Pushed to the Limit (an Emma Cassidy Mystery Book 2) (4 page)

“Here’s the receipt book,” she said,
patting the book. “I’ve been trying to record every sale, but sometimes it’s
not possible.”

Becky shooed her away. “Go and relax.”

Sipping coffee and nibbling on her bagel, Emma
made a tour of the fairgrounds. There were stalls selling patchwork quilts,
organic produce, flowers and plants. Some stalls were like hers, hawking
miscellaneous household items. She was browsing through a second-hand book
stall when a snippet of conversation drifted to her ears.

“…I’ve told you before, keep your nose out
of my business.”

The raw menace in the man’s voice made Emma
glance up. A few yards behind the stall, a man in a linen suit and pale blue
ascot was glaring at Faye who had her back to Emma.

“I’m not one to tittle-tattle,” Faye
snapped back. Although she wasn’t facing Emma, her rotund figure and defiantly
dyed auburn hair were instantly recognizable. “But you brought this on
yourself. If you kept your vows, you wouldn’t be in this pickle.”

The man raked his fingers through his long
hair. She knew that dark, degenerate face. Kenneth Bischoff, the councilman
who’d leered at her last night. Who apparently had a secret that Faye had
discovered.

“You interfering old biddy,” Councilman
Bischoff fumed. “You have no right to stalk me and take pictures of me.”

“I was on public property. I did nothing
wrong.”

“I’m warning you.” Bischoff jabbed a finger
at Faye. “If you go spreading lies about me, you’ll live to regret it.” He
stormed off, his face ugly with fury.

Seemingly unaffected, Faye shrugged and
walked over to another stall. Emma frowned, uneasy about the exchange. She
bought a couple of books that interested her, and was walking back to her own
stall when once again she spotted Faye. This time she was talking to a skinny
young man of about eighteen or nineteen. The guy wore a Star Wars T-shirt and
baseball cap over grimy hair, and judging by his sullen eyes and pulled down
mouth, he wasn’t too happy to have caught Faye’s attention.

“Is this what you’re doing now, Jason?”
Faye asked, waving a hand at the stall where the young man stood. Several
clothes racks were packed with what looked to be second-hand clothing. “Working
for a thrift store?”

The man called Jason scowled at her. “I
didn’t have much choice after
you
got me kicked out of school.”

“As I recall, you decided to drop out of
college.” Faye tilted her head. “And I was only doing my civic duty.”

“Civic duty, my eye!” A woman swooped out
of the crowds and barged her way to Jason’s side. Putting a hand on his
shoulder, she glared at Faye. “You could have called Richard or me. You didn’t
have to call the police.”

It was Helen Wylie, Richard’s wife, so the
young man must be their son, Jason. Last night Helen had furiously stated that
Faye had ruined Jason’s life, and here she was, even more incensed, defending
her son.

Jason shrugged off his mother’s hand.
“Leave it, Mom,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed at having his mother fly to
his rescue, the confrontation attracting the attention of nearby people.

“I always report underage drinking to the
police,” Faye said without a trace of apology. “If you were a better parent,
Helen, perhaps your son wouldn’t feel the need to break the law.”

While Helen was still gasping in outrage,
Faye sauntered off. How could one woman cause so much upheaval? Emma was still
wondering this when she met Helen’s gaze. A red tide mottled Helen’s cheeks.
Emma lifted her shoulders and gave a rueful smile, trying to convey sympathy.
After a moment’s hesitation, Helen walked over to her.

“Sorry you had to witness that,” she said,
twisting the silver bracelet on her wrist. As usual, she was stylishly dressed,
today in a pink linen dress and white sandals, but beneath her manicured
appearance she looked stressed and tired. “It’s just that…well, it makes my
blood boil. Thanks to Faye, Jason has an underage drinking conviction, and he
became so depressed he dropped out of college.” She glanced over her shoulder
at her son who was moodily tidying a stack of T-shirts. “Richard and I are
hoping he’ll return for the fall semester, but it doesn’t help to have
her
rubbing it in every time she bumps into us.”

“It can’t be easy,” Emma murmured
diplomatically.

“She’s so righteous and unscrupulous. Ugh,
it makes me so mad! If I never see her again it’ll be too soon.” She bit her
lip as if realizing how enraged and threatening she sounded. “Anyway, I have to
go.” With a brief nod, she bustled back to her son.

As Emma resumed walking, she mused that Faye
had a fine knack for getting under a person’s skin and then rubbing salt into
the wound.

As Emma neared her
stall, a tingle ran down her spine at the sight of the tall, broad-shouldered
man talking to Becky.

