Murder Most Likely (an Emma Cassidy Mystery Book 3) Page 8

  “Emma, wait up,” Owen called out.

  She would have kept on marching, except for the faltering note in Owen’s voice. He was not one to falter. She came to a halt.

  Owen rubbed the back of his neck. Now he’d caught up with her, he appeared lost for words. “Um, I don’t know what happened back there, but I’m sorry.”

  Emma exhaled, and the pinched feeling under her ribs dissipated. “I’m sorry, too.”

  He scratched his chin. “I guess I’m still remembering that time at Faye’s when I found you covered in blood.”

  She hadn’t been covered in blood, but perhaps that was how he recalled it. And, if she were honest, she’d have to admit that she still had the odd nightmare over the incident. But that was in the past, and she couldn’t let her life be ruled by that one event.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  He continued to peer at her. “Sure?”

  “Sure.”

  She resumed walking, and he fell into step beside her. “Where are you headed?” he asked after a few moments.

  “To the WAC.” She tilted her head toward the modern building across the road from the school. The Willa Arthur Center was a multipurpose theater mostly used for concerts and sporting events. It was also the venue for this coming Saturday’s school anniversary dinner. “I need to check some measurements for the tables.”

  “I’ll walk you there.”

  “Okay.”

  They walked without speaking, but it was a comfortable silence. She was sorry the WAC was so close by, meaning that they reached the front door in next to no time.

  “See you around.” Owen gave her a faint smile.

  “Yeah, see you.” She told herself not to watch him walk away, and instead strode into the theater.

  Just a few lights were on in the foyer. When she had called earlier that day to check the WAC was open, she’d been told by the floor manager that a few maintenance men were on the premises, however she didn’t see anyone as she crossed the foyer and pushed through the double doors that led into the main hall. The lights were on, though no one was in the hall. Her footsteps echoed in the cavernous space as she stepped across the wooden floor. Devoid of people, the hall seemed larger than usual, and filled with silence. She was used to working on her own in big, empty places. Without a crowd in them they always felt a little ominous.

  She set down her tote bag on one of the tables in the middle of the hall and pulled out her tablet. Tapping on the screen, she brought up the list of tasks she needed to complete. There had been a last-minute complication with the table sizes and linens, and she wanted to verify the table dimensions as well as the number of tables before she finalized the linen order. She got out her measuring tape and leaned over the table.

  As she worked, she couldn’t help thinking about Archer and what Owen might have asked him. If only Owen could tell her what the interview was about. It must have been routine, or Owen would have taken him in for questioning, surely. Should she have told Owen about her encounter with Archer this morning? How he had acted quite menacingly? Archer was always quiet and meek, but even the most timid of mice could roar. And if his seething resentment had been building up for a long time, it was quite possible he could lash out and do something violent.

  She had just straightened from the table when all the lights went out, and the theater was plunged into total darkness.

  Chapter Seven

  What on earth?

  Emma waited, hoping this was just a minor hiccup in the electricity supply and that the lights would come back on soon. But the darkness persisted, thick and inescapable. She couldn’t even see her hand in front of her.

  Where was her bag? If she could find it, she could get out her cell phone and use the torch function. Feeling her way around the table, she barked her shin on a chair. “Ouch!”

  A muffled sound came from somewhere.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  A door banged shut behind her, furtive footsteps scurried about, and then sinister silence.

  She spun around, apprehension crawling like a caterpillar down her spine. “W-who’s there? S-stop playing tricks. It isn’t f-funny.”

  Darn it, why couldn’t she stop stuttering? Who had turned off the lights and snuck into the hall? The first face to spring to mind was Archer’s, sullen with resentment. He’d tried to scare her back in the computer lab. Maybe he was trying again. Indignation rose in her. How dare he? Her outstretched hands finally located her bag. She dug into it and mercifully found her cell phone on the first attempt.

  Someone breathed heavily onto the back of her neck. “Emma…” a man hissed.

  “Aargh!” she screamed, instinctively swinging her arm to ward off her attacker.

