’t mind.”

One eyebrow rose. “Thought you said you cooled down. Wait right here. I mean it.” He jogged through the garage and up a flight of stairs.

Kirby studied his retreating back and wondered what he’d meant.

A young guy, toting a bright blue feed bucket in each hand, emerged from the barn. He was a tall, thin rail, half boy, half man. Knobby wrists and sunbaked arms sprouted from the cuffs of his denim shirt and a skinny neck with a prominent Adam’s apple popped between his open collar. Beneath his brown Stetson, glasses thicker than the bottoms of Coke bottles rode on a short nose.

Kirby’s eyes dropped to his shoes, one ordinary and one with a sole thick as a dictionary. A thin layer of Texas dust coated the toes and the laces had been broken and knotted in several places.

The ranch hand. Manny Rivera.

She followed him to the paddock, where two bays waited patiently for breakfast. She reached for a bucket. “Can I grab one for you?” It wasn’t a Frankie thing to do, but she had a few questions for him, which she preferred to ask while Maguire was fetching coffee.

“I can do it myself.” He sounded as nervous as Maguire.

“I’m sure you can. I just like helping.”

“You’ll get your fancy duds all dirty.”

“I don’t mind. Honest.” She held out her hand.

He jerked his chin toward the coach house where Maguire had disappeared. “The boss said you weren’t supposed to be over here.”

“Why did he say that?”

“Don’t know.” He blushed like he did know.

“Well, then.”

He took a deep breath and slowly, reluctantly offered her a feed bucket. “Do you know how?”

“Sure do. My granddaddy took care of horses all his life. I used to help him.” She cringed. Kirby Swallow, raised by her granddaddy, had worked in stables since she was knee-high. Not Frankie Swallow, city girl extraordinaire. Fortunately, Manny wouldn’t know that. “And my daddy used to ride in the rodeo,” she added. At least Frankie could claim that truth.

“That’s awesome. I always wanted to ride the bucking broncos. Those guys are so cool, but, well—” He glanced down at his feet.

Kirby felt a stab of sympathy. “It’s pretty dangerous work. Killed my daddy.”

“Seriously?”

“Broke his neck.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Didn’t mean to stir anything up.”

“It’s okay.”

She’d barely known her father. He sent her away to live with Grandy when she was three. Charleen had just birthed Frankie and didn’t want a toddler underfoot. At least that’s what Grandy said.

Kirby hefted her bucket. “Those horses of yours sure look hungry. We better feed them before they start chewing the fence.”

Manny’s lips curved upward. “Sure thing. You take Old Tom.”

Since it seemed unlikely the mare was called Old Tom, she headed straight for the gelding. The horse nearly took her hand off going for the bucket.

“He’s an eating machine when it comes to oats,” Manny said.

The gelding appeared to be a few years old. “I’ve always wondered how Old Tom got his name.” She felt confident Frankie wouldn’t have asked. She hooked her feed bucket to the fence beside Old Tom and rubbed the velvety space between his ears.

“Mr. Shaw named him after the first Old Tom.”

“So there are two Old Toms?”

“Not according to Mr. Shaw. He believes in reincarnation. He told me life is a path. You reach the end, and your spirit flies away forever. That’s the best. If you die before you reach the end, your spirit comes back to earth. That’s what happened with Old Tom. Darby, too.” He patted the mare’s nose. “She was a runaway. Mr. Shaw tried to help her, but she died. That’s why Mr. Shaw kept them when he sold the rest of the horses. ’Cause they’re friends.”

“Are Bobby and the macaw former colleagues of his, too?”

“I guess so. Miss Bea would know.”

Not that Kirby intended to ask. She thought about the old man, pale and slightly bent, the force of his personality that prevented her from pushing open the door and how he’d closed ranks on Charleen and Frankie. What would he return as?

“How about you?” she asked.

Manny shrugged. “Reverend Brenner says when you die you go to heaven or hell, and animals are just animals.” His eyes dropped to his feet. The longing in his young face made her ache. “But if Mr. Shaw is right, I’d like to come back as me. But different.”

Despite the rocky start to the morning, Kirby was actually enjoying herself. It was nice to find at least one person on this godforsaken ranch who acted civil. “Maybe we all do,” she said gently. “But you have to forge on with what God gave you.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“So who was the first Old Tom?”

“He was Mr. Shaw’s friend.”

“Did he visit Mr. Shaw a lot?”

“He was our director of universal gifts.”

She tried to keep a straight face. “What?”

The young man pointed in the direction of the vegetable patch. “He took care of the garden. Wouldn’t let any store-bought fertilizer and stuff near his babies. That’s what he called the vegetables. He was loco. The boss thought so, too. He said the people in California, uh, c-c-corrupted Old Tom and Mr. Shaw. Not sure what he meant.”

She had a fairly good idea of exactly what Maguire meant. “California is its own kind of place. They do things different from the folks in Texas. Perhaps Mr. Maguire prefers things Texas-style.”

“Makes sense. Cattle ranching is inhumane. That’s what Mr. Shaw said. Riled up a lot of folks. But Mr. Shaw didn’t care. He sold off the herd because he didn’t want blood on his hands. He didn’t believe in guns, either. The boss had to hide his Colt so he could keep his job.”

So Maguire had a weapon. She raised her gaze to the coach house. She’d bet her badge it was somewhere in his apartment.

Manny stared out at the ranch, but he wasn’t seeing with his eyes. “In California they like plants and animals a lot. More than some people. But Mr. Shaw and Old Tom liked people, too. Even the ones who weren’t perfect.”

Kirby patted the gelding’s nose again. “So how did this Old Tom get named after Mr. Shaw’s friend?”

“Right after Old Tom died, Mr. Shaw was over at the next ranch, and he saw Old Tom, except he had a different name. Mr. Shaw said looking into that horse’s eyes was like looking into his friend’s. So he talked Dr. Ernesto—that’s who owns the ranch over yonder—into selling Old Tom. Crazy, huh?”

Sunlight bounced off the distant ridge and flashed across the barnyard. “Did you see that light up yonder?”

Manny followed her gaze. “I saw it this morning.”

“Does someone live up there?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nope. There’s an old quarry up that way. Mr. Shaw’s daddy dug it. It’s filled with water now. The kids in town go up there to drink and stuff. ’Course, it can be dangerous. They found a dead guy last fall. He fell in the water and drowned. Must’ve called out, but no one heard him.”

“That’s awful. Have you ever heard anything suspicious?”

“From the ridge?” His expression registered alarm. “That’s two miles off! Can’t tell much from that far away.”

“Not just the ridge. Just around.”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

“What about seen? Do the local kids use the path to get to the quarry?”

He shook his head. “There’s a road behind. I’ve only been up there a few times, but I think they mostly drive.”