Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas)

by Mari Manning

  The cries of a thousand crickets drifted through an open window. A small fan whirred on a polished table. A lamp glowed behind his chair; a tattered, leather-bound book sprawled on the seat—Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. He picked up the book and set it on a table.

  “Please, sit.”

  “What about Miss Bea? She was fit to be tied when she found me here.”

  He winked at her. “Asleep. Our Bea is an early riser.” His expression sobered. “Poor thing.” He studied her, his moon face turning to silver in the lamplight. Above the shade, a moth flitted.

  She sat. “Did you want to talk?”

  “My apologies for taking up your time. You must be exhausted.”

  Just being in here felt like a betrayal. It occurred to her she liked Mr. Shaw and hated lying to him. “I’m a little sleepy. It’s been a long day.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about Bea. I know she’s been hard on Mr. Maguire lately, but it really isn’t her fault.” His gaze rested on her face meaningfully.

  He was talking about Frankie. Holding in the indignation that made her heart beat faster, Kirby leaned forward. “Are you saying it’s my fault?”

  His jaw worked, elongating his round face. “Unfortunately, she is threatened by you, and it makes her lash out. She feels terrible about what happened with Mr. Maguire.”

  It was hard to imagine Miss Bea feeling threatened. Especially by Frankie. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Bea is an old, old friend of mine. We go back to grade school. In those days El Royo was just another dusty Texas town. Our class was small—just forty-eight of us—and everyone had a place. You know, the rich one—that was me. The poor one—that was Bea. The football hero—Dr. Ernesto’s daddy over at the next ranch filled that role. The pretty one…” He smiled. “Lorraine Sutton. She didn’t marry well. Died young.” He paused. His eyes glazed over.

  “Mr. Shaw? Are you okay?”

  He focused again. “Excuse me, dear. I get lost in memories these days. There are so many. Where were we? Yes, Bea. Growing up. My point is that growing up dirt-poor has a way of making you always fear the worst.”

  “You make her sound like a victim.” Which she isn’t.

  His jaw worked again. “She likes to manage things. Unfortunately, so does our Mr. Maguire. They both grew up in difficult circumstances. At different times, mind you, but in any era the result of childhood poverty is adults who fear chaos. And you, my dear, have spun through their lives like a Texas-style tornado. You’ve worn away Bea’s patience. And I suspect Mr. Maguire’s as well.”

  She’d had enough of his innuendos about Frankie. “What makes you think it’s all on me? My momma’s been missing for almost two weeks, and I was attacked last week in my room. Clearly someone with access to this house doesn’t like me. And candidate number one is Miss Bea. Right?”

  He sighed. “I’m asking you to take more care. You’re causing Bea and myself many sleepless nights, not to mention putting Susannah at risk. You’ll not be sorry, Frances. Bea—and Mr. Maguire—will repay your efforts by softening their own behavior. You’ll see.”

  “The evidence on the shooter and Bobby’s death point to Miss Bea. Her gun was on the ridge and her glasses in the glade.”

  “It’s too neat, don’t you think? Bea is convinced you are trying to get rid of her. It won’t work, Frances. Bea is more than a servant. She is a dear friend.”

  Kirby tried to imagine Miss Bea as anyone’s dear friend. “So who did these things?”

  “You are the most logical suspect in Bobby’s murder.” He held a hand up. “I know, I know. You were with Mr. Maguire.” His head tilted. Speculation gleamed in his eyes. “Unusual. Very unusual.”

  Did he suspect she wasn’t Frankie? She hit him with a bold look. “Maybe I’ve misjudged Miss Bea, but maybe you all have misjudged me.”

  “No. A week ago—alibi or not—it would have been you. But now I’m not so sure.”

  Poor Frankie. Even Mr. Shaw distrusted her. Probably because he believed everything Miss Bea told him. “Is there anyone else you can think of who’d commit these acts?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Not on this ranch. But this is open country. Vagrants, locals, teenagers. I’ve seen them all wander through at one time or another. Shaw Valley Ranch is fifty thousand acres. If someone wanted to hide here, we’d never find them.”

