Pushed to the Limit (an Emma Cassidy Mystery Book 2)

by Karen Chester

  Emma released a deep sigh as she sagged back in her chair. Until then, she hadn’t realized how nervous she was about breaking Stacey’s confidence. But now Stacey could breathe easy. It slowly dawned on her what Owen’s news would mean to her friend.

  “That’s the best news ever. I—I’m so relieved.” She gulped. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  An unusual look of embarrassment came over Owen. “I just made a couple of calls. If Stacey had come to me or any other police officer, she could’ve been reassured weeks ago.”

  “She’s not too keen on drawing attention to herself.”

  “Well, she doesn’t have to hide anymore. She can start using her real name. I’ll make sure the worst she’ll face is a misdemeanor.”

  Emma gawked at him. “You’re going to charge her?”

  “She’s been using a fake ID. In certain circumstances it could be a felony.”

  “What?” she sputtered, all her relief gone up in smoke. “But she did it to protect herself from a dangerous thug! Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have told you anything. I trusted you, Owen.”

  At that he had the grace to look shame-faced. He held up his hands. “You’re right. Her intentions weren’t criminal. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure she doesn’t face any charges.”

  “Everything?”

  “Yes, everything.” He gazed at her, his eyes filled with an earnestness that told her he would keep his promise. This was what had always drawn her to him—that certainty in him. He was the rock she could depend on when all else was in turmoil around her. She hadn’t always appreciated that quality when she was eighteen; had sometimes felt chained to the rock. Silly girl. It had only taken her a decade to realize her mistake. But it was too late now. She’d missed her chance, and she had only herself to blame.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Emma accepted a ride home with Owen, since Wesley had already left. As she hadn’t been looking forward to seeing Wesley so soon again, the arrangement was a relief to her. She was surprised by Owen’s car, a beautifully restored 1970s Ford Mustang, painted grabber orange with a black strip.

  “It was my dad’s,” Owen explained. His father had died a few years ago, leaving behind Owen’s mom, Owen, and his younger sister. “I only drive it on occasion.”

  “It’s a nice car,” she said. “I hope your mom wasn’t too disappointed about your lunch getting cancelled.”

  “Mom never makes a fuss.”

  That was true. Ingrid Fletcher was a quiet, reserved woman, but Emma had always felt a warmth from her, even when she and Owen argued, which had been often near the end of their relationship. “I’ve always liked your mom,” she felt compelled to say.

  He didn’t say anything for a while, then, “She likes you too. Since you’ve come back to Greenville, she’s asked about you a few times.”

  “Really?” For a moment Emma was pleased, and then unsettled. “I hope she hasn’t, you know, made things awkward for you.”

  “Awkward?”

  She huffed out a breath. If he was going to pretend there wasn’t any tension between them, then it was up to her to broach the subject. “My dad harbored a hope or two that you and I would get back together again.” She hastily added, “Don’t worry, I hosed him down straight away whenever he started.”

  “Right.” Owen kept his gaze on the road, his profile unreadable.

  For some reason his inscrutability made her want to poke a reaction out of him. “So is your mom happy that you and Sherilee are dating?”

  He frowned and tightened his grip on the steering wheel, but didn’t reply. His silence goaded her further.

  “You two made a cute couple at the music festival. Sherilee looks very different when she’s not in uniform.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Can we not discuss my dating life?”

  “Why not? You warned me off Wesley—”

  “It’s not the same thing.” He shot her an annoyed glance. “That guy is all wrong for you.”

  She wasn’t going to get sucked into an argument about Wesley when she knew Owen was only trying to draw attention away from a subject he didn’t want to discuss.

  “Is it serious between you and Sherilee?” She needed to know, she thought. Even if it hurt.

  Owen made an irritated growl in his throat. The late afternoon sun cast a gold hue over his scowling face and picked out highlights in his short, dark brown hair. Even when he was mad with her he pulled at her heartstrings.

