Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas) (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Tires crunched against gravel.

Dang!
Mr. Shaw was back.

Kirby stuffed a mini screwdriver into her back pocket and grimaced at the securely locked door to the west wing. She had to get her weapons back before bullets started flying.

The front door creaked open, and Kirby skittered across the landing to her own wing just as Mr. Shaw limped across the threshold supporting a wilted Miss Bea.

He half dragged, half hoisted Miss Bea upstairs. When he stopped at the landing to catch his breath, his pale eyes found Kirby.

“Wait there while I get Bea settled. We need to talk.”

“What’s there to talk about?” wailed Miss Bea. “She’s poison. I told you she’d bring trouble into this house. She and her slutty momma both.”

From deep in the parlor, Sarah Slade called out. “Poison, poison. Hell’s bells. Poison.”

Mr. Shaw pulled an old-fashioned brass key from his pocket. With a twist of his wrist, the west wing doors swung open. “Come on, Bea.”

After fifteen minutes and several dozen “Poisons” from Sarah Slade, Mr. Shaw reappeared. “Come with me,” he whispered.

Adrenaline pumping, Kirby followed him to his study. The wing was hushed and still, heavy with foreboding and curious, watchful eyes. But no Miss Bea and no Glock appeared.

“Have a seat.”

“Mister—uh, Cousin Eenie, I really don’t think—”

“Sit.”

She did.

He perched on the edge of his chair and leaned into her. “I know you have it in your head that Bea is guilty of killing that ranch hand, but you are way off.”

She understood how he felt. Mr. Shaw liked Bea. Of course he didn’t want her to be a killer. But he needed to recognize that no one would be safe until Beatrice Vine was locked up. “Her fingerprints were on the murder weapon,” she said softly. “I know you see the good in everyone. It’s a wonderful quality. But not everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt.”

“It’s not a murder weapon. It’s her kitchen knife. She uses it every day.”

“What about Bobby? Her reading glasses were by his body.”

“Why would she wear her reading glasses to chase after a squirrel?”

Kirby tried again to make him see reason. “Someone tried to shoot me with her rifle.”

“Someone? You never saw who?”

Frustration pulled at Kirby. He was being stubborn. She understood how he felt. Hadn’t she been holding on to her grief over Grandy’s death? And holding on to Scott because he’d become a comfortable companion? Why should Mr. Shaw’s wrongheaded feelings count for less than hers? Why should he change when she hadn’t been able to?

But she was changing. With Seth’s help, she’d let go of her grief and seen how wrong it would have been to let Scott think she loved him just because it was easier than dealing with the truth.

“Cousin Eenie.” She pressed her hand over his. It shook slightly. “I wish it wasn’t Miss Bea. I swear, I do. But all the evidence points to her.”

“Not Bea.” His mouth tightened.

Kirby sighed. He was never going to listen. The police could produce boxes of evidence and a thousand exhibits for trial. Mr. Shaw would still believe in Miss Bea’s innocence. “Why do you think she’s innocent?”

He met her gaze. His eyes were steady and clear, and a prickle of doubt touched her. “It’s almost too neat,” he said. “And what about motive? Why would Bea do all these terrible things?”

“Maybe she’s trying to get rid of me so she’ll inherit the ranch. There’s no love lost between us, you know.”

He grimaced. “I don’t deny there’s been bad blood, but now that you’ve agreed to drop your threats, I think Bea will come around. Especially if you return the letter.” A gray brow rose.

What letter?
She tried a delicate probe. “Can we talk about that a little more?”

He rose. “We’ve talked enough. It’s time you see the reality behind the letter. Follow me.”

Any room in this wing could be hiding an armed—and vengeful—Miss Bea. “Someone stole my gun. It was in my dresser.”

He spun on her. Shock rounded his Humpty-Dumpty face. “You brought a handgun into the house?”

“For protection. I suspect Miss Bea took it and has it stashed over here.”

“Bea did not touch your gun.” He shook his head. “You have put your life in jeopardy, my dear. Please be very careful. Stick close to the house and don’t go anywhere alone.”

“I don’t understand? Do you know who has my gun? If you know where it is—”

“I don’t know
where
it is. But tomorrow someone will be here who can shed light on
who
.”

A name popped into Kirby’s head. “Mr. Cargill is coming.”

His eyes widened, but all he said was, “Tomorrow.”

A blade of light pierced the study window. Kirby spun toward it. The beam was coming from the ridge. “Someone must be up at the quarry. I just saw a flash.”