  Kirby gazed out at the star-filled sky. Soft light glowed from the coach house window, and past the vegetable patch, a pale twinkle shown from the bunkhouse. Seth stood where she’d left him, studying the inky darkness.

  “Maybe we should tell Seth to keep his eyes peeled for strangers,” she said.

  “Good idea. I’ll have Bea talk to him.”

  “I can tell him in the morning. I’m helping with the apricot picking.”

  Mr. Shaw tilted his head and nodded appreciatively. “Thank you.” He paused for a moment. “I take it you and Mr. Maguire have buried your differences.”

  “I hope so.” She tried not to think about what would happen when she went back to Tulsa and Frankie returned. Seth could trade in one half sister for the other. After all, they were nearly identical. She felt a pain in the back of her throat. Would it matter much to him which Swallow girl he was sleeping with?

  “You were up in the coach house for quite a while,” Mr. Shaw said.

  “Just talking.”

  “About?”

  Seth had told her about his sister in confidence. She tiptoed around the full story. “He told me how you met.”

  A faraway look appeared in his eyes. “At Bobby’s transition ceremony. Bobby had helped him with something. Wasn’t that it?”

  “Tried to help him.”

  “His sister ran away. I remember.”

  Kirby cringed. She felt like she was betraying Seth. Still, if Mr. Shaw could find her, Seth wouldn’t mind, would he?

  “Did Mr. Maguire ever find her?” Mr. Shaw asked.

  She shook her head. “He ran out of money and had to come home. Bobby was keeping an eye out for her.”

  Mr. Shaw’s expression turned grim. “Why do children keep running away? What are they hoping to find in L.A.?” His tone was edged with frustration.

  Safety, love, happiness. If not for Grandy, the streets might be her home, too. “Seth’s sister may not have reached L.A. He looked everywhere. Bobby did, too.”

  “How long has she been missing?”

  “Eight years.”

  “That’s a long time. How does he know she’s still alive?”

  Her throat caught. “He doesn’t.”

  “You’re telling me this for a reason.” He leaned back in his chair and observed her.

  “I was hoping you might ask your friends with the ministry in L.A. to look again. It’s been a few years. Maybe she’s surfaced since Bobby died.”

  His fingers knitted together under his chin, and his pale eyes took her measure.

  Had he seen through her? If Seth could, so might Mr. Shaw. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, Frances.” Leaning forward, he patted her knee. “I would be happy to check for Mr. Maguire’s sister. What is her name?”

  Relief swooshed from her lungs. She shot him a sweet, Frankie-ish smile. “Thanks, Cousin Eenie. You’re amazing.”

  He waved away her flattery impatiently.

  “Her name is Hannah Maguire. She’d be twenty-five, and she was born in November in El Royo and hitched to L.A. eight years ago. That’s all I know.”

  He pointed over her shoulder. “There’s a pencil on the table and some scratch paper. Can you bring them so I can write the information down?” A pale finger tapped lightly against his head. “Short-term memory loss. One of the hazards of old age…or an ill-spent youth.”

  The table by the window held—among other things—an old jelly jar with a half dozen stubby pencils and slips of mailed advertisements cut into neat squares. Beside the jar, set on a yellowed doily, a frame held two sepia prints of a teenage boy and a litt
le girl. Kirby studied it as she fished out a pencil.

  “That’s my grandfather and his sister,” Mr. Shaw said.

  “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s perfectly okay.”

  Kirby lifted the frame. The boy stared out at her, solemn faced and stony eyed. He had a big, round head set on thin shoulders, a pudgy nose and pale irises. Except for the boy’s mouth, which was small and full, almost girlish, Mr. Shaw was a dead ringer for his grandfather. The little girl had gold ringlets, a big pink bow peeping out from the back of her head and a pretty face. A typical little girl from a hundred years ago. Except for her eyes. They were darker than her brother’s and wide with curiosity and boldness. Her lower lip protruded in a childish pout.

  “Is this girl Charleen’s grandmother? You’re second cousins, right?”

  More stillness.

  She turned. “Cousin Eenie? Are you okay?”

  He was leaning back in his chair, his face hidden in the shadows. “Where’s that paper?” His words were clipped.

