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Foul Play (An Emily O'Brien novel #3)
Foul Play (An Emily O'Brien novel #3)
Foul Play (An Emily O'Brien novel #3)
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Foul Play (An Emily O'Brien novel #3)

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Every time I think of my past, I’m filled with shame, both for the things I’ve done and the people I’ve hurt. Adam Wheeler definitely fell into the category of people I should have treated better, one of the people who tried to help me when I wouldn’t save myself...Two hunters find a corpse in a forest preserve outside Mt. Compton, Illinois, but no one can explain how Adam Wheeler died. Driven by guilt to attend a funeral in her hometown, reporter Emily O’Brien learns of his death and sets out to find out who killed her former friend and teammate. As she begins unraveling Adam’s secrets, her discoveries paint a tale of love, control and revenge – and possibly a motive for murder. But her search comes with a price. Emily must also face the demons from her own past and find a way toward forgiveness and redemption. As her hunt for the killer continues, Emily finds that the questions she’s asking are putting her in danger and soon she also is running for her life.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherM.R. Miller
Release dateJan 8, 2013
ISBN9781301207015
Foul Play (An Emily O'Brien novel #3)
Author

M.R. Miller

I was a journalist for about twelve years with a daily newspaper in the Midwest and am now the author of the Emily O’Brien series. When I’m not writing, I enjoy reading, hiking, cooking, gardening and spending time with my family.

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    Foul Play (An Emily O'Brien novel #3) - M.R. Miller

    Foul Play

    An Emily O’Brien novel

    By M.R.Miller

    Copyright 2013 M.R. Miller

    All rights reserved. No reproduction of this work is authorized without prior written consent from the author.

    This book is a work of fiction. All characters, dialogue and plot are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to people, living or dead, or actual events are entirely coincidental.

    Published by M.R. Miller at Smashwords

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    Prologue

    Shriveled leaves crunched underfoot, breaking the silence of the cool spring morning. A light mist hovered over the ground, making it hard to see more than forty to fifty yards ahead.

    The men tried to move silently, scouting out the best spot to camouflage them as they waited for their prey. Turkey had surprisingly sharp vision and they wanted to blend into their surroundings.

    They settled underneath an ancient oak tree and began using a box call to woo a tom closer. But an hour of calling was fruitless. A bird replied from a distance but wouldn’t come in range. The mist didn’t help.

    Frustrated, they got up to find another location, maybe one with more birds. They only had until one o’clock to kill a turkey and they didn’t want to go home empty-handed. Their season was over today and it would be fall before they could hunt a gobbler again.

    They’d both been to the park hundreds of times and knew the terrain well. After discussing their options, they settled on another locale to try to call a bird in, one where they’d seen toms before.

    That location was a good mile away by taking the path mowed through the park. But a shortcut through a ravine would shave that distance by half. They set off through the woods, carefully picking their way down the steep slope, sliding on the leaves still damp from the morning dew. At the bottom of the ridge, they sloshed through the creek, breaking the water with their Gortex boots. On the other side, they began the strenuous climb to the other side, stopping to catch their breath halfway to the top.

    Once they cleared the ridge, they stopped again, bending over and bracing themselves on their knees, sucking wind hard and trying to slow their heartbeats. One of the men glanced ahead, through the mist, and he drew in a panicked breath, holding it as he studied the view before him.

    The other man, sensing his partner’s fear, followed his gaze.

    "Crap. What the hell is that?"

    "I don’t know."

    They both approached slowly, wary of anything else in the woods. Unwittingly their minds flitted to the tales of Big Foot associated with the park; for many years hunters, hikers and kids out drinking beer had claimed to see a two-legged monster that towered near seven feet tall and growled like a wild animal.

    But those tales were nonsense, they had agreed.

    They came near the base of the thick maple tree, looking up to see the body hanging from one of the branches, swinging back and forth in the light breeze. It was a man, stripped naked, beaten and bruised. His tongue was protruding and his glazed eyes were rolled back up in his head.

    One man raced to the bushes, emptying his stomach of the breakfast he’d had that morning. The other man bit his lower lip, trying not to do the same. He continued to study the body. The man’s limbs were skewed at odd angles, as if all of the bones in his body had been crushed to bits.

    In the distance, he heard a faint shuffling, a strange grunting noise. Or maybe it was his imagination.

    "Did you hear that?" he asked his companion, who was wiping his mouth.

    "Hear what?"

    More noises sounded, moving closer.

    Their hearts began pounding, much harder than they had after the climb up the hill. They didn’t need to confer about what to do next.

