Emma understood why Stacey wasn’t looking forward to the police knocking on her door. She couldn’t risk having her real identity revealed, and every contact with the law heightened the chance of some nosey officer digging deeper into her background. Plus, a visit by the police would no doubt throw Jackie into a spin, too.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Emma said, eager to reassure not just Stacey but herself as well.
She turned to go. As she climbed into her car, she glanced once more at the house. From the living room window, Jackie frowned at her, her long brown hair framing a white face pinched with worry. Why was she so agitated? Emma wondered as she drove off. Was it because Emma had falsely accused Stacey and that had raised Jackie’s hackles? Or did the secretive woman know something more? Something Stacey wasn’t telling Emma?
Chapter Twenty Four
In the end, the quiet nap at home that Emma had envisaged didn’t eventuate. Before she reached home, she received a phone call from Chief Putnam asking her to go to the police station immediately. There, he and another policeman, Officer Martinez, quizzed her in more detail about her discovery of Tom’s body. It seemed like a routine interview, until she reluctantly told them about the knife and how she recognized it.
Chief Putnam instantly glowered at her. “Did you touch the body or the knife?” he barked. “You do know it’s an offence to interfere with a criminal investigation.”
She hurried to assure them that she hadn’t contaminated the crime scene. As if she’d been in any mood to examine the dead body closer. She told them the knife had once belonged to her parents, explained about the community yard sale last Saturday, and pulled out her receipt book.
“It’s incomplete. Not everyone wanted a receipt, and it was very busy at times. I didn’t really get a chance to keep track of everything.”
The censorious expression on the chief’s face made her feel like a bumbling idiot who had no right running a yard sale stall, let alone an event planning business. Officer Martinez, who had been largely occupied writing in his note book, threw her a sympathetic look. His round face and laid-back manner were disarming, but Chief Putnam was in charge of the investigation, and he’d never had a high opinion of Emma.
The chief flicked through the receipt book and, as she predicted, paused when he came to the one made out to Stacey. Sticking a finger on the page to mark his spot, he went through the remainder of the book, but she knew that was the only receipt for a knife. With his bushy eyebrows slanting downward, he showed the receipt to Officer Martinez.
“She bought a different kitchen knife, not the one my parents owned. Hers had a wooden handle, not carved bone,” Emma said, conscious that she was babbling slightly.
“You remember that?”
She hesitated. “No, but that’s what she told me…”
Chief Putnam rested his meaty paw on the receipt book. “We’ll need to keep this as evidence. Officer Martinez will type up your witness statement. Come by tomorrow morning to read it over and sign it.” He heaved to his feet. “Thanks for coming in, Ms. Cassidy.”
“Stacey doesn’t know anything about the knife, you know,” Emma said as she got to her feet, a sinking feeling inside her.
“We’ll be the judge of that. And by the way, don’t leave town in the next couple of days without telling us.”
Emma gaped at the chief. “Wh-what? You don’t think I had anything to do...that’s ridiculous.”
Unmoved, the chief folded his arms, his bulk stretching his starched blue shirt. “You were there when Faye Seymour took a tumble down her stairs, and then a week later you happen to stumble across the dead body of her next door neighbor. I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t consider that an unusual coincidence.”
“But—but—” Emma spluttered.
The chief waved a hand, dismissing her. “Martinez, can you escort Ms. Cassidy out of the station, please?”
Limp with dread, Emma allowed the officer to walk her out of the chief’s office, but when they were in the foyer of the police station, she halted and turned to him.
“Does the chief seriously think I’m a suspect?” she asked, her voice squeaking on the last word.
“It’s still early in the investigation. We have to keep an open mind,” Officer Martinez said with a sympathetic lift of his lips.
“But I was with Faye almost the entire day,” Emma protested. “I drove her home from the hospital, did some chores around the house for her, took her to the vet and the grocery store. When would I have had a chance to run next door and stab poor Tom?” The police officer didn’t say anything, but his facial expression gave him away. “Oh, did Tom die earlier in the day? Maybe this morning or the night before, even?”
