Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas) (15 page)

“I’m fine.” She brushed his arm away.

“Come on, Kirby. Don’t be like that.”

She tipped her head up and considered him. Then she nodded. Her body relaxed. She let him draw her out the door and down the steps. “I have a bad habit of rummaging in people’s heads,” she said.

“Not necessarily bad. I feel better, so thanks.” Amazingly, it was the truth.

“I’m glad.”

Gravel crunched beneath their feet. A million stars spilled across the velvet-blue sky. He studied them.

Kirby took a deep, noisy breath. “The lavender reminds me of Grandy. It was so strange to see it growing here. He seems close when I smell it.”

“Was it his aftershave?” He mostly thought of the lavender as a nuisance.

She laughed. “Cherokees anoint their dead with lavender to purify them before they return to Mother Earth. It was the last thing I did for him.”

He gazed in the direction of the field and wished he had a sweet memory like hers.

“I meant what I said about you,” she said.

“You said a lot of things.”

“About you being a good person.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“I’m good at reading people. I have to be in my job.”

He didn’t try to argue. What was the point? She’d see. Just like every other woman he’d touched.

She sighed, sending a note of surrender and light exasperation into the night. “I better go.”

His arms itched to hold her one more time. “Good night,” he whispered, pulling her against him.

“Good night.”

His kiss was gentle, coaxing, sweet…like her. Like how he was beginning to feel about her. When her lips parted to release a soft sigh, he delved deeper. Her mouth was warm and velvety like the night sky. Her tongue touched his, sparring, twisting like a shooting star. His body hardened, and he pressed her hips against his so she’d have no doubt of his interest…or intent. He dipped his head and planted kisses on the soft skin under her jaw. His mouth found her ear.

“You better go.”

She held her hands against her cheeks. Was she blushing again? “I guess I better. Before I get locked out.” Her kiss-swollen mouth fell into a rueful grin. “I still have some work to do tonight.”

“Don’t want to distract our fearless detective.”

Discomfort flickered in her eyes.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked.

“I, uh, I’m meeting Manny in town tomorrow morning. I want to ask him some questions. Maybe he saw something important and doesn’t realize it.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

She raised her chin. “After that, I’m stopping at the police station.”

“You’re not going to report Bobby’s death, are you? Because I’m telling you right now those boys—”

“I’m a cop, remember? I know exactly what will happen. Actually, I want to follow up on the missing-person report Frankie filed.”

“Frankie filed a report on Charleen?” That didn’t seem like Frankie at all. When Charleen was around, momma and daughter fought like two cats chasing the same mouse. Frankie was always happier when Charleen was gone.

“She said she did.”

“I’ll go with you. In case those boys down at the station give you any trouble.”
Liar.
He wanted her with him because she was his, or would be soon.

She laughed. Her teeth were white and straight. They’d feel good nibbling on his neck…or more private places. “I’m glad you’re staying. I’m glad we talked,” she said.

“Me, too.”

She lifted herself onto her tiptoes and planted a light kiss on his cheek. “Good night.” She limped away.

“Wait a second.”

She turned. “What?”

“Are you—uh, I mean, do you have a boyfriend or anything?”

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“What about—” He didn’t quite know how to ask the next question, but it had hit him so suddenly…it couldn’t be true. Could it? He steeled himself. “Are you a virgin?” Beyond the garden, a chorus of crickets hummed. A bead of sweat rolled down the nape of his neck.

Her face was lost in the shadows, but her surprise was palpable. “I’m twenty-six. I’ve been in a few relationships. Does it matter?”

Relief washed over him. He didn’t plow fresh fields. It was his only rule. No virgins. The price was too high. He liked a girl who’d played the game. A girl who knew the rules. “Good.”

She turned away. “See you tomorrow.”

His sweet Kirby disappeared into the kitchen, and after a long while—so long he almost laid siege to the house—the light in her room blinked on. He waited for her to appear at the window so he could see her again. But she didn’t.

He was alone. Just the humid air and thick darkness and miles and miles of nothing. His gaze swept the yard. The lock on the barn door glinted in the yellow glow of the coach house lamps. Barely visible in the darkness, the ranch’s white pickup waited for Manny to load up the cold water and tarps and drive out to the orchard tomorrow. His eyes moved past the light, but night covered the vegetable garden, the lavender fields, and the ridge. A ghostly finger slid down his spine. He shuddered, then spun, but the barnyard was deserted.

“Who’s there?”

Silence. He screwed up his eyes and peered deep into the night. Nothing stirred but the crickets. Still, he could have sworn someone was close by.

Watching and waiting.

Chapter Sixteen

Kirby burst through the back door, but before it swung shut, she turned to steal a glance at Seth. He stood in front of the coach house, bare chested and bathed in moonlight, watching her. Her stomach fluttered, and if Miss Bea’s heavy shoes hadn’t anchored her to the earth, she might have floated away.

The door caught her as it closed, and reluctantly, she turned away from him and headed for the stairs.

Seth. The warrior had lowered his guard and allowed her a glimpse of the man inside. She liked the warrior. His instincts ran to confrontation and conquest—charge the battlements, ask questions later—but she always knew exactly where she stood with him.

The man inside the warrior made her heart ache with love. He was a bewildered boy, a broken brother, a loner who didn’t believe in dreams because none of his had come true. But his suffering had forged a good person, strong and caring.

Even if he didn’t know how to show it.

Are you a virgin?

Her loins tightened at the memory of those words whistling toward her through the heavy darkness. Her body had sizzled with anticipation. Just those four words. How had he known? Why had she skirted the truth? She should have straight out said yes.

But she knew why she’d lied. He wouldn’t want her if he knew.

When Grandy was young, boys and girls got married before sex, and he never accepted the “modern jibbity-jab people get up to nowadays.”

Be patient, Kirby-nee. Wait for a good man to come along. One who’ll respect you.

She’d never found a man willing to meet Grandy’s high moral standards and her aesthetic ones, and it didn’t take a crystal ball to see Seth getting tossed out of Grandy’s house if she’d even dared to bring him home.

But Grandy was gone, and she didn’t want Scott, a respectable man if there ever was one. She wanted Seth, the kind of man Grandy warned her about. The lady-killer who made her skin burn. The warrior who wanted to conquer her body and would probably crush her heart in the process.

But he attracted her like a lightbulb enticed bugs. She wanted to touch him and talk to him and kiss him. He was one hundred percent modern jibbity-jab, but he filled the empty space Grandy left behind. If modern jibbity-jab was Seth’s way, then it would be her way, too.

Sarah Slade stirred in her cage when Kirby passed. “Hell’s bells. She’s here, she’s here.”

“Frances? Is that you?” Mr. Shaw called to her from the top of the stairs.

“It’s me.” She stepped into the pink marble hall.

He wore his red robe. His white hair, unbound, flowed over his shoulders. He pressed a finger to his lips, then beckoned.

It was lights-out in the west wing. The trip to Mr. Shaw’s rooms felt like a perilous journey through clouds of disinfectant and a forest of closed doors, and she half expected Miss Bea to fly out of the shadows and attack her with a mop. Mr. Shaw hobbled ahead of her, undaunted, and she kept her eyes on the back of his head, a swaying, bodiless egg floating in the darkness.

She stepped into his room with a sigh of relief.

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 little 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.”