“Kids go up there sometimes. It’s the local version of lovers’ lane. I’ll let Mr. Maguire know. He can shoo them off.” Mr. Shaw opened the door. “Follow me.”

He halted before a door at the end of the hall. “Wait here,” he said before slipping into a room.

The muffled sounds of Miss Bea begging and Mr. Shaw answering drifted into the corridor. Another voice, a woman’s, entwined with Mr. Shaw’s until Miss Bea fell silent.

Mr. Shaw opened the door wide. “Come in, my dear, and meet the one and only Miss Susannah Bently.”

Grandy had loved the old slasher movies, and Susannah Bently had starred in a slew of them.

Best screamer in Hollywood.

“The movie star?” Kirby said, half in jest. The famous Susannah Bently couldn’t be living in this house. Not without someone on the ranch alerting the Hollywood gossip websites.

“One and the same.”

A slew of questions hit her at once.
Why here? How long? Who knows?
Kirby barely knew where to start as she followed Mr. Shaw.

The room was wide and deep and filled with sunlight. Lemony walls glowed brightly, and blue carpet stretched across the room like a peaceful lake. Two loungers circled a TV. Two ladder-back chairs ringed a dining table. A wheelchair waited near the window. At the end of the room, Susannah Bently was propped against a wall of pillows in a freshly made hospital bed.

She was so thin, the tendons in her neck stood out. Her short, gray hair framed a network of fine wrinkles. But the bones beneath her ravaged skin were delicate and pleasing. Her pale lips curved into a cupid’s bow. Her eyes were huge and green and fringed with dark lashes. She was still a beauty.

“So we finally meet. I’ve been pestering Eenie for the past year to bring you to me,” Susannah said.

Kirby held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

Susannah smiled but didn’t move. The hands resting on her lap were twisted into claws. Kirby hastily put her hands behind her back, but not before Miss Bea’s jaw dropped.

“Is everything a joke to you?”

Mr. Shaw patted Kirby’s arm. “As you know, Susannah has been paralyzed for twenty years.”

“Eenie has been so kind. Bea, too. They’ve taken good care of me.”

Mr. Shaw pushed a chair toward Kirby. “Have a seat.” She needed one. If she’d tried to come up with an explanation for the mysterious Susannah, she’d never have figured out the truth. Not if she lived to be one hundred. Susannah Bently, paralyzed and living on Shaw Valley Ranch. She’d been so wrong about Mr. Shaw and Miss Bea. It wasn’t the money they worried about—it was Susannah’s care.

Miss Bea clucked at Kirby.

“What is it, Bea? Is something wrong?” Susannah asked.

“Yes. Something is very wrong. This woman is pure evil. She’s been blackmailing Eenie since she got here, and now she’s trying to get me sent to prison for—”

“That’s enough,” Mr. Shaw snapped.

“Is it? Why are you suddenly so trusting?”

Susannah’s head swung from Mr. Shaw to Miss Bea. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”

Miss Bea’s eyes narrowed into Eenie’s. “If you won’t tell her, I will.”

“Bea, please.” Eenie shook his head.

“I am tired to the bottom of my soul.”

Susannah’s soft voice broke into their squabble. “I am not a child, Eenie. Let her tell me.”

Miss Bea pointed a finger at Kirby. “She’s blackmailing Eenie.”

Kirby’s heart jumped into her throat. Mr. Shaw had talked about a letter Frankie took. But blackmail? What had happened to Susannah? “Whatever for?”

“When Bobby’s family returned the letters Eenie sent, she stole the package from the hall table. She still has the one where Eenie wrote about giving you the drugs that caused your stroke. She’s using it to extort money.”

“It happened twenty years ago. Besides,
I
took the drugs. If anyone goes to jail it should be me.”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to jail,” Mr. Shaw said. He pressed a kiss to the top of Susannah’s head. “I didn’t want you to be exposed, Suze. The world’s gone crazy for gossip. You’d become a curiosity if the media found out about you. It’s bad enough my weakness put you in this bed. I don’t want to be responsible for hurting you more than I already have.”

“Who’d remember me,” scoffed Susannah. “I was a B actress in a bunch of cheap slasher films.”

“People haven’t forgotten,” Mr. Shaw said. “I’ve had calls from people who remember we dated. They want to know where to find you.”

“So he’s been paying this…this offspring of Beelzebub to keep quiet. The ranch is falling apart, and there’s no money left,” Miss Bea said.

