Adelle Laudan - Killer Scents

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.”

Professor blinked back the tears in his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Where is this journal now?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m positive I put it back in her drawer, but it wasn’t there a few weeks later when I went to read more.”

“When was this?”

“At least four years ago, maybe more.”

“Weren’t you curious to know what happened to it?”

“I saw it as a sign from my wife not to read any further.”

She rubbed the top of his hand, knowing all too well how a grieving mind can twist reality. “Thank you for sharing this with me. I’m sure you’re right in thinking that.”

He smiled. “Your job shows the ugly side of mankind, as did my sweet Pauline’s. Don’t let it get the best of you.”

Becca envied the love he and his wife shared and couldn’t imagine the profound loss of being left behind. The caretaker arrived with tea just as she was leaving.

“Hey, there you are.” Randy descended the grand staircase. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, I’m good.” The rain had stopped and she now squinted against the sun shining into the foyer. “Tell everyone to keep their eyes open for his wife’s journal. Apparently she sat in her sitting room and wrote in it every night. It went missing over four years ago. There might even be a small collection of them.”

“Listen, I’m going to step outside for a breath of fresh air. I take it you have everything under control here?”

“Don’t go far.”

Becca put two fingers to her temple in a salute. “Yes, sir!”

Chapter Nineteen

The make-up artist lay on the ground, a single gunshot to his forehead. The guy really did a great job, but he couldn’t chance him leaking his new identity to anyone.

It took a few seconds to change the message on his answering machine. A family emergency has called me away, so please leave a message and your number....

Thank goodness his keys were on a side table. He didn’t relish the thought of having to put his hand in his pants pocket. He dragged the body to the bathroom and hoisted it up and over in the tub, drawing the curtain closed behind him once he’d finished.

Outside, the rain had stopped, and the sun streamed through a break in the clouds. He glanced around before dropping the artist’s set of keys into the waste bin.

Now to find Buddy.

A glimpse in a store window made him stop and smooth the moustache under his nose. It felt a little odd, having never been able to grow one. He’d tried many times, but it simply wasn’t in his genes.

It took the better part of the day hanging out in the streets before he spotted the dealer and casually swaggered over to where he stood.

The tall, tattooed man eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want?”

He managed to convince the guy to step into an alley.

“I need a shot of blocker. Can you help?”

The dealer narrowed his eyes and looked down his nose at him. “What do you need that for?”

“That’s my business. Can you do it or not? I’ll pay double your usual asking price.” He peeled off a few hundred from the roll of bills he pulled out of his pocket and held the money out to him. With his free hand, he covered the gun stuffed down the waistline of his pants. “I’ll give you the same amount when you hand over what I need.”

The dealer stepped back, laughing. “How do you know I won’t kick your ass and take that wad of cash?”

He glared at the man, staring intently into his eyes. “By the time you take one step toward me, I’d put a bullet in your head.” He lifted his shirt enough to show his piece.

The dealer held up his hands. “Whoa, buddy. No need for any of that shit.”

“Can you do it or not?”

“Of course I can. Why don’t you go have a cup of coffee at that shop across the road? Sit at the bar. I’ll be there shortly.”