  Kirby set the picture down and brought him the paper and pencil. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  He stuffed the pencil and paper in the pocket of his robe. “It’s getting late, and I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He rose. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Why was he suddenly anxious to get rid of her? What was he hiding?

  “I’m really worried about my momma,” she whispered, following him from the study.

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “Well, she’s been gone for several weeks.”

  “She’s a careless woman.”

  “Careless?”

  “Of other people.” He peered at her in the semidarkness. “Wasn’t there a scandal involving your father?”

  “H-he left his, uh, first wife to marry her.”

  “Ah, that was it. And his first wife killed herself,” Mr. Shaw said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Barbiturates. Yes.”

  They emerged from the wing. “There was a child?”

  She couldn’t breathe. “M-my half sister.”

  His thin hand patted her shoulder softly. “I’ve distressed you. I’m sorry.”

  She gulped the stale air, struggling to hold the old pain back. “It’s fine. I’m just tired.”

  “Good night, then.”

  She skittered across the landing to her wing and looked back. Mr. Shaw was watching her.

  He raised his hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  What did that mean?

  The words, whispered into the deep silence of the house, haunted her all the way to her room.

  A short, round body barreled out of the dark and slammed into Kirby. Her shoulder hit Frankie’s bedroom door with a crack.

  “Ouch.”

  A sob broke from her assailant. “I saw you sucking face with Mr. Maguire.”

  “Brittany?”

  “Yeah?” Swollen gray eyes, blotchy red cheeks, drooping mouth, dripping nose. Brittany was a mess. “You need to cool down.”

  “Why should I, Miss Frances?”

  “You’re upset. I understand. But you don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “I do. I hate you so much.” Another great sob. She swiped a hand across her nose and sniffed. “You’re trying to steal Mr. Maguire from me.”

  It had to be the water—unless it was the cracked wheat or runny yogurt, the ragged lettuce, the chewy rice. This house was full of lunatics. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen, and it doesn’t matter. I like older men. Besides, I’ll be nineteen on Christmas Eve.”

  Seth as the older man. She’d bet half a dozen teenage fantasies he wouldn’t be amused.

  The ache of her first crush, softened by time, by living, by maturity was winsome memory. But at the time, the rejection had hit her like a bulldozer. He’d been her English teacher. Blond hair, blue eyes, a sweet mustache. The way he’d smile at her in class and say her name… When he announced he was leaving Tulsa at the end of the semester, she locked herself in her bedroom for two days.

  Love is like air, Kirby-nee. You cannot imagine it. You must breathe it.

  She hadn’t understood what Grandy meant. She pressed her lips together and tasted Seth. Maybe she did now.

  “How do you know he’s interested in you?”

  A high wail escaped from Brittany. “I hate you so much. If it wasn’t for you, Mr. Maguire and me, we’d be together by now.”

  “Are you sure? Mr. Maguire could be a lot for you to manage.” Mr. Maguire could eat Brittany for breakfast and be hungry by noon. Not that he would. Would he?

  “Says you.”

  Like a certain blond English teacher, Seth was probably oblivious to the teenage angst swirling around him. “Maybe I should talk to him for you. Feel him out.” Warn him.

  The red stain on Brittany’s cheeks deepened. “You wouldn’t dare,” she squealed. “We’ll work it out ourselves. When we’re ready.”

  “It’s your relationship.” Kirby threw up her hands.

  A cunning gleam lit Brittany’s teary eyes. “You owe me thirty dollars. For Manny and stuff.”

  “Sure thing.” Grateful to get off the subject of Seth, Kirby opened her bedroom door and flipped the switch. The envelope was in the dresser next to her Glock. She pulled out a fifty. “Don’t have any change.”

  “Whatever. You still owe me.”

  Kirby held out the money. “I really appreciate your help with Manny. I want you to have all of this.” Thirty bucks for Brittany’s help and another twenty bucks’ penance for being the one to dash her romantic dreams. Because Kirby was not letting Seth go. Not to feed this girl’s fevered imagination, not to please Grandy, not to respect Frankie, not even to save herself from a broken heart. Not for anything.