  Her elbow connected with a solid bulge of stomach. “Oof,” the man grunted.

  Heart beating wildly, she stumbled back a few paces and finally managed to turn on the torch function of her cell phone. The bright white light fell upon a large, broad-shouldered man, grinning at her.

  “Conrad Dupree!” She drew in a breath. “How…for Pete’s sake, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Conrad Dupree continued to smirk at her as he rubbed his abdomen. “Hey, Emma. That’s some jab you got there. Where’d you pick that up from? You do jujitsu or something?”

  Her pulse was still jittering, her hands shaking. “You-you lunkhead! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  “Yeah, you shrieked like a banshee.” He chortled, his big white teeth flashing in the light. “Didn’t realize you were such good pranking material. Wish I’d filmed it; then I coulda put it up on Facebook.”

  “You—you—” Emma sputtered uselessly, furious at her helplessness. She sucked in a breath to steady herself. “I know you enjoyed pulling pranks back in high school, but surely you’ve grown out of it by now?”

  Conrad shrugged, unrepentant. “Guess I’m just a big ol’ kid at heart.” He squinted more closely at her, and maybe he felt a little contrite because he said, “Hey, why don’t I turn the lights back on for you?”

  “Good idea,” she muttered.

  He ambled out of the hall, and seconds later blessed light flooded the space once more. Emma breathed a sigh of relief, but her respite was short-lived as Conrad returned. In the bright light she took a closer look at him.

  The athletic body that had made him a star quarterback had thickened somewhat, as was to be expected, but he was still in good shape, his chunky biceps and pectorals attesting to hours of weight lifting. His thinning hair was expertly cut and well-maintained; his skin had that even, saturated color that spoke of tanning salons; and his clothes were well-cut and expensive—beige trousers, branded polo shirt, and navy sports jacket. A chunky ring sparkled on his thick pinkie.

  “I saw you come in here,” Conrad said, resting his hip against a table, “and I recognized you straight away. That’s Emma Cassidy, I said to myself. I have to say hello to her.”

  “So your idea of saying hello is to turn off all the lights and scare the bejesus out of me?”

  He spread out his arms. “I’m the Big D. That’s how I roll. Hey, did you think I was an axe murderer or something?” He sniggered at the idea.

  “I was nervous, okay?” She moved away from him and picked up her measuring tape which had fallen to the floor. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some work to do.”

  She hoped he’d take the hint and leave, but it seemed Conrad was as thick-skinned as ever because he didn’t move an inch, just stood there with his arms folded across his barrel of a chest.

  “You’re some kind of party chick now, aren’t you?” he said.

  “An event planner.” Trying to ignore him, she did her measurements and recorded them on her tablet. “I’m organizing the anniversary dinner this Saturday.”

  “Oh, yeah, that thing.”

  “You’re not going?” She was surprised by his lack of enthusiasm. She’d thought a man like Conrad, who’d been so successful and popular at high
school, would jump at the chance to relive his glory days, but apparently this was not the case.

  “Yeah, I’m going, but it’ll be as tame as a bingo night.” He shook his head. “Going out isn’t like it used to be. My buddies are all married now. Poor old muttonheads, getting bossed around by their wives. Jeez, you should hear them when I try to organize a boys’ night out. It’s all, ‘Oh, I’ll have to check with the wife first’, or ‘Sorry, Gina has book club that night and I promised to babysit.’ I mean, come on! Book club?” Connor snorted with disgust. “Since when did book club score higher than hanging out with your buddies?”

  “You were married once,” Emma pointed out, moving over to the tables stacked against the wall so she could count them.

  Connor trailed after her. “That was once too often.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said diplomatically.

  He shrugged. “Katrina and me used to be good together, but marriage was a disaster. What’s that saying? Marry in haste, repent at leisure? Well, that’s not me. I got out as soon as the honeymoon wore off. Good thing, too. I dodged a bullet there…”

  The memory of Katrina Heston trapped in her wheelchair was still fresh in Emma’s mind, and she couldn’t help wincing at Conrad’s casual callousness. He seemed to sense her silent objection because he stiffened, the flippancy fading from his face.

