Pushed to the Limit (an Emma Cassidy Mystery Book 2) (23 page)

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
didn’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.”