“Hey there,” she said, hoping she sounded
nonchalant, schooling her fingers not to comb her hair which, she felt sure,
was not looking its best.

Owen Fletcher turned and gave her a lazy
grin. Her heart squeezed a little. That, and the spine tingle, worried her somewhat.
When she and Owen had dated in their senior year in high school, she’d
experienced many tingles and squeezes and more. They’d been crazy about each
other. But they had broken up before graduation—too many irreconcilable
differences, like the fact that she wanted to go to college back east and
experience life in a big city, while he wanted to stay close to his family and
had zero desire for a big city life. Twelve years on, and with more experience,
she’d thought—hoped—she was more immune to Owen’s charms, but it seemed her
body hadn’t got the memo.

Today he wasn’t in his deputy sheriff’s
uniform, but he still looked pretty fine in distressed blue jeans and a soft
white T-shirt that hugged his chest. Becky was standing behind the stall table,
watching Emma and Owen with a slightly amused smile. Becky Lundy, owner of Becky’s
Diner, was a voluptuous goddess who held herself above all romantic turbulence.
Though many men wooed her, none so far had captured her heart, and that
appeared to suit Becky just fine.

“Whatcha got there?” Owen asked, tilting
his chin at the books in Emma’s hand.

“Found these at one of the stalls. Classic
bodice-rippers from the eighties.” She held up the lurid covers for him to see.

“I remember you liked that stuff.” Unlike
others, Owen had never criticized her love for a good, epic, meaty novel. In some
ways, he had been a perfect match for her, and since her return to Greenville,
she wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t wondered if they could rekindle
their relationship. There had been a couple of times when something might’ve
happened, but it appeared they were both older and warier, because so far
nothing significant had eventuated.

“Thanks for minding the stall for me,” she
said to Becky.

“No problem.” Becky unclipped the fanny
pack and handed it back to Emma. “I kept my eyes peeled. One customer tried to
sneak a stuffed owl into her purse. Can you believe it? But I called her out,
and she paid up rather reluctantly.”

“You were better than me, then. Faye put
several things in her shopping bag, and then told me what the total was. She refused
to let me check her bag.” Emma aimed a mischievous smile at Owen. “If only
you’d been here earlier. I’m sure she wouldn’t have tried that on with a deputy
sheriff around.”

Owen didn’t look too thrilled at the
prospect of laying down the law to Faye. “As far as I’m aware, she’s a model
citizen.”

“A model citizen?” Emma couldn’t help
snorting. “If that’s the case, why do so many people besides me want to
throttle her?”

Owen blinked and straightened his stance.
“Who wants to throttle her?”

In a second the levity had vanished, and he
had clicked back into cop mode. It still took her by surprise, the fact that
the boy she’d snuck out with at night was now an experienced law enforcement
officer who might take a more literal interpretation of the word “throttle.”

She quickly toned it down. “Oh, you know,
it’s just an expression. She has a way of rubbing people the wrong way.”

“So you were exaggerating?”

“I suppose so.” She nodded, and her stomach
pinched as the corners of his mouth pulled down. So what if Owen disapproved of
her? Nothing new there. A few months ago he’d made his feelings clear that he didn’t
like her meddling in a murder case, even after she’d turned out to be right.

Owen rubbed his forehead. Moments ago his
whiskey brown eyes had been warm and friendly, but now they were guarded.
“You’re not getting mixed up in anything, are you?”

She huffed out a breath. “Honestly, Owen.
You make me sound like a walking talking disaster.”

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, but I’m
only looking out for you.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a fully
grown adult. I can take care of myself.”

His dubious expression said otherwise, but
Owen didn’t rise to the bait. “I’ll see you around,” he murmured. A brief nod
at Becky, and then he sauntered away.

Becky made a ‘tch’ sound at the back of her
throat. “Aw, isn’t that sweet? The man’s worried about you.”

“That’s not sweet. It’s annoying.”

A dimple appeared in Becky’s cheek.
“There’s definitely something going on between you two. Too bad you’re both too
stubborn to admit it.”

***

By noon the yard
sale was over, and the stall holders were busy packing up. Emma surveyed her
mostly empty table with some satisfaction. By slashing her prices in the final
hour, she’d managed to sell almost all of her goods and had netted almost a
thousand dollars. The local business council would be pleased about the extra
funding. It wouldn’t take long to pack up the remaining goods, and then, as
instructed, she would drop them off at the local thrift store.