  “I like Sherilee,” he answered, his exasperation clear. “I like her a lot. She’s intelligent and attractive and a damn hard worker. She’s great.”

  Emma’s heart shriveled. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, even if she’d half expected it. Prodding Owen wasn’t a smart move. Did she really want to hear how fantastic Sherilee was?

  “Okay,” she said, her voice sounding small.

  After a few moments, he huffed out a breath. “You suggested I take Sherilee out,” he said in an almost accusing tone.

  That had been a couple of months ago when once again she’d been trying to get a rise out of Owen. Her gentle prodding had been her clumsy attempt to reach out to him, but it had only pushed him further away. Maybe she should stop riling him; it only seemed to make things worse between them.

  “I did,” she said steadily, “and I’m glad you’re happy with her.” It wasn’t a complete lie; she did want Owen to be happy.

  “Fine.” His jaw was still like granite. “Then we’re all in agreement.”

  “Complete agreement.”

  The rest of the journey continued in silence. By the time they reached Emma’s dad’s house, she was relieved to escape the frigid atmosphere between them. She waved Owen off and watched as he drove off.

  As soon as his Ford Mustang had disappeared, she hurried to her Toyota. She needed to get to Stacey’s and tell her what had happened before the police came knocking on her door.

  ***

  Stacey didn’t appear to be at home. Emma banged on the front door with growing frustration. The house was silent. The garage door was shut, meaning she couldn’t check if Stacey’s car was there. Maybe she should take a look out the back, just in case. She walked around the side of the house but found her way barred by a tall metal fence. She briefly considered trying to scramble over the barrier but thought better of it because of her dress.

  Turning to retrace her steps, she let out a stifled scream as a figure loomed in front of her, blocking her on the narrow path.

  The man hastily held up his hands. “Steady on. It’s me, Greg.”

  Through the shadows cast by the trees, she made out Greg Foster’s red beard and neat blue shirt. She pressed a hand over her still galloping heart. “Greg. You scared the bejesus out of me.”

  “Sorry about that. Are you looking for Stacey?”

  Emma nodded. “She doesn’t seem to be home. Do you know where she is?”

  He looked down at his feet. “No.”

  “Are you supposed to be meeting her here?”

  Again he avoided her eyes. “No. I was…just in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop in and say hello.”

  Something in his voice didn’t sound right. Emma took a step back, but the thick shrubs surrounding them seemed closer than before. Belatedly, she realized she was trapped here, hemmed in between the house and the shrubbery, with the metal fence behind her barring her escape. The house next door was silent; no one was home. She was alone with Greg, who was acting strangely. After everything that had happened today her nerves were on edge, and Greg’s suspicious behavior was only making her more jittery.

  “Are you stalking Stacey?” she asked, not bothering with politeness.

  His mouth fell open. “Stalking her? No!”

  “Did you leave flowers on her doorstep the other night? Red and yellow zinnias?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Greg shook his head before pausing. “Wait. Flowers? For Stacey?”

  “I don’t know, but they shook her up. She did
n’t even want to touch them. Told me to throw them away, so I did.”

  Greg pushed a hand over his short, gingery hair, a look of horror coming over his face. “Oh my God. It must have been that bastard she was married to. He must have tracked her down.”

  It was Emma’s turn to gape. “Huh? You know about her ex-husband?”

  “Trevor Roche? Yes, I know everything, and so do you, it appears.” He clenched and unclenched his hands, his shoulders stiff. “I’ve known for a quite a while now, but I was waiting for Stacey—or Amanda, if you want to use her legal name—to tell me.”

  Emma sagged against the brick wall of the house, feeling she’d just been sideswiped. “All this time, you’ve known.”

  “Yes, but I never said a word because I didn’t want to frighten her. I love Stacey. I’ve been in love with her for years, to be honest. But I know a woman with her history would take a while to learn to trust again. So I’ve never pushed. But when I learned Roche was out on parole, I became uneasy. Abusers never like giving up control.”

  “So you weren’t stalking her, you’ve been protecting her?”

