“This bowl has a crack in it.”
“You’re kidding. You want how much?”
“If you throw in the silver spoons, I’ll give you ten bucks.”
Emma tied the rather hideous fanny pack for holding money around her waist, got out her receipt book, and set to work. An hour of brisk trade went by, and she was pleased and relieved to see the goods selling at a steady rate. The tables weren’t large enough to hold all her stock, and she had several more boxes underneath waiting to be unpacked.
She was dealing with a pair of customers, a mother-daughter combo, when Faye Seymour arrived at the stall. In beige slacks, loose cotton shirt, and sturdy walking shoes, with an enormous shopping bag slung over her arm, she was dressed for some serious shopping.
“Don’t mind me,” she said loudly to Emma. “I’m just browsing.”
Emma nodded before returning her attention to her customers. The mother and daughter began to ask questions about a crock pot. Not being much of a cook herself, Emma tried to answer as best she could. As she talked to her customers, she couldn’t help noticing what Faye was doing. The woman was rifling through several boxes where Emma had placed smaller items that might otherwise have gotten lost. Faye picked up a cut glass perfume bottle, spritzed it on her wrist, then dropped it into her shopping bag.
Emma’s eyes widened. Had she witnessed Faye stealing a perfume bottle?
“What if it doesn’t work?” the mother asked as she peered into the crock pot.
“I’m sorry, can you excuse me for one moment?” Sucking in her stomach, Emma moved over to Faye, who was sifting through another box. “Faye,” she said in a low voice, “did you just put a perfume bottle in your bag?” She nodded toward the plastic, yellow-and-green bag hanging from Faye’s arm.
Faye’s lips pursed into an indignant knot. “I did. You don’t have any shopping baskets, do you?” she said accusingly.
“Um, no, I don’t.”
“Well, there you are, then.”
Emma had no option but to return to the mother and daughter customers. As the sharp-eyed mother continued to haggle over the crock pot, Faye worked her way through all the boxes of small items on the table.
“I’m sorry, I can’t give you any guarantees,” Emma finally said to the mother. “This is an unpowered stall. If you can find an electrical outlet somewhere, you’re welcome to test the crock pot, but otherwise all goods are sold as is. No exceptions.”
“Well!” The mother plunked the crock pot back on the table and jerked her head at her daughter. “Come on, we’re obviously wasting our time here.” With final glares of disgust, the two women marched off, muttering to each other.
Emma pressed her fingers to her temple, hoping she wouldn’t be saddled with an unwanted crock pot at the end of the yard sale. She was still kneading her head when thirty dollars was shoved in front of her.
“You owe me three dollars change,” Faye declared.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve added up everything, and it comes to twenty-seven dollars.”
Emma eyed the capacious shopping bag dangling from Faye’s fingers. “Do you mind if I check what you have in there?” she asked as politely as possible.
The older woman instantly bristled. “I beg your pardon? Of course I mind. How outrageous.” She gripped the bag tighter. “You don’t think I’d try to cheat you, do you?”
Indecision knotted Emma’s stomach. She could insist on seeing inside the shopping bag, but that pugnacious scowl on Faye indicated she was in no mood to comply. And within an hour the news would be all over Greenville that Emma had accused an innocent, law-abiding woman of theft. Emma would be cast as the villain trying to bully a helpless senior; not the best image for someone trying to build up her business. And besides, Faye may have a lot of personal flaws, but Emma didn’t really think petty theft was one of them.
“No, of course not,” Emma conceded. She reached into her fanny pack for three dollars in change. “I hope you chose some nice things.”
Faye shrugged. “They’re okay. I have to tell you some of your stuff is pure junk.”
Emma pressed her lips together and tried to sound upbeat as she replied, “Well, you know what they say—one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
“Huh. You got the trash part right.”
Emma’s jaw was in danger of cracking when Stacey arrived with Jackie in tow. Glad to see some friendlier faces, Emma greeted them.
“We would’ve been here sooner if I didn’t have trouble starting the car,” Stacey said.
“I’m just glad you could make it,” Emma replied.
