by Mari Manning
Angie waggled the fingers of her outstretched hand. “Money first. Then I talk.”
Kirby laid four bills in her palm. “There’s your back pay. You’re going to have to earn your severance.”
“I have a right to severance.”
“Maybe. But I got the money.”
“Ouch.” The door banged into Angie’s back.
“Sorry, girls.” A middle-aged lady pushed in. “Gotta go.”
Angie sighed. “Fine. I’m off in a few minutes. The Cantina is through the alley. Get me a vodka tonic. Double shots.”
The Cantina was dusty and dark. It reeked of stale liquor and cigarettes, sweat and men. It was barely five, but guys in dirty jeans and stained Stetsons were already milling about the bar, gulping longnecks and hooting at one another.
When Kirby pushed through the alley door, they stopped and swung their attention at her.
“Hey, Frankie. You back in circulation?”
“Let’s get crazy tonight.”
“What’re ya drinking, Frankie?”
A skinny young man called to Kirby from a few stools away. “You seen Zack, Frankie? He hasn’t been in since you got him tossed from his gig.”
The bartender leered at her. “They finally let you off the ranch, Frankie?”
“Yeah.” She met his eyes straight on and plunked down a hundred-dollar bill. “Two vodka tonics. Doubles.”
“You sure you got time for two? Maguire just ran through here. He’s looking for you.”
“Are you going to wait on me or what?”
After a few seconds, he shrugged. “’Course, it’s none of my business.”
When he slid the drinks and change at her, she scooped up the sweaty, stained bills, grabbed the glasses, and went for a table with a view of the street. Maguire would be back. Guaranteed. And she wanted to see him coming.
Angie slipped into the bar through the back, pulled up a chair, and threw back half the vodka tonic. She set the drink on the table. “So what do you want?”
“Is there some kind of feud between Miss Bea and Maguire? They’re always at each other’s throats.”
“Maguire?” Angie glowered at her. “Are you, like, recording this or something? I know you hate me, but—”
“Hate you?”
“Because Seth really likes me. And, by the way, you owe me eight hundred dollars, so pay up.”
“Got it right here.” Kirby patted her purse. “But first I want some answers. Okay?” It wasn’t going to take Maguire long to circle back. That man was too smart for his own good…and hers.
“Sure. Why not?” Angie took a sip of her drink and leaned back to study Kirby.
“So is there an issue between Miss Bea and Seth?” Kirby asked.
“Everything was fine at first. Miss Bea has been running things since Old Tom died. But Mr. Shaw wasn’t feeling well, so about three years ago they got Seth to take over so she could concentrate on Mr. Shaw, but then, uh, well…” Angie’s cheeks got red.
“What’s wrong?”
“Why are you asking me these things? If it wasn’t for you and your momma, everything would be fine.”
“How so?”
Angie thrust her hand, palm up, across the table. “I want my money. And if you record this, I’ll just say you paid me to say everything.”
Kirby dug into her purse, pulled out a hundred and laid it across Angie’s palm.
“Answer my questions,” Kirby said. “How did things change at the ranch?”
Angie huffed. “Before you came, that place was like an old folks’ home. Miss Charleen is okay, I guess. I mean, she just goes off to Houston sometimes. It’s where the action is. She told me that once.”
“So there’s more activity at the ranch, and Miss Bea and Mr. Shaw resent it. How about Seth? Does he resent having us at the ranch?”
Angie’s eyes narrowed. “Like you don’t know. You think you can have whatever you want, but someday someone’s going to say no to you. I hope I’m there to see it.”
Kirby dipped into the purse and pulled out another hundred. “How did I change things at the ranch?”
“You’ve ruined everything. All those men, and I don’t know what else. But Miss Bea thinks Seth is encouraging your…your ways, I guess. But it’s not Seth’s fault. He just wants to do his job.”
That was about the murkiest explanation Kirby ever heard. “Has he ever talked to Cousin Eenie about the situation?” Mr. Shaw had to be aware that Miss Bea was pitting Maguire against Frankie. One of them was going to take the blame for anything that went wrong. The other would survive and stay on with just a few scratches. It explained Maguire’s hostility.
