Still Waters

by Debra Webb

  Who had time for a social life? Gina should know better than anyone. Amber was fairly confident her mentor was saying what Barb expected her to say. It didn’t matter either way. Amber was twenty-eight; her top priority was her career. She still had decades for falling in love and building a family.

  Even if her narrow focus on her career did get lonely sometimes.

  She yanked on the tee and kicked the thought aside. The police believed she was somehow involved in a man’s murder. Her love life, or lack thereof, was the least of her worries.

  How the hell the police could think she was involved was the million-dollar question. Why in the world would she hurt this man, much less kill him? She scarcely knew him. He had made a few deliveries to her house. He was always pleasant, but they never exchanged more than a dozen words. None of what she’d been told by the police so far made the slightest bit of sense.

  “The house is clear.”

  Amber jumped, slamming her elbow into the wall. Frowning at the broad-shouldered man filling the doorway to her closet, she rubbed her funny bone.

  “Thank you,” she said even though she didn’t quite feel thankful. She did not want a babysitter. She hadn’t killed anyone, and there was no reason for a soul to want to harm her. Reporting the news for the past six-plus years had given her certain insights into situations like this one, and hiring a bodyguard this early in the investigation was overreacting. There could only be two potential explanations for her current dilemma: mistaken identity or a frame job. Both happened. As hard as she tried, she could come up with no other explanation.

  Her bodyguard’s gaze roamed from her face all the way to her toes and back with a couple of unnecessary pauses in between. Now that annoyed her. He was here to keep her safe—supposedly. He had no business looking at her as if she was the next conquest on his radar. Though she suspected Mr. Sexy-as-Hell usually didn’t have to work very hard to get what he wanted. The man was gorgeous. Tall, with those broad shoulders that narrowed into a lean waist. Thick blond hair just the right length for threading your fingers through and deep blue eyes. His muscular build attested to his dedicated workout ethics. With every extra thump of her pulse she understood that beneath his smooth, tanned skin was an ego large enough for the Vulcan iron man that watched over the city of Birmingham from high atop Red Mountain.

  Sean Douglas was hot, and he damn well knew it.

  As if he agreed wholeheartedly with her assessment, he gifted her with a nod and disappeared.

  Amber sighed. She should pull herself together. Her attorney was on the way over with whatever details the police had shared with him. They’d done nothing but ask questions this morning. Each time her attorney had asked about the evidence, the detective had evaded the question. Still, she hadn’t needed a lawyer to tell her that she wouldn’t have been called in and so thoroughly questioned had there been no evidence. Friends, colleagues and people acquainted with the victim were questioned in their homes or workplaces. Only the ones about to be named a person of interest—or, worse, a suspect—were hauled to the station and interviewed. The police had wanted her off balance—which was not a good thing.

  How the hell was this possible?

  She needed a couple of cocktails and a good night’s sleep. Maybe she’d wake up in the morning and discover this had all been just one big old bad nightmare.

  Finding Sean Douglas kicked back on the sofa in her living room reminded her that the situation was all too real.

  “I put on a pot of coffee.” He leaned forward and braced his forearms on his knees. “I figured some caffeine would be useful the next few hours.”

  She would have preferred a caramel latte, but she’d been too emotional to think of dropping by her favorite coffee shop after leaving the police department. Her parents were beside themselves. They were in a remote part of Africa on a medical aid mission and couldn’t get back for days. She and Barbara had insisted they stay and do the important work they’d gone there to do. This entire business was nothing more than a mistake. Surely it would be cleared up in a day or two.

  Belatedly she remembered to say, “Thank you.” Her attorney, Frank Teller, was a coffee drinker. Vaguely she wondered how Douglas had known this or if he was a coffee guy, too.

  “I can call in some lunch for delivery. I’m guessing you didn’t take time for breakfast this morning.”

  She appreciated the offer but said, “I had a protein smoothie. I’m fine.”

  He dismissed her response with a wave of his hand. “How about a pizza or a burger? Your choice.”

  She couldn’t possibly eat. “I’m not hungry. Feel free to raid my kitchen or order something for yourself.”

  His mouth eased into a lopsided grin. “Already done that. You’re fresh out of real food.”

  A frown furrowed her brow. He’d prowled through her kitchen? What kind of bodyguard checked the fridge?

  “Why don’t you tell me about yourself,” he suggested with a pat of the sofa cushion next to him.