  Brittany snatched the money. “I deserve it. Manny wasn’t very nice at first.”

  “I hope he didn’t say anything inappropriate.”

  “I sort of invited myself to his house by mistake, and he got mad.”

  “Maybe he’s just shy.”

  Brittany’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “For a slut, you’re pretty smart about people, huh?”

  Then she spun on her heel and ran. Her voice rose above the clonk of boots pounding down the corridor: “Even if you pay me a million dollars, Mr. Maguire is mine. I’m not that stupid.”

  Kirby’s cell buzzed. “Hi, Frankie.” She settled on the bed.

  “So what’s going on?” In the background crickets chirped.

  “Are you outside?” Kirby asked.

  “Sitting on your patio. It’s nice here. So what’s going on?” Frankie asked again.

  “I met Zack. He was in pretty bad shape. Homeless and broke. He was camping out at the quarry.”

  “Really? Poor guy. Did you give him some cash?” Frankie asked.

  “Not exactly. Seth gave him a job and put him up in the bunkhouse. He acted like there was a secret between you, but he wouldn’t say what.”

  “Come on, Kirby. The man’s a drunk. He’s scrambled his brains. I’ve met guys like that before. If they don’t get a drink, they start to see things.” There was a pause. “I told you to stay clear of Maguire. You’re doing that, right?”

  Dang.

  Kirby moved the conversation onto neutral grounds.

  “Do you know who Susannah is? Mr. Shaw talks about her like I should know who it is.”

  “Susannah. Hmm.” Frankie spoke the name slowly. “Not really. I mean, I think maybe I’ve heard it, but Cousin Eenie is always going on about people he knew a million years ago. I can’t keep them straight.”

  True enough. The man spent a lot of time in the past. “You’re right. It’s probably not important anyway.”

  “So you’ve spent some time with Cousin Eenie,” Frankie said. “Do you think he suspects you’re not me?”

  “He seems like the type who would just say so,” Kirby said.

  “Maybe. He’s pretty smart, though. And sly.”

  “He’s convinced
your momma isn’t missing,” Kirby said.

  “He wants you to believe that. It’s him and the she-hawk. I swear it is. Look at how they treat me. Isn’t that just a little suspicious?”

  Kirby frowned. “I guess.”

  But Mr. Shaw seemed so peaceful, so kind, so Zen. It was hard to picture him as manipulative or sly. It occurred to her that she’d begun to like Mr. Shaw. A distinct no-no during an investigation. And not just Mr. Shaw—Seth. Yesterday he’d been a suspect, too. In fact, with the exception of Miss Bea, everyone on the ranch was beginning to grow on her.

  She was losing her edge. It was time she got it back by remembering who she was and why she was here. Brittany was right. She was meddling where she had no business meddling.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was barely six, and the sun already burned hot against Seth’s neck. Today would be a scorcher—a scorcher during which he was destined to pick freaking apricots. Shaw was insane. If this didn’t prove it, nothing did.

  Kirby was on the front steps when he pulled up to the house, looking both cool and hot in a jean skirt that barely covered her thighs, a white tank, and a pair of Miss Bea’s work boots.

  “Did you wear that skirt for me?” he asked when she slid, knees locked, into the Jeep.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m trying to look like Frankie minus the stilettos.” She tugged at the skirt’s hem. A futile attempt at modesty, but it sure got his blood pumping.

  The rest of the world must be blind. No way she’d ever pass for oversexed Frankie. Kirby was the kind of girl they grew wild in these parts. The sort you went crazy with on Saturday night and took home to Momma on Sunday for chicken dinner. The sort he’d avoided because Sunday always rolled around, and he didn’t have a momma and he wasn’t the domesticating type. But he wasn’t passing up Saturday night. Not this time. No matter what hell Sunday brought.

  A light flashed across the valley. Kirby’s head snapped around, and her thick veil of hair parted, revealing a purple bruise on her arm.

  “Where’d you get that bruise?”

  She brushed her hair over her shoulders. “Must have banged into something.”

  “Bullshit. Someone slugged you.”

  “Why would anyone do that?”