Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas)

by Mari Manning

  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.”

  “Me? You’re blaming me for this? You were out of control.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “First of all, I’d appreciate it if you would calm down and stop swearing. Second of all, didn’t you see her reaction when she saw Bobby? She didn’t do it.”

  “Then who did, Kirby?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t think it was her.”

  Seth’s anger fell away. He gazed miserably at the field of lavender. “It’s out of my hands now.”

  His hurt was palpable, a live thing eating at her. She pressed her palm into his arm.

  His eyes dropped to her hand. “I don’t need your sympathy. I can take care of myself. If I were you, I’d watch my back after tomorrow. Miss Bea’s set her sights on getting rid you. Do me one favor, Kirby. Tell Shaw and Miss Bea who you are befor
e someone else gets their neck broken around here. Like you.”

  He was drowning in his own troubles and worried about her.

  A sturdy spirit beneath sinew. God’s recipe for a good man, Kirby-nee. And he was. She’d liked working beside him today. She liked talking with him. She’d even liked his ridiculous attempts at seduction. She realized she wanted to know what was inside him, and she wanted to tell him about the things inside her, like loneliness and love. She liked him, and he seemed to like her.

  She studied the west wing. Sightless windows, silent rooms, shades drawn against the sun. But Mr. Shaw was there. The only person who could save Seth’s job.

  “You’re not leaving until tomorrow, right?”

  He looked away from her. His voice shook when he answered. “I need to brief Manny on a few things so he can handle the harvest crew. He’ll have to take over.”

  “I’m going to talk to Mr. Shaw. Maybe I can get your job back.”

  “You’re wasting your breath. You won’t get past Miss Bea. He’s practically a prisoner here.” The words were tinged with despair.

  She liked him better fighting mad than drowning in defeat. “You are not the only person who can fix problems.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy, and I am going to prove it to you.” She met his eyes. “And when I do, you are going to say something I bet you’ve never said in your life.”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘I was wrong.’”

  “Mr. Shaw?” Kirby dipped a toe into the west wing. “Mr. Shaw? Are you in here?” Silence. Dead silence. She thought about Seth and pressed on. “Mr. Shaw? Are—”

  A door squeaked open. A shadowy figure appeared.

  “Mr. Shaw?”

  “Who’s there?”

  Shoot. She was supposed to be Frankie, and he was supposed to be Cousin Eenie. “Cousin Eenie. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  A pale hand lifted and beckoned. “Come into my sitting room.”

  She hustled past closed doors, wrinkling her nose at the cloud of disinfectant and minty muscle liniment hanging in the air.

  Mr. Shaw’s sitting room was identical to Frankie’s and Charleen’s, but it held such a profusion of books and plants, knickknacks, old newspapers, old photographs, and old record albums, that it felt smaller.

  Another mountain of books and plants and photos crowded the adjoining room, as well as a vintage desk that was as long and wide as Frankie’s bed. Mahogany bookcases lined the walls.

  A record spun on a turntable. Classical music floated from tall speakers. Li-li-le-lo, li-li-le-lo. The dazzling voices of violins rolled across the room in waves.

  She almost said, “Wow,” but caught herself in time. Frankie had probably been here.

  Mr. Shaw gestured at a faded velvet chair. “Please sit. What are you doing here?”

  She sat, rested her elbows on her knees and leaned forward. “Have you been here all afternoon?”

  He frowned. “Where else would I be?”

  “Of course. I was just wondering if anything out of the ordinary happened today?”

  “Well, no, I don’t think so.” His gaze trailed around the room, suspicion still wrinkling his brow.

  “What about your pets?”

  “I assume you’re referring to my dear friends. Sarah Slade is in her cage. She insists upon an afternoon nap.”

  She studied Mr. Shaw. “What about Bobby? Did you see him after this morning?”

  “Come to think of it, I haven’t.” Mr. Shaw rose and made his way to the window. “Why? Have you seen him?”

  Kirby stood, too. “Mister—uh, Cousin Eenie, please come and sit down.” She felt a stab of regret for the old man. He was a gentle soul. She could see it in his eyes and feel it in the warm way he spoke to her.

  He turned slowly from the window. “Why?”

  “Please. Come and sit.”

  He studied her, his gaze speculative, his mouth sad. “I see.” He returned to his chair.

  “We found Bobby in the woods about a half hour ago.”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “I’m sorry.” Her throat burned.

  He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and swiped at his nose. “What happened?”

  Right after Kirby joined the force, she’d had to tell a woman with two children her husband was dead. It was the second worst moment of her life after watching Grandy die. This ranked up there at third. “His neck was broken.”

  He pressed his hand to his mouth, turned away from her, choked on a sob.

  She suppressed the urge to touch him.

  “Did you do this?” He spoke softly.

  Indignation on behalf of Frankie rose in her. Why did everyone assume Frankie would hurt Bobby? She remembered what Frankie had said before Kirby left for the ranch. They hate me. Everything is my fault. I bet if a cloud of locusts descended on the ranch, they’d say I trained them. “Of course not.”

