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

by Karen Chester

  By dint of casual questions put to Richard, Emma learned that Greg had been employed by the council for years and was steady, reliable, and well liked by everyone. She couldn’t think of any reason why Stacey wouldn’t want to go out with him. The only argument she could think of was a lack of chemistry. No matter how suited two people might appear on paper, if there was no je ne sais quoi between them, then no passion could germinate. And, in her experience, even an excess of je ne sais quoi was no guarantee of a successful relationship.

  Stacey pulled out her cell phone and checked it, nibbling on her lower lip. She made a call and after a few seconds hung up, her worried frown deepening so much that Emma was moved to approach her.

  “Has something happened?” Emma asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Stacey glanced about as if to check that they couldn’t be overheard, then let out a sigh. “The thing is, I’m concerned about someone. You see, I volunteer at a women’s shelter over in La Quinta. We provide counseling and legal assistance and organize emergency accommodation if required. Sometimes, the women just want someone to talk to and listen to their stories.”

  “It’s a worthy cause. I didn’t know you did that.”

  “I don’t make a big fuss over it.” Stacey shrugged. “Anyway, I recently met a woman through the shelter. Jackie Carrera. She was desperate to leave her partner, and she seemed to take an immediate shine to me. She had no money and no one to turn to, but she was hesitant about moving into a refuge. So I invited her to stay at my place until she got herself sorted out. She arrived yesterday.”

  “Oh, that’s really generous of you.” Somehow Emma wasn’t surprised by Stacey’s altruism.

  “She seemed to be settling in, but now I can’t get a hold of her. She’s not answering her phone. I’ve left several messages, but she hasn’t called back.” Stacey grimaced. “It’s always a risky time when a woman leaves an abusive relationship. I’m worried about Jackie. Her ex-boyfriend might have tracked her down, or she might have been persuaded to go meet him somewhere.”

  “How old is Jackie?” Emma asked.

  “Early or mid thirties, about my age, I think. I didn’t like to ask too many personal questions until she felt more comfortable with me.”

  The pinched lines around her friend’s eyes made Emma come to a quick decision. “Let’s leave now. I’ll drive you home, and if Jackie’s not there, we’ll track her down together.”

  Stacey nodded, her frown easing a little at having her burden shared.

  Five minutes later, they were in Emma’s little white Toyota. Stacey directed Emma to a modest part of Greenville where small homes lined crumbling roads and not all the street lights were functioning. Stacey’s house was on the corner, a simple, two-story clapboard. Emma pulled her car into the driveway behind a yellow, early model Chevy that looked more worn than Emma’s Toyota.

  They got out of the car and walked toward the house. Stacey put her key into the door, then frowned.

  “That’s odd. The door isn’t locked. I could’ve sworn I locked it when I left this evening.”

  “Maybe Jackie came home and forgot to lock up. Maybe she’s still up.”

  Stacey’s expression brightened. “Yes, maybe she is.” She pushed open the door and walked into the house, calling, “Hello, Jackie. It’s Stacey. I’m home.”

  Emma followed her into the darkened hallway. Stacey flicked on a hall light before moving through to a room on the left. She stopped short with a gasp.

  “Oh, no!”

  Emma hurried into a small living room. She could tell it was normally tidy, but now it was anything but. A desk in one corner had all its drawers wrenched open, the contents upended over the floor. The cushions of the couch lay scattered about. A vase on a coffee table had been knocked over. A picture on the wall sat askew. Emma followed Stacey as she moved into the adjoining dining room. There, a sideboard had also been disturbed, its cabinets and drawers opened, tableware and serving ware strewn across the carpet.

  Emma placed a hand on Stacey’s arm. The woman was shaking.

  “Where’s Jackie?” Stacey whispered before hurrying toward the kitchen. Emma was close on her heels. In the compact white kitchen, a few cupboards had been rummaged through, but no one was there.

  Stacey raised her voice. “Jackie?”

  This is dangerous. The thought flashed through Emma’s mind. We should call the police. The intruder might still be in the house.

  But Stacey was already dashing for the stairs, and Emma had no choice but to run after her. The second story held two modest bedrooms and a tiny bathroom. No menacing intruder, no Jackie, either.

