Throw a Monkey Wrench (an Emma Cassidy Mystery Book 1)

by Karen Chester

  “Why is she insinuating that there was something between Sean and Jordan?” Emma quietly fumed to Becky. “Sean is devoted to Madison; I’m convinced of it.”

  “You know Faye.” Philosophical, Becky wiped the already clean counter. “I suppose the wedding will be on hold until this is cleared up.”

  “Yes, but even if Sean is released right away, I don’t think he’ll be able to breathe easily until the murderer is caught.”

  Becky grimaced. “That might take a while. Our police department doesn’t have a lot of experience with murders. Of course, the chief might ask the sheriff’s office for help. Your Deputy Sheriff Fletcher might come to the rescue.”

  “He’s not my anything,” Emma replied a little too quickly. Ignoring Becky’s smile, she asked, “Do you know if the Whites were friends with Tony Barnet?”

  “Cynthia and Howard White? I don’t think so. Tony only arrived about two years ago, and he’s a bit too brash and vulgar for people like the Whites. When he first moved here, they went to a few of his boat parties and such, but they dropped him pretty quickly.”

  Emma didn’t question the veracity of this information. Becky might not mix with high society, but rich people hired housekeepers, gardeners, cleaners, drivers, and those workers liked eating at her diner, and Becky’s sympathetic ear was open to everyone.

  “What are you having for lunch?” Becky asked. “You look like you could go for a BLT today.”

  Yes, that’s exactly what she needed. Emma nodded. “I’ll have some potato wedges and ranch dressing, too, thanks.”

  Becky went off to give the order, then did a circuit of the other customers at the counter, refilling coffee, handing out checks, and cutting pie.

  “Why did you ask about the Whites and Tony Barnet?” she asked when she returned to Emma.

  “I’m not sure.” Emma played with a sugar sachet as she pondered the question. “I guess now that I’ve had time to think about it, I found their reactions to the news of Tony’s death a bit…strange. It seemed as if he was more than just a passing acquaintance to them, and I sensed some kind of tension between Cynthia and Howard over him.”

  She recalled how Cynthia had seemed to go into a state of shock when she’d heard about Tony. Almost catatonic shock. Not exactly the expected reaction if Cynthia thought Tony vulgar and beneath her.

  And Howard had reacted strangely, too. He’d seemed almost angry at the news. Or maybe his mottled face wasn’t an indication of anger but satisfaction. Was he glad that Tony was dead? If so, why?

  “There’s always tension between Cynthia and Howard,” Becky said. “Theirs is not the happiest of marriages, although I’ve heard they were quite the lovebirds in the early days. I feel sorry for the daughter, Madison. She seems like a nice kid. Always polite when she comes in here. And the big tips don’t hurt either.”

  Yes, if there was one thing Emma was sure of, it was that Madison didn’t deserve any of this. Somehow, despite her chilly mom and her overbearing dad, she’d turned out pleasant and normal and cheerful.

  Please, help him. Help us. Please.

  Madison’s pleas echoed in Emma’s head, causing her to squirm with discomfort. How could she help Sean? She wasn’t an investigator; she didn’t have an in with the police; she couldn’t force people to talk to her. As much as she sympathized with Sean and Madison, she couldn’t see how she could help them. Sean was innocent, and as soon as the police realized that, he’d be a free man, free to marry Madison just like they planned.

  “I hope those two get their wedding,” Becky said. “If only to keep your business afloat.”

  Emma pulled a face. “Yes. With all the cancellations, I don’t have many bookings left. Just a small wedding in July, and the Kaupers’ silver anniversary in August. At least they haven’t cancelled yet.”

  Although that might change if Sean was indeed arrested for Tony’s murder and Emma’s connection to him became known. Maybe it was a bit selfish of her to be concerned about her reputation, but she couldn’t help it. A business like hers relied so much on opinion and word-of-mouth. Rumors of murder could kill her enterprise before it even got started.