“I told him to tell Mr. Shaw what’s going on, but Seth wouldn’t. He likes to think he can handle everything.”
“So if Cousin Eenie knew, he might step in and help?”
“Mr. Shaw is so nice. If he knew I didn’t get my pay, he’d send me a check tomorrow.”
“Are you sure? Money’s gotten a little tight.” What other explanation was there for the run-down condition of the house?
“Mr. Shaw really cares about the land and all of us who live around here. He’s a Buddhist, so nature and life are sacred to him. He sold off the cattle stock. That’s when things got tight. The farm doesn’t pay much, or at least that’s what Seth says. When Old Tom got sick, Mr. Shaw sent him to Frisco for tests and stuff. That was expensive, too, but Mr. Shaw didn’t care. Only the best for his friend. But Old Tom died anyway, and Mr. Shaw got real sad and lost interest in the ranch. That’s when Miss Bea took over.”
Angie downed her vodka tonic and rattled the ice cubes.
Kirby pushed the other glass toward her. “Have mine. I didn’t touch it.”
“Thanks.”
Kirby tried again to find out what was going on with Mr. Shaw. “Poor Cousin Eenie.”
Angie’s face turned red. “Why are you acting like you care? Miss Bea said his heart was breaking because of you.”
“Me?”
“You’re going to ruin the ranch. You don’t know anything, and Miss Bea thinks you’re going to sell it and she won’t have a home anymore.”
“So Miss Bea is hopping mad,” Kirby said.
“Seems like it.”
But why? From everything Kirby had seen, Miss Bea seemed capable of finding a place to live, and another job if it came to that. It had to be about Mr. Shaw. “Do you think Miss Bea has a thing for Cousin Eenie?” Kirby asked.
Angie giggled, then sobered. “Well, everyone says that Miss Bea is in love with him. My daddy said Mr. Shaw was a broken man when he came back from L.A., and that he needed help. Miss Bea moved to the ranch and took care of him. But who knows what goes on over in the west wing?” She giggled again.
“I thought I heard someone, not Miss Bea or Cousin Eenie, over there this morning. Did that ever happen to you?”
Angie frowned. “That’s funny.”
“Funny how?”
Angie peered at her over the rim of her drink. A frown creased her forehead; wariness lit her eyes. “I want the rest of my money. I’ve got to go.”
Kirby pulled out six one-hundred-dollar bills, laid them on the table, and slapped her hand on the stack. “Funny how?”
“Nothing much. I thought I saw a wheelchair once, and there might have been someone in it.”
“A lady?”
“They keep everything dark over there, and besides, it was just for a second.”
Angie eyed the money under Kirby’s hand. “Can I go now?”
She lifted her hand and Angie snatched up the bills and stuffed them in her pocket.
“Can you tell me if Seth has any significant relationships? Maybe friends or relatives who have visited him?” Kirby asked.
A pair of sturdy, jeans-clad thighs appeared beside her.
“The real Frankie would ask me to my face.”
Kirby looked up at him. “So?”
“None of your damn business. Let’s go.”
He pushed out her chai
r, took her arm and escorted her to her car without another word. She let him because making a fuss in the middle of town was not going to find Charleen. His Jeep was parked behind her, and when she pulled out so did he, riding the Mercedes’s bumper all the way to the ranch.
As she drove under the Shaw Valley arch, Kirby glanced in the rearview mirror. Seth was still scowling. If her cover got blown to smithereens, this was the guy who’d do it. He was definitely the most alert person on the ranch, as well as the most suspicious. Whether it was his nature or the result of a guilty conscience, she didn’t know. But going forward, she’d be more careful about playing Frankie when he was around.
Kirby parked in the garage and killed the engine. For a few seconds, she closed her eyes. What a day. But she’d made progress.
The Jeep rattled into the spot next to her. Kirby slipped the car keys into her purse before getting out of the Mercedes. She met Seth’s gaze over the roof. “Why are you following me?” she asked.