  “This is Jackie’s room,” Stacey said as they glanced into one of the bedrooms.

  It held only a twin bed and a night stand. A duffel bag, which Emma assumed belonged to Jackie, lay on the bed, its contents—clothes and toiletries—tumbled onto the waffle weave cotton bedspread. It wasn’t clear whether the intruder had been in here or not.

  They moved to Stacey’s bedroom, which had definitely been tossed over. The closet hung open, clothes disarrayed and slipping off their hangers, while a pile of paraphernalia lay heaped on the floor.

  Stacey sank onto her bed, her face white. Emma sat next to her and pulled her phone out of her bag.

  “Stacey, we need to call the police.”

  “The police?” Stacey’s eyes widened. “Do we have to?”

  “Yes, you’ve been burgled!”

  Stacey stared about her then picked up a wallet off the floor and opened it. “Have I? Look.” She flicked a finger through a wad of money. “There’s fifty dollars, untouched. And that wallet was lying in plain sight.” She scanned the possessions strewn about her. “I can’t see anything obvious missing. Let’s go downstairs.”

  They trooped down, and Stacey poked through the piles lying in the living and dining rooms for a few minutes. “I don’t think they took anything.”

  Emma, crouching down beside Stacey, shook her head. “That’s beside the point. Someone broke into your home. You should call the cops.”

  “Please, Emma.” Stacey reached over and clasped Emma’s hand. “Please don’t.”

  The anxiety in her eyes got to Emma. How could she ignore the plea in her friend’s voice? Yet something wasn’t right. Squeezing Stacey’s hand, she said slowly, “Is there any reason why you don’t want to report this?”

  Stacey swallowed. “I don’t have much faith in the police.” Her voice shook before she made a visible effort to steel herself. “They didn’t protect me from my husband when he threatened me. I had to escape him all by myself.”

  Chapter Four

  For a few moments Emma was too shocked to respond. Then, as Stacey’s words sank in, and everything about the reserved secretary began to make sense, she kneeled down and put an arm around Stacey.

  “I’m so sorry,” she burst out impulsively, then hesitated. What more could she say? There was so much she wanted to ask but couldn’t.

  But Stacey was already pulling away and rising to her feet. She smoothed a few stray strands of hair away from her forehead, plucked some lint off her dress. “We’re divorced now. It’s over. I don’t like to talk about it, if you don’t mind.” Only the faint trembling in her hands gave her emotions away.

  “Of course.”

  After a few seconds, Stacey murmured, “Thanks for being so understanding. And thanks for being here, too. I would’ve been terrified to go through this house on my own.”

  Because she had feared finding her ex-husband here? The thought disturbed Emma, and once again she wished Stacey would call the police. She didn’t know where Stacey had been living when her husband had terrorized her. Stacey had made Greenville her home for almost ten years, and Emma had never heard a whisper about a husband, so her marriage and divorce must have taken place somewhere else.

  Straightening up, Emma glanced about the mussed up room. “It doesn’t look like there was a struggle here, so that’s something. Where should we go loo
k for Jackie?”

  “I’m not sure.” Stacey bit her lip. “Maybe we should go over to the refuge center. It’s closed now, but she might be nearby.”

  Just then, footsteps sounded on the porch outside, and Emma’s nerves tightened as she wondered if the intruder had returned. She and Stacey huddled together, both holding their breaths. The person opened the front door and walked in, making no attempt to enter quietly.

  A woman appeared in the entrance to the living room and let out a yelp when she caught sight of Emma and Stacey.

  “Jackie!” Stacey exclaimed.

  Emma heaved a sigh of relief as Stacey hurried toward the slightly built woman. Jackie wore baggy jeans and a checked shirt, the clothes not quite fitting—perhaps they’d been donated to her. Thick, shaggy brown hair fell to her shoulders, half-concealing wary eyes in a thin, scrubbed face that seemed oddly blank as Stacey gave her a hug.

  “Oh my God!” Jackie squeaked, pressing a hand to her throat as she surveyed the wreckage. “What happened here?”

