Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas) (6 page)

He snapped the rifle shut and tucked it under his arm. Until he figured out what was going on, he’d hold onto Miss Bea’s rifle.

By the time he emerged from the trees, Frankie had calmed Old Tom and secured Darby’s reins.

“Is that the gun?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not sure.”

“Did you see anything?”

“No. They were gone by the time I got up there.”

“But you found the weapon.” The real Frankie would have known Miss Bea’s rifle.

He mounted Darby. “Let me handle this.”

“But don’t you think the police—”

He clucked his tongue, urging his mare forward and cutting off doppel-Frankie’s questions, which he had no intention of answering until he figured out what she was hiding.

Chapter Five

Lifting a chair in Frankie’s parlor, Kirby set it against the door. Then she pulled out her cell and called Frankie.

“Hi, Kirby. How’s it going?”

“I’m making progress. But I have some questions. Are you okay to talk?”

“Just lounging around the house. Tell me everything.”

Start at the beginning.
“I had a look around the west wing this morning.”

“Bet you got busted. Cousin Eenie must have a buzzer or something. I’ve never gotten past the second door. Was he pissed?”

“Of course. But I thought I heard a woman’s voice. Do you think your momma could be locked up over there?”

“I don’t know. What if she is?”

“I think we should call the police. Let them take it from here.”

“I think you should wait, Kirby. What if it’s not Momma? Or what if they’ve moved her? You could blow everything.”

“I hate to take a chance on her life if it’s her. Besides, who else could it be?”

“One of Miss Bea’s old ladies. They visit sometimes. Or Cousin Eenie had a friend visit once. He stayed overnight in the west wing.”

Kirby didn’t like either of those explanations. The voice had sounded weak and upset. But Frankie had a point. If she got the police involved and they found nothing, she’d blow her cover and perhaps lose any chance of recovering Charleen. “Okay. What about your cousin Eenie? Maguire said something about you two having a disagreement.”

“A disagreement?”

“That’s what he said.”

Frankie’s voice went up a few registers. “Sometimes I despise him!”

“Who? Your cousin Eenie?”

“No! Maguire. He’s such an ass. And a liar. I’d tell him off I was there.”

“It’s okay. Forget about him.” Kirby thought about the overwrought man who’d burned his hand bringing her coffee then risked his own neck to chase after the shooter. He didn’t seem like a man given to pettiness. But she’d barely known him twenty-four hours.

“I can’t. Not after everything.” She let the sentence hang in the air.

Kirby’s eyes settled on the four stacks of hundred-dollar bills on Frankie’s bed. Four thousand bucks. “I have a few more questions.”

Frankie yawned. “Not now, Kirby. Call me tonight.”

“Wait. What about the money—”

“Money? What money?”

“Miss Bea gave me a stack of cash that she said was my allowance.”

“That freaking bitch! Put it in the closet. In the suitcase.”

“Is that really your allowance?”

Frankie growled. “I don’t need that woman giving me an allowance. She’s a servant, Kirby. A charity case with nowhere to go, so she turned to Cousin Eenie. I’m family.”

“Well, of course you are,” Kirby said soothingly. Frankie had a temper and a long memory. Best not to get her stirred up. She thought about Mr. Cargill and how Miss Bea had used him almost as a cudgel. It might be best to let Frankie cool down before bringing up his name.

After soothing Frankie’s ruffled feathers for a few more minutes, she said good-bye and ended the call with relief.

Kirby hit another number. The phone was answered on the first ring. “Kirby?”

“Hi, Scott.” Scott Gilbert was not just a Tulsa police sergeant, he was her boss and her friend. He’d lost his wife the same month she lost Grandy. Mutual grief had closed the chasm between their ranks and their ages. But as the months went on, Scott’s friendship had turned to love. If only Kirby felt the same way. She kept putting him off when he wanted to talk about his feelings and the possibility of a relationship, because of the grief he still carried with him. She knew how he hurt. How could she add to it?

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“So far.”

“So what’s the ranch like?”

Besides getting shot at and threatened? Events best kept quiet if she didn’t want an overprotective Scott racing down to Shaw Valley. “The ranch is…big. Spacious. They have horses.”

“I would hope so. Can’t think how they’d run a ranch without ’em.”

“I meant I had a chance to ride. First time since Grandy died.”

“Glad to hear you’re enjoying yourself.” Longing filled his words. “Are you getting along with your sister?” There’d been tension at Grandy’s funeral when Frankie discovered she wasn’t in the will.

“So far no fights…with Frankie.”