  “What? You think I should pretend just because she’s paralyzed?” He hunched his shoulders, looking resentful. “Katrina was a pain in the ass when we were married. I’m sorry about the accident and all, but I’m not sorry I divorced her, and I’m sure glad I’m not stuck looking after her day and night.”

  At least he was honest. Emma shook her head. “Look, I don’t even know why you’re telling me all this. It’s not as if we were ever friends.”

  “Huh. Well, I’m tired of some people judging me in this town. Folks feel sorry for Katrina and her parents because they had to sell that fancy house of theirs to pay for her medical bills. Well, that’s not my fault, is it? Katrina got her fair share when we got divorced—more than her fair share in my book—and as far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of it. And if I’m doing better than okay now, that’s not my fault either. It’s just how the cookie crumbles.”

  “So what do you do these days?” she asked, eager to shift the conversation to less contentious topics. She needed to do a proper count of all the tables and chairs, but she couldn’t do that accurately with Connor monopolizing her attention, and since he seemed impervious to hints, she figured maybe the best way to get rid of him was to chat to him until he got bored.

  “I’m working for my dad at his car dealership. If you ever need a new car, just come and see me. I’ll offer you a deal you can’t refuse.” He flashed his perfect, white smile at her, and she could see how selling cars was the ideal job for him.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” A new car would be nice, but a place of her own was a higher priority.

  “You make a lot doing this party planning stuff?” Conrad asked without a hint of embarrassment.

  His brazenness caught her by surprise. “Uh, I do all right. Not as well as others, obviously. Like you. Or Mervyn.” She didn’t know why she’d mentioned Mervyn. Maybe it was because Conrad’s boasting irked her, and she wanted to make him aware that he wasn’t the big kahuna he’d once been.

  “Mervyn? You mean Butthead Butterick?” Conrad lifted a lip in a sneer. “That weird geek. Didn’t know you were that close to him.”

  “I’m not, but I did a party for him last Saturday, and he’s a big deal now. Sold a computer startup for millions, apparently, and he’s started another.”

  “Yeah, well, once a nerd, always a nerd, I say. There’s something about Butthead Butterick that’s always felt ‘off’ to me. He’s a weirdo, all right.”

  Indignation on Mervyn’s behalf rose in Emma. She turned on Conrad, hands propped on her hips. “A weirdo? Is that why you used to play those jokes on him?”

  Looking taken aback, Conrad shook his head. “Hey, I pulled pranks on a lot of people. Just played one on you, didn’t I?”

  True, Emma conceded, but it seemed he had reserved his more humiliating ones for defenseless outsiders like Mervyn. But she didn’t want to be drawn into an argument with Conrad over things that had happened years ago. Huffing out a breath, she returned to her work. She had lost track of her count and would have to start again.

  “So,” Conrad said after a moment, “you were at Butthead’s party, were you? The one where some guy drowned?”

  There was a strange hesitancy to him that she wouldn’t normally associate with the brash Conrad she knew. “Yes,” she replied, giving up any pretence of trying to count chairs. “It was quite horrible. The man fell off a jetty and drowned in the lake. No one saw him until it was too late.”

  Conrad was examining his fingers, picking at his cuticles. “What did the police say? Was it an accident?”

  “Uh, they haven’t said anything as far as I know.”

  “See, what did I tell you? Butthead might be rolling in it, but he can’t even throw a party without losing one of his guests.”

  She frowned at him. “How can you say that? It wasn’t Mervyn’s fault.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” He gave her a smirk as he smoothed a palm over his thinning hair. “Good to talk to you, Emma. We should catch up over a drink sometime.”

  He gave her the once-over, his smile turning oily, and she had to press her palm against a nearby table to restrain herself from slapping that smirk off his face. While she was still struggling to control herself, he sauntered off, hands in his pockets, whistling softly under his breath.