  Amber felt sure that inviting pat worked well for him under normal circumstances, but those blue eyes and that hopeful smile did little more than annoy her at the moment. “Weren’t you briefed on my case?”

  The need for personal security was entirely new to her, but instinct told her a man assigned to protect her would certainly have been briefed about the situation. Small talk was the furthest thing from her mind. He needed to find a way to entertain himself if he was bored. She had no desire to chat.

  “I was.” He clasped his hands between his spread thighs.

  “What else do you need to know?” She gave herself a mental pat on the back for not sounding as snippy as she felt.

  “Until this situation is resolved,” he began, tracking her movements with those blue eyes as she settled in a chair a few feet away, “we’ll be spending a lot of time together. It’s helpful to know a little more than the facts of the case. What time do you like to get up in the mornings? What’s your usual bedtime? Do you watch television or read or just relax in the evenings? Should I expect company? Is there a boyfriend to accommodate?” He shrugged. “Things like that are good to know.”

  For the love of Mike. Amber shook off the frustration. His request had merit. No need to be unreasonable. “I’m up at six unless I’m called to a scene earlier or I host the morning news the way I did this morning. I go to bed right after the ten o’clock news assuming I haven’t been called out to a scene. I usually leave the television turned on all night.” She glanced at the dark screen hanging on the wall above her fireplace. She imagined that every channel was running stories about her and the murder. “I might be taking a break from that habit for a few days.”

  “Understandable.” He cocked an eyebrow. “What about a boyfriend?”

  “There is no boyfriend.” Somehow saying it out loud sounded far worse than simply knowing it. She hadn’t been in a serious relationship in more than a year. Maybe there wouldn’t be another one. Who had time? More important, who cared? She had everything she needed. If that’s so, why the sudden need to justify your status?

  He made a knowing sound as something like surprise flashed across his face. “A girlfriend then?”

  “No girlfriend.”

  He made one of those male grunts that could convey surprise as easily as indifference. Either way, the sound got on her already-frazzled nerves.

  “Your degree is in mass communications,” he said, changing the subject. “When did you decide you preferred working in front of the camera versus behind it?”

  “I didn’t decide. The journalist I assisted during my first assignment was in a car accident. Everyone was on the scene except her and the cameraman told me to get in front of the camera and do the job. The audience responded well to me, so that’s where the powers that be decided I should be—on-screen.”

  “But you had a
spirations?”

  Amber nodded. “I had my heart set on hosting one of the big entertainment news shows.” She laughed, remembering the horror on her parents’ faces when she’d told them. “It wasn’t exactly the career my family had hoped for.”

  He smiled. It was nice. Really nice. Too nice, damn it. “Your parents and your sister are all doctors.”

  “Yes. I’m the black sheep.” The realization that her words had never been truer stole the air from her lungs. Now she was a potential suspect in a homicide.

  The doorbell saved her from going down that pity path. She stood to go to the door, but Douglas moved ahead of her and checked the security viewfinder.

  “It’s Mr. Teller.”

  Douglas opened the door, and Teller came inside. He’d already been introduced to the man who would be keeping watch over her. There was just something wrong with calling him a bodyguard. Particularly since she continued to have a bit of trouble keeping her attention off his body. The foolish reaction had to be about sex. She hadn’t been intimate with anyone since she and Josh had ended their relationship.

  Her gaze drifted to the man assigned to protect her. Don’t even go there.

  “We should speak privately,” Frank Teller announced before saying hello. He looked from Amber to Douglas and back.

  “I’d like him to stay,” Amber countered. Douglas and his boss would need to be kept up to speed anyway.

  When Teller relented, Douglas insisted on serving the coffee. Amber was happy to let him do the honors. Her knees were feeling a little weak as she sank back into a chair. Maybe it was the grim expression Teller wore.

  He placed his briefcase on the coffee table and opened it. “The news is not good.”

  Amber’s stomach did the sinking now. “What sort of evidence could they possibly have? I don’t even know this man! He...he made deliveries to my house and the station a couple of times.” Maybe more than a couple of times. Still, the whole thing was incredible.

  “Amber.” Teller closed his briefcase and placed the folder he’d removed atop it. “I’ve known your family for most of my life. Your father is my father’s personal physician. Your mother was my pediatrician. I, of all people, know this is wrong. You couldn’t possibly have harmed this man. Yet the evidence is enough to make even me have second thoughts.”

  The trembling she had experienced that morning after 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 ha
nd 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.”