“Theo, it’s Annie. Are you in there? It’s okay. You can come out now. The ambulance is here. Police, too.” I heard the officer’s radio behind me as I tried to sound reassuring.
The lock clicked, and Theo stood in the doorway wearing one of her voluminous caftans. I didn’t recall seeing this one before, a wild black and white abstract print against a smeary red background. She held the sticky fabric of the caftan away from her body—the vivid red not a part of the abstract print, but blood. Her face was pale, except for black smudges of mascara smeared under her eyes. She gripped the door frame for dear life, her hands stained red.
“He’s dead, isn’t he? I told you.”
“Yes, Hon. I think so.” I wanted to hug her, but the police officer was hovering. I settled for putting my arm around her shoulders to guide her out of the bedroom.
“Are you Mrs. Humphries?” asked the policeman.
“Yes.” Under my arm Theo’s shoulders stiffened.
“Come with me. The detectives are on site. They’ll want to talk to you.”
We headed back to the living room with its elaborate crown molding, marble-painted walls, and huge silk flower arrangements—modish 1990’s décor done by an expensive decorator. Officer Johnson pointed me toward a chair.
“Sit down and stay there until somebody can talk to you.”
He escorted Theo to the other side of the room where a man in civilian clothes that I took to be the lead detective, huddled with other officers.
From my seat, I had a full view of the study, swarming with the ambulance EMTs, cops, and crime scene officers. I watched the chaos sort itself out. An investigator emerged from behind one of the club chairs. He had been crouched photographing Cutler’s body, especially his head—a crimson wreck exposed when the coroner’s men flopped the body over to zip it into their black bag. As they lifted the body to put it on the stretcher, the photographer snapped close-ups of a shiny object that had been hidden from view. He then proceeded methodically around the room, documenting the furniture, a spectacular carved hawk on the desk, bookcases, silver-framed pictures and golf trophies, even half-full mugs of coffee on the end tables and a couple of twists of yellow paper littering the floor nearby.
From behind me, I heard Theo.
“I don’t know anything else. Like I told you, I just found him like that,” she said.
“Okay. Tell me again what you heard.”
The authoritative voice came from the man who’d introduced himself to Theo as Detective Mike Bristol. He was tall, not as tall as Cutler Mead had been, but over six feet. Broad shoulders strained his coat jacket. His hands, encased in latex gloves, were balled into fists propped on his lean hips. He wore a fedora pushed back off his forehead, announcing he belonged to the elite Atlanta homicide squad whose members were presented a hat when they solved their first murder. No man in 1999 Atlanta wore a hat these days, except the murder squad at a crime scene or when facing the press.
He stood in front of Theo, who was hunched at one end of a silk upholstered loveseat. She sat in the blood-stained caftan, her bare toes dug into the pale carpet underneath the legs of the furniture.
“I don’t know what I heard,” Theo said. “The bedroom’s usually so quiet—it’s off the main part of the house. Something woke me up, and Cutler wasn’t there so I came out here to look for him. I found him on the floor.” Theo sat with her body twisted away from the detective and the room where Cutler Mead’s body lay.
The detective showed no reaction to Theo’s response. I was impressed, despite myself, at how confident he seemed, not in the least bit overwhelmed by the confusion of the scene or Theo’s recalcitrance. His reaction to Theo was curious. Most men seeing Theo in such distress would have tried to comfort her. Although, if a man were convinced she was a murderer, he’d have been more abrasive, demanding her attention. This guy did neither. I could only hope he was withholding judgment. I waited to hear what he would ask next, expecting him to press Theo further about her relationship to Cutler Mead. Instead, at the sound of the medical examiner’s men bumping down the front stairs with their rolling stretcher and body bag, he turned and took notice of me.
“Now who’re you again, and what’re you doing here?” he asked.
“Ann Audrey Pickering,” I said. “I’m a friend of Mrs. Humphries. She called and asked me to come.” He blinked at my triple name, so I didn’t mention that Theo had called me before calling the police or ambulance.
“Did you know the deceased?”
“I’d met him a few times.” I didn’t mind the interrogation. I had nothing to hide. In fact, it felt like old times. I’d been asked for information by many cops.
Detective Bristol gave me his full attention as I answered, leaning toward me and watching my face. Close up he was handsome, sharp cheekbones and a straight nose, the thin upper lip of his mouth softened by a high Cupid’s bow and his lower lip full and sensuous. His eyes were deep blue, not that pale Land-of-the-Midnight-Sun Scandinavian blue, but dark. No wonder he’s comfortable around Theo, I thought. He’s used to coaxing what he wants out of women.
“What can you tell me about Mr. Mead?” the detective asked.
“He’s a businessman, in real estate development, I think. I met him down at Sea Island at the Humphries’ cottage.” This last was a hint about Theo, since anyone who has a place on Sea Island also has money and influence, or at least, knows people who do.
He wrinkled his brow. “The Humphries?”
“Mrs. Humphries is a widow, but her husband George Humphries was still alive 4 or 5 years ago when I met Mr. Mead—that is, the deceased—at their home. I believe George Humphries did some business with Mead.”
