Pushed to the Limit (an Emma Cassidy Mystery Book 2) (16 page)

Greg was a good man, Emma thought. Stacey
was lucky to have him, even though she kept him at arm’s length. But that
reminded her of Stacey’s secret, and she wondered how Greg would react if he
knew who Stacey really was. What would a nice, honest engineer do if he found
out that the demure woman he was interested in was in reality the ex-wife of a
brutal thug, a terrified woman who had assumed a fake identity and gone into
hiding? She couldn’t imagine. No wonder Stacey was wary about letting Greg get closer
to her.

“What are you planning on doing now?” Emma
asked, scanning the tangled mess of vegetation that formed an almost
impenetrable barrier to the ramshackle house beyond. “Did you bring a chainsaw
with you?”

“No chainsaw.” Greg laughed. “But I do need
to talk to him about trimming some of this growth and fixing the broken fences.
And the yard needs a major clean up. I know Faye complains a lot about him, but
she does have a point. His property is in danger of becoming a health hazard,
not to mention a fire danger. If I can get him to agree to a few things, then
we can avoid all the official bureaucratic processes which, I’m sure, would be
stressful on him.”

“It’s very decent of you,” Emma couldn’t
help saying.

A faint blush colored the tips of Greg’s
ears. “Tom’s not like you or me, but he’s essentially an honest person, and he
deserves to be left in peace, Faye’s complaints not withstanding.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to face Tom. I’m off
to work.” She took a couple of steps toward her car, then paused. “By the way,
I hope you’re coming to the country music festival tonight?”

“I am, yes.” Greg gave her the thumbs up.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Especially since Stacey would be there,
too
. Emma smiled and waved goodbye to him. Stacey
deserved another chance at happiness. Maybe there was a way she and Greg could
be together. But first Stacey would have to reveal the truth about herself, and
somehow Emma couldn’t see that happening any time soon.

Emma stood at the
edge of the park and surveyed the scene before her. A decent crowd had gathered
around the temporary stage where The Stetsons, a local band, was jamming out a
pop-country song. People sat on picnic blankets or beach chairs or sprawled on
the grass, tapping their toes in time to the music. Kids chased each other in
the nearby playground. Barbecue smoke and delicious scents rose from the row of
food stalls lined up along one side of the park. Beyond the brightly lit park
lay the lake, its smooth darkness broken by pinpricks of lights from sailing
vessels bobbing at anchor. Overhead, a quarter moon hung in the velvet sky.

A perfect summer’s evening for a country
music festival. Emma let out a sigh of satisfaction. It was at times like this,
when she could stand back and see the fruits of her labor, that she got the
greatest satisfaction. The smiles and laughter, the enjoyment on faces, the
friendly camaraderie blossoming in the air. Some might say her job was
frivolous and non-essential, but she liked to think that she brought people
together, that the convivial atmosphere she strove to create forged bonds and
strengthened social connections.

Her self-congratulation came to a
screeching halt when she caught sight of Sherilee strolling through the park
with Owen Fletcher. Both of them were dressed in jeans, Sherilee in a plaid
shirt knotted at the waist and her blonde hair falling loose down her back,
Owen in a tight, black Lady Antebellum T-shirt and cowboy boots. They weren’t
holding hands or anything, but there was something about the way they walked
side-by-side, their arms almost brushing, that said this was more than a
friendly meet up. Owen and Sherilee were on a date, and seeing them together made
Emma’s stomach pull into a sharp spike.

Huh, why did it hurt so damn much?

She wrapped her arms around her waist. She
shouldn’t be surprised at seeing them together on a date. After all, a few
months back she herself had asked Owen why he wasn’t dating Sherilee, given
they shared a lot in common and seemed to have a mutual admiration society
going. At the time, Owen had choked in surprise and quickly steered the
conversation away. But she must have sown the seed of the idea in his head. And
then, earlier this week on Monday she’d bumped into them at the gym where they
had seemed very friendly toward each other. So it wasn’t much of a surprise
that they were here together, a couple.

Emma forced her arms loose and shook them
out, determined not to get too upset. This wasn’t high school anymore. She and
Owen had broken up years ago. There was no reason for any spark to linger
between them. And yet…

Exasperated, she tucked in her
red-and-white checked shirt, squared her shoulders, and walked with a positive
gait toward the crowd. This was her gig, and she was going to do her job. Minutes
later, she’d lost sight of Owen and Sherilee. Good. She wasn’t going to let
them put her off her duties.

“Hi, Emma!” Stacey rushed out of the crowd and
embraced Emma while also trying to balance a plate of food. “Great festival. Jackie
and I are enjoying the music.”

