For Sarah
1
July 1999 It Started Out
In the blistering summer of 1999, I was forced to solve my first murder. At the time, I was living in peaceful seclusion, a retired lawyer hidden away after years of tasteless and tacky media attention, my notoriety achieved when I testified against my husband Charlie and his criminal enterprise. But that’s a different story. This story is about my best friend Theo, her affair with the wrong man, and the secret that led to his death.
On this typical July day Atlanta simmered with nasty smog, the byproduct of summer heat and too many tailpipes. During the 1990’s Atlanta became a boom town. People moved here at the rate of 360 per day, more than 650,000 to the northern suburbs; a mere 170,000 to the southside. All of those suburbanites driving into and out of town pushed Atlanta to number 1—out of all metros on Earth—for the longest average daily commute. Frustrated drivers sweated on the Downtown Connector, 42 floors below my air-conditioned condo, my private retreat from speculative news reports about me and my role in my husband’s takedown.
I’d spent the last years trying to forget the embarrassment of seeing my face every time I turned on the local news, the endless depositions, trial and my husband’s sentencing. I sold the home we’d shared and moved into a high-rise complete with security and a protective concierge. I left my law practice, changed my routine and ignored the few friends who hadn’t already dropped me. Only Theo had refused to be ignored, pestering me and nudging me to get my life back.
I turned away from watching the creeping traffic and looked upward to the north Georgia mountains. The view through floor-to-ceiling windows was fogged with pollution, but far out, deep summer-green hills rolled on beyond the sprawl of asphalt and concrete. It was too hot for my usual run along the Chattahoochee River. Instead, I planned to stay in with the Sunday New York Times, now spread around the living room, on sofas, glass coffee table, part of the pale rug. Coverage of the search for John Kennedy, Jr.’s private plane eclipsed stories about Hillary Clinton’s run for the Senate from New York. As I read on, a hair dryer whirred in the background. Theo Humphries, the real star of this tale, had finally started her day.
Theo was single again, after her third husband, and the love of her life, George Humphries, keeled over and died at the wheel of his golf cart, still clutching a gin and tonic. She continued to live in their house on Sea Island, but since George’s death, routinely turned up at my place in Atlanta—ostensibly to spend some of the pile of money George left her, but really, to try and drag me out of my retreat.
Short and buxom, Theo wore her thick straight hair cropped, voluminous and fluffed, a Southern tribute to Princess Diana. Every strand was scrupulously washed and blown to perfection each morning, sometime after ten a.m., because, god forbid she ever rolled herself out of the guest room’s queen-sized bed before nine, and then only moving at the speed of January sorghum. I’d learned to bide my time until she emerged. With the buzz of the hair dryer in the background, I settled down to read.
“You’re jiggling your foot and talking to yourself again,” said Theo, who’d walked out from the guest room barefoot. She critically examined her feet, then bent over and rooted around in the bottom of a huge Birkin bag. “Have you seen my nail polish?”
My brain snapped to attention at the mention of nail polish. Before marriage to George Humphries, Theo always painted her toenails when she was carrying on a love affair. The impending pedicure was a blaring signal that she was up to something.
“Oh, here it is,” she said, retrieving the small jar of coral polish. She unscrewed the top and placed the opened nail polish on a Time magazine cover of George W. Bush as the frontrunner for the GOP nomination. She sat down and propped her feet on the cocktail table, grunting as she bent forward to squint at her toes. She adjusted her glasses before painting all ten without a drop spilled. Capping the nail polish, Theo pushed back into the depth of the sofa cushions and sighed.
“Annie, I think I may be in love again.” As she spoke, she gazed at her lurid toes. It was a neat pedicure, but her toes weren’t worth the dewy attention she was giving them. She looked like a cat that had just downed an opened can of tuna behind her owner’s back. Not guilty—because Theo never felt guilty about her affairs—just aware that she had gotten away with something and was fine with it. That look was a giveaway.