Officer Martinez shifted on his feet. “I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with you.”
So that’s why the chief had wanted to know her movements for the entire day. Tom must have been killed before she had arrived at the hospital at noon. Before that, between seven and ten, she’d been at the park checking on the clean up. Any of the crew could verify that, if asked. But after that she’d returned to Faye’s house, packed up her belongings, and driven to her father’s house, and no one had seen her during that time, which meant she had no solid alibi. The police would surmise that she could have grabbed her parents’ old kitchen knife, popped over to Faye’s house, gone next door, and killed Tom Kovacs. It wouldn’t have taken any time at all.
Nausea swirled in her, and she thought she was going to be sick.
“Easy, there.” Officer Martinez helped her to a bench in the foyer. “Put your head between your knees and breathe slowly.”
She did as he instructed, and gradually the panic subsided. She forced herself to sit up. “But why would I want to hurt poor Tom Kovacs? I barely knew him.”
“You were in and out of Faye Seymour’s house all week. Plus, you stayed over a couple of nights. You might have run into him. Or he might have seen you do something, something you might not want other people to know about.”
So they were back to Faye. Deep down, as soon as she’d discovered Tom’s body, she’d sensed that his murder was tied to Faye.
“While you were at Faye’s did you ever talk to Tom?” Officer Martinez asked.
Emma shook her head. “I tried to, but he ran away.”
“When was this?”
“I caught him staring through the window earlier in the week; it must’ve been Wednesday. According to Faye, he did that sometimes when he came over to steal her peaches. I called out to him, but he disappeared. I went outside to see if I could catch him, but he’d already vanished next door.”
Officer Martinez regarded her steadily. His eyes were no longer friendly but shrewd. “What did you want to talk to him about?”
“I—I don’t know. I suppose I felt a bit sorry for him, and I thought it would be neighborly.”
“Tom Kovacs was an antisocial hermit who lived in a hovel. Do you usually go out of your way to be ‘neighborly’ to men like him?”
Emma couldn’t help flushing. “You make it sound so suspicious.”
“One of my colleagues talked to Tom Kovacs the other day. I read her report. Seems Tom saw someone running away the day Faye took a tumble.”
Perspiration broke out on the back of Emma’s neck. Why had she thought Officer Martinez was nice and friendly? She’d been fooled; he was just as dogged and mistrusting as Chief Putnam.
“And you think I match the description Tom gave to Sherilee,” she said, resisting the temptation to wipe the back of her damp neck. She couldn’t afford to give Officer Martinez any further signs of guilt. “But it was a very vague description. It could fit half the female population in Greenville.”
Officer Martinez didn’t respond, and she knew she was right. He looked her over, and gradually the suspicious cop attitude faded as he scratched his temple and gave her a nod. “I’ll call you tomorrow to come in and sign your statement,” he said by way of dismissal, and with another n
od he turned on his heel and walked away.
Emma remained on the bench for a few more moments while she tried to re-focus her chaotic thoughts. The foyer hummed with activity as officers and civilians bustled in and out, carrying an air of urgency with them. She supposed all the activity was due to Tom’s murder. She thought about the police officers and crime scene technicians swarming over Tom’s lonely house and wondered what the recluse would’ve made of it, his private domain which he’d guarded so fiercely now invaded by strangers who poked through his possessions, revealing the solitary life he’d led. He would hate it, she thought. He didn’t deserve to die like that, terrified, in agony. As the awfulness threatened to overwhelm her, she took a deep breath and forced herself to stand up.
“Hey, Emma.” Sherilee raised her eyebrows at Emma as they crossed paths outside the station.
Emma was in no mood for Sherilee. Not today. “Hey,” she muttered, hunching her shoulders and walking past.
But Sherilee turned and kept pace with her. “I’ve just come from Tom Kovacs’s place. I’m sorry you had to find his body.”