  “You’ll pull through.” The cook dinged his bell, and Becky went to pick up an order. Seconds later, she slid a hot plate containing a BLT with potato wedges and ranch dressing toward Emma. “Here you go, honey. Eat up.”

  With her mouth watering, Emma dunked a potato wedge in ranch dressing. Yum. She might be heading into troubled waters, but at least she’d face it with a full stomach.

  Chapter Four

  “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  Emma’s voice echoed off brick walls. As her eyes adjusted from the brightness outside, she found herself in a large, open space that smelled of grease and rubber. She walked in, careful to avoid the darker stains on the concrete floor. The lights were on, which meant someone must be here. Perhaps even Sean.

  She’d spent the rest of the afternoon updating her website, fretting about her bills, and working on Mr. and Mrs. Kaupers’ silver anniversary. While she’d worked, she couldn’t help worrying about Sean and wondering how he was getting on at the police station. She’d half-expected Madison to call and give her an update, but no call came.

  At five o’clock, she’d shut her office and left for the day, intending to go straight home. But as she dug her car keys out of her bag, she’d realized that she needed to do something about her car. It really wasn’t safe driving it around while it sputtered and coughed like an asthmatic.

  She’d instantly thought of taking it to Sean’s auto repair shop. Since they were friends, she could trust his workmanship, and patronizing his business would be a way of showing her support.

  Using the internet on her cell phone to look up Sean’s business address, she’d driven out to the industrial part of Greenville that stretched south of the town center. The drive had taken her away from the historic downtown area and picturesque lakefront. Soon, the road became bumpy and pot-holed. Factories and warehouses lined the street.

  Sean’s business sat at the end of a wide road and looked more impressive than she’d anticipated. The building straddled a wide block, with two entrances for vehicles to enter or exit the workshop and plenty of parking for customers out the front. A bright yellow sign displayed the business name. There was even a tub of flowers next to the main door.

  The parking lot was empty, and the reception office was closed, but one of the vehicle entrances was open. So Emma walked inside and found herself in an area that appeared to function as an area for dropping off and picking up vehicles.

  “Hello?” she called again. “Sean, are you here? It’s Emma.”

  According to the sign pinned to the glass doors of the reception office, the business shut at five-thirty, and it was only twenty past now. But it seemed no one was here at the moment. Now that she had driven here, though, she was reluctant to go away empty handed, especially if there was a chance Sean might be here.

  She didn’t know where Sean lived, but he’d worked hard to build up this business and probably spend a lot of time here. Maybe if he was released from the police station, this might be the first place he’d come for refuge.

  The rear of the garage opened out to another space, which she couldn’t properly make out. Anxious to find Sean, she walked through and found herself in an enormous shed-like building. There were skylights in the ceiling high above, but at this hour with the sun lowering, the interior was dim and shadowy. Still, there was enough light for her to see that this was the workshop proper where vehicles were repaired. There were big car hoists, trolleys filled with tools, rows of spare tires. A paint booth took up one corner.

  All this equipment had to be worth a lot, she thought. Sean must have worked hard to save the capital.

  Most of the lights were off, but a few burned in the far corner. Hitching her bag over her shoulder, she started walking down the center of the workshop, her heels tapping loudly in the hush.

  A burly figure sud
denly materialized out of the shadows and loomed over her, as menacing as Bigfoot. “Whaddya want?” he growled.

  Emma’s hair stood on end as she shrieked. She saw the wrench gripped in his hand and shrieked again.

  “Get away from me!” she yelled in panic.

  Oh God, was this the murderer? It could be him. Why else was he lurking in a dark workshop with a wrench in his hand? A wrench that could easily leave a nasty blow on a person’s skull. He was going to kill her and leave her body here in this cold, dark building. No one would find her until morning. She couldn’t do that to her father. He didn’t deserve to lose his wife and daughter in the space of two years.