“Is he married?” I was curious, so I was careful not to imply any criticism that would cause Theo to clam up. “Not that I mind, unless some wife shoots you.”
I suspected Theo had narrowly dodged spousal fire in the past. At the reception following George’s funeral, I stood in the corner inhaling a vodka Collins to obliterate the pain of wearing high heels. To distract myself, I watched a clutch of Pilates-lean women chatting together, their backs to their husbands who clustered around the grieving widow, Theo Humphries.
Wives who disregarded Theo were taking a risk. Theo likes men, and they like her. Women often are blindsided by men’s reaction to Theo, with her glasses and unfashionably full-bodied figure. Theo’s technique is subtle and sincere. She can engage the shyest man in a spirited tête-à-tête, making him feel handsome and clever. I recalled the party where Theo—who cannot multiply nine times seven in her head, but can beat me at chess every game—charmed a handsome and boring CPA into believing that Theo understood his explanation of the tax treatment of offshore hedge funds. Great boobs and full attention to your conversation. What man could resist?
“It’s not like that,” Theo said, scooching forward on the couch. “Cutler’s been separated from his wife for many, many years. In fact, they have separate homes here in Atlanta.”
“Cutler?” I scratched my memory until I remembered. “You mean, that developer?”
“That’s right,” said Theo, “Cutler Mead.”
I’d met the man a few times when I’d visited Theo and George on Sea Island. Theo’s husband was a successful investor, but quiet about it. Cutler Mead, on the other hand, was always bragging about his latest project. I didn’t get the attraction. On the other hand, before her marriage to George, Theo had proven her wide-ranging taste in men. There had been that charming politician, the dog trainer who could have been a model, the lanky artist who’d painted Theo au naturel, the professional football player who gave new meaning to tight end, to name just a few. And George had been dead a few years now.
“If he and his wife are really living apart,” I said, “why hasn’t he gotten a divorce?”
“They have a son. I guess Cutler didn’t want to upset him,” Theo said.
And I’m the Queen of Sheba. I was surprised that Theo, with her experience, would buy that excuse. I pressed her a bit by asking, “How old is Cutler? Is the son still at home?”
“Cutler’s about the same age as George. I don’t know about his son.”
Theo liked older men. George had been at least a decade older than us. I’d bet that son was an adult now and long out of the house. However, that was Theo’s business. “How did this get started?” I asked.
“He called me to commiserate after George’s funeral. I didn’t hear from him again after that, but a few months ago he invited me to dinner. We’ve been seeing each other ever since.”
The facts were remarkably paltry, even for Theo, who was normally discreet about her romances. However, I could tell she wasn’t inclined to share more about her relationship with Cutler Mead, at least for now. She’d tell me everything, eventually, so I let it go. Theo heaved herself up from the sofa and began to unthread the tissue she’d wound between her toes. She walked out of the room with her weight rocked back onto
her heels so that the fresh polish stayed above the tufts of the carpet.
In a few minutes she returned wearing a pair of Jimmy Choo sandals. She dug into her purse again, coming up with a lipstick and compact. She precisely applied the lipstick, mashed her lips together, and checked her teeth in the mirror. “Annie, when’s the last time you had a date?”
“Oh, now we’re going to talk about my love life?” I really wasn’t interested in dating anyone, as Theo knew. She had wasted much conversation over many glasses of wine, trying to encourage me.
“Answer me.”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Oh, good. Who is he?”
“Flynn Reynolds.”
“Flynn is gay.”
“You asked when I’d last had a date.”
“I was speaking euphemistically.”
“Flynn is good company, Theo, and that’s all I’m looking for these days.” I hoped my answer would put an end to this interrogation, and maybe Theo would ease up on me.
Theo sat back down on the couch. “Look, Hon. I know Charlie was a louse. Forget your ex-husband. Find someone straight, someone who deserves you. Failing that, find a man you want to sleep with.”
“Oh my god, Theo. You should hear yourself.”
“Ann Audrey Pickering—you listen to me.”