    They turned and ran down the hill and didn’t stop until they’d reached their truck.

    Chapter 1

    The newsroom was uncharacteristically quiet for a Wednesday afternoon. People might take off early on a Friday or before a holiday; mid-week was usually still crunch time. But today most of the other reporters must have been on assignment. I figured Rosemary Lostant was in court. I wasn’t sure about the others.

    Not that I was complaining. It was nice to have a little peace and quiet as I worked on my story about proposed legislation that would force small school districts to merge. This was one of those issues that would have people ready to tar and feather their elected officials. So I better enjoy the quiet now. Once the story broke I’d be fielding plenty of phone calls.

    Most people assume that reporting on education is easy, just fluffy stuff. I wish that were true. But education touches on two things people are very protective of: their offspring and their money. Unfortunately, those two issues often put school boards in a precarious position – make parents happy and make taxpayers happy.

    And, oh yeah, the position on the board pays nothing. Zero. Nil. Now have fun taking all those complaints. It was a thankless job and I was often amazed at how many people did it anyway. I might sit through long, boring meetings. And I might field calls from angry parents or taxpayers. But at least I was paid something for my efforts.

    A rubber band zinged past my head, just missing my ear and slapping against my computer monitor. Without missing a beat, I grabbed a pad of sticky notes from my desk, rolled back my chair and fired a shot at Kim Whitaker in the sports section behind me.

    He ducked, but not enough to keep the paper from hitting his shoulder. He feigned an injury, then chucked it back at me. It hit the side of my cubicle just a few inches from my head.

    Nice shot. What are you doing here so early? I asked. I didn’t think you dragged your sorry butt out of bed before four.

    I need to use the computer.

    Don’t you have one at home?

    Nah. Mine’s fried.

    I got up and walked back into sports. Their area of the newsroom was a mess, an ancient 19-inch TV complete with rabbit ears in the corner, a radio that was almost always tuned to some ball game, and lots of sports programs tossed randomly on desks. I leaned against Whit’s work station, then scooted up on the desk.

    So what’s so important that you’re here at, I checked the clock on the wall, two-thirty?

    Uhh… my e-mail.

    I shot him a look.

    Okay. I, uhh, am giving online dating a try and I need to check if she responded to my e-mail.

    I groaned. I knew it. I thought we talked about that and decided it was a bad idea.

    Easy for you to say. I wouldn’t be driven to these extremes if you would just go out with me instead of dating losers who try to kill you.

    I grimaced a little at that, mostly because I couldn’t argue. Whit was a six-four teddy bear and I adored him like an older brother, but given our lack of a shared faith and, in all honesty, a lack of chemistry, I’d always begged off his invitations to go out.

    I was not dating him. It was just work, I said, referring to an incident three months. How was I supposed to know he’d go off the deep end?

    You don’t. And that’s my point. I could end up meeting a weirdo in real life just as easily as meeting one online. So why not give it a shot?

    I sighed. Fine. Point taken. So what do you have so far?

    Well, there’s Kimberly. She’s from Chicago. She’s studying to be an attorney. And she used to model swimsuits for the JC Penney catalog.

    I snorted. Translated that means she’s put on some weight and likes to argue all the time.

    Whit glared at me. You’re not helping.

    Plus you’d be Kim and Kimberly. That’s just weird.

    No one calls me Kim but my mother.

    Who else have you got?

    How about Elsa?

    Next.

    Why?

    Who in the U.S. names their kid Elsa? She’s probably an illegal alien looking for a green card.

    Are you going to be like this for every name I say?

    Probably.

    Then go away.

    Look, Whit, I’m just worried about you. Any of these women could be bad news and all you know about them is what they tell you. That could be anything. Haven’t you seen those news shows where they have profiles of hot young guys who end up being old farts with pot bellies and no teeth trying to seduce teenage girls?

    Emily?

    Hmm?

    Go away.

    Fine, I said, sliding off his desk. But don’t blame me when you end up meeting some stalker chick with a bad case of acne. When’s your first date?

    This weekend.

    With who?

    Kimberly.

    I nodded and walked back to my desk, humming the theme song to Jaws. Whit shot another rubber band at me, this one hitting me on the butt.

    I was still laughing when my phone rang. I snatched it up before realizing the number on the Caller ID was from out of the area. Great, I thought, a telemarketer call at work. Too late now.

    Emily O’Brien, I said, trying to sound professional despite my hesitation.

    Yes, uh, I’m looking for Emily Walker. Is that you?

