Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas) (8 page)

“Who the hell are you?” he whispered.

The heat inside her turned to ice. She jerked back. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how you’ve been hanging all over me since you got here last year.”

Her jaw dropped.

A corner of his mouth quirked up victoriously. “I’m talking about how two weeks ago you walked out of the main house all painted up and smelling like a bottle of French perfume, wearing a see-through nightie. Gave Shaw a fright, that’s for sure. And how you came up to my apartment and paraded around naked, and now here we are alone and all of a sudden you’re acting like Mother Teresa.”

Her cheeks burned.

Seth’s eyebrows shot up. “Have I upset you?”

She pressed her hands to her face. “I’ve got to go.”

“Stick around,
Frankie
.” His voice was raspy and low. “Do a little striptease for me like you did before. Manny’s gone. No one will disturb us. Let’s see that fancy boob job again. Who knows? Maybe it will get me in the mood this time.”

Inside her, pure panic screamed. She’d blown her cover. Not even twenty-four hours as Frankie, and she’d been made. “Don’t touch me.” She pushed hard against him, and he staggered back.

He grabbed her wrist. Eyes the color of storm clouds blazed into hers. “I asked you a question. Who the fuck are you?”

“And I said, don’t touch me.” She flung her captive arm out and brought her knee up toward his crotch.

“Fuck!” He released her and jumped back.

He was breathing hard when he straightened. His eyes locked into hers. She couldn’t turn away. Maybe she didn’t want to. Finally, he nodded, as if he’d just finished reading every secret locked inside her.

“Seems like we got a problem,” he said.

“What’s that?” At least she sounded tough.

“I want something from you, and you want something from me.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“That’s not what your eyes say.”

Heat spread across her face. Again. “You’re crazy.” She turned and left the barn fast as an orderly retreat allowed.

…

Seth let her go.

Who the hell is she?

She looked like Frankie, sounded like Frankie, dressed like Frankie. But she wasn’t Frankie. Her eyes were kind, not hungry like Frankie’s. This girl
saw
him. Frankie’s eyes consumed him…like he was Thanksgiving dinner.

But how was it possible? Maybe Frankie got banged on the head or maybe she had multiple personalities or maybe she found religion. The last one made him laugh. He rubbed his fingers together, still feeling the silk of this girl’s skin. No. She wasn’t Frankie. He’d know.

The Mercedes’s engine turned over and came to life.
Shit.
She was getting away.

“Frankie, come back.”

He ran. But it was too late. The Mercedes roared from the garage, tires spinning as doppel-Frankie shifted into drive and zoomed off.

She’d go to El Royo.

He backed his Jeep out of the garage to chase her, then slowed. Brittany was sprinting across the lawn. Her plump arms waved frantically.
Not now.
But he stopped.

“What is it?” He snapped the question at her.

Tiny beads of perspiration coated her pale skin. Her little pink mouth was hauling in air like she’d run a marathon. She leaned against his door. “I have to tell you something.”

“I don’t have time—”

“Miss Frances has a gun.”

How the hell did she get a gun?
It bothered him more than having doppel-Frankie dropped on his doorstep. She had a gun, and from the way she’d handled Miss Bea’s rifle, he had no doubt she could use it. “Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh.” She picked up a pigtail and chewed the end. “Saw it myself. It was in her underwear drawer.”

Brittany’s large breasts pressed against the car door. She leaned into the window. A sweet berry scent floated into the Jeep.

“That it? I gotta go.” He’d figure out something later. After he figured out what doppel-Frankie was up to now.

She tickled her cheek with the wet tip of her hair. “It was a pistol. A Glock, I think. It’s okay, though. I took out the bullets.” She fished in her overalls and produced a bullet. “See.”

“Damn good thinking.”

Brittany’s little mouth curled into a smug smile. “I’ve been watching her. In the house, I mean. I thought you’d want me to.”

He could use an ally. “I appreciate your help, Brit. You let me know if you see anything else.”

“Like if she’s asking a lot of questions or sneaks into Mr. Shaw’s side of the house?” Her gaze sidled into his.

“Did Miss Bea see any of this?”

“This morning Miss Bea and Mr. Shaw caught her snooping in the west wing.”

It would explain why Miss Bea was fit to be tied when she called him to fetch Frankie from the house. “Good to know. Tell me if you see anything else.”

“Wait! I wanted to ask you something.”

“Make it quick, honey.”

Brittany’s round face turned ten shades of red. “I, uh, I just wondered if you liked, uh, pie. Cherry pie. I’m a real good cook.”

Was she coming on to him? He held back a groan. Between Frankie, doppel-Frankie, and Miss Bea, he had all the female trouble he could handle.