“If you’re really Frankie, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”
He was playing games with her again. “Would I?”
His lips curled into a sneer. He nodded at the house. “Almost dinnertime. You don’t want to keep them waiting.”
It better be meatier than last night, or she was going to order a pepperoni pizza. “Later,” she called as she dragged herself up to the house.
Miss Bea was fixing dinner when Kirby walked into the kitchen.
She didn’t turn around. “There you are, Miss Frances. How was El Royo?” The question came out syrupy and solicitous.
“Could’ve been better. I met Seth at the Limestone.”
“How nice.” More syrup.
Miss Bea lifted a chef’s knife from the wood block on the counter. The blade glinted as if it had eyes. She lifted a head of lettuce and banged it on a cutting board as if it were Kirby’s head. She chopped the lettuce into tiny shreds. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. As if a machine gun were going off.
“Why don’t you go on up and wash, Miss Frances? The rice is almost ready. Brittany will bring your tray up in a bit.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Miss Bea spun around. Her little eyes were wide with…what? Shock? Horror? Insanity? “You must eat dinner.”
Kirby would give a lot for Frankie, but a vodka-and-rice diet wasn’t on her list of sacrifices. “My stomach’s a bit unsettled.”
A wisp of wiry gray hair had pulled loose from Miss Bea’s tight bun, and she pushed it back wearily. “Brittany baked bread this afternoon. How about a jelly sandwich? You should eat something.”
Kirby’s gaze dropped to the floor where the dough had landed earlier. Still, a sandwich beat choking down the vegan fare that dominated the ranch menu, and the heat from baking would have killed any lingering germs.
“Sure. That would be great.”
Miss Bea looked relieved. Maybe the woman had a heart after all. “Are you okay, Miss Bea?”
Miss Bea turned back to the lettuce. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I heard Mr. Maguire hollering at you. I thought maybe he upset you.”
She turned, knife tight in her fist. The setting sun caught it, drawing a sliver of cold light between them. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
A humorless laugh erupted from the woman’s narrow mouth. The knife sliced through the air. “I know you did it.”
Miss Bea had to be nuts. Had to be. “If Seth is mad at you, I don’t know why you’re putting it on me.” Kirby tried to sound injured and just a little snotty, which was how Frankie sounded in an argument.
“You’re responsible for the shooting this morning.” Miss Bea’s grip on the knife handle turned white.
There was nuts and then there was dangerously nuts. Miss Bea appeared to be heading toward a breakdown. “I think it’s time to call in the local police, don’t you? My mama has been missing for two weeks, and now this.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? So you could declare your innocence.” She stabbed the knife in the direction of the barn. “After Maguire got his prints all over it, there’s no proof. Stupid man.”
“But my momma—”
Miss Bea’s face didn’t change. “Your momma’s a whore and so are you.”
Outrage flooded through Kirby. How dare she judge Frankie and Charleen. Maybe they were a little too loose to suit Miss Bea’s moral sensibilities, but they weren’t creeping into bedrooms or waving knives in people’s faces.
“You are out of line,” Kirby said.
Miss Bea reared back as if punched. “How could you even say such a thing to me?”
From far off, the macaw screeched. “She’s here, she’s here. Hell’s bells.” Miss Bea’s eyes darted toward the parlor, and Kirby, tired of trying to fight with an unbalanced woman, fled.
Chapter Eight
Seth peeled open one eye. How long had he been sleeping?
He patted the bedside table, searched blindly for his phone. Numbers blinked at him like warning lights—12:08 a.m.
After a day like yesterday, he could sleep for a year. First the shooting and finding Miss Bea’s rifle. Then Frankie’s personality transplant and the confrontation in the barn. She was not Frankie, because that would mean he wanted Frankie, and that was impossible.
From the unhappy look on doppel-Frankie’s face when she dragged herself into the house this evening, tomorrow promised to be another long one filled with lots of interruptions and little ranching.
A door banged.
Pulling on sweatpants, he shuffled to the window. The quarter moon cast a pale, ghostly glow over the yard, illuminating a choppy sea of gravel and a horseless paddock and beyond, where shadows converged, the opaque night. Nothing stirred.
