Flynn and I followed the crowd into the chapel and took seats midway back on the aisle. We were aiming to be inconspicuous, but able to see guests, especially the players who would be seated in front to mark their status as family familiars. On our left, off a side aisle, a gate separated the congregation from a smaller chapel. The crowd was still settling into their seats when a dignified staff member opened the gate for a portly man who gripped a slim middle-aged blond by the elbow and maneuvered the two of them into the sanctuary. They were trailed by a young man with over-long hair, who walked with his eyes downcast.
“Look. There’s Sissy,” whispered a woman’s voice behind us. I nudged Flynn. Our first glimpse of the widow.
“Who’s that older man?” asked another voice.
“I think that’s Martin Frye, her older brother,” said the first voice.
The third member of the group had to be Cutler’s son, the one Theo had told me was the reason the Meads had remained married, despite Cutler’s infidelities.
Mrs. Cutler Mead wore her hair in a smooth chin-length bob. She was dressed in black and walked rigidly erect, her face frozen. If she stumbled and fell she’d shatter on the marble floor. Once through the gate, her son moved alongside her, turning his back on the crowd to insulate his mother from the eyes of the congregation. The three sat alone on the front pew.
The boy appeared concerned about his mother, putting his arm behind her on the back of the pew. Where had he been on the day his father was bludgeoned to death? The kind of beating given to Cutler Mead could have exploded from a son’s lifetime of seeing his mother repeatedly shamed by his father’s infidelities.
I squirmed, seeking a less uncomfortable position on the oak pew. Why didn’t Patterson’s upholster these benches? My Calvinist/Presbyterian upbringing answered the question—funerals were supposed to be an uncomfortable reminder of our mortality.
“Quit fidgeting, will you?” Flynn said.
“Sorry. I’m trying to look around to see who’s here.”
“Take a look at the back row. On the aisle.”
I swiveled around and locked eyes with Mike Bristol, looking remarkably relaxed in a dark navy suit. He had the nerve to nod, so I nodded back. Was it my imagination, or did he wink at me?
“Did he just…?”
“Yep. Winked,” Flynn answered. “I can’t wait to get home and tell Don.” Flynn was barely smothering a laugh.
That smug son-of-a-…Mike Bristol’s ego was completely unchecked. “What’s he doing here?” I hissed in Flynn’s ear.
“The same thing you’re doing. Checking out the suspects. Probably standard procedure.” Flynn hesitated and added, “He does wear that suit well.”
“Stop it.”
I was embarrassed that Detective Bristol had seen us. I had assumed that no one at the funeral, except Freddie, would have any idea who I was. It had been years since I’d ventured out into a large gathering. In the past I’d gotten dirty looks from more than one person who’d lost money from my husband’s stock manipulation. Stop thinking about yourself and focus on learning something to help Theo, I scolded myself.
I craned my neck to view the front of the room. Four men sat stiffly across the aisle from Sissy Mead. I had no trouble identifying the quartet in the picture from Cutler’s study. There was Freddie, clean shaven and uncomfortable in his black suit and white shirt. Dr. Tom Boxer, the veterinarian, was slim to the point of skinny, dressed in an Italian designer suit. Scot Raybourn loomed over them, broad shouldered and handsome and occasionally looking at his heavy gold wristwatch. A small man I guessed to be Drew Littlefield, occasionally sniffed and used his handkerchief. He was crying, the only one of the four who showed any emotion. The other three were stone-faced, eyes front and completely ignoring each other.
I bowed my head and read the program setting out the service and the speakers who were to eulogize Cutler Mead. “That’s interesting,” I said, pointing to the program, “none of the golfing buddies are listed.”
“The choice of speakers would be up to the widow. Maybe she didn’t want them to speak.”
“Wonder why.”
I watched them for the duration of the memorial service. There appeared to be little interaction among the four, but nothing suspicious.
When the minister indicated the close of the ceremony, the four golfing buddies exited their pew and, joined by two funeral parlor employees, managed to hoist the casket. To my surprise, Freddie was the one who directed the pallbearers. He stood at the back right corner of the procession and gave commands to the others, inaudible to the congregation, but when his lips moved the others responded. What else might Freddie have been in charge of without others realizing it? The widow watched the men as the casket passed down the aisle. She stared at Scot Raybourn, finally catching the big man’s eye. She raised an eyebrow and he nodded an acknowledgement, before she stepped into the aisle to follow the bier, trailed by her son and brother.
Outside the chapel, I watched the pallbearers slide the casket into the hearse for the trip to the cemetery. When the doors were closed, Cutler’s friends broke away from the other two pallbearers. Scot Raybourn put his hand on Drew Littlefield’s shoulder, only to have it roughly brushed away. Shrugging, Raybourn leaned down and said something with a laugh, before he turned and joined Tom Boxer who’d stepped back and was watching them. Freddie had disappeared.