  Keeping her gaze on him, she scrabbled through her tote bag, searching through the myriad emergency supplies she never left home without. Being an event planner was a bit like being a scout—always be prepared. Her fingers rummaged through tissues, breath mints, TUMS, a sewing kit, before curling around a slim aluminum tube. Ah, this must be the pepper spray that she’d always carried with her in New York. She’d never had to use it there, so it was a bit ironic that she needed it here in sleepy ol’ Greenville.

  “Don’t come any closer or I’ll mace you!” She held up the can only to realize it was hairspray not pepper spray, and quickly tried to cover the label with her fingers.

  Bigfoot halted. He didn’t seem to notice that she was attempting to hold him off with hairspray. “Clear off! We don’t need you buttinskies snooping around here.”

  Emma peered a little closer at the man. She thought she recognized those hulking shoulders and that surly voice. “Bart? It’s Bart McCluskey, isn’t it?”

  “Huh?” He squinted suspiciously at her. “Who’s asking?”

  “It’s me, Emma Cassidy. You were two grades above me at high school. I was in the same year as Sean, your cousin.”

  The guy shifted on his feet. “You’re Mr. Cassidy’s daughter. I always hated history class.”

  Emma sighed. Somehow she’d survived attending the same school where her father taught, but only just. “That’s me.”

  But knowing her name didn’t appear to mollify Bart, the scowl returning to his forehead. “What do you want? Bad enough having the dang cops all over the place without busybodies like you sticking your nose where it don’t belong.”

  “The police were here? When?”

  Her question seemed to enrage Bart. “It don’t mean anything! He didn’t do it!”

  He paused and stared at the wrench in his meaty hand. His gaze turned to Emma. She didn’t care for the look of menace in his eyes. Her breathing shortened as she firmed her grip on the little can of hairspray while with her free hand she delved desperately into her bag for the real pepper spray. Why didn’t she keep it in one of the side pockets?

  Someone in the shadows coughed. They both turned to see a lanky man emerge from the dimness. His thin brown hair flopped over a hollow-cheeked face, while gray overalls hung on a scarecrow figure. Emma didn’t recognize him. Was he friend or foe?

  “Bart? What are you doing?” His voice was flat and emotionless.

  Bart flushed. “Getting rid of another buttinsky. Seems every mongrel in town comes sniffing around when a McCluskey’s in trouble.” He shook the wrench in Emma’s direction. “The whole town’s got it in for us, and we’re sick of it. You hear that? Sick of it!”

  “I only came because of my car! I mean, this is an auto repair shop, isn’t it?” Emma heartily wished she’d never come. “But since I’m not welcome here, I’ll take my business somewhere else.”

  Thrusting the hair spray back in her bag, she spun on her heel and hurried toward the exit. Footsteps pattered after her.

  “Sorry about Bart.” The skinny guy scampered alongside her. “He doesn’t usually deal with customers.”

  “I can see why.” Emma lengthened her stride.

  “Hey, it’s been a tough day for all of us.”

  The strain in his voice made her pause. “I know,” she sighed. “I had to see Chief Putnam take Sean away.”

  The stranger’s eyes goggled. “You were there?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. The man was average height, just a few inches taller than her, and his deferential manner was a welcome relief after Bart McCluskey’s hostility. “I’m Emma Cassidy. I’m the wedding planner for Madison and Sean.”

  “Oh.” He looked her over. “I’m Larry Durant. I’m kind of the second-in-command around here.” He seemed to grow self-conscious of his oil-stained overalls. “I work on the cars, too.”

  “My car’s been making some strange noises and I thought I’d bring it in here to, you know, show my support for Sean. But it looks like you guys are shut for the day.”

  “We normally only close at five-thirty, but today…well, we heard Sean got picked up by the police, and then the cops were here with a search warrant.”

  “Did they find anything?”

  “Yeah. They checked every tool cabinet in here, then they took Sean’s away.”

  That didn’t sound good.

