Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas)

by Mari Manning

  Through his misty glasses, the hazy outline of Brittany appeared, filled in with denim and pink clothes and yellow for her hair. He stuck his fingers under his lenses and wiped them clean.

  Brittany held out a thermos. “It’s hot out here today. Thought you might like some water.”

  Something was going on. She’d never even said hi to him. But he was thirsty.

  “Thanks.”

  He pulled off the top and raised the thermos to his mouth. When he finished drinking, his eyes met hers. Displeasure swam in their gray depths. He handed the thermos back. “Sorry. I should have used the cup.”

  “That’s okay.” She took the thermos but didn’t move.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “No problem.”

  “I sure appreciate you thinking of me.” She stayed put, studying him like she’d never seen a cripple before. “Well, I better get back to work,” he said. “Don’t want the boss to catch me visiting.”

  “Are you from California or something?”

  No one knew about him, except Mr. Shaw. A vein in his neck throbbed. “Who told you that?”

  “Just heard it is all.”

  “I never told anyone where I came from.”

  She shifted her weight but didn’t appear to be in a hurry to move. “Do you have to wear those glasses?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Can I see what you look like without them?”

  When he was a kid, he used to pretend his glasses made him invisible. Then when he got old, he realized it was true. He liked things that way. “I don’t think so.”

  “Please?”

  “Then you have to go.” He pulled away his glasses and blinked. She was a blur.

  “You look different without them.”

  “Like how?”

  “Well, I can see you have long eyelashes. That’s a popular thing, even for guys.”

  “Yeah?” Was she saying he looked good?

  “Sure. Seth has long eyelashes, and girls really like him. Plus Keith Urban has long eyelashes.”

  Manny slid his glasses back on. “That’s a load of bull. I don’t look like Keith Urban.” He picked up the hoe.

  “Didn’t say you did.”

  Why wouldn’t she just go? He was minding his own business, and he didn’t need a girl coming out here to make fun of him. “I have to get back to work.” He bent over the hoe and pushed at the sunbaked ground.

  Her voice pleaded with him. “I just meant your eyelashes.”

  “Just go.” He should never have taken the water.

  She sniffed. “You hate me, don’t you?”

  His hoe stopped in midpush. She was crying. “Don’t cry. Please.” He’d never made anyone cry before. Not ever. It made him feel guilty. Like he wasn’t the victim anymore.

  Her nose had turned red, and her lips were quivering. “Just say it. You hate me.”

  “Why would I hate you? I barely know you.” He glanced over at the barn. Maybe the boss would see him slacking and yell at him, or Miss Bea. But he was alone…with a bawling girl.

  “You hate me because I’m fat. Everyone does.” She was sobbing now.

  His eyebrows rose. It had never occurred to him that other people might hate their bodies as much as he hated his. If fact, he’d always assumed he was pretty much alone in this respect. With his eyes, he traced the curve of her shoulder, the pinched waistline beneath her pink shirt and the balloon of denim over her hips. “It’s those pants.”

  She sniffed again. “What?”

  “You’re pretty, but it’s hard to tell with those overalls.”

  Her eyes dropped, and she surveyed the expanse of blue running from her chest to her flip-flops.

  Her tears had stopped—thank the Lord Jesus. He reached for a less emotional topic. “Do you like Keith Urban?”

  “He’s super cute, and so is his wife.”

  “I mean his music.”

  “He’s really good. What’s your favorite song?”

  “‘Start a Band.’ Always wished it were that easy to be famous. But Keith is really good, so he deserves to be famous.”

  “Are you in a band?”

  He shook his head. “I like to play the guitar when I’m alone, but I’m not very good.”

  “Can you play ‘Sweet Thing’?” Her nose didn’t look so red. Her eyes had cleared.

  He was relieved. “Sure can.”

  “Maybe you’d play for me sometime. I stay in town with my momma on the weekends.”

  She wanted to be his friend? He’d never had friends, and long ago he’d decided he was better off alone. She was watching him, waiting for an answer. He let his gaze slide over her short nose and small mouth and white neck. He was borrowing trouble. “Maybe. I’d have to see. Look, uh, Brittany, I need to get back to my chores.”