Flynn joined me outside and we waited for the valet to retrieve Flynn’s BMW. Once we were inside the car and away from any listeners, I asked, “Did you see that exchange between Mrs. Mead and the big guy—Scot Raybourn?”
“Saw him nod at her,” Flynn said. “What do you think that was about?”
“I’d say those two have some unfinished business,” I said.
“You got all that from a nod?” Flynn said, looking over at me with exasperation.
“Just a guess,” I said. “She waited until she could catch his attention. Has to be a reason for that. Otherwise, what did you think about Cutler’s buddies?”
“It’s pretty obvious—not all of the golfers are sorry they’ve lost one of their foursome.” said Flynn.
I had to agree. The chemistry among the men was telling
“Not only his friends,” I said. “Mrs. Mead appears as cold as ice—not what I’d expect from a grieving widow.”
“People grieve in their own way,” said Flynn. “Appearances can be deceiving.”
8
Shoe Shopping at Neiman Marcus
After the funeral I returned home, kicked off my shoes and dug my toes into the soft plush of white carpet. Sanctuary—forty-two floors above the push and pull of Atlanta. I was grateful for it. I cut through the living room and headed toward the kitchen, intent on pouring a glass of wine to ease back into the pleasure of living. I hadn’t expected to see Theo, who was perched on my sofa like a jungle cat waiting for prey.
“Oh, hey. I didn’t see you there.”
“We need to talk, Annie.”
“Okay. Do you want a glass of wine?” I reached into the fridge for a chilled bottle. I was stalling for time while I rehearsed what I could say about the funeral for her dead lover. I poured us both a glass and walked back to the sofa to hand hers over.
“Do you want me to tell you about the funeral?” I began.
“Later. That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
“What, then?” I asked.
“I went to Lenox Mall this afternoon.”
In spite of my disapproval, Theo had insisted she would go shopping while Flynn and I went to Cutler’s funeral. Her clothes announced that she hadn’t gone to Walmart. She wore a dark teal dress tailored to fit, along with a thick gold choker and earrings to match. A pair of low-heeled Ferragamos were an unusually solemn fashion choice for Theo, perhaps in deference to the funeral taking place without her. Any observant salesperson w
ould have understood that Theo could afford to buy anything in their department.
“I went to Neiman’s to browse for shoes.”
I grinned at her. I couldn’t help myself.
“You don’t understand,” Theo said.
Actually, I did. I’d been to Neiman Marcus with her often enough. I knew the soft background music, plush carpet and rows of pumps, mules, boots and delicate sandals in the shoe salon comforted Theo like a warm hug from grandmama.
“I needed to take my mind off Cutler’s murder, police questions, trying to think of people who’d want to kill him,” Theo said.
“Did it help? Buying shoes?”
“At first. I spotted some slingbacks. Very pretty. A kind of taupe color.”
That spoke worlds. Theo loved bright colors. The fact that she considered putting her feet into brown/beige/gray was akin to donning sack cloth.
“I asked Alton to get my size and sat down on the banquette to try them on.”
It was no surprise that Theo knew the shoe salesman’s name. She’d told me that he earned the store’s top bonus last year, partially due to Theo’s fondness for designer labels. I murmured my understanding to encourage her to go on.
“That’s when I saw Mitzi Huntington and Sue Beth Wharton. They had their backs turned, pretending to look at some Kate Spade wedges. They acted like they hadn’t seen me, though they must have passed right by where I was sitting.”
I recognized the names of the two casual acquaintances from Sea Island. Not close friends, but members of Theo’s social set. Suspicion of criminal contagion is the smallpox of our time. People are quick to cut you in public when they think your troubles might infect them. I should have warned Theo to be prepared for that. “Theo, I’m so sorry,” I said.
“I’m okay. Well, not okay. They were rude, Annie.” She paused, bending her neck sideways as if to shake the memory out of her head. “I’ve been ignored by thinner blonds in my life. I bluffed it out, chatted with Alton while I paid for the shoes—although I’m not sure I’ll ever wear them—until Mitzi and Sue Beth had gone.”
That pair of blond bitches. I ground my teeth at their treatment of Theo. If I ever see those two again, they’ll be lucky if those peroxided locks don’t burst into flame. While I fumed, Theo kept talking, reliving her afternoon.
“I went downstairs to the Neiman’s Bistro and ordered the popovers with strawberry butter. I was licking the strawberry butter off the top of the popovers. It was the same color as a pair of hot pink stilettos I’d bought years ago to wear to a cocktail party on Sea Island.”
Where was she going with this story? Only Theo would make a leap from gourmet pastry to high heels.
