I set the cup of coffee down in front of him. He didn't even look at it, just gulped down half of it and continued talking excitedly about his next project.
"It's going to be a murder mystery," he said, wiping the creamer from his upper lip.
"Will we know the killer?" I asked. I liked the way the steam rose from his cup, unfolding like a summer storm.
"Oh, you'll know the killer, but you won't know that she's the killer. She's the secretary of an eccentric writer, and she can't stand it--only the audience gets bits and pieces of her disdain for the man. And she'll be so likable that you'll feel betrayed when you realize what she has done."
"Did she murder him?"
Another swig, and the coffee was gone. He made it look so easy. It probably didn't even have time to burn his tongue.
"You bet she did. Right there in chapter two, and you see her do it but you don't realize what happened, of course."
"Oh, of course not. Do I get to know how she did it?"
He dabbed the sweat off his ruddy cheeks with a napkin. "Is it hot in here?"
"No, but you did just swallow a hot coffee in two gulps."
He finally looked at the cup, furrowing his brow.
"Is something wrong? Should I get you more?"
"It doesn't taste right," he said. He crushed the paper cup in one hand. Sweat continued to drip off his face.
"Well, do I get to know how she did it?" I pressed. I could already smell the sourness of his skin.
He looked me in the eye. "She poisoned his coffee."
"That sounds familiar," I said, as his body slipped out of the chair and onto the floor. I got up from my seat and stepped over him. "A little cliche, don't you think?"
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