  “Fine. Didn’t mean to bother you.” She squared her shoulders and attempted to look down her nose at him even though she was nearly a head shorter. “Just came to deliver a message.”

  Maybe Mr. Shaw wanted him. “Why didn’t you say so? What is it?”

  “Miss Frances wants to meet you in town at the Limestone. She wants to ask you some questions.”

  “Ask me some questions?”

  Miss Frances had freaked him out back in March, rubbing herself all over him, saying she didn’t have underwear on. He got a boner right there. Middle of the barnyard in broad daylight for everyone to see. Then Miss Bea screamed, and Mr. Maguire came running and pulled Miss Frances away. Lord almighty. He’d never forget that day.

  But yesterday Miss France had been nice. Not crazy at all.

  “Yes or no. That’s all I need.” She put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot against the dirt.

  “Does Mr. Maguire know?”

  “How should I know? She said she’d give me some money to come out here and ask you. That’s all. If you’re scared of her, then just say no. I get paid anyway.”

  He pulled himself straight. “I’m not afraid of her.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes.” For the first time in his life, Manny felt strong. Like a man should feel when he’s being brave in front of a cute girl.

  Chapter Ten

  Kirby lay across Frankie’s bed, nursing the remnants of her headache instead of doing something. She wanted to call Frankie, but the thought of listening to her screech about the sleeping pills made Kirby’s head throb. She should be watching the comings and goings in the west wing. She should be up on the ridge looking for signs of an intruder.

  Through the open window, a hot breeze stirred, carrying Seth’s bark. “Manny! Forget the hoeing. Let’s get these crates stacked.”

  Seth. They were partners. Right? He knew her real identity, but he’d promised to keep it to himself. No. Not promised, exactly. Still, he seemed intrigued enough to keep quiet at least until he was convinced she was not messing with him. “Grab the second wagon.” Seth shouted again.

  When had she started thinking of him as Seth?

  She shuffled to the window to look at him.

  He was piling wood crates on a tractor. His damp T-shirt clung to his wide shoulders. He bent to grab a box off the ground, and his jeans squeezed his muscled legs and thighs. They’d feel solid against her hips…if he held her close…which was not going to happen.

  Creak.

  She swung her head away from the barn and looked down. A narrow door, hidden by honeysuckle and viburnum, inched open outside the west wing. A bent figure emerged. Mr. Shaw. He strode into the acre of woods wedged between the house and the lavender fields. Alone.

  She’d sure like another chance to ask him some questions.

  Sucking in her breath, Kirby eased her sore feet into Miss Bea’s scuffed black oxfords and crept down the stairs. Only the macaw noticed her. “Hell’s bells. She’s here, she’s here.”

  “Shush, you stupid bird.” Kirby drifted past him.

  She slipped into the kitchen. Mounds of dough rose under floured tea towels, lentils soa
ked in a ceramic bowl, lettuce dripped from a chipped enamel colander. No Brittany. And no Miss Bea.

  The path to Mr. Shaw had been left unguarded.

  Woo-hoo.

  The cool morning air lingered in the trees and swirled around Kirby’s legs. The fresh scent of pine filled her lungs. Two sparrows chirped wildly. It was quiet here, and the ranch seemed far away.

  She moved among the loblolly pines and red oak, squinting into the gloom and calling softly, “Cousin Eenie? Cousin Eenie?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Kirby spun. Mr. Shaw appeared behind her. He leaned on a gnarled cane, his thin body swallowed by a pair of khakis and a western-style shirt. But his gaze was sharp and wary. “What are you doing here?” he asked again. A California undertone flattened his Texas drawl.

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “There’s no more money, Frances. Didn’t Bea tell you?”

  The Mercedes and the beautiful suite. Kirby had never considered their true cost. Frankie was the heiress to a fifty-thousand-acre ranch. Under the circumstances, a Mercedes made sense, didn’t it? Then she thought about the twisted fruit trees in the orchard and the field of lavender burning under the cruel Texas sun and the dilapidated house.