    Something about the voice was familiar. Then the area code came into focus for me and my stomach began to tighten.

    I used to be Emily Walker. Lee Walker, I said cautiously. Who wants to know?

    Oh, dear. It’s really you after all these years? Don’t you remember me?

    Of course I did. How could I forget? Uncle Henry?

    Yes, yes, that’s right. Oh, I’ve seen your name in the paper, all the way down here. Your Aunt Margaret wasn’t too pleased when she saw your picture with you all beat up. ‘That Emily is still a tomboy,’ she said. But oh, I was proud to see you still had that same old grit.

    I felt like I’d just fallen down the rabbit hole. What the hell was he talking about? I’d found Alex’s killer nine months ago and he was just calling me now? And did he really think I’d want to hear what they had to say about my life choices? They’d stopped caring years ago, if they ever cared at all.

    Still I was at work and I couldn’t really cause a scene.

    What exactly can I do for you?

    Oh, dear. You’re at work. I’m sorry. That’s the only number for you I could find. Maybe you should call me back later.

    What’s wrong? I persisted. I really did not want to call him. Really.

    Well, it’s your aunt, dear. She passed away last night.

    That song from The Wizard of Oz, the one about the witch being dead, immediately popped into my head. I knew it was wrong to think that, but I couldn’t help it.

    I’m sorry to hear that.

    She had been ailing for years now. We were actually just getting ready to move to an assisted care facility because I needed help with her, but she had a stroke last night and didn’t make it.

    I’m sorry, I said again. I really couldn’t think of anything else to say.

    I was thinking, uh, maybe you’d like to come down for the wake and the funeral.

    I closed my eyes and pressed my lips together to keep from saying no outright. Every fiber in my body ached to say it. To tell him to forget it and hang up the phone. Didn’t I have every right to do that?

    But I knew it didn’t matter what I had a right to do. If I asked what Jesus would do, it was a pretty easy guess that he wouldn’t slam down the receiver.

    When is it? I choked out.

    Friday evening will be the wake. The funeral is on Saturday.

    I’ll try to be there, I managed, already feeling like a liar because I was pretty sure there was no way I could go through with it.

    Thank you, dear. And maybe you could stay a few days? Help me with my move? I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but I don’t have any other family left but you.

    The sheer weight of his request pounded me in the chest like a lightning bolt. For a second, I couldn’t breathe.

    When are you moving?

    The weekend following the funeral.

    A week. A solid week. This must be my punishment for giving Whit crap about online dating. Or maybe for swearing at the guy who cut me off on my way to work this morning. Or maybe for…well, it could be lots of things.

    I’ll have to see if I can get off work, I said weakly.

    That would be wonderful, dear.

    I took down his number and the times for the wake, then hung up shell shocked. I wanted to put my head down on my desk and cry, but instead I called my pastor and asked him to meet me tomorrow morning for coffee.

    I had considered asking him for tonight but I needed some time to digest this, to let out the worst of my feelings before I talked to him. And I desperately needed a cigarette, maybe two. Screw staying on the wagon. This qualified as a nicotine emergency.

    This whole idea, spending a week with my uncle and attending my aunt’s funeral, setting foot again in a town that knew all my dirty shameful secrets was the most hellish concept I could think of.

    I’d rather parade naked through downtown Winston with a scarlet A around my neck. Because here I could at least escape my past. Going back to Mt. Compton would be digging up the best and the worst times of my life.

    And unfortunately, the bad times destroyed the good ones.

    Chapter 2

    The Past

    I didn’t think I could make it another hour.

    The room was stuffy, with even the straining air conditioner unable to disguise the strong scents of sweat and perfume clinging to all the well-wishers packed into the funeral home. The closeness of the room was more of a tribute to how small Abington’s only funeral home was than to how well loved my father was. Not that he wasn’t loved. It just didn’t take many people to fill up the limited space.

    I looked down the line of people still waiting and at those seated within the rows of hard wooden chairs. I saw folks from church, my father’s co-workers, some still sweaty from a long day on the job, even some of our neighbors.

    I squeezed my eyes closed, fighting the tears that threatened again to flow down my cheeks. I wanted out of this room. I wanted to scream and shove my way out the door, down the street to our shaded backyard. I wanted desperately to curl up in a ball under the hundred-year-old oak tree that had served as the backstop to our nightly baseball practice and just let the waves of grief overtake me.