  “Never mind that. Where have you been all night?” Stacey’s brow was creased with anxiety. “I tried calling you a few times but you never answered. I’ve been so worried.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jackie’s face fell. “I went out to get something to eat, and my cell phone ran out of juice. I didn’t mean to cause you so much worry. I should’ve come home early.”

  “No, it’s a good thing you were away or you might have disturbed whoever did this.” Stacey gestured to Emma. “This is Emma Cassidy. She gave me a lift home after the party. Emma, this is Jackie Carrera.”

  Jackie peeked at Emma from beneath her thick bangs. “Hi,” she said warily. According to Stacey, Jackie was in her early or mid thirties, but she could easily have passed for twenty.

  “Hi, Jackie.” Emma kept her tone light and her smile brief. The woman seemed nervy and highly strung, like a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest. Little wonder that generous-hearted Stacey had offered her a place to stay. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

  After a brief nod, Jackie glanced about the room once more, taking in the shambles. “Oh, this is so awful. Who could’ve done such a thing? What did they take?”

  “That’s the weird thing,” Stacey replied. “It looks like they didn’t take anything. I think everything is still here, but you should check your room. I don’t know if anything is missing from there.”

  Jackie lifted her shoulders. “I had my purse with me. There’s nothing else worth stealing in my room.”

  “That’s good.”

  “What are you going to do, Stacey? Are the police coming?”

  “No, I’m not calling them.”

  “You’re not?”

  Stacey’s expression firmed. “No.” She bent to pick up a vase from the floor. “I just want my house back the way it was.”

  Emma dropped to her knees and began gathering up some scattered books. “It won’t take long if we all pitch in.”

  “Yeah.” Jackie walked over to a pile of strewn mail. After a moment, Stacey smiled faintly. “Thanks, both of you.”

  As Emma tidied up, she couldn’t help noticing how few personal belongings Stacey owned. There were no photos, for a start. It stood to reason she wouldn’t want to remember her ex-husband, but what about parents, siblings, or friends? She didn’t appear to receive any Christmas cards or birthday cards either. No diplomas or certificates. No mementos or souvenirs. Nothing to indicate her past. Stacey was turning out to be quite the mystery woman.

  “Are you sure about not calling the police?” Jackie asked as she replaced the cushions on the couch.

  “I don’t see what good it would do.” Stacey sighed. “It’s not like I own anything valuable.”

  “Don’t you?” Jackie’s eyebrows rose up. “No family heirlooms or keepsakes?”

  Stacey was cleaning up the sideboard. She poked her head into one of the cabinets, her voice muffled as she replied, “Not really. I don’t collect that stuff. Too much clutter.”

  Too much clutter? Emma glanced about the living room. It was spartanly furnished with just a couple of couches, a TV, and the desk. The only picture was an inexpensive print of Shamrock Lake. And she’d noticed that the rest of the house was similarly austere. Was Stacey a minimalist? Or did she simply want to forget the past with its painful memories?

  “Well, that’s a pity,” Jackie said. “When I turned eighteen, my granny gave me a cameo brooch. I don’t wear it much, but I treasure it. I’d never part with it.”

  Stacey’s shoulders seemed to stiffen, but she remained silent.

  Five minutes later, they finished tidying the living and dining rooms.

  “I’ll do my bedroom myself,” Stacey said to Emma. “It won’t take me long. Thanks for everything.”

  Stacey looked exhausted, and Emma was beginning to long for her bed, too. She had to be up early tomorrow to set up for the yard sale, which was due to start at seven am.

  “Make sure to check all your doors and windows tonight,” Emma said as she picked up her bag and headed for the door. She might have been nervous leaving Stacey after the break-in, but Jackie was here.

  “I will.” Stacey snapped her fingers. “Oh, I almost forgot. That stuff for your yard sale. It’s in the trunk of my car.”

  She followed Emma out of the house and unlocked the trunk of her yellow Chevy. She heaved out a large box and handed it to Emma.

  “Just some trinkets and gadgets I don’t need anymore,” Stacey said.

  “Thanks.” Emma transferred the box to her car.

  Jackie had come out of the house with them. She stood with arms folded, narrow shoulders hunched. The expression on her face was difficult to interpret. Frustration seemed to be the best description. But why would Jackie be frustrated?