“What kind of business?”
“Theo—Mrs. Humphries—could tell you better than me. I only know George’s company invested in different kinds of things—real estate, start-up companies, pine forest that was leased for lumber—that sort of thing.” I was tickling my memory for whatever I could add, spinning out my few shreds of data about the dead man in order to distract the detective from Theo, now slumped miserably against the arm of the loveseat. I recognized symptoms of imminent Theo-meltdown, rarely seen and best avoided.
“Do you know any of Mr. Mead’s family? Someone we could contact?”
This was a tough one, but I didn’t want to be caught out in a lie. “He’s married. I think his wife has a house here in Atlanta.”
“She doesn’t live here?”
“So I’ve been told.” I couldn’t meet the deep blue eyes, so I stared at my feet. At the moment I could have choked Theo for putting me in this position. I rose above that thought. “May I take Mrs. Humphries home?”
“Not yet. I’d like to get statements from Mrs. Humphries and you downtown.”
“There’s not much more we can tell you.” That might or might not have been true, but I wanted to get Theo away from those peering eyes.
“Maybe not. But let’s get it on the record.”
It made sense he’d want sworn statements, but I was not relishing a visit to police headquarters. I could see that Theo was in shock over what had happened. I was mulling over how to convince the detective to handle her gently, when he turned from me and spoke to Theo. “Do you have some other clothes you could change into for the trip downtown?”
“In the bedroom.” Theo pushed off the loveseat and started out of the room.
Her exit was halted by Detective Bristol. “Wait a minute,” he said, “a policewoman will go with you.” He gestured to a female officer who’d been in the hallway with the crime scene team. “This is Officer Woodall. She’ll take photographs before you change, and collect the clothes you’re wearing.” Theo indicated she understood, and I edged closer, hoping for an opportunity to talk before the policewoman escorted Theo from the room.
Theo retreated from me. “Shush, Annie.”
Friendship, real friendship, is a delicate balance. You learn your friend’s most intimate secrets. If you know the other people in your friend’s life—family, lovers or husbands—you suspect what facts have been omitted, glossed over, but you let that go. Theo and I had maintained our friendship all these years by knowing how far to press each other and when to back away. Normally, Theo’s comment would have closed down the conversation, but this the time I ignored our usual protocol. I had to warn her.
“Theo, don’t say anything,” I whispered.
Theo’s only response was the coughed ironic laugh she used to avoid discussing emotional subjects, even ones I knew all about—Theo’s detestable family, her loneliness without George, and, worst of all, her weight.
“Let me go with you to help you dress,” I said as the policewoman joined us.
“There’s no need. Just wait for me out here.”
I clamped my jaws shut to keep from screaming with frustration. I wanted to be in the room with Theo, to protect her. I’d had a lot of experience with police, and I knew they didn’t always play straight. Long-toughened loyalty to my friend won out, and I whispered “Okay,” to let Theo know I would honor her request.
Loyalty, however, was not synonymous with blind obedience. The police photographer and the coroner’s men had left. I moved across the living room and edged into the foyer to peer over the crime scene tape marking off the study. I did my best to memorize everything the photographer had recorded. Displayed within the bookshelves were silver-framed photographs, each frame set meticulously next to a golf trophy, judging from the small dimpled ball at the top of several of them. One frame sat in solitude, pushed off-center on a deep shelf.
There was no trophy next to that lonely frame. I was pretty sure I knew why.
3
The Interview
When Theo returned to the living room, she was wearing a deep blue sheath dress, knee length and fitted at the waist. She’d once told me that when dressing for a date, you were ninety percent likely to wear his favorite color if you wore blue. I hoped Cutler had appreciated her effort. Ignoring the hovering policewoman, I crossed the room to stand almost nose to nose with Theo.
“Do you trust me?” I asked.
She furrowed her brow. “Of course.”
“Okay, then. Please follow this advice. Do not answer any more questions,” I said.
“You heard what I told the detective. I came out and found Cutler. That’s all I know.” She paused and said, “Look, Annie. I know what this looks like, but there really isn’t anything else I can tell them.”
I considered announcing to Detective Bristol that I was acting as Theo’s attorney. That would prevent him from questioning her without me present. Unfortunately, like most big-firm lawyers with expertise in civil matters, I knew squat about criminal procedure. My last encounter with that specialty had been when I took the bar exam, years ago. My attempt to represent Theo might cause more harm than good if I aggravated the detective unnecessarily. While I was trying to decide whether to claim I was Theo’s lawyer, Detective Bristol joined us to explain that he’d drive us to the police station.
I didn’t like that, but I could understand that he wanted to keep an eye on us. “What about my car?” I asked.
“Give me your keys, and I’ll have it brought to the station.”
I handed them over and joined Theo in the back seat of Bristol’s unmarked sedan. The upholstery was a slightly napped fabric that I tried not to touch, imagining what that seat might have absorbed. The bench was more comfortable than a New York taxi, which is to say that it still had some cushioning and did not bear the deep imprint of the butts that had preceded mine. The scent of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. I didn’t figure Bristol for a smoker. The smell must have been deposited by previous passengers or Bristol’s chubby partner, who’d spent most of the investigation thus far overseeing a search of Cutler’s mansion. I’d missed his name when we were ushered outside to Bristol’s car. My guess was confirmed when the partner stood outside the car to suck down the last of a smoke before lowering himself into the front passenger seat with a grunt.