  “Then who?”

  “I don’t know, but Miss Bea’s reading glasses were next to the body.”

  “Bea?” Tears blurred his pale eyes, turning them milky and blind. “That’s nonsense. Bea didn’t hurt Bobby.”

  “I tried to tell you earlier. Before we were interrupted. The other day, someone shot at Seth and me. We—uh, Seth—found Miss Bea’s rifle on the ridge.”

  “Then someone’s setting her up.” His gaze narrowed. “Quite frankly, young lady, if you hadn’t turned over a new leaf, I’d accuse you. But my inner eye can see you came to me as a friend and an innocent and in peace. I don’t believe you harmed Bobby.”

  A friend and an innocent. She was a fraud and a liar. “I’m sorry. About Bobby.”

  A tear slid down his face. “Hurry back, Bobby,” he whispered.

  “He must have been a good friend—”

  “He was more than a friend. He was my rock.”

  “You’re talking about the real, uh, first Bobby.”

  “I’ve lost him twice in one lifetime. After he died the first time, my center fell away. The emptiness I felt. Like being sucked into a mile-wide hole. Nothing to grab onto. About a year after his death, a package came from his son. My letters to Bobby.”

  A flash of anger crossed Mr. Shaw’s face. “Well, you know, since you snooped.”

  Snooped?

  He tilted his head and studied her closely. “You look confused.”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Getting the letters back was a relief, of course. Getting Bobby back was salvation.”

  She cringed a little. Took a stab at conjecture. “He came with the letters.”

  “Sitting on the box when I opened the door.”

  “Uh, yes. Of course. I must have forgotten.” Meeting his eyes was impossible. She examined her fingernails.

  “He was my spiritual guide even after death.”

  “I’m truly sorry.” When he looked skeptical, she said, “I lost my granddaddy last year. He was my best friend. He taught me to respect the spirit.”

  “Buddhist?”

  “Baptist and Cherokee.”

  “I didn’t know. You’ve had a tough year.”

  “He loved animals, especially horses. He loved anything that grew, really. Plants, trees, weeds, children, dogs, cats.”

  “And horses.”

  “And horses,” Kirby repeated. Frankie wouldn’t talk this way about Grandy. She was still in a state about the will. But not many people wanted to hear her rattle on about Grandy. Not even Scott.

  “He sounds like a special man,” Mr. Shaw said.

  She nodded. “His voice plays inside my head. Little wisps of advice, mostly. He feels so close.” Shut up. He’s going to know if you don’t stop talking like Kirby. “I’m going on. Sorry.”

  Mr. Shaw rose and shuffled to the shelves. He held out a bright photograph in a gilded frame. “This is Bobby.”

  She took it. Studied a white robe hanging from thin shoulders, white sunshine bouncing off a shi
ny head, white hair streaking through a luxuriant beard. Eyes dark, solemn, serene.

  “That was taken just before his life as Bobby ended. He’d changed so much by then. We all had, except for Susannah.” Mr. Shaw turned away. “We thought we owned the world. Nothing could touch us. We thought we were indestructible.” A sob choked him. “Such hubris must be punished.”

  Kirby set the photo down. Who was Susannah? Since Frankie obviously knew the answer, she couldn’t ask the question.

  Mr. Shaw’s face melted into grief. He sank into his chair. His head dropped into his hands.

  She felt his misery like an ache in the pit of her stomach.

  Am I an orphan, Grandy?

  No one is an orphan, Kirby-nee. Our father is the sky. Our mother is the earth.

  Do they love me?

  Take off your shoes and walk on the green grass and feel your mother’s love.

  “The universe doesn’t punish human frailty, Cousin Eenie.”

  He raised his head.

  “God walks with us every second of our lives. Sometimes his plan seems harsh, but it’s because we don’t understand.”

  Somewhere in the house, a door banged and Miss Bea scolded Brittany and pots clattered. She’d be coming soon.

  “Cousin Eenie?”

  “Is there more, Frances?”

  “Seth got a little ahead of himself and accused Miss Bea of—of killing Bobby, and Miss Bea fired him. She said it was his fault Bobby is dead.”

  “She fired Mr. Maguire? And that’s why you risked Bea’s wrath to come over here. You want me to restore Mr. Maguire to ranch manager.”

  “It was one reason. I wanted to tell you about Bobby, too.”

  He nodded. “You are going to be a worthy heir to this ranch someday. Tell Mr. Maguire to unpack his bags. I will talk to Bea.”

  “Talk to Bea about what?”

  Kirby whipped her head around.

  Miss Bea stood in the door, glaring at her, and if looks were bullets, Kirby would be a corpse.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Kirby tapped on the coach house door.

  “What do you want?” Seth’s annoyance blew through the wood like a high wind.

  “It’s me. Kirby.”

  The rattle of locks loosening and bolts shot back, then Seth. He wore gray sweatpants and nothing else. A fragrant mist of soap and musky aftershave clung to his skin. His long torso, tanned and firm, hard muscled, sent a shiver through her.