“I still don’t understand why you suddenly got it in your head to go down there.”

“I told you. Frankie needs me.” The truth. As far as it went. At thirty-eight, Scott’s paternal instincts were in overdrive. If she had told him she was trading places with Frankie to investigate a missing-person case, she’d still be in Tulsa, arguing.

“She doesn’t deserve a sister like you. Didn’t she swipe your granddaddy’s ring after the funeral last spring?”

“I explained that to you. She was upset because he didn’t leave her anything.”

“Because you took care of him for five years when he was sick.”

“I loved Grandy, not his ring. Besides, I got the house. Frankie should have something of his, too.”

“The house is a run-down shack. The ring was worth more.”

“I grew up in that so-called shack.”

His tone changed abruptly, his voice softened. “I didn’t mean to get you going. I’m just anxious. This trip came up so suddenly—”

“Everything is fine.” Her stomach turned sour. She hated lying. Especially to a man who’d been so attentive when she’d needed him the most.

“If you left because of me, you just need to say so. I’ll understand.”

“Of course not.”
Wrong answer.

“So why not give us a try?”

Maybe she would. Next February, she’d be twenty-seven. After all these years, she was beginning to think true love didn’t exist. At least not for her.
You cannot change the stars, Kirby-nee.
Grandy’s voice whispered Cherokee wisdom inside her head. But Grandy was gone, and she was alone.

“I promise to think on it.”

“I understand.” But he didn’t sound like he did.

She hung up and heaved a sigh of relief. A short-lived sigh of relief. She better find Charleen fast. Before another crisis reared up. Although after being crept up on this morning by Miss Bea and scolded by Mr. Shaw, not to mention shot at by Lord knows who, what else could happen?

Job one—find Charleen’s room and look around.

Job two—tackle Maguire for the car keys. She needed a decent meal and a talk with the El Royo cops.

Kirby slipped from her suite, the four grand and tiny Taser tucked into one of Frankie’s designer purses. The corridor was silent and dim. At the far end, thin strands of afternoon sunlight pierced a small window and shot off the leaves of a giant fern. Rows of closed doors guarded the stillness like blind sentries, solid and unwavering, stoic, unblinking. The one guarding Charleen’s room was across the hall. Frankie claimed it was unlocked, and Kirby prayed for one thing to go right today. She jiggled the knob.

It gave.

A small but sweet victory.

…

Peeping between fronds of a lanky fern, Brittany watched Miss Frances sneak into Miss Charleen’s room. That was new and interesting. Usually when Miss Frances left her room, she sashayed herself straight down the stairs in pointy heels that would have broken in two if Brittany wore them. Big girls should keep their feet flat on the ground.

If you fall, no one’s gonna pick you up.
That’s what her momma told her.

Hatred for Miss Frances rose in her throat like sour milk. If it wasn’t for her, Mr. Maguire—Seth—would ask her out. She’d seen him look her way, but look was all he could do. The last housemaid, Angela, got thrown off the ranch for messing with Seth. Angela said that it was Miss Frances’s fault. That she was a jealous bitch. Brittany agreed.

Seth wouldn’t want that for Brittany. He was thoughtful and mature. Protective. Kind. Not like Brittany’s no-good daddy.

So what if she was eighteen? So what if he was like thirty or something? Lots of older men liked younger women. Right? And Seth needed someone sweet and pure and nice. Someone who understood him and would take care of him and fix him dinner at night and be loving and…nice. He looked so worried all the time.

Hoisting a stack of fresh towels, she padded quietly down the hall, tiptoed past Miss Charleen’s room, and very, very carefully turned the knob on Miss Frances’s door. Usually twisted sheets and scattered shoes, empty bottles, and a dirty life lurked in Miss Frances’s suite.

Wow. Wow, wow, wow.
The bed was made, the furniture gleamed. Not even a dirty glass to wash.

Still, it freed up time to snoop. Someday, she was going to dig up something stupendously nasty about Miss Frances, and when she told Seth, he would realize how really awful Miss Frances was and how super awesome Brittany was. She riffled through the closet and tried to open Miss Frances’s new overnight bag, but it was locked. It weighed a ton. Miss Bea would want to know about this. Maybe it was a bomb. Although when it came to Miss Frances, there was probably a man curled up inside.

Brittany giggled.

Miss Frances also liked to hide liquor, usually in her dresser. Sometimes Brittany took a little sip if it was vodka, which you couldn’t smell.

She slid open the top drawer. Beneath a stack of tiny panties—why bother wearing them at all—metal gleamed. She pushed aside the underwear.

