“In another month or so this will all be gone and we’ll grow everything in the greenhouses.”
“Do the students perform all of the work or is there a regular crew?” Randy asked. He knelt and cupped a vibrant yellow bloom in his hand, a gentle touch Becca hadn’t expected from him.
A shiver crept up her spine and she glanced back just in time to catch the tail end of a man walking between the glass structures. There were workers all over the farm. Why had this particular man set off her cop-sensor? She’d best keep alert in case he showed up again. She shifted her attention back to their guide.
“Okay, now I’ll take you to see the greenhouses.” He stepped up behind the wheel. “The first one is close to the set-up needed to grow the flowers you’ve spoken to my boss about. Of course, what you see here is on a much larger scale.”
Randy stared off into the distance, seemingly lost in a world of his own. He’d barely spoken a word to her since they arrived.
Maybe it’s me, but there is definitely something off kilter here. She was usually very good at reading people, but these three men had her scratching her head.
Inside the first house, a fine mist sprayed over a vast array of flora. Her gaze was drawn to the orange-red gladiolas. How can something so beautiful hold such a painful memory? Will I ever be able to appreciate their beauty again?
“Do you have a list of the flowers in that notebook of yours?” Becca reached for the book.
Randy pulled it tight to his chest. “Of course I do.” He licked the tip of two fingers before leafing through the pages.
Jacob perused the list on the page Randy held open for him. “Yes, we grow all of them, except for those.”
Randy’s reaction left her a little dumbfounded and more than a little curious about the contents of his notebook.
“Except for which one?” Becca asked.
Jacob eyed her curiously, as if her question was unexpected. “Lilacs, they aren’t something easily produced hydroponically. Outside, the shrubs only blossom for a short period in the spring. The only way to extend their flowering time is to grow a variety of lilacs. Regardless, even the most revered grower might extend the period from two to six weeks tops.”
“When were the last blooms out this year?” asked Randy.
The worker stroked his jaw. “Probably around two weeks ago. You still have a nice shade bush once they stop blooming.”
With her curiosity piqued, she considered the new details. The killer left behind a lilac almost three weeks ago, so it’s very possible he took them from a bush outside?
Her brow creased. “Are there many Lilac trees in this part of the country?”
“In Ontario you’ll find the most lilacs in the Cornwall, Ottawa regions. I’ve seen a handful of bushes around here. In fact, we have a patch right here on the property. If the soil is loose enough, they pretty much take care of themselves.”
Becca got that familiar nagging feeling again as they turned to leave. This time, she slowly turned her head, but found nothing out of the ordinary except for the back door closing behind someone.
Randy continued talking to Jacob as they passed through the remaining greenhouses. There were ten to twelve students and another three or four older men working in each structure. Nobody stood out. In fact, most left Becca with the distinct impression they were disrupting the day-to-day flow of beauty in the making.
A man standing at the back entrance caught her attention. Becca’s instincts told her it was the same guy she’d seen a few times before. He towered over the older man he talked to, and his thick blond hair further set him apart from the dark-haired students.
Are you following me? If so, why?
“Jacob, who is that guy standing there at the back?” The words had just left her mouth when the stranger looked at her and quickly slipped out the door.
“What guy?”
“He was just there. I also saw him at the last two stops. A tall guy with blond wavy hair...?”
Jacob diverted his gaze, but not before she caught the fear in his eyes.
“I don’t know. I have almost one hundred guys here. It could be anyone.”
So why does the fact I saw him make you so uncomfortable?
The distinct roar of a Harley being kicked to life reached her ears. Both she and Randy bolted outside. The glint of their own bikes brought a united sigh of relief. Puzzled, they scanned the area for another bike.
“Do any of the students or workers here ride a motorcycle?
Her senses were now on high alert. Maybe a tall, blond guy?
Jacob furrowed his brow. “I don’t think so. I definitely would remember seeing a bike here on the farm. I know my boss had a motorcycle back in the day, but I hardly think he’s in any condition to kick one over.”
Randy heaved a sigh. “Well, I think we’ve seen enough for now. Do you think we can talk to the professor again?”
“Why don’t we take a walk up to the house and see?”
Becca trailed behind, grateful for the time to sort her thoughts. How did he ride out of sight so fast? Unless he’s still here....
Chapter Nine
Carol Tate was a creature of habit, making his plan a lot easier except for one small problem he hadn’t taken into account. Given her profession, she’d be well-versed when it came to The Florist, nixing his usual ruse of delivering flowers.
The big shot attorney worked an eight-hour day, never arriving home later than half past five. She’d change out of her stuffy lawyer clothes and into yoga pants, a t-shirt and white runners.
Her nightly jog always took the same amount of time, giving him an hour to get into her house unnoticed. Surprisingly, Ms. Hotshot never locked the door behind her. If the old lady neighbor wasn’t nosing about, he’d be able to slip inside easily. If she was, he’d just have to put an end to her busybody ways. His pulse raced, excited about the change in plans. He eagerly anticipated the look on Carol’s face when she found out she had an unexpected visitor.
Carol stepped outside, closing the unlocked door behind her. She looked up and down the street while putting in her ear buds and jogged down the steps and off into the neighborhood.
He reminded himself of why he was there to begin with. He couldn’t afford to slip up due to having way too much fun. His fingers touched the cool leather of the journal in his bag, and he leaned up against the wall and opened it to the bookmarked page.
How many pedophiles, rapists, and abusers are out on the street because of a defense attorney with no morals and a perfect track record? Am I fooling myself in thinking I can help her? Have I put my own well-being at risk by knowing too much? I have to admit, she scares me.
With a final nod, he tucked the journal back in his bag and looked up and down the street, paying special attention to the neighbour. Once he felt confident no eyes were on him, he scurried around the corner of the bungalow, up the front steps, and into the house.
Carol Tate certainly didn’t spend her money on interior decorating. Everything looked plain and extremely minimaclass="underline" a leather sofa, a medium-sized flat-screen television and a glass coffee table. The only semblance of a personal touch came in the form of a black and white abstract painting centered on the wall behind her couch.
Nothing spectacular, just like the owner.
He took a leisurely stroll through the tiny house, taking all of ten minutes. Inside a walk-in closet the size of most people’s bedrooms, he discovered some of her vast fortune. The tailored suits and Gucci shoes were definitely quality items, but also very plain. The only punch of color in the entire closet was a formal ball gown in vibrant red, adorned in frosty crystals.