Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas)

by Mari Manning

  …

  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.

  Someone was in the corridor. A bright surge of triumph burst in her, followed by nerves. She sidled to the outer door, back flat against the wall, hand on her Taser. Slowly, she grasped the knob, tightening her hand around it as much as she could without moving it.

  One, two, three. She jerked the knob at three.

  Brittany, a stack of worn towels in her arms, was pulling Frankie’s door closed. She screamed when Kirby flung open the door. A stack of clean towels flew up, then landed in a heap on the carpet.

  “What are you doing?” Kirby demanded, slipping the Taser into her purse.

  Brittany’s plump white hand pressed against a roomy pair of denim overalls. “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you sneaking around?”

  “I’m not.” A sly look flitted over her face. “I’m just doing my job, Miss Frances. What are you doing?”

  “I was worr
ied about Charleen, uh, my momma, so I thought I’d look around for a clue about where she was going.”

  “Like those detective shows on TV?” Interest—not alarm—settled over Brittany’s round face.

  “Exactly. Has anyone touched the magazines by the chair since Momma left?”

  Her gaze rolled up toward the ceiling. She was thinking more than the honest truth needed. “N-no.”

  “It’s okay. I just need to know.”

  “Are you going to tell Miss Bea?”

  Kirby shook her head. “I just want to find my momma.”

  “Sometimes I look through them.” Her eyes shifted away from Kirby’s face. “But your momma said it was okay as long as she’s not here, and I put them back the way I found them.”

  Sure. Charleen is a gem of a human being. A real sharer. “Okay. I appreciate your honesty. You’re really helping me here.”

  “I am?”

  “Absolutely. When did you last look at them?”

  “Last week. But just for a second. They were old ones.”

  “And you put them back in the same order.”

  Brittany inched toward the door. “I—I think so.”

  “Did you notice anything different?”

  “Just the usual.”

  “Like what?”

  “Why are you asking me all this? I have to go.”

  “Please, Brittany. This is important, and you are doing such a good job so far.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s always writing notes on account of getting forgetful. That’s what she said. If I find one when I make her bed and stuff, I’m not supposed to throw it away.”

  “Does she leave them in her magazines?”

  Brittany shifted restlessly. “She leaves them all over. I have to get dinner started or Miss Bea will be breathing fire.”

  “Just one more thing. Does anything in this room strike you different from the other times my momma took off?”

  “I don’t know. Not really.” Brittany frowned at Kirby. “Don’t you know?”

  “I…didn’t notice anything. Besides, you’re probably in my momma’s room more than me. Right?”

  “I already told you about the magazines.”

  “You’re doing such a good job. Look around. Does anything seem different? No matter how crazy.”

  Brittany’s mouth tightened. “You seem different.”

  “I-I’m just worried.”

  “All that stuff on her dresser, Miss Frances. Usually she takes it with her, doesn’t she? Is that what you want me to say?”

  Some cop she was. The girl was right. Charleen would never go off without her pots and tubes of age-reducing magic. Especially with a man, which was what Maguire and Miss Bea insisted she’d done.

  Brittany swept up the scattered towels. Bits of metal clinked against each other in the pockets of her overalls. Her gaze met Kirby’s. Guilt rattled in their depths.

  “What’s going on, Brittany. Is there something else?”

  “I’ve gotta go.” Brittany bolted down the corridor as if running for her life.

  Chapter Six

  Kirby did a quick sweep of Frankie’s room after Brittany skittered off. Nothing appeared to be missing. Still, the girl had been up to something in here. She was just about to head down to the coach house for Frankie’s car when she heard voices.

  “How dare you!”

  “Cut the crap!”

  “Mr. Shaw will hear about this!”

  “Good. Maybe he can get a straight answer out of you.”

  Angry shouts punctured the air beneath Frankie’s window. Kirby peeled back the drapes. Maguire, shoulders stiff, marched toward the barn. Miss Bea, head high, strode into the house.

  Miss Bea and Maguire. She’d have given anything to be a fly on Maguire’s Stetson when those two locked horns. Next best thing—ask him before he cooled down. Folks didn’t always tell the truth, but their faces never lied. Especially when they were mad.

  Kirby grabbed Frankie’s purse from the bed and headed down the corridor, emerging in time to see Miss Bea stomp through the doorway to the west wing and slam the heavy doors behind her. Kirby hurried down the staircase and through the parlor to the kitchen and the back door.

  In the kitchen, Brittany was kneading a pale, misshapen ball of dough at the counter. Which reminded Kirby of another question…

  “Excuse me.”

  Brittany’s head jerked up. The dough slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor. A cloud of flour leaped up, dotting the legs of her overalls.

  Brittany bent and scooped up the dough. “What are you doing down here?”

  “I was wondering if you’d heard or seen any women besides Miss Bea in the west wing? I thought I heard someone this morning.”