When we arrived at the station, Bristol and his partner escorted Theo and me to separate interview rooms, leaving me alone in a grungy rectangular space, its walls a sullen taupe that had probably once been a light beige. The faint crunch when I stepped on the linoleum squares gave proof that the police department had taken the low bid for the janitorial contract. Beat up, scratched and stained, the table centered in the room seemed all too familiar. Not unlike the one I’d sat at years ago for many hours while the story of my husband’s scam had unfolded.
I prowled the room, hoping I wasn’t in for another round of endless questions all over again. Mostly, though, I worried about Theo—would they arrest her or detain her or would we be able to leave after making our statements? Regardless, she needed to keep her mouth shut for her own protection. In her present state, still in shock over finding Cutler’s body, I wasn’t sure she could do that. The faintest admission could be twisted against her.
Detective Bristol shoved open the door and walked in, holding a bulging file of paper under one arm. Gone was the trophy fedora. He had a thick head of dark hair, lightly sprinkled with gray. Either he was older than he looked or the stress of police work was making him gray early. Why was it that salt and pepper made men more attractive and made women look like they were too old to bother with? His hair was starting to creep down his neck in the back, showing a slight curl and threatening to climb over his shirt collar.
He dropped the file on the table, pulled back one of the plastic chairs and sat down.
I didn’t want him to control the interview, so I jumped right in. “How is Theo?”
“Mrs. Humphries seems fine. Tired, perhaps,” said the detective.
“Where is she?”
“She’s in another interview room, just like this one.”
That was good news. At least Theo wasn’t in a cell. “Have you questioned her?”
He gave me a quizzical look, then apparently decided to answer. “Of course. But Mrs. Humphries is not exactly forthcoming. She claims not to know anything. Heard nothing, saw nothing, etc, etc, etc.”
I was relieved that Theo was sticking to the same recitation of facts, and I attempted to bolster her story. “You saw Cutler’s place. It’s enormous. The master bedroom is in the other wing of the house. It’s possible—in fact, it’s probable—that someone in the bedroom couldn’t hear anything going on in that study.”
“Maybe.” Bristol shrugged. He sat back and gave me a hard look. “Tell me again, what Mrs. Humphries said when she telephoned you.”
“She said ‘Cutler’s dead. I woke up and he wasn’t there. When I went to find him, he was dead.’” My statement had the double benefit of being true, and corroborating what Theo had told him when he interviewed her in Cutler’s living room.
“Did she sound upset?”
Was he intentionally asking me a stupid question, or was he just playing dumb? “Very upset.” I thought back to the phone call I’d received from Theo that afternoon. “I figured he’d had a heart attack, so I told her to call an ambulance.”
“How well did you know the victim?”
We had already gone over this at Cutler Mead’s house, but I played along so he couldn’t complain that I was uncooperative. “Not well at all. Like I told you, I’d only met him a few times.”
Thankfully, the detective did not ask what I knew about Theo’s relationship with the dead man—although, given Theo’s deshabille at the scene, he must have already figured out the nature of their relationship.
“Would you say you and Mr. Mead were friends?”
“No. Acquaintances, maybe.”
“How well do you know Mrs. Humphries?”
“I’ve known Theo since we were sorority sisters in college. Ag
es.”
He didn’t seem to be listening. His long hands fenced in the stack of papers, squaring them precisely on the table in front of him. No wedding ring. Was he single or did he leave his ring off so he could keep his options open? I put a choke collar on my monkey brain to curb any speculation in that direction. Bristol shifted in the chair and opened the file. I had the feeling the direction of the interview was about to change.
“One of our financial crimes guys saw you coming in and got really excited, thought you were going to make his day,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you, but, I never worked fraud.”
Oh, here we go. So much for keeping a low profile. I concentrated on maintaining a neutral expression, consciously transferring any tension from my face and hands to my feet, where he couldn’t see my toes gripping the insides of my shoes.
Bristol tapped the pages. “This is you, isn’t it?”
There was no need to prompt me. I could read my name upside down. I sat silent, avoiding as long as possible reopening the misery those pages represented.
“Ms. Pickering?”
I relented. I wanted to get out of there. “If those printouts are about my adventure with the Justice Department, that was a long time ago.”
“Adventure. What a word. You were the whistleblower and principal witness for the federal government against your own husband and his investment fraud. Even helped locate his offshore accounts.” He looked up from the papers and asked, “Where is your husband, by the way?”
“Leavenworth. My ex-husband.”
“No surprise.”
I wasn’t sure which statement he meant was not a surprise. Either would be correct, but I resented him saying so. My divorce was no business of his. He couldn’t understand the pain of finding out someone I’d loved—deeply—was a crook who’d duped me along with the victims of his scam.
Whipped Cream and Piano Wire Page 2