The sympathy in Sherilee’s voice was so unexpected that Emma stopped. “I’m sorry for him.” She paused as a thought hit her. “Do you know what’s happening with his dog? It was really upset.”
“Yeah, poor mutt. He didn’t look in great condition, so I took him to the vet, and he agreed to keep him overnight.”
Nick Stavros had done that? “That’s very decent of him,” Emma said. “What about Faye? Does she need someone to stay with her?” She hoped and prayed Sherilee wouldn’t suggest she go over there. It might be selfish, but she really didn’t want to return to Faye’s.
“She seems to be holding up okay,” Sherilee replied. “Helen Wylie is over there. She’ll probably spend the night with her. And we’ll have extra patrols in the neighborhood until we catch the killer.”
Emma nodded.
“By the way,” Sherilee continued. “I’ve been trying to get hold of Lorraine Atkins, but she’s not answering her phone, and her neighbor seems to think she went away for the weekend rather suddenly this afternoon. Do you know anything about that?”
Emma tiredly rubbed her forehead. “Yeah, she told me she was going away to spend time with her ex-husband. I bumped into her at the store, and…” The image of Lorraine’s shopping cart came to mind, and all Emma could think of was that sharp kitchen knife sitting incongruously between the champagne and the strawberries. Why had Lorraine needed that knife? Had she purchased it intending to use it on Tom but changed her mind when Emma caught her in the grocery store, and decided on a different knife? A bone-handled knife she’d bought at the yard sale, for instance?
“You were saying?” Sherilee prompted her.
“Um, that’s it. She—she left to see Taylor, her ex-husband.” The man Lorraine still loved. Had she finally decided to take revenge on Faye for destroying her marriage? Lorraine might have shoved Faye down the stairs, and then been forced to kill Tom to stop him from identifying her.
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll try calling her again.” Sherilee walked away.
Emma drove home, plagued by doubts about Lorraine. She couldn’t imagine the placid artist stabbing an innocent man in the back, but Lorraine had seemed quite agitated at the grocery store. It could’ve been merely the anticipation of seeing her ex-husband again, or it could’ve been something more sinister. Who knew what Lorraine had suffered over the years?
When Emma arrived home, she found her dad and Janet Ramos anxiously waiting for her, having already heard the news through the local grapevine, so she sat down and prepared herself to telling her story all over again, though this time her audience was far more sympathetic.
***
Emma started awake at the sound of her cell phone chiming from somewhere in her room. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she blearily hauled her tote bag onto her bed and rummaged through it. In the end, she had to empty half its contents before the phone, still singing out, tumbled out.
“M’ello?” she answered, barely suppressing a yawn.
“I thought you might still be asleep.” Faye’s tart voice pinged in Emma’s ear. “Good thing I called to wake you up.”
“Faye?” Pushing herself upright, Emma checked the time on her phone. Ten past eight. On a Sunday morning. Oh, for the love of—
“Pick me up in twenty minutes,” Faye said in a tone that brooked no argument. “That should give you plenty of time to wake up.”
Emma ran her fingers through her mussed up hair. “And why am I picking you up?”
“So we can go to Marietta.” A huff of exasperation came from the other end of the call. “The pancake parlor. Carmel, Kenneth Bischoff’s mistress. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” It was all coming back to Emma, the conversation she’d had with Faye about Bischoff forcing his way into her house and demanding the evidence of his affair be destroyed. Faye wanted to visit Carmel at her place of work and ask if she knew where Bischoff had been last Saturday afternoon. Everything that had happened before Emma had discovered Tom’s body seemed a long time ago. “But do you still want to do that? Shouldn’t we leave it to the police?”
“The police?” Faye snorted. “I’m sure Chief Putnam is a good man, but he’s not exactly nimble in his thinking, and now he’s got Tom’s murder occupying him, he’s hardly going to pay any attention to who might have pushed me down the stairs.”
“But don’t you see that the two crimes might very well be connected?” Emma said. “Whoever caused your fall could be the same person who killed Tom because of what he saw.”
