“Sorry,” she replied, wincing a bit. “I haven’t had a full cup of coffee yet.”
“No worries,” he assured her, turning to go back to his apartment, but he paused before going inside, his hand hovering on his doorknob. He simply couldn’t stop himself. "By the way, there's no way that the girlfriend did it. It's obviously someone else."
The words hung in the air between them. Ben hadn't intended to say that part out loud, but something about the case had nagged at him since he'd seen those photos. His analytical mind couldn't help but latch onto the inconsistencies. Plus, he did some of his best thinking in the shower.
It had felt good to actuallydosomething.
Kelly's eyebrows shot up, her shoulders stiffening at his words. The wariness was back in her expression, but this time for a completely different reason.
It was clear as hell that she didn’t believe him.
"What do you mean she didn't do it? She's the main suspect."
Ben shifted his weight, already regretting that he’d opened his big mouth. This woman didn't know him. He'd gone from "guy who had a Cheeto on his shirt" to "guy who looked at her confidential murder files and has opinions" in the span of twenty-four hours.
Still, he couldn't back down now. He was in it, whether he liked it or not. Maybe next time, he’d remember to keep his damn mouth shut.
"The girlfriend has an alibi. She was at the coffee shop at the estimated time of death." He gestured toward the envelope. "According to the barista's statement, she was a regular. She came in every day at the same time for a large coffee anda blueberry muffin. The barista remembered her specifically because she was a big tipper who always took the time to chat and ask about their day."
Kelly shook her head, tapping the envelope on her hand.
"Are you a cop or something? Because she could have double-backed. Gone to the coffee shop, established her presence, then circled around to commit the murder. It's only a ten-minute drive from the coffee shop back to her house."
He’d thought about that, but it didn’t make a difference.
"I’m not a cop, but there were photos of the kitchen table. There were two cups on the table. One was clearly coffee. You could see the dark liquid, plus there was a half-filled coffee maker on the counter. The other had a tea bag string hanging over the edge."
He pointed to the envelope.
"You need to look at the photos of the kitchen shelves. Open shelving, everything visible. No tea boxes. Not in the pantry either, according to the inventory. And according to several witness statements, the girlfriend was a notorious coffee addict."
Kelly's expression shifted subtly as she processed this information. She pulled out the crime scene photos, shuffling through them until she found the one of the kitchen table. She studied it for a moment before replying.
"You don't know that she doesn't drink tea," she said, but her tone had lost some of its defensive edge.
"You're right, I don't," Ben admitted. "It's just a hunch. My mom owns a coffee and tea shop. I recognize that tea bag tag. It’s a fancy and expensive tea, and it’s doubtful a casual tea drinker would even know about it. You can’t get it in the grocery store.”
"My grandmother was a tea drinker,” he went on. “A very picky tea drinker. She always carried tea bags in her purse because she said you never knew when you'd be somewhere with'only that dreadful coffee.' She took her tea as seriously as my mom takes her coffee."
Kelly's lips quirked in what might have been the beginning of a smile. She didn’t look as wary or indignant as only a few minutes ago.
"I'm a coffee addict too. I don't drink tea either."
"Neither do I. Unless I’m sick,” Ben said, relieved that the tension between them was easing. "I’m just guessing that someone who visits a coffee shop daily, and sometimes twice a day, for a large coffee isn't secretly brewing tea at home. But I could be wrong. It’s happened before."
He’d certainly been wrong about his business partners.
"So you think the killer brought their own tea bag before committing murder?" Kelly asked.
There was skepticism in her tone, but much less than before. Her curiosity was clearly piqued.
"I don't know. But I think someone else was there that morning, and that someone could have been the killer."
He'd said enough. Probably too much. He turned back to his door, but this time a question stopped him.
"Are you sure you're not a cop?"
Ben smiled and shook his head, thinking about the family business. Law enforcement ran in the family, even if he’d chosen a different path. His sister Lulu was now the sheriff of their hometown.