  “As much as I can.” He glanced at the house. “But I don’t know where she is right now, and that makes me nervous.”

  “You don’t have to be nervous anymore. Neither does Stacey. That’s what I came here to tell her.”

  “Tell her what?”

  “That she’s safe. That she doesn’t have to hide anymore.”

  Greg fingered his beard, his expression still wary. “Go on. I need details.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can tell you until I’ve spoken with Stacey.” Emma needed to explain to Stacey why she had told the police. There might still be problems to sort out. And Stacey might not appreciate her blurting out everything to Greg. After all, Emma wasn’t sure how Stacey felt about Greg. She might not reciprocate his feelings, or might feel suffocated by his concern for her.

  Greg hunched his shoulders and folded his arms, clearly annoyed at being refused. “For God’s sake, I’d never hurt Stacey. I’d do anything to protect her. Anything.”

  For the first time Emma realized how fit he was. Greg might not be bulging with muscles, but there wasn’t a spare ounce of fat on him. He was far stronger than he first appeared. He had been in the army. And he was devoted to Stacey. Did he know that Faye had discovered Stacey’s secret? He said he’d do anything to protect Stacey. Did that include pushing Faye down the stairs in an effort to frighten her off or silence her? If he had, Tom might have seen him.

  With frightening clarity she recalled Greg outside Tom’s house on Friday morning, preparing for an inspection. Maybe during that visit Tom had let something slip that made Greg realize he was a witness. Then Greg had returned on Saturday and ended up stabbing him. Maybe not on purpose. He might have panicked, overwhelmed by his protective instincts.

  Emma pressed herself against the wall, grateful for its support as her legs began to feel distinctly wobbly.

  “Are you okay?” Still frowning, Greg wrapped his fingers around her arm.

  Somehow she forced herself to stand on her own two feet, wishing she could wrench herself from his grip but not wanting to arouse his suspicions. “I’m fine.” She managed to prise herself free from him, using the excuse of hitching her bag over her shoulder. “I should leave. I’m, uh, late for an appointment.” Hopefully he wouldn’t try anything if he thought she was expected somewhere.

  Greg remained in her path. “I wish you would tell me why Stacey is safe.”

  “I need to tell Stacey first.”

  He looked like he wanted to argue further, but then he slowly nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll wait until then.” He stood aside to let her through.

  Emma brushed past him and all but sprinted to the front of the house. Only when she was back in her car did she breathe a sigh of relief. Greg Foster stood in the front yard, arms folded, looking like he was going to remain there all night. Was he the murderer? Had Stacey swapped one violent man for another? Emma’s heart sank. She didn’t want to believe that. She really hoped Greg was simply being over-protective, but until the killer was caught, she couldn’t be too careful.

  ***

  As Emma drove off, questions continued to plague her. If Trevor Roche was permanently incapacitated, then who had left those flowers on Stacey’s doorstep? It had to be someone from Stacey’s past, someone who knew about her ex-husband. Someone who knew about the stolen diamonds that had never been recovered. Maybe Stacey had lied about not knowing where they were. Maybe she had taken them as retribution for all the abuse she’d suffered. As much as it pained Emma to suspect her friend, she had to consider the possibility.

  And maybe Greg had lied about being in love with Stacey and wanting to protect her. He’d confessed to knowing her real identity, so he must know about the missing diamonds, too. Maybe Greg wasn’t what he seemed. Maybe he had feigned an interest in Stacey just to search for the jewels.

  Diamonds… They seemed to crop up everywhere. Like the diamond bracelet that Kenneth Bischoff had given to his mistress. How could Bischoff afford an expensive piece of jewelry? Were the stones real or fake? And what about that pearl and diamante brooch that Jackie had bought at the yard sale? Had that really belonged to Stacey’s great-aunt? Was it paste or genuine?

  And what about Wesley? He had a shady past, and he came from Baltimore, which was only a short ride away from Philadelphia, where Trevor Roche had committed his crimes. Could Wesley Noakes be the culprit after all?

