there.”
Becca gasped and put her hand over her heart as she staggered back against the wall. “Are you suggesting we do things by the book?”
He chuckled and opened the file. “It can’t possibly be just a coincidence, can it?”
“I don’t know. We checked out everyone who works on the farm, and the professor is hardly in any shape to be kicking over a motorcycle and murdering seven people.”
His pen tapped against a stack of papers. “Something doesn’t add up, but I’d bet anything the answer is out there.” He stroked his stubbly jaw.
“Maybe after a good night’s sleep it will all come together.” Becca stretched out her arms cattishly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“I guess fluffing your pillow is out of the question?”
Becca stopped in the doorway and looked back at him, fluttering her eyelashes. “I’ll take a rain check, okay?”
“You don’t play fair.” He watched her leave, shifting in his chair to accommodate his reaction to the swing of her hips. It was nice to see her less guarded, more herself.
With this new discovery, sleep would definitely elude him. He opened his laptop.
Chapter Eighteen
The sky darkened with each click of the odometer. A somber silence filled the SUV, everyone lost in their thoughts.
Becca wasn’t looking forward to searching the professor’s home and hoped he didn’t take it personally. “What exactly are we looking for?”
“I guess we’ll know when we see it. Something, anything that might fill in the blanks and lead us to the killer.” Randy glanced back at her. “Are you going to be okay with this?”
Becca shrugged. “Yes. I’m not crazy about doing this to him, but I’m okay.”
“Try not to worry, Becca. He’s a smart man and he’ll understand why we have to do this search.” Chief turned down the long driveway to the house.
A crack of thunder preceded torrents of rain.
The short distance from the vehicle to the porch drenched them. She couldn’t remember the last time it rained this hard.
The same woman they met on their first visit greeted them. “Come in out of the rain.” Mable closed the door behind them. “Let me get you some towels, I’ll be right back.”
“Thank you.” Becca smoothed her wet hair, knowing all too well the funky things rain did to it. Once they were towel-dried, the housekeeper ushered them into the library. Ten-foot walls flanked rich mahogany shelves, brimming with books. Hopefully it wouldn’t come down to going through this room. The professor obviously took great pride in his collection.
Several minutes passed before they were served mugs of hot coffee, and the professor arrived, this time with the aid of a walker. Pain etched tiny lines around his eyes. Grayness tainted his normally flushed complexion.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. This damp weather isn’t kind to these old bones of mine.” The professor shuffled across the room to sit in a leather chair behind his desk. “I’m a little confused why you’re here again. I thought you searched everywhere.”
“Yes, we did, but we never searched your house, sir.” Chief sat at the edge of his chair. “There have been a few interesting developments we need to talk to you about.”
The professor steepled his hands under his chin. “Please, go on.”
He sat quietly while the chief told him about his wife’s connection to the victims, coupled with the flowers. “Do you see why we had to come back?”
His weary sigh filled the room. “Maybe I can save you some time. What exactly are you looking for?”
Randy stood. “I wish it were that cut and dried. I guess we’re looking for a connection between your wife’s patients and whoever killed them.”
“I can’t think of anything you might find here to solve your mystery.” He struggled to stand. “I’m going out to the sunroom. I don’t have the energy to deal with all of this.” He waved a hand over his vast collection of books. “There’s hundreds of thousands of dollars accrued here. Please be gentle.”
Becca rushed to his side. “Let me walk with you.”
The old man smiled weakly and began a slow, painful exit. Once they reached the sunroom she made sure he was seated comfortably before pulling a deck chair beside him.
“Did your wife ever talk about her cases with you?”
“Pauline had a steadfast rule never to bring work home with her.” His voice cracked. “It wasn’t until after she passed that I came to know just how deeply her patients affected her.”
“How so?” She hated pushing him, but he might know something helpful and not even realize it.
“Every night after work, she closed herself in her sitting room to write in a journal.” He coughed into his hand, his pale blue eyes misting. “My wife’s death was one of the darkest times in my life. Night after night, I wandered through this house lost and heartbroken. I usually passed her sitting room, but never strong enough to venture inside. A year went by before I found the courage to visit her there.”
Professor pulled tissues from a brightly colored box and dabbed at the dampness under his eyes. Becca wasn’t sure how to console him so she simply laid her hand atop his and remained quiet.
“I stepped into her room and the sheer magnitude of her lingering presence had me stumbling back out into the hall. Inside, everywhere I looked, there she was. A display of photos on a side table, her clothes hanging in the closet, and her robe draped over the back of a settee.” The muscles of his neck flexed. “I remember sitting in her chair, the scent of her perfume still lingering. The drawer sat ajar, just enough to catch a glimpse of her book. I bet I sat for an hour or more with it on my lap, my palm flat against its cover.”
Becca noted the toll his memories were taking on him. “Perhaps we can finish this talk later. I’m sorry to bring up such painful memories.”
Professor Davies looked into her eyes. “Not to worry. You’re like a breath of fresh air in my life. I’m sure your team will want to hear about the journal, and I trust you to keep some of the more personal details of our conversation between us.”
“Of course. Can I ask you a question?”
The professor nodded his consent.
“The killer has left me a flower a couple of times now. Do you know the significance of a purple rose?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Purple roses primarily stand for enchantment.”
“Enchantment? Are you saying he’s in love with me?”
He shrugged. “That is one definition, but from what you’ve told me, I tend to lean toward another interpretation. The Florist is infatuated with you. As hard as he tries he cannot resist you. He might even believe you’ve cast a spell on him. However, I don’t think it’s sexual in any way. The Florist has probably never met a woman quite like you. I’d bet money his attraction to you is more of an obsession.”
“Isn’t that wonderful.” She rolled her eyes, feeling ill and disgusted. “Thank you for all of your help. I’ve grown very fond of you, so I hope we can remain friends after this whole sordid affair is over.”
The man nodded slightly before he rested his head against the back of his chair and briefly closed his eyes. “Nothing could have prepared me for what I read on those pages. She never let on how deeply her patients affected her. I only read the first couple of entries and had to stop. Her patients were very sick individuals. So much so, much of her time at work was spent fearing for her life.” His grief-stricken eyes searched hers. “Why didn’t I see it?” His voice cracked.
“I’m sure she didn’t want to bring her fear into this house. I believe your wife loved you very much and wrote in her diary every night to get the remnants of the day out of her head. She wanted to offer you all of her love without the ugliness of the day interfering.”