Theo’s use of my three names meant she was serious. Like many Southerners, male or female, I was baptized with three names and used all of them. Casual acquaintances or business associates who were on a first name basis called me ‘Ann Audrey.’ Only the closest friends or family were allowed to shorten my name to Annie or Audrey.
“You have gorgeous red hair,” Theo continued, “and all those curls. Why do you insist on pulling it into a pony tail and stuffing a baseball cap on your head?”
“It’s easy—and I don’t have to worry about whether I’m fashionable or not.”
Now that I didn’t have to dress for the office, I’d adopted my mama’s philosophy. Leila Leigh Pickering, a.k.a. LaLa, refused to be a slave to her body. As if she were choosing liberty or death, LaLa would lift her well-bred chin and declare that she intended to skip washing her hair that day, or not wear a girdle to church, or forgo panties during the Mississippi summer. These small acts of rebellion had shocked and thrilled me, and I considered this subtle refusal to conform as my birthright—a sort of homage to LaLa and a legacy to disregard fashion for comfort whenever possible. And besides, anything more would distract from my standard outfit of baseball cap and jeans, accented with sneakers.
“It’s not about fashion,” Theo said. “It’s about accentuating your assets. Any woman would kill for those legs of yours, but the only time you show them is when you’re in running shorts. Back in college you were one of the beauties in the sorority. A classic southern belle, peaches and cream, beautifully dressed and elegant.”
I snorted to let Theo know what I thought about that memory. “Don’t you remember LaLa’s definition of a southern belle?” I asked.
“Whipped cream on top of piano wire,” Theo said with a smile. “We always laughed about it.”
“My whipped cream dissolved along with my marriage. I can’t be bothered anymore.”
Theo’s smile disappeared and she got serious. “Annie, you need to make an effort and move on with your life.”
“Move on with your own life.” I flapped my hands at her, spurning the attempted intervention. “When are you meeting Cutler Mead?”
“At one, but I’ll be back for supper. We’ll talk then.”
Theo should know better than to prod me about my love life. If she insisted on bringing up the subject later, I’d remind her about Baxter Wolf, who was discovered in Theo’s bed at Vanderbilt when I was pinned to him. I was furious with Baxter and crushed that Theo had seduced him, in what I saw as the ultimate betrayal. In retrospect, Theo did me a favor by exploding my naïve plans for a future with Baxter. The man was as boring as three-day-old leftovers. I would have been miserable in any marriage with him.
After a flaming argument and reconciliation, Theo never even flirted with any man I was dating. We both realized the importance of our friendship. Time and again she had shown stubborn loyalty to me, not only in the maelstrom of my ex-husband’s trial, but in other times of trouble. Theo’s moral compass toward me had remained at true North.
Dismissing thoughts of Theo and her affair, I stretched full length on the couch and buried myself in the Sunday paper. I chewed through all the sections, even the Business Section, reading about the new Apple personal computer, available in either blue or tangerine, with the ability to have wireless connections to other iBooks and to the Internet as long as they were within 150 feet of a small white “base station’’ plugged into a telephone or network connection. Steve Jobs was either crazy or a genius. I read on until the glut of information lulled me into a deep nap.
When I woke the sun had slid down toward the horizon. The haze from Atlanta’s pollution made for some spectacular sunsets. To the west, beyond the Chattahoochee river and Georgia’s border, Alabama was on fire. I rolled off the couch and pulled the shades to soften the glare.
“Theo?” I called out, but the place was quiet. She must still be with Cutler. I strolled barefoot into the kitchen, opened the fridge and poured myself some iced tea. I turned on the tv to waste time until Theo came home. A shrill ring interrupted an ad for Stove-Top Stuffing. I stretched across the counter to lift the handset on the kitchen wall phone.
“Annie, I need help.” Theo’s usual soft voice was strangely high pitched.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Cutler’s dead. I just woke up. He wasn’t in the bedroom. I found him on the floor in the study. He’s dead, Annie.”