  Emma leaned toward Stacey. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked in a low voice, too low for Jackie to overhear.

  Stacey glanced up and down the street. It had rained earlier, and damp leaves lay scattered on the sidewalk. The neighborhood was quiet; only a few houses had lights still on.

  “I’m fine.” Stacey rubbed her upper arms. “Nothing to worry about. Jackie and I will look out for each other. You go home now. I’ll probably see you at the yard sale tomorrow, and maybe I can persuade Jackie to come, too.”

  There was nothing more she could do, so Emma hopped into her car and drove off. But as she glimpsed Stacey in her rear view mirror, she couldn’t completely suppress her unease. She liked Stacey; she wanted to be her friend. She just hoped the break-in wasn’t a portent of more dire events to follow.

  Chapter Five

  “What’s this?” Emma asked as her father deposited a cardboard box on the kitchen table where she was finishing breakfast. “Donations for the yard sale?”

  Andrew nodded. “Some classic books I thought deserve better homes.” He paused. “And a few things of your mother’s that she was always meaning to donate and never got around to.”

  Emma glanced up at her dad, a half-chewed piece of toast in her mouth. After her mother’s death two years ago, Emma had cleared the clothes from her mom’s closet—a heart-rending task that she’d wanted to spare her father—and taken them to the local charity store, but most of her mom’s other possessions were still in the house, as far as she knew.

  Emma swallowed the last of her toast and lifted the flaps of the box. “What things?”

  “Oh, some bowls and vases and knick-knacks. You know how she loved to shop whenever we were on vacation.” A fond smile lingered on Andrew’s face. “Supporting the local economy, she’d always say. Then she’d bring the stuff home, and nine times out of ten she’d realize she didn’t really like the thing and give it away or stick it in the garage to sort out later.”

  Emma lifted out an orange hand-blown glass bowl and smiled. “Yeah, I remember this. We were in Arizona, weren’t we?” She picked up an enormous conch shell. “And was this from our trip to San Diego?”

  “I hope you don’t m
ind me giving these away. You’re welcome to keep anything for yourself.”

  At the hint of concern in her father’s eyes, she replaced the bowl and conch shell back in the box. “That’s okay, Dad. I’m sure there’s someone out there who’d love them.”

  And besides, where would she keep the ornaments, seeing as she was living at home with her dad? When her business partner had run off with all their money, and her then-boyfriend had charmingly deserted her in her hour of need, Emma had returned to Greenville with little more than the clothes on her back and barely enough money for an ancient car. Her widowed father had welcomed her back to the family home with open arms, and she loved spending time with him, but nevertheless she was determined to move out when she could afford to. With her thirtieth birthday looming on the horizon, she had never imagined she’d still be living at home.

  “Thanks, Dad.” She wiped a crumb away from her mouth. “I’d better get going. You know these yard sales. I don’t want to miss those hungry early birds.”

  Her father helped her load boxes into the back of her hatchback. With her car filled up, she set off. The morning air, though fresh at six thirty, held the promise of a scorching day ahead. School was out, and summer was in full swing. Greenville and the other towns surrounding Shamrock Lake were filling up with visitors and holiday-makers. Hopefully many of them would come to the yard sale, eager to part with their money.

  The community yard sale was being held at the county fairgrounds just outside Greenville. When Emma arrived, attendants directed her to the stall that the local business association had hired. It was nothing fancy, just a couple of fold-out plastic tables, a camp chair, and an umbrella to keep off the worst of the sun. Other stall holders had already arrived, and everyone was busy setting up before the hordes arrived.

  With the help of a teenager volunteer, Emma carted her boxes from her car to the stall. Then she began to arrange her stock on the tables, organizing them by type and price bracket. She had sole discretion on pricing. Some items, like kitchen appliances, were easy to value, while others, like paintings, were more subjective. Not wanting to be left with a lot of unsold merchandise at the end of the day, she set her prices competitively, with the aim of reducing them as the day wore on. She was still putting out wares when the gates to the general public were opened, and eager bargain hunters descended on the yard sale like seagulls swooping on a dropped French fry. The early birds were voracious shoppers.