“If that’s the case then it’s all the more reason to visit Carmel and question her.” Faye sounded more determined than ever. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to get here.” She ended the call before Emma could say another word.
Frowning at her phone, Emma contemplated ignoring Faye’s summons and curling up in bed again, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to get another wink of sleep, and Faye would call again if she didn’t show up. Groaning, she flung back the covers and padded to the bathroom.
A quarter of an hour later, she was pulling up in Faye’s driveway, having raced through a shower before throwing on whatever clothes came to hand. She hadn’t had time to slap on any makeup, but she was too tired to care.
Faye was ready in a practical gabardine skirt and floral print shirt. The moonboot gave strength to her healing ankle so the crutches were more for balance than support. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks a healthy color as she navigated her way into the passenger seat with Emma’s help. It seemed the violent murder that had happened so close to her hadn’t affected her sleep one bit. In fact, she appeared quite energized.
As Emma drove them to Marietta, Faye filled her in on the goings on next door. The police and various technicians had been at Tom’s house for several hours collecting evidence, though how they could discern evidence from Tom’s normal grubbiness was beyond Faye. The chief had asked Faye several questions about her neighbor and had said he would need to interview her again later today. Other neighbors had gathered, drawn by the commotion, and Faye had clearly enjoyed regaling them with everything she knew about Tom. And possibly some creative embellishments of her own, Emma thought to herself.
“Lorraine has disappeared with that dead beat man she can’t seem to get rid of.” Faye sniffed in disapproval. “Run off to some hippie retreat. She’s making a huge mistake. And to top it all, she refused to come back even when I’d told her what had happened! Unbelievable. Instead, Helen came over and insisted on spending the night.” Faye huffed with exasperation. “Helen and I have never got on, but of course she wants to curry favor since her worthless son vandalized my house.” She paused for a moment before turning widened eyes at Emma. “Now you’ve got me thinking. Helen might have pushed me down the stairs. Helen might have killed Tom. And she was in my house all night.” She pressed a hand to her throat. “She could have killed me while I slept!”
“I doubt Helen i
s a murderer,” Emma said hastily even though she did question why Helen would’ve wanted to spend the night at Faye’s. Was it merely duty to her cousin-in-law seeing that Lorraine was away? Or was her son Jason involved in something again?
They reached Marietta, a little town whose main purpose was to service the Shamrock Lake campus of Tait University. On a Sunday morning the main street was mostly quiet, with students probably sleeping in, recovering from a late Saturday night. Faye directed Emma to a small pancake parlor in the centre of the main shopping strip, where Emma found a parking spot right outside the brick building with its pink-and-white striped awning.
Inside, a few middle-aged and elderly couples occupied the booths, quietly eating their Sunday morning pancakes, waffles, and bacon. Faye nudged Emma’s arm and gestured with her head toward the tall, voluptuous brunette behind the counter who was handing orders to the cook. The waitress wore a pink-and-white uniform and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but she was definitely the same woman that Emma had seen in Faye’s photographs.
They walked up and hitched themselves onto stools at the counter. The curvaceous waitress turned to them and flicked a couple of menus at them.
“Morning.” Her eyes were at half-mast as if weighed down by her fake lashes, and her lips barely moved as she spoke. Seemingly unaware of Faye and Emma’s curious stares, she hauled out pen and notepad and waited apathetically.
Faye poked her elbow into Emma’s side again. Emma grimaced. Why was she supposed to ask the hard questions when it had been Faye’s idea to come here?
Emma cleared her throat. “I’ll have the blueberry pancakes and a coffee, please.”
She felt Faye’s frown upon her but kept her face averted.
“I’ll just have a coffee,” Faye said abruptly. When the waitress had sauntered off, she leaned toward Emma. “Why are you ordering pancakes and coffee?” she hissed.
Emma lifted her shoulders. “I’m hungry. Besides, I can hardly start firing questions at her from the get-go.”
Pushed to the Limit (an Emma Cassidy Mystery Book 2) Page 19