A faint sound drifted up from the barnyard. Seth craned his neck, but the barn was set back too far. Sometimes coyotes came down from the ridge to sniff after the horses. He slid his feet into a pair of sneakers, wrestled his Colt from its hiding place under the floorboards, and hit the steps.
He emerged from the coach house to cries and banging. In front of the barn, a pale shape fluttered. Inside, Old Tom neighed. Seth cocked his gun. Then he uncocked it.
It was Frankie, or rather, doppel-Frankie. Her fisted hands pounded on the barn door. “Let me out, let me out, let me out.” Desperation lined her voice. Her long hair was tangled, her feet bare. A very unsexy Rangers tee hung to her knees.
“Frankie? What are you doing?”
“I have to go home. Let me out.” She banged again. Old Tom whinnied.
“Frankie. It’s me. Seth. You are home. This is your home.”
She turned. Her eyes were sightless pools.
Shit. She was sleepwalking.
He’d been disgusted when Miss Bea began to mix sleeping pills in Frankie’s dinner. Disgusted until Frankie started sleeping for ten, twelve, sometimes fourteen hours a night. It was noon or one o’clock before she would emerge from the house and head in his direction. So he’d gone along with it.
He rested a finger on Frankie’s shoulder. “Frankie. Wake up.”
She raised her head. Dark brown eyes, vulnerable and honest and sad, gazed up at him. “If you leave me alone, I’ll be gone soon.”
This was not Frankie Swallow. No way in hell.
“Okay.” He reached across the narrow space between them and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” she said.
“I don’t?”
“I can take care of myself.”
Disappointment bloomed in his chest. “I don’t mind. Let’s get you back to bed.”
“Bed.” She sank to the ground, curled up, and closed her eyes.
He crouched beside her. “Come on, baby. Wake up.” No point calling her Frankie. It was not her name.
The dirt near her feet was mottled. Blood? He slipped his hand around a slim ankle and examined her sol
e. Bits of gravel poked from the pink flesh.
He scooped her up. Her body was cold, and he tightened his arms, holding doppel-Frankie against him, warming her with his body. She shifted, pressing her nose into his chest. Desire roared through him.
“They must have given you too much.”
Miss Bea had not been happy to see doppel-Frankie awake yesterday morning. She’d probably upped the dosage. Witch.
The house was a labyrinth. He’d never find her room. He could wake up Brittany or Miss Bea, but he didn’t want to let her go. He wanted to keep her close. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to hear the honest truth.
…
The aroma of fresh coffee drifted past Kirby’s nose. A man’s raspy breath sawed the air. A wool blanket tickled her neck. Her eyelids drifted open. Planks of varnished redwood stretched across the ceiling.
Where am I?
“Thought you might sleep all morning.”
Kirby bolted up. She was in a strange bed in a strange room in a strange house. Maguire slouched against the doorjamb, slurping coffee and studying her. Rumpled curls, muscular chest, vee of dark hair running down his belly, sweatpants hanging on narrow hips.
Alarm jolted through her. He looked satisfied and sexy. What happened last night? Had he… Had she? Lord Almighty! Had she slept with Maguire?
A searing pain drove through her head, and she fell back against the pillows. “What…am…I…doing…here?” Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick. As if she’d been on a bender.
Maguire pulled up a chair. The scrape of chair legs against wood vibrated inside her head like thunder.
“Found you wandering around last night,” he said.
“Last night?” She remembered the sudden crush of exhaustion, of feeling too tired to hold up her head. Then nothing. Not putting on her T-shirt or brushing her teeth or turning down the bed. Speaking of T-shirts, what was she wearing, if anything? She brushed her fingers over her hips. The Rangers jersey twisted securely around her.
“Just after midnight. You were banging on the barn.”
“I don’t remember.” Her emotions swung between sheer embarrassment and sheer terror at being discovered. Either way, she couldn’t bear to look at him. “Was I, uh—I mean, did I, uh, do anything?”
