Still Waters. Debra Webb
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the initial shock that no one was playing a joke on her started anew. The police had mentioned evidence without providing the details. “What evidence? I don’t know how they could find evidence that leads back to me in a home where I’ve never been...on a body I’ve never touched.”
“They found a teacup with your prints on it.”
“What?” The situation had just gone 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 a long shot to her. The detectives had pressed her over and over about her whereabouts on Friday night. It was the one time she’d come home early and hit the sack. She hadn’t spent any time doing research at the station, she hadn’t spoken to anyone and she’d had no company. None of her neighbors could confirm she was home. She hadn’t done any work on her home computer, which might have confirmed her whereabouts. Bottom line, she had no alibi.
Disgusted, she shook her head. “Single people all over the world should be terrified of spending a quiet evening at home alone.” If she were married or involved in a relationship, she might have spent time or at least spoken to her plus one that evening.
“There’s more.”
His somber tone caused her heart to skip a beat.
“A pair of panties were found in his bed. There was trace evidence. A pubic hair and a much longer hair...” He touched his head. “They want you to agree to a DNA test.”
The heart that had stumbled a moment ago slammed against her ribs now. “Do you think I should?” Considering her fingerprints were there, she couldn’t help but feel somewhat tentative as to how to proceed. “I know I haven’t been in his house or his bed, so I have nothing to hide, but my fingerprints were there.” She pressed a hand to her throat. “If someone is setting me up...”
He reached into his folder and removed another photograph. “Do you recognize these?”
The red panties in the photograph stole her ability to draw in air. She shot to her feet and rushed to her bedroom. Opening drawer after drawer, she rifled through her things and then slammed each door closed in turn. Her pulse pounding, she moved to the laundry hamper.
The panties weren’t there.
Teller stood at her bedroom door, worry lining his face. “Lots of women have red panties. My wife has red panties. How can you be sure you recognize these?”
Her lungs finally filled with air. “The little bows.” She paused to release the big breath she’d managed to draw in. “There should be a little satin red bow on each side. One is missing. It annoys me every time I see it. I’ve meant to throw them away...”
Of course any woman with red panties that sported little red bows could be missing a bow. In her gut, Amber knew better than to believe it was a mere coincidence. Her red one-bowed panties were missing. There was a teacup in the man’s house, for God’s sake, with her prints on it. She didn’t need a DNA test to prove a damned thing. The hair and any other trace evidence would be hers, as well. Whoever wanted her to appear guilty had done a bang-up job.
Douglas appeared behind Teller. “Is everything okay?”
No. Everything was not okay. In fact, nothing was okay.
“I’ll do the DNA test,” Amber said to the man representing her.
Teller gave her a resigned nod. “I’ll set it up.”
Dear God. She was in serious trouble here.
The mouthpiece hung around awhile longer, asking more questions and making Amber even more upset. Sean had heard of the guy. All the rich folks in Jefferson County used him. Teller didn’t need billboards or commercials with catchy jingles. The family name got him all the business he would ever need. It didn’t hurt that he had a reputation for being the best damn attorney in town.
Sean turned his attention back to assessing