“I’m glad.” Over Stacey’s shoulder, Emma
saw Jackie trailing behind. “Hi, Jackie.” Emma tried to inject extra warmth
into her greeting, conscious of the awkwardness the last time they’d met when Jackie
had offered to house-sit and Emma had declined.

“Hey.” From several feet back, Jackie gave
her a casual wave.

Emma couldn’t tell if the woman was still
offended by her or not. Jackie was hard to read. “What’s the food like?” Emma
asked.

“Oh, fantastic,” Stacey said. “We’re sampling
the spare ribs right now, and later we’re going back to try the pork belly.”

“Evening all.” Greg Foster strolled up to
them. His smile embraced all three of them, but his gaze lingered on Stacey.

“Evening, Greg,” Stacey said shyly.

“Hey, glad you could come,” Emma greeted
him enthusiastically, pleased to see that Greg was still pursuing Stacey. But as
she glanced at Jackie, she was taken aback by the scowl on her face clearly
directed at Greg. Jackie was no fan of Greg’s. Why? Was it simply a knee-jerk
reaction to any male given her awful past history? Or did she know something
more about Greg, something negative?

“I’ve bought a bushel of drink tickets.”
Unaware of Jackie’s silent antipathy, Greg flourished a fistful of coupons that
were to be exchanged for glasses of wine or beer at several of the booths. “Can
I get you ladies a drink? Stacey, I know you like a dry white wine.” Stacey
smiled and nodded. Emma declined, since she was still on the clock for several
more hours. “Jackie?” Greg asked politely.

“No, thanks,” she brusquely answered, not
even looking at him.

Greg blinked, nonplused. “Uh, okay.” He
glanced uncertainly at Stacey and Emma. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

When he had disappeared into the crowd,
Emma gave Stacey a pointed look to ask what was up with Jackie. Stacey gave a
helpless shrug.

“I don’t trust that one,” Jackie blurted
out.

“Greg? He seems like a decent guy,” Emma
said when it became apparent that Stacey wasn’t going to say anything.

“Yeah, but they all do in the beginning.” Jackie
turned to Stacey. “Don’t they? They’re all charming and attentive, and then
when they’ve sucked you in, they change. They become manipulative and
possessive and violent.”

Stacey’s face was slowly draining of color.

“Not all men are like that,” Emma said, perturbed
by Jackie’s sweeping generalization.

The other woman stared at her. Before,
she’d always kept her head ducked, avoiding eye contact, but now her eyes were
filled with startling fury. She opened her mouth as if to argue with Emma, but
then seemed to change her mind. She dumped her plate of food into a nearby
garbage can and loped away, shoulders hunched.

“Oh, jeez.” Emma sighed. “I didn’t mean to
offend her. I don’t know what it is, but I seem to put my foot in it with her
every time.”

“It’s not your fault,” Stacey said, always
quick to smooth troubled waters. “Jackie’s going through a difficult period. We
have to give her a little leeway.”

Emma studied her friend. “
You
don’t
think every man is dangerous, do you?”

“No, of course not. But I’m still
cautious.”

“Well, I think Greg is sweet and kind.”

Stacey’s expression softened. “Yes, he is,
and I wish I could let my guard down with him, but I don’t know how to bring up
the subject of…well, you know.” She prodded a fork at her plate of food, her face
growing subdued.

“I know it’ll be hard for you, but I think
Greg is worth the risk.”

“You think?” Hope illuminated Stacey’s face
before anxiety doused it once more, and she shook her head. “I need more time.”
Her gaze shifted beyond Emma’s shoulder, and her expression altered as she
stood up straighter. “Oh, good evening, Mayor Benson, Mrs. Benson.”

Emma turned to see the mayor and his wife
standing there. And behind them was Chief Bob Putnam. Uh-oh. This trio wasn’t
exactly in her fan club. The mayor was all right, always superficially jovial,
but Monica Benson looked down on her, and Chief Putnam’s long-standing dislike
had intensified a few months ago after she had proven the innocence of someone
he had been so eager to lock up.

However, she greeted them all with
professional courtesy, masking her true feelings.

“Not a bad turn out tonight.” Mayor Benson
hitched up his trousers around his wide girth. For the occasion, he was dressed
in a stone linen suit and dress shirt with a fancy bolo tie.

Monica Benson, tricked up like she’d raided
Dolly Parton’s wardrobe, didn’t seem as impressed by the festival as her
husband. Her steely blue eyes fixed on Emma as she stepped forward, her high
heeled alligator cowboy boots almost treading on Emma’s toes.

“I can’t find a drop of champagne here.” Monica
put her hands on her hips.

“Well, I didn’t think champagne would be
all that popular at a country music festival,” Emma said, cursing herself for
sounding so hesitant and apologetic.

“I always drink champagne.” Monica frowned
as if Emma should have known what her favorite drink was and catered for her.