“Ooh, a crock pot.” Stacey opened the lid and peered inside. “I’ve always wanted one of these. And look, it’s got all these different functions.”
“It might be broken,” Faye said, as helpful as ever. “And you can’t bring it back if it is. That’s what Emma said.”
Once more Emma bit back the retort that rose to her lips. She moved to the far end of the stall where Jackie was squinting at the goods on the table. “See anything you like? I’ve marked everything as cheaply as I could, so you might find a bargain or two.”
Jackie wore the same baggy jeans and checked shirt from the night before. “I’m just looking,” she murmured, head down, a swathe of hair obscuring her face. Her long, thin fingers scratched through a box containing costume jewelry. Picking up a necklace of crystals, she peered more closely at it.
“Hello, dearie. New around here, aren’t you? Where are you from?” Faye asked Jackie with her typical bluntness.
Jackie’s fingers tightened around the necklace. As she glanced up, Emma fancied she caught a glimpse of consternation in her half-hidden eyes. “What’s it to you?” Jackie said with equal directness.
Faye wasn’t fazed a bit. “I like to know who’s in town. You’re staying with Stacey, I take it?”
“Yes.” Not that it’s any of your business, Jackie’s wooden expression seemed to convey.
Clearly Jackie was reluctant to inform Faye that she’d met Stacey through a women’s shelter, and Emma didn’t blame her. If Jackie had fled an abusive relationship, the last thing she needed was her circumstances and whereabouts broadcast by a human megaphone like Faye.
With pointed deliberateness Jackie turned her back on Faye to continue her search through the jewelry. A dark frown descended on the older woman’s brow. Every resident in Greenville knew that you snubbed Faye at your peril. Issuing a very loud and indignant sniff, Faye spun around so hard her hair quivered, and stomped off, leaving Emma to sigh with relief. Stacey, still engrossed in the crock pot at the other end of the table, hadn’t heard a word of the exchange.
“What a cow,” Jackie muttered, lifting out a large brooch encrusted with pearls and diamante.
Emma frowned, caught off guard. For such a meek and browbeaten creature, Jackie’s remark was unexpected. But then, who knew what Jackie had gone through? Maybe in the past she’d suffered from busybodies like Faye.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Emma asked, deciding to ignore Jackie’s comment.
“I like old-fashioned jewelry, family mementos, that kind of thing. Didn’t Stacey give you a box of stuff yesterday?”
“Yes, I put the smaller items in there.” Emma pointed at the carton that Jackie had been dipping into.
“Have you sold much of them?” Jackie asked.
“I think Faye might have bought a few things.”
“That old busybody, you mean?”
“Yes, Faye Seymour,” Emma said, frowning slightly.
Stacey finally moved toward them, the crock pot still in her hands. “That’s my great-aunt’s brooch.” She nodded at the pearl and diamante brooch Jackie was holding. “It came to me when my grandmother died, along with a few other things. I never wore any of them. Not really my style. I don’t know why I hung onto them, but I’ve finally decided to let them go. Guess I want a clean slate.”
Jackie combed through the box
before waving the brooch. “I’ll take this, then. Ten dollars, right?” She reached into the pocket of her jeans to pull out a small wallet.
“If I’d known you liked the brooch, I would’ve given it to you,” Stacey said, frowning a little.
“That’s okay.” Jackie shrugged as she handed some crumpled dollar bills to Emma. “You’ve already done so much for me.”
Stacey’s face softened. “I don’t feel I’ve done enough.”
Jackie carefully pinned the brooch to her shirt. “How do I look? Pretty silly with these jeans and shirt, huh?”
“No, of course not. You look gorgeous,” Stacey said. “And I’m going to buy this crock pot.”
When Stacey’s transaction was completed, she and Jackie wandered off to inspect the rest of the yard sale. A steady flow of bargain hunters kept Emma busy for the next couple of hours. At ten her friend Becky stopped by with a coffee and cream cheese bagel for her, and offered to mind the stall while she took a break. Emma gratefully accepted and passed the fanny pack to Becky.
“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.
Chapter Six
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 rath
er 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?”
Pushed to the Limit (an Emma Cassidy Mystery Book 2) Page 4