  Shaw Valley Ranch was running low on funds. Had someone decided the ranch balance sheet would look a whole lot better if Charleen and Frankie were out of the picture? “I didn’t come to ask for money.”

  “Then what?” His eyes narrowed.

  “I wanted to talk. My momma’s missing, you know.”

  His pale blue eyes bored into her. Then he nodded. “Walk with me.”

  “Do you come here a lot? The woods, I mean.” She fell into step beside him.

  “Sometimes I need to get out of the house. Take my thoughts for an airing. Bea worries that I’ll fall and break a bone, so I stay put mostly. But today she’s in her office. Monthly accounting must be attended to.”

  “Is that door locked?

  “I have a key.” An eyebrow rose. “As you know.”

  She’d been about to ask where the door led and who else had keys. But apparently Frankie knew all that, so why risk exposure? Kirby would ask Frankie herself when she called her tonight. “It’s nice out here in the woods,” she said to Mr. Shaw.

  “And I’m with friends,” Mr. Shaw said.

  Friends? Trees and bushes were his friends? A cardinal sang out from a nearby pine. Ah. “Like Bobby?”

  He leaned heavily on his stick and frowned at her. “Stay away from him.”

  His face lost focus, swimming across her vision like a sleepy porpoise. Her eardrums vibrated. Her head turned into a balloon floating above her neck. The trees spun around her. She groped for a trunk. Darn sleeping pills.

  “Are you okay, Frances?”

  “I feel faint. I—I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Bea told me what she did. She’s very sorry.” He pointed over her shoulder. “Let’s sit.” He gave her his arm, and she clung to it gratefully.

  A glimmer of sunlight turned out to be a glade, a flash of white a limestone bench. Kirby sank to the cool rock, and Mr. Shaw lowered himself beside her.

  He pulled a thin cigar from his pocket. “Only bad habit I have left. Bea doesn’t approve.” He lit it and took a long, luxurious puff. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Bea said you rode Old Tom yesterday. Thought you didn’t care for the horses.”

  “I like Old Tom. He’s got a big heart. I could feel it when I let him run.”

  His eyes studied her curiously. “You seem different.”

  Jump sideways, Kirby-nee.

  She turned away and pretended to examine her nails. “Manny said Old Tom was named after your friend.”

  He shifted beside her, his mood changing from curious to sad. “I’ve lost so many friends over the years, but some have come back. Tom was the one who saved my life back in L.A. after she lost her struggle. It was a dark time, but Tom made me come back to the ranch and found Bea to help with everything. He didn’t have to, but he stayed on. We built this into the first organic ranch in the area.”

  “You said she. Who do you mean?”

  Pain cracked open his broad face. “Come on, Frances. Just because I let Bea do my talking for me doesn’t mean I don’t know what goes on.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Didn’t you?” His cheeks flushed. “There’s good in you, Frances. I can see it your face, but you must change. Life has a habit of evening things out, and I don’t want you to be on the debit side when it happens to you.”

  Her stomach did a flip. Was it the drugs or this odd conversation? She didn’t know. “How do I change?”

  “Open yourself up to Shaw Valley. Learn to love the land. It will love you back.”

  “I’m not sure what you are asking me to do.”

  Mr. Shaw shook a bony finger at her. “The mighty always fade away. It is the humble servant who prevails. Think about this.”

  A shadow crossed the halo of light above them. A dark figure flung itself from the trees. Kirby squealed, but Mr. Shaw straightened his arm. Bobby landed on his shoulder, chattering madly.

  The arrival of Bobby seemed to quiet Mr. Shaw. He brushed a finger down the squirrel’s back. “I’m sitting with your nemesis, Bobby.”

  Kirby clicked her tongue at Bobby. He crooked his head and chittered at her.

  “I think Bobby is telling me that I’ve been too harsh with you.”

  He had no idea. “Not really. Just a different side of me.”

  “Perhaps this different side of you will reconsider selling the ranch when I die?”

  This was none of her business. The ranch would belong to Charleen, and if Charleen hung on to it, then Frankie. And whatever Frankie decided to do with it, well, that was her right. Still, if Frankie and possibly Charleen were battling over the future of the ranch with Mr. Shaw, it might be a motive to get the women out of the way.

