He tapped the end of the pen against his lips as he mentally listed the possibilities, focusing on the two behind most murders committed: money and revenge. Was Rebecca Todman in desperate need of money? Desperate enough to kill to acquire it? He made a quick note to check into her finances, then began to jot down reasons she might want revenge. Romance gone sour? Business deal gone bad? Feud between neighbors?
He tossed down the pen in disgust, his instincts telling him none of the reasons jibed. But maybe there wasn’t a reason. Maybe Rebecca Todman was simply a psychopathic killer, a man hater, who had considered Chambers an easy mark and killed the guy just to get her jollies. He rolled his eyes and picked up his pen again, going back to the first item he’d listed under revenge: romance gone sour.
Rob picked up the picture of Chambers, took one look and tossed it aside with a snort. No way. The guy had no physically redeeming qualities and, if what Rob had heard was right, was a loner and probably a mama’s boy.
Rebecca on the other hand, he reflected, scooping up a picture taken of her unawares at the crime scene, was young and attractive, and had a kind and generous heart, a trait exemplified by her willingness to take in Chambers’s orphaned cat. He arched a brow, studying the photo, noting the soft roundness of her breasts outlined behind the light cotton pastel blouse and the feminine curve of hip beneath the khaki slacks…and found himself wishing for a bed and a couple of hours of hot, sweaty sex with the woman.
Swearing, he dropped the picture to the desk and rose from his chair, dragging a hand over his hair as he headed for the door. You’re tired, he told himself. Or horny. Maybe both. Otherwise you wouldn’t be having sexual fantasies about a woman you suspect is guilty of murder.
But one thing was for sure. Horny or not, he’d be talking to Rebecca Todman again. Until he’d proved to himself otherwise, she was still his prime—and only—suspect.
Two
Rob snatched his cell phone from its holder on his sports car’s console. “Rob Cole.”
“I’ve done some checking and here’s what I’ve got.”
He whipped the car to the shoulder of the road, wanting to give his full attention to the call. Earlier that morning he’d phoned Chuck Endicott, a private investigator from Dallas with whom he shared information from time to time, and requested that Chuck track down what he could on Rebecca Todman. “Shoot,” he said, picking up a pen to jot down notes.
“In a nutshell, her in-laws hate her. Think she was responsible for their son’s death. They tried to make a case of it, but the police couldn’t find enough evidence to even fill out a warrant for her arrest.”
“Did you check it out?” Rob asked, frowning.
“Yeah. The guy bought it in a car wreck. He was driving. Lost control of the car and broadsided a bridge embankment. Driver’s side. The wife walked away with only minor scrapes and bruises.”
“Any signs of foul play?”
“The car was totaled, but the in-laws demanded an inspection, accusing the daughter-in-law of tampering with the brakes or steering. Results came back negative.”
Rob’s frown deepened. Two deaths in which Rebecca Todman was either directly or indirectly involved. Coincidence? “What’s your take on this?”
“Me? I’d say the in-laws are screwballs, with a grudge to grind. Kinda reminds me of my old lady’s folks.”
Rob snorted a laugh. “I’ll be sure and share the comparison with Leah.”
“Man! Don’t go telling my old lady anything. I stay in the doghouse enough, as it is.”
“Deserved, I’m sure,” Rob replied dryly. He glanced at his watch. “Listen, Chuck. I gotta go. Thanks for the help, buddy. I owe you one.”
Rob carefully timed his arrival at Rebecca’s shop. He wanted to catch her alone, and he figured the best way to do that was to show up as she was closing for the day. At three minutes until five, he stepped inside the shop and glanced around, but didn’t see any sign of her. “Ms. Todman?” he called, thinking she might be in the storage room behind the counter. When she didn’t reply, he rounded the counter and peeked through the partially open door. Though the overhead light was on, the room was empty.
Frowning, he turned and took a second look around. The only other door was a glass one that connected to an adjoining greenhouse. Rob headed that way. He found the temperature inside the greenhouse to be warmer than that in the shop and a hundred times more humid. Perspiration immediately beaded on his forehead and upper lip.
“Ms. Todman?” he called again. He didn’t hear a response, but that didn’t surprise him. Fans installed along the walls and on the ceiling made enough racket to drown out any other sounds. He started down an aisle framed by long wooden tables covered with pots of flowers and greenery of every size, shape and description. He finally caught sight of her at the far end of the greenhouse. She was standing with her back to him before a table scooping potting soil from a large bucket and depositing it into compartmented trays.
When he was close enough, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Ms. Todman?”
With a startled cry she dropped the shovel and ducked away, throwing an arm over her head, as if to ward off a blow.
A hole opened in Rob’s stomach, spilling in a sickening acid as he stared at her, unable to move. He was familiar with that reaction, that instinctive response for self-protection. But he hadn’t intended to frighten her when he’d approached her, nor did he have any intention of hurting her. Hell, he’d barely even touched her! He’d wanted only to get her attention, to warn her of his presence, so that he wouldn’t frighten her.
But obviously he’d failed, judging by her cowering response. Not wanting to frighten her more than he already had, he hunkered down to peer up at her. “Ms. Todman,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just dropped by to ask you a couple more questions.”
Slowly she lowered her arm until her gaze met his. She quickly turned away…but not before he caught a glimpse of the raw fear in her eyes.
She combed shaky fingers through her cropped hair. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, unable to look at him. “You caught me off guard. I thought… I thought I was alone.”
He rose as she picked up her shovel, and noted that her hand was shaking. “I yelled, but I guess you didn’t hear me over the sound of the fans.”
She nodded, but kept her head down, her gaze on her work.
He moved to stand beside her and scowled when her hand bobbled, spilling potting soil across the table. Obviously, being alone in the shop with him made her uncomfortable, a condition that would, he suspected, affect her willingness and accuracy in answering the questions he had for her. He glanced at his watch. “It’s closing time, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“How about if we go down the street to the Royal Diner and talk? I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. It’s the least I can do,” he added, “after scaring a couple of years off your life.”
“I’ve already told you everything I know.”
He bit down on his frustration. “I thought you said you were Eric’s friend. Don’t you want to see his murderer put behind bars?”
“Of course I do,” she replied impatiently as she swept the spilled soil onto her palm and dumped it back into the bucket. “It’s just that I don’t know what else I can possibly tell you.”
“You might be surprised. Talking with me could trigger something in your mind. Something that seemed unimportant to you at the time, but might possibly be important to the case.”
She wavered uncertainly, her forehead pleating in indecision. Then her shoulders sagged in defeat. “All right,” she said as she slid the shovel into the rack attached to the side of