“I’ve got to go.” He pressed his foot to the floor and got the hell out of Dodge.

Chapter Seven

Kirby inhaled her greasy cheeseburger and fries, scraping up everything on the plate but the words “Limestone Diner.” After the chicken feed and forage served at the ranch, heaven was a hamburger.

She motioned to the waitress. “Can I get the check?”

“Keep your shirt on, Frankie. If you know how.”

Sheesh.
It just didn’t add up. How could an entire county of folks hate one girl so much? Was it jealousy? Shaw Valley Ranch had to be worth a fortune. Kirby thought about the envelope of cash in her purse. If Frankie was flashing cash around town, it might be enough to get folks’ hackles up.

A tall shadow moved over the table. Maguire’s voice rumbled. “Mind if I sit?”

His hair was tussled, his eyes narrow slits, his crooked nose pinched, but he managed a jaunty smile.
Faker.

“I prefer to be alone.”

He slid into the booth and faced her. A second later, the waitress slinked up. “Haven’t seen you for a while, babe.” She winked at him. “The usual?”

His eyes met Kirby’s. “Just a Coke.”

Maguire and the waitress. Maguire and Brittany. Maguire and Frankie. Her half sister wasn’t the only person getting around in Shaw Valley. “You’re quite the lady-killer. Of course, what woman could resist your smooth charm?”

Surprise flickered across his face. He leaned in, so close she could almost taste him. His voice was soft and low. “Not the real Frankie.”

The drive to town and the lunch had given her time to pull it together. She wasn’t giving him anything. “Sunstroke’s a real danger around here,” she said. “Causes hallucinations. You should see a doctor.”

He chuckled but didn’t move. His gazed bored into her. “You look cornered.”

“And you look crazy.”

“Thought you liked it when I was friendly.” A mirthless smile curled his lips.

She shot him a nasty grin. “Do you really mean it? Do you want to be friendly?”

His eyes flicked over her. “Very friendly.”

“Then go back to the ranch and leave me alone.”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Need to keep my eye on you. Never know what you’ll get into next.”

“I’m just sitting here minding my own business. You might try it sometime.”

“Since you’re having a lot of amnesia lately, let me refresh your memory. The last time you came to El Royo you got hammered, and when you finally managed to stagger home with your date…” A dark brow rose and the corner of his mouth curled upward. “You two made enough noise to wake the dead. That includes Shaw and Miss Bea. Remember?”

She kept her gaze steady and hard. “Jealous?”

A Coke banged on the table. A straw dropped between them.

Maguire looked up at the waitress. “Thanks, Angie. How you been?”

“Been better.” She eyed Kirby.

“Yeah?”

Kirby slid out of the booth. “Gotta use the restroom.” Maguire rose. “Don’t get up.” She turned to Angie. “Great burger. He’s paying.”

Kirby studied her reflection in the ladies’ room mirror. Hair tangled from the drive, nose pink from the sun, eyes green and unfamiliar. She smoothed down her hair and splashed cold water on her face.

“Frankie?” Angie poked her head in the bathroom. She glared at Kirby. “Seth says to get your ass out here or he’s coming in.”

“Tell him I went out the back.”

“Fuck you.”

Angie was small and pretty—smooth, rosy skin, bright blue eyes, curly blond hair. Maguire’s type? Who was she kidding? Angie was every guy’s type. Maguire must have been all over her like a stallion on a stud farm. Had Frankie gotten jealous?

“I really need you to tell him I’m gone.”

“Thought you were hot for him.”

“I’ve sort of gotten over him.”

Angie’s cheeks blazed bright red. “You bitch! You told Miss Bea about us and got me fired.”

“I was going through a rough time.”

“You owe me. I never got my last week’s pay.”

“I’ll pay you today. Right here. Just get rid of him.”

Maguire’s voice vibrated through the door. “Is she in there?”

A few seconds ticked. Head tilted, chin up, mouth pursed, Angie considered her. She backed out of the ladies’ room. “One of the guys saw her duck out the kitchen.”

Bless Angie’s money-grubbing little heart.

Maguire’s response was immediate and sharp. “Shit!” The
pound, pound, pound
of his boots shook the floor, then faded away.

The bathroom door opened, and Angie returned. She held out her hand. “I can call him back. Just so you know.”

Kirby pulled out the envelope. “How much?”

“Four hundred dollars. Of course, that doesn’t include severance.”

“Tell you what, Angie. I’ll pay you back wages plus two weeks’ severance if you answer some questions for me.”

“Like what?”

“Just general stuff.”

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 chair, 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.