As she bent down to retrieve the boxes
underneath the tables, she caught sight of a large green-and-yellow shopping
bag resting between two cartons. Pulling it out, she heaved a deep sigh. This
was Faye’s shopping bag; she was sure of it. She distinctly remembered seeing
it clutched in Faye’s hands when the older woman had blocked Emma from
inspecting it. And now, after all that, it appeared Faye had forgotten the bag
altogether.

Before she could resist, Emma opened it and
peeked inside. A hodgepodge of items lay there, including some she recalled putting
out for sale. Shutting the bag, she rose to her feet and scanned the immediate
vicinity, but there was no sign of a short, auburn-haired woman. Only tired
stall holders remained, clearing up and eager to go home. She was tired, too,
and home was calling. Faye Seymour lived about five blocks away from her, so
she could easily drop the bag off on her way home.

Decision made, she hurried through her
remaining tasks. She packed the unsold goods into a box, broke down the empty cartons,
and loaded everything into her car. A few minutes past one pm, with the
leftover stock deposited at the thrift store, she pulled up outside Faye’s
house.

Faye lived in a solid brick California
bungalow painted white with blue trim. The front yard was regimentally neat
with clipped lawns and tidy shrubs, the driveway swept clear. The entire
property was spick and span, not a leaf or blade of grass out of place. Emma had
never been inside the house; as a kid she’d avoided knocking on that particular
door at Halloween, preferring to forego the candy rather than be trapped by
Faye’s garrulous tongue. Faye had lived here for as long as Emma could
remember. She vaguely recalled that the house had belonged to Faye’s parents,
and Faye, being single, had remained, while her sister Lorraine had moved out
when she got married.

The hot afternoon sun beat down on Emma’s
head as she climbed out of her car and walked up the path to the house, the
green-and-yellow shopping bag under her arm. Faye’s beige, late model Honda
stood in the driveway, and behind the screen door, the front door stood open, indicating
she was at home.

“Hello, Faye,” Emma called out as she rang
the bell next to the screen door. No answer came back. She knocked and called
out again, with the same result. Faye must be out the back.

She descended the porch steps and made her
way around the house. The lot was larger than she’d realized. On this side of
the property were several well-tended peach trees, each of them heavy with
fruit, which were greenish yellow at the moment, a few weeks off their peak.
She followed the brick path that meandered through the peach trees. The severe
tidiness of Faye’s yard seemed to rebuke the sprawling messiness of the
neighboring property. Purple lantana smothered a side fence, threatening to overwhelm
it and explode onto Faye’s side. Gaps in the sagging paling revealed a yard
choked by rampant weeds, shrubs, and building detritus.

A muffled cry rose in the air. Emma glanced
up. Had it come from the back of the house? She took off running, the shopping
bag bumping against her hip. She rounded the house. Here, the land sloped away
from the house. A flight of wooden stairs led up to a rear deck. At the foot of
the stairs lay a crumpled figure, the auburn hair, beige slacks, and sensible
shoes instantly recognizable.

“Faye!” Emma ran to the woman and dropped
to her knees beside her.

Faye sprawled face-first on the grass, one
foot on the bottom stair, arms spread out as if she had tried to break her
fall. She must have tripped and tumbled down those wooden stairs. Her left foot
seemed to be wrenched at a strange angle. Emma gingerly touched her shoulder,
fearful of moving her and causing further injury.

“Faye?” she murmured. “Can you hear me?”

The woman didn’t stir. Near her head was a
stone urn filled with flowering petunias, its rim decorated with a few smears
of blood. Faye must have hit her head against the urn. Emma’s heart thumped a
little harder. Surely Faye couldn’t be…dead?

Then, a sudden rustling in the yard had her
staring wide-eyed over her shoulder. The bushes bordering the edge of the
property vibrated, but there was barely any breeze on this stifling hot
afternoon. Could it be a dog, maybe? Or a person?

Faye uttered a weak groan. Relief flooded
Emma as the old woman shifted and slowly rolled onto her side. At least she
wasn’t dead, though that nasty cut on the forehead looked serious.

“Faye, thank God you’re alive.” Her hands
shook as she fumbled in her purse for her cell phone.

The elderly lady’s eyes flickered open. She
looked dazed and bewildered. “My…ankle,” she moaned.

“Don’t worry. I’m dialing 911. Help will be
here soon.”

Faye’s gaze focused on Emma, and her face
twisted.

“Emma Cassidy!” she barked out, her voice
quavering but determined. “You pushed me down the stairs. You tried to kill me!”

Emma gaped in horror, too stunned to speak.
Before she could utter a protest, Faye’s eyelids fluttered close, and she slid
into unconsciousness.