“Take a breath, Honey.” I couldn’t take it in. Had Theo said that Cutler was dead? “Are you sure? Have you called an ambulance?”
“He’s dead.” Her voice had risen to a wail on the last word.
“Take it easy. It’ll be okay.” I looked around the kitchen for my car keys. I needed to get over there.
“There’s blood everywhere.”
Theo hated the sight of blood.
“Call 911. I’m on my way.” I grabbed my keys and ran.
2
Crime Scene
Driving like a traffic terrorist, I managed to get to Cutler Mead’s house before the police. There were no vehicles on the circular drive. The front door was unlocked. Calling Theo’s name, I let myself in to a high-ceilinged foyer. Theo was nowhere to be seen. There was no response to my calls. Beyond a wide arch on my left was the living room, on my right a masculine study’s oversized pocket doors were opened wide, giving me a full view of the room.
A crisp blue shirt with French cuffs was an elegant look, even worn by a corpse. Eyes open, Cutler Mead sprawled across a maroon Persian carpet, one of his long arms flung haphazardly toward a wall of bookcases, the other tucked under his body. His large frame filled the space between a pair of leather club chairs. Turned halfway between his side and his back, he looked like an old dog trying to roll over for a belly scratch. I swallowed hard and looked away, trying not to inhale so I wouldn’t taste the coppery smell of blood. Where the hell was Theo?
“Stay where you are, ma’am. Turn around and face me, hands where I can see them.” I held my hands up while I turned and faced a hardbody Atlanta police officer with gun drawn. He talked into a two-way Motorola mounted on his shoulder as he watched me. I had been around plenty of cops during the investigation into my husband’s case, but nobody had ever pulled a gun on me. I needed to reassure this guy I wasn’t a threat. “There’s no need for a gun, officer. I’m not armed.”
He ignored my statement and kept the gun raised. “What’s your name?”
“Anne Audrey Pickering,” I squinted to read his badge, “Officer Johnson.”
“Is this your
house?”
“No. It belongs to Mr. Mead. I’m just here because my friend called me. She said she’d found Mr. Mead dead.” I gestured toward the body on the floor. “There.”
The officer looked over at the body, but stayed where he was. “Let me see some I.D.”
I pulled my wallet from my purse and held it out to him.
“Take out the license and show me,” he instructed.
I held my license up close to his face so he could see it.
“Okay, ma’am. You can put it away,” he said, holstering his gun. Then he knelt at the side of the body and checked the neck for a pulse that I was pretty sure he wouldn’t find.
He came to his feet and asked, “You called 911?”
“That wasn’t me,” I said. “I just got here. Mrs. Humphries is the one who called 911.”
“Does she live here?”
“No. She’s Mr. Mead’s guest.”
“Okay. Where is Mrs. Humphries?”
Good question. I was trying to figure out where Theo had gotten herself to. Running away would not endear her—or me—to the police. I needed to find her and keep this policeman friendly. “She’s here somewhere. I was just starting to look for her when you came in.”
He spoke into the microphone on his shoulder, reporting that he’d found one person in the house, but he was looking for a second.
I didn’t like the idea of the police accosting Theo without me being with her. “Officer Johnson, Mrs. Humphries has probably locked herself in the bedroom. Please do not scare her.”
He looked at me in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“I’m guessing she’s afraid that whoever did this is still here. Look, let me get her to come out. She’ll open the door for me.”
He reported this into the walkie-talkie and nodded. “Okay. You go ahead of me.”
The foyer led toward an oversized great room, its glassed wall looking over a pool and stone patio. I guessed the master suite would be in one of the two wings off the great room. The rest of the bedrooms were probably on the second floor. On a hunch, I led Officer Johnson into the left wing, away from the study where Cutler Mead lay. We followed the hallway toward a closed door. I raised my hand to the door, then turned to the policeman, and with his gesture of approval, I knocked.
Whipped Cream and Piano Wire Page 1