  Somehow Faye was involved in this. She had stumbled upon Stacey’s secret, and maybe she knew more than she was willing to let on. Faye might be in more danger than she realized. The person who had pushed her down the stairs had escalated to killing Tom. With the police circling, he might be growing more reckless, perhaps desperate enough to have another go at Faye. Emma pressed her foot on the gas.

  Five minutes later, she pulled up outside Faye’s house. Before stepping out, she called Stacey. Frustratingly, the call went to voicemail. She left a message telling Stacey where she was and asking her to contact her as soon as possible. She also warned her that Greg might be waiting for her at her house, and that if she didn’t feel comfortable about that, she could phone for backup.

  It was almost six, and the sky had clouded over, leaving the evening atmosphere dull and leaden. As she walked up to Faye’s front porch, she noted the lights shining behind the curtained windows. She knocked on the door. A muffled noise came from inside—it sounded almost like a curse—followed by the distinctive squawk of a parrot.

  “Faye?” She knocked again. “It’s me, Emma.”

  There was no sound this time, not even from Pepper. Alarm congealed in the pit of her stomach. Too anxious to think it through, she hurried around the side of the house, dodged through the peach trees, and took the stairs of the rear deck two at a time. The back door stood ajar. She dashed into an empty kitchen.

  “Faye, where are you?”

  She stopped dead in her tracks, the hairs on her nape rising as a sense of dread took hold of her. Shoving a hand in her bag, she groped for her cell phone, mercifully locating it on the third attempt. She pulled it out, ready to dial 911, and slowly advanced into the hallway.

  Something hard and metallic sliced through the air. Jerking back, she dropped the phone as the blade flashed past her, missing her hand by a whisker. A scream died in her throat as she stared at the woman in front of her.

  Jackie, her eyes enraged. With a large knife in her hands.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Emma jumped back out of the knife’s reach. Black dots danced in her vision. “Jackie? What’s going on?” Somehow she managed to fake a calmness she was far from feeling. “Where’s Faye?”

  “You!” Frustration burned in Jackie’s eyes. Her hair was disheveled, her cheeks were pink, and perspiration gleamed on her upper lip. She glared at Emma, barely recognizable as the meek, downtrodden woman who always had her head down. “I should’ve known you’d
come poking your nose in.”

  Emma swallowed, pushing down the sudden heave of nausea. “What—what have you done with Faye?”

  “Oh, she’s in there.” With a nonchalant wave of the knife, Jackie gestured toward the living room. “What a windbag. She was driving me crazy. I had to shut her up.”

  Horror drenched Emma in a cold sweat. Had Jackie killed Faye? There was no discernible blood on Jackie’s blade or her shapeless gray sweatshirt and black sweatpants, though she could have cleaned the knife afterward.

  “Go on.” Jackie jerked her chin toward the hallway. “Since you’re here, you may as well join her.”

  On legs that felt like cotton wool, Emma staggered into the living room. She gasped in relief when she saw Faye sitting on the couch, hands and feet bound, mouth muzzled with a cloth, but very much alive, her eyes above the gag expressing a mixture of fury and trepidation.

  “Oh, Faye! Are you hurt?”

  The older woman shook her head vigorously. Then Emma noticed that the room had been trashed. Books and magazines lay tossed on the floor. The glass doors of the display cabinets hung open, the contents strewn across the carpet, several ornaments broken. Cushions had been slashed, indicating Jackie’s anger, leaving bits of feather floating in the air.

  “Mommy’s home!” Pepper squawked his disapproval from his perch on the central light fitting.

  “Shut up, you idiot bird!” Jackie grabbed a book and hurled it at him. Faye let out a muffled cry. Wings flapping, Pepper swooped to the top of the bookcase where he bobbed his head up and down, cackling raucously.

  Jackie whirled back to Emma and pointed the knife at her. “Where is it?”

  Emma faltered back. “Where is what?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. I’ve turned this house upside down, and it’s not here. Which means you must have it.”