female. Widowed. Former address Dallas, Texas. Housewife. No priors. Not so much as a traffic ticket to blot her record. The woman was squeaky clean.
With a groan, he let his head fall back and scrubbed his hands over his face. So why did he have the feeling that Rebecca Todman was hiding something?
“Because my gut tells me she is,” he muttered under his breath.
Knowing that his gut was seldom wrong, he dropped his hands to the keyboard and quickly typed information into a search engine. He tapped his fingers against the mouse while he waited for the results to appear. Spotting a listing from the archives of a Dallas newspaper, he clicked the link, then narrowed his eyes as he studied the article and accompanying photo that came into view.
Rebecca Todman? he asked himself, frowning at the woman pictured at a local charity event. Her hair was longer in the picture than her current style and her manner of dress much more sophisticated, not to mention more expensive, than the serviceable khaki slacks, pastel blouse and apron that he’d seen her wearing at her shop. So why the drastic change in appearance? he asked himself. A disguise? A mood swing?
No matter what the reason, he told himself, the change in appearance only intensified his gut feeling that the woman was hiding something. And his gut was rarely wrong.
And, at the moment, empty.
Remembering that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, he pushed back his chair. In the kitchen he dug around in the refrigerator until he found a box of take-out fried chicken. He lifted the lid and sniffed, trying to remember when he’d put it there. With a shrug, he tossed the box onto the breakfast bar and dragged up a stool. He plucked out a thigh and took a bite, narrowing his eyes as he chewed, thinking over his interview with Rebecca Todman and his first impressions of the woman.
Scared…or, at the very least, rattled, he amended. Guilty? He shook his head, then took another bite. For some reason that assessment didn’t quite fit, in spite of her drastic change in appearance prior to moving to Royal. She didn’t look like a murderer. She looked more like… What? he asked himself, frowning as he tried to profile her. A librarian? A Sunday school teacher? She had an innocence about her, a polite and gentle manner of speaking and moving that would qualify her for both.
Physically she didn’t look capable of doing another person in. Overpowering Eric Chambers and strangling him with his own necktie had required a strength he doubted she possessed.
Or did she? he reflected further, thinking of the kind of muscle work a shop like hers would require. Some of those potted plants he’d seen were large, and for the most part she worked alone, a fact he’d already verified. Which meant she would have to be stronger than she appeared, in order to lift them. But strong enough to overpower a grown man?
Grabbing a chicken leg from the box, he strode back to his office and flipped on the overhead light. He crossed to his desk and pushed through the papers littering it, until he found the item he wanted. Tossing the half-eaten chicken leg into the trash can, he held up the picture of Eric Chambers, taken from the employee files at Wescott Oil. Five foot seven or five foot eight at the most, Rob figured, examining the photo closely. Approximately 140 pounds. A small man. And, from what Rob could tell, one who hadn’t spent any time at the gym. If caught off guard, it was possible that Rebecca could have overpowered Chambers.
He puffed his cheeks and dropped onto his chair again, tossing the picture aside. So why was he having such a hard time believing Rebecca Todman murdered Eric?
Thinking better with paper and pen in hand, he plucked a pad from his desk and reared back in his chair. With his bare feet propped beside his monitor, he began to jot down questions. When he’d finished, he returned to the first item he’d listed and studied it.
Motive? 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.
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