Miss Frances had a gun! A freaking big one. Just like the one Brittany’s daddy used to have. Brittany’s heart thudded against her ribs. A mean person like Miss Frances shouldn’t have a gun.

What should she do? Seth would know, and in her head she imagined asking him, but every time she got within spitting distance of him, Miss Frances turned up. She’d have to act on her own. Her fingers found the release, and the clip slid from the grip. She shook out the bullets, stuffed them in her pocket, and pressed the clip back into the grip.

At least Miss Frances couldn’t bring a catastrophe on this house. Or at least not a bloody one.

…

Charleen’s suite was laid out like Frankie’s: cozy parlor, sunny bedroom, old-fashioned bath. But that’s where the resemblance ended. Peeling wallpaper, faded chintz, and yellowed curtains lent a feeling of neglect and loneliness to the suite. The opposite of the hard-drinking, hard-partying stepmother of Kirby’s youth. Why had Frankie’s room gotten the million-dollar makeover while her mother lived in squalor?

A picture of Kirby’s daddy with Charleen and Frankie sat beside the TV. A tiny ache, almost a yearning, passed through her at the sight of it. She pushed Charleen’s door closed, pulled out the Taser just in case, and crept across a worn carpet.

She ran a finger over the frame, trying to ease the ache that never completely left her. But it didn’t ease, and finally she lifted the picture. Joe Swallow’s eyes drooped with fatigue. Worry creased his forehead. Loneliness bracketed his mouth.

Grandy never forgave his son, Joe, for taking up with Charleen.
If you use your eyes to find love, your eyes will be full, but your heart will be empty.

But her daddy wanted what he wanted, and no ancient Cherokee saying was going to stop him.

Beside Joe, Charleen’s bright pink mouth curled into a patronizing smile. Teased hair curved into a blond helmet. Abundant breasts—her best feature—burst from a blue silk dress. Classic Texas beauty. Except for the coldness in her cat-green eyes.

Frankie nestled between Joe and Charleen. She was Joe’s daughter. No doubt. Just like Kirby. But Frankie got Charleen’s eyes. That was the only difference.

Poor Daddy.

Joe broke his neck out in Abilene right after the photo was taken. He’d worked himself to exhaustion so Charleen and Frankie could live high in Houston. Frankie had been about fifteen, already spoiled, just like her momma. Joe had indulged Frankie, same as Charleen. Didn’t mean much to Charleen, since she cheated on him often enough. Of course, Joe had been a cheat, too. Running out on Kirby’s momma and his baby daughter.

Everything happens for a reason, Kirby-nee.
That’s what Grandy said, and Kirby believed it. What choice did she have?

Kirby set the picture back on the table and inspected the room. No signs of violence or a struggle. Just the same sense of waiting and watching the rest of the house gave off. As if a not-quite human being waited in the shadows. But why?

A pile of gossipy magazines, a TV remote, a pair of reading glasses sat beside a threadbare chair. As if Charleen had set down her glasses and walked into oblivion. But no one disappeared. Not really.

She lifted the remote, flipped on the TV. A shopping channel. She turned it off. A
People
from last month topped the magazine pile. Kirby riffled the rest of the magazines. Well thumbed and carefully stacked by date.

A folded subscription card fell out of a magazine. Kirby’s name and phone number were written in Charleen’s handwriting. An arrow swept to the card’s edge. Kirby flipped it over.
EENIE!!!
was scrawled in giant letters. Charleen had traced Mr. Shaw’s name over and over again, until the heavy card nearly tore through.

Why?

Charleen had never called Kirby. Ever. Even when Grandy died. Had she discovered something? Something that put her in danger? Something that required a cop? What else could it be? She flipped the card over again.

EENIE!!!

Written like a shout or a cry for help. Had Charleen learned a secret about Mr. Shaw? Kirby pushed the card back into the magazine and slipped into the bedroom.

A high bed with thick mahogany posts was neatly made. An oasis of order amid Charleen’s debris. Perfume, makeup, hair spray, jars of cream cluttered the dresser. An avalanche of clothing teetered on a chair. Shoes were tossed across the floor like driftwood on a beach.

Creak.
The sound came from the corridor. Had Miss Bea returned from wherever she’d gone this morning? Had she been sent to the east wing by Mr. Shaw to—to…
what
?

Another creak. Kirby froze. She pressed her back to the wall and snapped her head forward. The sitting room appeared empty. She jumped into the doorway, Taser held high and straight. But the door was shut, the room deserted unless you counted the schools of dust motes swimming through the stale air.