Perspiration prickled along Emma’s spine.
Chief Putnam was taking in Monica’s complaint with keen interest, while the
mayor rocked back and forth on his heels, clearly not about to rein his wife
in. Only Stacey was on her side, anxiously biting her lip, but of course Stacey
wouldn’t dare contradict the mayor’s wife, not if she valued her job.

“I’m terribly sorry.” Even as the words
left her mouth, Emma wished she could be stronger. Swallowing, she drew herself
to her full height. “I’m sure there’re plenty of bars in town that serve
champagne. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable there?”

Monica’s jaw dropped. The mayor coughed
loudly.

“I knew you weren’t up to the task,” Monica
snapped. “You’re completely unsuitable for organizing an event of this nature.”
She reached for her husband’s arm. “The council shouldn’t have anything to do
with this amateur. Who is she anyway?” She threw a sneer in Emma’s direction. “Wasn’t
she involved in that old woman’s fall? You know, the one who likes to yap?
She’s mixed up in that, I’m sure of it.”

“Faye Seymour?” Chief Putnam pushed forward,
bushy eyebrows drawing together as he eyed Emma with renewed suspicion. “You
know something about her fall?”

“Hunh.” Monica pursed her fuchsia pink
lips. “The way I heard it, she was right there when it happened. Sounds
suspicious to me.”

Emma groaned silently. “I called the ambulance,
that’s all,” she said through clenched teeth. She wanted to add that the chief
should ask Officer Ackerman about Faye Seymour’s fall, but didn’t want to run
the risk of the chief immediately acting on that advice. The last thing she
needed was to have Sherilee discussing her with the chief while Owen listened
in.

Chief Putnam studied her, his expression
distrustful, and she knew he hadn’t yet forgiven her for letting his prize
suspect get away. The chief had a long memory, and he had catalogued every sin
she’d committed against him, starting with the time in high school when the
police had arrived to break up a rowdy party and she’d eluded him simply by
running faster.

“I’ll get to the bottom of this,” he said,
cocking his eyebrow at her as if he expected her to make a run for it.

Emma dug her fingernails into her palms. “I
hope you do.”

Monica Benson was still looking at her like
she was a fly in her soup. “Don’t leave town anytime soon.”

The mayor tugged at her arm, clearly tired
of the conversation. “Come on. Hank’s over there. We need to go over and say
hello.” With his wife in tow, he walked off, pasting on a toothy grin as he
glad-handed some no doubt important businessman.

Chief Putnam shot Emma one last
I’ve-got-my-eye-on-you look before lumbering away. No sooner had she recovered,
than Kenneth Bischoff, accompanied by his wife, walked past her, acting as if
she were invisible. Only his clenched jaw as he strolled past betrayed his
feelings. His wife Ellen, dressed in a fifties style sundress with a flared
skirt, glanced vaguely about her. She seemed as fluffy as ever, tripping along
arm-in-arm with her husband, but Emma noticed that her fingers were digging
into Bischoff’s forearm, that her mascara was slightly smudged, and that
beneath her lipstick her smile was brittle.

Bischoff paused to slip a hand inside his
jacket, and Emma felt her breath catch. Did he still have the gun in his
pocket? Was he going to threaten her again? Then, as she watched, he drew out a
square ebony box, extracted a dark brown cigarette, and lit up. Through a cloud
of smoke, his black eyes zeroed in on her, hard and distant.

She exhaled slowly, wondering if she had
mistaken his cigarette case for a gun when Bischoff had barged into the house
this morning. But the way he’d yelled at her, she just couldn’t see him pulling
out a cigarette then. Surely it had to have been a gun?

She narrowed her eyes at Kenneth Bischoff,
wanting to convey that she wasn’t intimidated by him, but he was already
sauntering off, his wife trotting by his side.

“Here we are.” Greg bounded up clasping two
glasses of wine.

“Thanks, Greg.” Accepting one of the
glasses, Stacey murmured to Emma, “Don’t worry about Mrs. Benson and the chief.
I’m sure they weren’t serious.”

“What’s this?” Greg glanced at Emma with
friendly concern. “Monica Benson giving you a hard time? You’re not alone. She
thinks it’s one of the perks of being the mayor’s wife.”

“I’m not worried.” Emma forced an upbeat
note to her voice.

Then, as if her night couldn’t get any
worse, it did. Owen and Sherilee strolled out of the crowd and stopped
abruptly. There was no avoiding them, no pretending not to notice them. After a
brief pause, Owen and Sherilee walked forward.

“Hi, there.”

“Hi.”

“Evening.”

Mundane greetings ricocheted between them.
The tension was palpable in the air. Everyone seemed tense, even Greg and Stacey,
though why Emma couldn’t fathom. She was too busy keeping her hands still and
her expression bland to worry about anyone else.