  “Bart started mouthing off at the cops,” Larry continued. “Then a coupla other McCluskey cousins turned up, and things got a bit tense. Eventually the police left, but there were a few reporters snooping around the place. We weren’t getting any work done, so we closed shop, and the McCluskeys headed for the bar. I didn’t realize Bart came back.”

  “He’s got a bad temper.” Emma frowned as remembered how he’d scared her. She glanced over her shoulder, but there was no sign of him.

  “Huh, it runs in the family.” Larry picked up a rag and rubbed his hands with it. “You could say it’s their trademark.”

  “Have you been working here long?” Emma asked, curious about Larry. He seemed quite normal compared to the McCluskeys. Maybe that was why Sean had hired him.

  “Couple years. I know this business inside out. Got years of experience. Sean won’t have to worry about this. I’ll keep things ticking over while he’s away.”

  Emma lifted her eyebrows. “Sean will be out as soon as the police realize he has nothing to do with the murder.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Of course he will. Sean would never kill someone.” But his voice held a trace of hesitation as his gaze slid away from Emma’s.

  “Larry?” she prompted, suddenly uneasy about what he wasn’t saying. “Is there more?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, but Sean and Tony Barnet had an argument on the phone yesterday afternoon.”

  “An argument about what?”

  “Some unpaid bill, I believe. I heard Sean yelling from his office around five o’clock. The door was shut, but everyone in the reception area could hear him shouting. Then he came steaming out, looking ready to blow a gasket. I asked him what was going on, and he yelled ‘Tony Barnet isn’t getting away with this. I’m going to make him pay.’ Then he stomped straight past me into the workshop, and a few minutes later he took off in his pickup truck.”

  This was bad. Maybe Sean had grabbed a tool out of his toolbox, driven out to Tony’s house, and somehow ended up killing him. And there were other witnesses besides Larry to the argument over the phone—the receptionist, customers, and workers. The police would eventually get their statements, if they hadn’t already. She had been convinced that Sean would be freed very soon, but now the case against him looked increasingly dire.

  The thought depressed her, and she made for her car, anxious to get away.

  “Hey, I thought you wanted someone to look at your car,” Larry called out as he trotted behind her.

  “I, um, I’ll come back some other time.” She opened her car door and slid in. “It probably makes more sense to drop it off in the morning, right?”

  “Yeah.” He eyed her hatchback, and his expression seemed to suggest it was a piece of junk. “Just warning you, might take a few days to fix.”

  Emma held back a sigh. Could she afford a rental? Maybe she could borrow her dad’s car; he’d sprained an ankle and was unable to drive for a week or more. She’d ask him w
hen she got home.

  “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Larry nodded goodbye and stood back before she pulled off. As she drove away, she glanced in her rearview mirror. Silhouetted against the setting sun, the workshop was a dark rectangular shadow. She couldn’t see Larry at all. He must be a fast mover to have vanished so quickly.

  ***

  The scent of spicy chicken greeted Emma as she walked in the door. Home was a plain, unpretentious three-bedroom house where she’d been born and raised. There were azalea bushes out the front, a wide deck out the back, and plenty of shelves inside to house her dad’s vast book collection.

  Her dad was in the kitchen, limping between the stove and the sink. His wire-rimmed glasses, button down plaid shirt tucked into his pants, and neat salt-and-pepper hair emphasized his calm, mild-mannered demeanor. After teaching history for decades, he’d recently become a high school counselor.

  “Hi, sweetie.” Andrew Cassidy paused to peck her on the cheek before shuffling to the stove to check his sizzling pan. “Chicken burritos tonight.”

  “Sounds great.”

  Since she’d moved back home she’d gained five extra pounds due to her dad’s cooking. She wasn’t much of a cook herself, and she hadn’t expected him to provide her with meals, but he’d surprised her with his cooking skills. While Emma’s mom was alive, Frances had always ruled the kitchen, and Andrew had been happy with the traditional male role of sticking to barbeques. When her mother had died, Emma had assumed her dad would mostly eat out, which he had for the first year of being a widower, but now he was an accomplished home cook.