  “It’s been in the family for a while, hasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Since 1870. My great-granddaddy, Ulysses Shaw, came here in search of open space. Sold a farm out east and bought a few hundred head of cattle. That’s how it started.”

  “What would he think of your organic vision?”

  He chuckled to himself. “Probably hang me from the nearest tree. Old Ulysses believed in rough justice for those who went against him. Of course, he ended up getting himself shot in the back. Never found the culprit. Too many enemies.”

  “Did he open the quarry?”

  “My daddy. Went off to Harvard and returned with big ideas. He was going to make millions.” Mr. Shaw shook his head. “He lost sight of our family’s true strength.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The land, Frances. It’s in our blood. It’s the thread running through the Shaw generations. You can’t run away from it. I’ve tried.”

  She thought she knew what he meant. She’d felt the solid presence of the land when she’d ridden out to the ridge. Like Grandy’s steady hand on her shoulder when she was young, like Frankie’s return. Like the Cherokee heart beating beneath her ribs. The bonds of blood and belonging never weakened.

  Bushes rustled nearby. Someone was coming. “Did Miss Bea mention the shooting the other day?”

  His pale eyes widened. “Shooting?”

  Miss Bea stepped into the glade. Her bun was awry, the untied laces of her shoes dragging in the dust. A pair of reading glasses hung on a silver chain from her neck. Her eyes were wide with alarm.

  With a nervous chitter, Bobby leaped from Mr. Shaw’s shoulder and skittered up a tree.

  The old man rose. “Everything is fine, Bea. We were talking. I’ve almost convinced our girl here to keep the ranch after I’m gone.”

  “You are not going anywhere. Not while I have anything to say about it.” Miss Bea’s eyes filled with tears. “Unless you continue to smoke those awful cigars. You know what the doctor said.
”

  “Come on now.” Mr. Shaw took her arm. “I won’t live forever, no matter how well behaved I am. We’ve discussed this.”

  “Not if you’re alone with her.”

  Unbelievable! This woman was shameless. “You’re the one who drugged my dinner last night,” Kirby said. “I could have died.”

  Miss Bea’s eyes narrowed. “Turned out to be a good night for you, didn’t it. You and Mr. Maguire enjoy yourselves?”

  Kirby’s jaw dropped. “Are you insinuating that I was sleepwalking on purpose?”

  “Ladies. That’s enough.” Mr. Shaw patted Miss Bea’s shoulder. “Bea didn’t mean to hurt you. She’s promised me it won’t happen again.” He eyed Kirby. “As for you, young lady, your scandalous behavior has bred doubts about you. I’m sure that was all Bea meant. But Shaw Valley is beginning to work on you. The coming year will be a time of great change. I can feel it.”

  He was going to be crushed when she found Charleen and the real Frankie returned.

  Kirby shifted on the stone bench and studied the trees. Miss Bea and Mr. Shaw had returned to the house, but it was nice here. Peaceful.

  Her cell buzzed.

  It was Frankie. “Hi, sis,” she said. “I tried to call you last night. Did you give Seth a try?”

  “No.” The word sounded more adamant than Kirby intended.

  “OMG. You did. You were with him, weren’t you?”

  “Not like that. Miss Bea mixed sleeping pills in my food, and Maguire found me wandering around outside. I was sleepwalking.”

  “Ooh. I love it. Wish I’d thought of it myself.”

  “Did you know Miss Bea was drugging you at night?”

  A pause, pregnant with thought, but Kirby couldn’t read the silence. “No,” Frankie said. She seemed oddly incurious about how and why. Could she be lying?

  “Are you sure?” Kirby asked.

  “No. I mean, I’m sure I didn’t know.” She tittered. “Obviously. Otherwise I’d have told you not to eat the food.”

  So she knew how the sleeping pills were delivered each night. Maybe Frankie was embarrassed about how she’d been treated. Since Kirby was not the sort to eat rabbit food, Frankie might have figured she’d be safe.

  “Anything else before I go?” Frankie asked.