    I couldn’t stay in this room with its cloying odors and the casket that certainly did not hold my father for another minute. And I was so tired of wearing this wretched dress, with its lacy fringes scratching the soft spots behind my knees. My father had never made me dress this way and it seemed almost hypocritical to do so now.

    But, what choice did I have?

    Next to me, my Aunt Margaret was seated with her ankles crossed looking unruffled by the warmth or the long line of people that were strangers to her. She and my Uncle Henry had come within hours after hearing that my father had died, and she had immediately set to work planning the service. Good thing, too. At fifteen years old, I wouldn’t have known where to begin, not even with the help of the women from our church.

    I hadn’t been expecting his death. What kid does? To me, my father had seemed invincible. True, he was older than most of the dads of the kids in my class. But his twinkling eyes and curly salt-and-pepper hair had never seemed old to me. And he was still so strong, swinging a hammer every day with the crew of carpenters. But at the end of the day, he had time and energy to play baseball with me for hours.

    At the thought of baseball, my eyes welled up again and this time I couldn’t shut the tears off. Who was going to play baseball with me now? Who was going to cheer me on at my games and work with me on my hitting and fielding? Who was going to look at me with pride and say That’s my girl no matter whether we won or lost?

    I stood up quickly, muttering something to my aunt about using the bathroom. She huffed at me slightly but didn’t protest as I half-ran out of the room and pushed into the door marked ladies. Fortunately no one else was there.

    I locked the door and slid down to the carpeted floor, hugging my knees to my chin. I let the tears come now and didn’t bother to stop them. My father was gone and I was leaving my home, the only home I had known, in just two short days. It wasn’t fair, I wailed to myself. Not fair at all.

    It was bad enough that my mother was dead, gone when I was only a few months old. Now my daddy, too. Why? I loved Abington, loved my life here. All of my classmates understood me, understood that growing up with just my dad had turned me into a tomboy, and I knew wherever I went next that wouldn’t be the case. Girls my age didn’t play baseball with boys. Oh, they might play softball or volleyball, but they still wore pretty clothes and styled their hair like the pictures in magazines. I wouldn’t know the difference between an eyelet and eyeliner. How was I going to go on without my daddy, without my friends here?

    A soft knock sounded against the door. I didn’t answer, hoping it was just someone waiting for the bathroom.

    Emily?

    I didn’t respond once I heard who was speaking.

    Emily?

    Then came the deliberate sigh.

    Lee?

    Yes, I finally answered. My dad always called me Lee. Everyone called me Lee. And she wasn’t going to change that.

    Are you coming back out? There are guests here and you’re being quite rude.

    I gritted my teeth. Who cared about guests? Who in this room didn’t understand that my life had been ripped apart? Only her. She didn’t get it. I stood up, ready to fling open the door and let loose with the worst curse word I could think of, but I bit my tongue instead. My father would be so disappointed in me if I caused a scene right now.

    I wiped my eyes with a tissue on the small table in the bathroom, then opened the door, stalking past my aunt until I was back in my seat by the casket, never letting my eyes look at the still form on the silk pillows. That was not my father, I said again to myself.

    As I sat and tried to keep my tears at bay, I pushed aside the thought that tomorrow would be more of the same with the actual funeral services. How was I going to make it through another day like today?

    Chapter 3

    I can’t do it, I said, slumping forward and putting my head in my hands. I just can’t.

    Pastor Greg sipped his coffee and looked at me, understanding in his soft eyes. He was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans today, he rarely dressed the part of a reverend. That was one of the things I liked about him. It made him easier to talk to.

    What is it exactly that you don’t think you can do?

    Well, the wake and funeral to start with. I know it sounds melodramatic to say my aunt and uncle ruined my life, but in a lot of ways they did, at least until I left.

    Tell me.

    Okay, for starters, they didn’t really want me after my father died. They took me because they had to and they had no idea what to do with me. I had grown up for fifteen years as a tomboy. My dad taught me to change oil and pound nails and to hit the ball over the fence. I played baseball almost every single day in the summer. My dad and I were close and all my best memories of him involved baseball so for her to take that away from me was cruel.

    Maybe she didn’t understand …

    She did. She had to. She sat there and watched me cry about it. All she cared about was that I might embarrass her. Or end up pregnant. But I guess that would have pretty much been the same thing.

    Let me play devil’s advocate for a minute. From their perspective. From what you told me, they were childless. Inheriting a teen is a big change.

    Yes, I acknowledged, thinking about it a second from their point of view. And I was not the easiest kid. Not because I was bad; I was pretty much a goody two shoes, but I was kind of an odd duck. I was a loner. I had a hard time making friends. But I also was pulling all As and never had a detention. It just wasn’t ever good enough for her.