Susannah’s forehead creased. “Is this true?” she asked Kirby.

Kirby opened her mouth, but her voice had fled. She wanted to defend Frankie, but after what Seth told her just a few hours earlier—the fancy clothes, the furniture, and the Mercedes—it made sense. She’d known Frankie could be greedy. Hadn’t their falling-out been over Grandy’s will? But blackmail? Mr. Shaw came to her rescue. “Frances has agreed to drop her demands, and Mr. Maguire has promised excellent fruit and lavender harvests.”

Seth’s promised nothing of the sort, and the apricots are a disaster.

“I’m glad it’s settled,” Susannah said brightly. Her eyelids fluttered. “All this excitement has worn me out.”

The glare in Miss Bea’s eyes faded. She leaned over and smoothed Susannah’s hair back from her face. “You need to rest. Later I’ll bring up a bowl of French lentil soup. I made it just for you.”

“Thank you, Bea.” Susannah blinked and her eyes opened again. “Come back to visit, Frances. Bea, Eenie, and I get lonely.”

“S-sure.”

Mr. Shaw tapped her shoulder. “We better go.” Kirby followed him into the corridor. “You look confused,” he said.

“Were you a drug dealer?” She liked Mr. Shaw. It hurt to think he could be responsible for so much evil.

He shook his head. “I was many things, but not that.”

She was relieved. “I’m glad. How did it happen? Susannah’s disability, I mean.”

His eyes lost their focus. “Are you sure you want to hear an old man’s sad tale?”

Her heart ached for him. “I’m sure it’s not all sad.”

They walked slowly down the corridor while Mr. Shaw spoke.

“I grew up in Texas in the fifties and sixties. I was twenty-two the year they shot Kennedy up in Dallas. After the assassination I had to get out of Shaw Valley. Out of Texas, too. Fortunately my father was making money like it grew on trees, running fifteen thousand head of cattle, working the limestone quarry, investing in various business interests. One was a movie production company in L.A. There was a raven-haired starlet at the center of that decision, but my father never lost money, and he managed to spin gold from the worst B movies imaginable.”

Seth’s voice sifted through the screen and floated out the study door. “Has anyone seen Frankie?” He sounded upset.

“I better go.”

“Your Mr. Maguire needs to learn patience.” He patted Kirby’s shoulder. “Let me finish.”

She stayed put.

“In 1964, I left for L.A. with a well-paying job doing nothing. Susannah came with me. She wanted to be a movie star. L.A. has been the downfall of many rich, idle young men”—his gaze brushed Susannah’s door—“and beautiful women, and this was the sixties. We drank and did drugs, hung out with celebrities, smashed up houses and cars…you name it. But gradually the life wore thin, and we sobered up. Most of us.

“Bobby and Sarah were the first. They saw what we were doing to ourselves. They embraced Buddhism and started a home to get kids off the street. It was a form of purification. A good Christian might call it penance. Over time the rest of us followed them.” Mr. Shaw looked away.

“But not Susannah?”

Mr. Shaw shook his head.

“You loved her.”

“Not well enough. She’d kick her habit for a while, but then she’d get turned down for a role and the drugs would hook her again. On October 11, 1994, she called me from a motel near Malibu. She begged me to get her a fix. She was sick and scared and shaking. I did, but it turned out to be bad shit. She had a stroke that paralyzed her.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too. I brought her home to Texas. Bea and I have been caring for her ever since. Before Bobby’s death, I wrote to him about her progress and my deep feelings of responsibility for her condition.” He broke off. “Of course you know all this, since you read my letters.”

“I’m not sure what to say.” If Frankie was extorting money from her cousin, she needed to stop immediately. But there was still a kidnapper and killer on the loose, maybe across the hall, and Frankie’s sin seemed small in comparison. After all, the money would be Frankie’s one day. Not that it made what she did right.

“I blame myself for everything,” Mr. Shaw said.

She touched his arm. “You’ve accepted your responsibilities. Grandy said it’s what the Cherokees pray for. To face the storm like a man…or woman.”

“Thank you, my dear.” He studied her face. “Are you beginning to see the truth?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He was talking in riddles again, and she wondered if she could trust him. He said—and Miss Bea said—Frankie was blackmailing them. But where was the proof besides Frankie’s nice things? Now Mr. Shaw talked as if everything was decided, as if the crimes plaguing this ranch were solved and as if Miss Bea was innocent. It sounded to Kirby like a whole bucketful of wishful thinking with nothing to back it up.