  The girl snorted. “Like a girlfriend for Mr. Shaw or something?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Just Miss Bea.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I guess I’d know if I saw something, wouldn’t I? Of course, I don’t go sneaking around where I’m not wanted.”

  A pebble of irritation lodged between Kirby’s shoulder blades. “If you do see or hear anything, can you let me know?”

  Brittany’s mouth curled into a sneer. “Why should I?”

  Kirby wanted to slap her. Why all the damned attitude? No wonder Frankie was upset. “Because I want to know.”

  “Whatever. Do your own snooping.” She turned her back on Kirby and plopped the dough on the counter.

  Kirby pulled open the back door.

  “If you’re going out to pester Seth, you should leave him alone,” Brittany said.

  “Why would I pester Seth?”

  Brittany smoothed a flaxen braid. “You think you’re so sexy, but Seth doesn’t want you.”

  What was going on here? While Seth Maguire chased Frankie’s money, had he turned his obvious charms on Brittany? “Did he tell you that?”

  Brittany faced Kirby again. “He didn’t have to. I understand him.”

  Maguire had to be at least a decade older than Brittany. Plus, he didn’t strike her as the kind of man with the patience to deal with a silly girl. “Are you sure your signals aren’t crossed?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Like you know how he feels.”

  Kirby clamped her lips together. She was no Dr. Phil. Besides, she wasn’t much different. Scott was more than a decade older than her, too. “Mr. Maguire is a fine man. I hope you are both very happy.”

  A car with a missing muffler rumbled over the drive. “Who’s that?” Kirby glanced out the window. A rusty Ford Explorer zoomed past.

  “Manny. He usually leaves around four.”

  “He doesn’t live on the ranch?”

  “You sure are full of weird questions today, Miss Frances. You got some big surprise planned for us?”

  What did that mean? “Maybe. You expecting one?”

  “Miss Bea says you can’t be trusted.”

  She would.

  “You like him, don’t you?” Brittany asked. “’Course, you like everyone. Or at least the guys.”

  It was the truth. Frankie’s self-control was nearly nonexistent when it came to men. Although loose morals weren’t a crime unless you happened to be living under Grandy’s roof. “He seems a little young for me, don’t you think?” Kirby asked.

  “Well, duh. Why do you think Miss Bea said to stay away from him? I saw you rubbing up against him that time and grabbing him and everything. We all did.”

  That explained the horrified looks this morning. And the hazards she faced if she wanted to finish interviewing him about Charleen’s disappearance without Miss Bea, Mr. Shaw, or Maguire knowing.

  “Are you and Manny friends?”

  “Not really.” She flipped a braid over her shoulder. “But I think he likes me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Brittany turned to the window and her gaze got dreamy. “Because I feel sorry for him.”

  “D
o you think he’d do you a favor if you asked?”

  Her gaze sharpened. “What kind of favor?”

  “I’d like to talk to him, but it would have to be off the ranch.”

  “’Cause Miss Bea and Seth would have your ass if they caught you bothering him again.”

  “I just want to talk. Since he’s your friend, I’m sure he’d say yes if you asked.”

  “Yeah, right. Why do you want to talk to him?”

  “Maybe he’s seen something that will help me figure out where my momma’s gone off to.”

  Brittany snorted. “You’re pissing on my boots and telling me it’s raining.”

  “I’m being straight with you. I could meet him in town. In the, uh, restaurant.” There had to be a coffee shop or diner on the main drag. “I’ll buy him a burger or a cup of—”

  “You mean the Limestone?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m not doing you any favors.”

  Kirby glanced out the kitchen window. It had to be at least two. Her stomach ached for a piece of meat and something—anything—fried. By the time she talked to Maguire, went into town, had lunch, and stopped in at the station, it would be dark. She patted her purse. The money envelope crunched. “I’ll give you twenty dollars.”

  Brittany’s eyes glittered greedily. “Maybe you should ask him yourself.”

  “Thirty dollars.”

  The girl nodded. “Sure. Why not? But I get paid even if he says no.”

  “Of course. Thirty dollars just for the asking. I really appreciate it.” She pulled open the door.

  Brittany’s eyes took on a sly gleam. “I’m supposed to tell Miss Bea if you leave the house.”

  Kirby’s stomach soured. What kind of people were these? The intimidation, the cruelty, the threats. No wonder Frankie tiptoed out in the middle of the night. “I’m just going to talk to Seth.” And drive into town. Alone.

  “Miss Bea will fire me.”

  Kirby couldn’t find it in her heart to care, and that bothered her. She’d always cared. About everyone. It was why she’d joined the force, and why she’d lived with Grandy until he died, and why she was here now. “Please.”

  Brittany snickered. “For a hundred dollars.”

  Kirby could barely stand to look at her. “Deal. Set up the meeting, then I’ll pay you.”