    You keep going back to your aunt. What about your uncle?

    I snorted. He just let her do whatever to me.

    But you don’t seem to have as strong of a dislike.

    No, I guess not.

    So maybe you should start there. Maybe you should try to take your first steps with him. I know you don’t want to hear this, but you can’t carry around this kind of unforgiveness. It’s not good for you, and it will only hurt you in your own walk. All this anger is not hurting them, just you. You do remember how this works, right? With Alex?

    I sighed. Yes.

    Okay, aside from your aunt and uncle. What else is bothering you?

    I hesitated. Pastor Greg knew I’d had a less-than-sterling youth but I hadn’t gone into too many details. There were things that I just couldn’t bring myself to talk about.

    The idea of going back to Mt. Compton at all is pretty much unbearable.

    Why?

    Imagine a place where everyone knows all of the horrible things you did. Terrible things. Things I’m ashamed of. And having to go back there. I don’t know if I can.

    Emily, that was what? Fifteen, twenty years ago? Not to diminish your fears, but do you really think people remember?

    Okay, yes, not everyone will. But there will be plenty of people who know all my dirty little secrets. I’m not proud of any of it. But I’ve changed and I don’t want it thrown up in my face.

    I can understand that.

    But I don’t think you understand how this town is. Gossip is like the lifeblood of the community.

    Emily, I’m not going to tell you that you have to go. That’s your decision. But here’s what I do know. You’re dealing with unforgiveness, not just toward your aunt and uncle, but also toward yourself for all the things you did as a kid. Things that were wiped away when you gave your life to Christ.

    So you think I should go.

    I think you need to find a way to let God free you from this bondage. Because that’s what unforgiveness is. If you don’t go, I think He can still do it, but I think you should pray about it. He might have plans for you in Mt. Compton.

    Ugh.

    I know, I know. No one ever said being a Christian was easy.

    Why didn’t someone tell me that sooner? I asked with a grin, the first one I’d managed since the phone call yesterday.

    I glanced at my cell phone to check the time. I better get to work. I have a ton of stuff to get done if I’m going to leave Friday.

    Pastor Greg gave me a look. So you’re going?

    I don’t know yet, I said. Just in case.

    Well, call me if you go. I’d like to pray with you before you leave.

    That would be great. And thanks for meeting me this morning. I needed a different perspective. Mine’s pretty cloudy.

    I had parked in a lot downtown when I came for coffee. Rather than move my Jeep, I left it and walked to work, pulling out my emergency stash of cigarettes and smoking one on the way.

    I knew it was a terrible habit, but I couldn’t quite kick it. Most days I didn’t even think about smoking. But when the stress ratcheted up to the boiling point, I just had to have one. Not something I was proud of, but it was reality. This was my fourth one since my uncle called. Up until yesterday, I’d been smoke free since February.

    It was nice today, with spring in full swing. Flowers were popping up in planters downtown and short sleeves were finally making an appearance. As I jogged up the front steps into our building, I began to relax. For a little while, anyway, I could forget about my past and concentrate on writing stories, designing pages and stuff like that. Easy stuff. Let some irate person call and chew me out today for something beyond my control. I could take it. It would be a piece of cake compared to the idea of going to my hometown.

    I threw myself into the job but by afternoon, I was pretty sure that I was at least going to the wake and funeral. I was still a relative newcomer to my faith, but I knew enough to know that going was the right thing. Even if I didn’t stay the whole week.

    Toward that end, I went to see our managing editor, Bill Marshall, prior to going home for a few hours before covering a meeting later tonight. He was just getting off the phone, talking to some irritable subscriber while he tried to answer an e-mail at the same time. I was glad he was the one who had to take the majority of the complaints.

    His glasses were pushed up on his head, almost buried in his wiry brown and gray hair. I wasn’t sure why he even bothered with the glasses. Most of the time, they were on his head.

    I waited until he hung up, then I knocked softly on the open door. Got a minute?

    Is this going to upset me?

    I shrugged. Maybe.

    He sighed. Close the door.

    I did, then moved a stack of newspapers so I could sit at one of the chairs across from his desk. His office looked like a bomb blew up in it. He always promised to clean it up but so far it hadn’t happened.

    So what’s the problem?

    My aunt died.

    I’m sorry, he said automatically, then frowned. I thought you didn’t have any family.

    "Well, I don’t really. After my dad died, she and my uncle finished

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