Still Waters Read Free Page B

from unbelievable to incomprehensible. “If there is anything in that poor man’s house that either belonged to me or bore my prints, someone—besides me—put it there.”
    Before Teller could respond, Douglas returned with the coffee. He’d gone to the trouble to find her grandmother’s serving tray and to dig out the china cups and saucers rather than the stoneware mugs. He’d even prepared the creamer and sugar servers. Her disbelief was temporarily sidelined by the idea that he would think to go to so much trouble.
    Douglas placed the tray on the coffee table, and she noted there were only two cups. “If you need me for anything—” he hitched his thumb toward the rear of the house “—I’ll be outside checking the perimeter.”
    “Thank you.” Amber suddenly didn’t want anyone else to hear these incredible lies—at least not until she had heard them.
    When Douglas was gone, Teller said, “Amber, I realize this is shocking.”
    He’d certainly nailed her feelings with that statement. “I don’t understand how any of this happened.” She shook her head, overwhelmed and confused and, honestly, terrified. “You see it on television or in the movies, but this is real life. My life.”
    “Do you drink a tea called Paradise Peach?”
    Something cold and dark welled inside her. She moistened her lips and cleared her throat. “Yes. It’s my favorite. There’s a specialty shop downtown that stocks it.”
    “A can of Paradise Peach tea was found in the victim’s home. Your prints were on the can.”
    Worry furrowed her brow and bumped her pulse rate to a faster rhythm. “Maybe he shopped there, too. He may have picked up a can after I did.” Hope knotted in her chest, but it was short-lived. How did a person prove a theory as full of circumstantial holes as the one she’d just suggested?
    “Certainly,” he agreed. “Bear in mind that the burden of proof is not ours. It will be up to the BPD to make their case. For that they need evidence, which brings us to the cup that also bore your prints.”
    The rationale she had attempted to use earlier vanished. Dear Lord she felt as if she had just awakened in the middle of a horror film and she was the next victim. All she had to do now was scream.
    “Take a look at these crime scene photos.” He opened the folder and removed two eight-by-ten photographs. He scooted his briefcase and the serving platter to the far side of the table and placed the photographs in front of her. “These are copies, so they’re not the best quality.”
    The first one showed the victim lying on the floor next to the dining table in what she presumed was his kitchen. Blood had soaked his shirt. He appeared to have multiple stab wounds to the chest. Poor man. She swallowed back the lump of emotion that rose in her throat and moved on to the second one. The second was a wider-angle view showing more of the room. Definitely the kitchen. Her attention zeroed in on the table. The table was set for two. Teacups sat in matching saucers, each flanked by a spoon and linen napkin. She squinted at the pattern on the cups. A floral pattern for sure, but difficult to distinguish.
    “He was having tea with someone.” She lifted her gaze to Teller’s. “Whoever that person was, he or she is likely the one who killed him. Based on the prints found at the scene, the police believe that person was you.”
    Hands shaking, she pressed her fingers to her mouth to hold back the cry of outrage. “The medical examiner is certain about the time of death?”
    Teller nodded. “Last Friday night, around eight. It’ll be a while before we have the autopsy results, which will tell us what he had for dinner and various other details that may or may not help our case.”
    Amber made a face.
    “Knowing what and where he ate might help us,” Teller explained. “The police might be able to track down the restaurant—if he ate out—and someone there might remember if he was alone.”
    Sounded like