Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas)

by Mari Manning

  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 m
ain 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.”

  “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.