  Of all the egotistical, puffed up blowhards…

  It seemed Conrad Dupree hadn’t matured much since high school. He was still pulling pranks, still thinking he was God’s gift to women, still prejudiced against people like Mervyn.

  When Mervyn had named Conrad as one of his enemies, she’d thought it implausible, but now she was beginning to change her mind. Conrad must know that Mervyn—or ‘Butthead’ as he so charmingly nicknamed him—now owned the Hestons’ property, a house he must be very familiar with. Conrad, resentful of Mervyn’s success, might have decided another prank was in order to bring Mervyn down a peg or two. He could have lurked outside the house, seen Todd in that distinctive red jacket, followed him to the jetty, and pushed him into the lake, assuming all along that it was Mervyn.

  Conrad didn’t appear to have an ounce of compassion in him; his callous lack of sympathy toward Katrina demonstrated that clearly. Plus, his schoolboy mentality meant he was still into pranks. Yes, it didn’t take a big stretch of the imagination to picture Conrad as the killer. Sure, he might not have meant to kill Todd, but the outcome was the same.

  ***

  The sun was slipping toward the horizon when Emma finally made it out of the Willa Arthur Center. Thanks to Conrad’s interruptions, she hadn’t been able to finish her counting before she had to race out to an appointment with the caterers. Complications involving the price of lobster had meant she could only return to the WAC later in the afternoon, but at least her second visit hadn’t been interrupted by the swaggering car salesman.

  She was still thinking about Conrad when she saw Archer Janick sitting in a rusty, beaten pickup truck. Hunched over the steering wheel, he scowled as the engine coughed and cranked furiously for several seconds but refused to fire up. He gave up and thumped the wheel in frustration.

  Emma hesitated. After her tense encounter with Archer that morning, she wasn’t anxious to talk to him again. However, there wasn’t anyone else about, and her own car was parked just a few spots away. Even if he was a difficult character, she could hardly drive off without offering assistance.

  Approaching tentatively, she waved at him. “Hi, there, Archer. Having trouble with your truck?” If he snapped at her, she would back off immediately, she decided.

  But instead of snapping, he pulled a sheepish grimace and wound down
the window. “Yeah, this piece of junk has finally given up the ghost.”

  She nodded in sympathy. “I know how you feel.” She jerked a thumb at her Toyota. “My car’s not too fancy either, but I’ve got a great mechanic now.” Ever since she’d helped Sean McCluskey, he’d insisted on servicing her car free of charge, which was very generous of him, especially as her car had reached an age where it needed constant attention.

  Grabbing the backpack next to him, Archer slid out of the truck and slammed the door shut. “Guess I’ll catch a bus and then walk the rest of the way.”

  Emma glanced up at the sky where heavy gray clouds were gathering. “It looks like it might rain soon. Where do you live? Maybe I could give you a lift there?”

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Um, I’m off Park Way, just past JT’s. It’s about fifteen minutes’ drive from here. You know the place?”

  “I know Park Way.” JT’s was a rough-and-ready kind of dive bar she’d never visited before but driven past plenty of times. She gestured to her car. “Get in. It shouldn’t take long.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded and followed her to her car. For the first few minutes of their journey he didn’t say a thing, and the silence began to weigh on her. Archer had never been easy to talk to, and she had seldom seen him on his own. Usually, he had been with Mervyn, and Mervyn had always had a steady stream of conversation. But she couldn’t talk about Mervyn, and her mind seemed to have drawn a complete blank on any other topics.

  “Are you going to the anniversary dinner?” she asked, eager to break the silence.

  “Not hardly,” Archer barked out.

  Okay, what else could they talk about? Maybe she could ask him where he’d been Saturday night around about midnight. Or…maybe not.

  Archer suddenly cleared his throat, the noise as sharp as a gunshot. “Would you like to stop for a drink at JT’s?”

  Nerves still jangling, she tried to make sense of his question. “A drink at JT’s? Uh…” She glanced at him and caught a glimpse of resignation in his eyes, as if he was used to being rejected and even expected it from her. “Uh, sure,” she said with forced cheeriness. “I wouldn’t mind one.”