“I loved those shoes,” Theo said. “I remember how George laughed when I told him I’d bought them because they reminded me of sour watermelon candies. I was wearing them at the party when George and his lawyer, Drew Littlefield, got into an argument.”
“Wait, Theo. Stop right there. You never told me Drew Littlefield was George’s lawyer.” I was flabbergasted that Theo hadn’t mentioned that fact when we were looking at the photos in Cutler’s study.
“Sorry. Someone else was handling George’s affairs when he died, and I’d forgotten that Drew used to do George’s legal work. That’s what I remembered when I was at Neiman’s. I’m trying to tell you now.”
“Okay. Go ahead with the story,” I said.
“They were outside near the bar out on the patio. I was sitting with some girls in the living room, but I could hear George’s voice. He was swearing. I slipped out of the room and went to see why he was yelling so.”
“I don’t think I ever heard your husband raise his voice,” I said. “He was the most easy-going man I ever met.”
“He was usually such a sweetie. That’s why I remember this party. I went out to the patio and asked him what was going on. I put my hand on his shoulder to try to get him to come inside. He looked like he was going to punch Drew.
I said, ‘Honey, we can hear you hollering inside the house.’ I thought he’d realize he was making a scene. But no. He pulled away from me and dropped his voice. Got right in Drew’s face. He told Drew he intended to have nothing to do with it, and Drew would make it right, or George was going to make sure he did.”
“What was it that George was refusing to have anything to do with?” I asked.
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
“What did Drew say when George made that threat?”
“He said there was nothing he could do.”
“What happened then?”
“I finally got George to go back into the house. We left. George drove home in a rage. Passed other cars, even blew his horn at someone trying to back out of his driveway onto Frederica Road. That scared me more than anything, ‘cause he was usually such a polite driver.”
She was right, I thought, recalling many times George had driven us home after we’d all had one too many salty dogs along with our seafood dinner.
“For a while after that, either Drew or Cutler kept phoning the house—interrupted our dinner a couple of times. George would leave the table to talk to them. I’d hear him pacing back and forth in the den. He was arguing with whichever was on the line. After a week or so the calls stopped, and George told me that he’d changed to another law firm.”
“Did you ever figure out what the squabble was about?”
“No. But I’m willing to bet it involved one of Cutler’s real estate schemes. There were all kinds of developments just starting on St. Simons then, and it would be the kind of thing George would invest in. It was all in the past, more than five years ago now, but you said we needed to find a lead to investigate.”
“We do, but we’ll have to figure out if George and Cutler were doing some kind of deal together.”
“Annie, I think I know somebody on the island who could tell us what George and Cutler were arguing about. If he fell out with someone as easygoing as George, he must have had blow-ups with other people. Do you think it’s worth following up?”
She looked at me with those big, soft brown eyes, the ones men had drowned in. Theo was an unabashed hedonist, reveled in sex and accoutrements of wealth. She cried easily at the most appalling sentimental claptrap. Her heart should have been mush, but in fact, was as tough as over-cooked pot roast. She’d proven that when she’d opened herself up to love after suffering through George’s death. That showed courage. Middle-aged love is terrifying. You know too well what pain it could inflict.
I shook my head in admiration. Life had kicked Theo in the gut, and she’d gotten dressed and gone to face the world with her gold credit card. As a result, she’d come up with a theory, and maybe, some hope.
“It’s a great idea,” I said. “The other golfers live on the coast, too. We need to be there if we’re going to talk to them, find out about who could have a grudge against Cutler. Other than Mrs. Mead, and nothing points to her right now, I don’t know any leads here in Atlanta. We should move our investigation to your place on Sea Island.”
“Let’s go first thing in the morning.”
“Wait, Theo. We have to inform the police. Detective Bristol said you weren’t supposed to leave Atlanta, remember? I’ll call him and clear it.” I crossed my fingers behind my back, hoping that Bristol would agree to let us go.
“Fine. You talk to him. And call Flynn and ask if he wants to come down and stay at my place. Bring enough clothes for a week, and Annie, remember the Cloister dining room won’t admit anyone in jeans. No need to tell Flynn that. He’s always well dressed.”
She swirled out of the room to pack for the return home.
I should have been insulted, but she was right. I headed to my closet to see if I could dredge up a clean skirt and some nice sandals to throw in my bag.
9
Deal at the OK Cafe
I called
the Atlanta police the next morning and asked for Detective Bristol. When he came on the line, I made my pitch.
“It’s Ann Audrey Pickering, Detective. I’m calling because Theo is anxious to go home to Sea Island. I’m going to drive down with her. I hope that won’t be a problem.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. I waited.
“Miss Pickering…”
“Ann Audrey.”
“Right. Just so I’m clear, you’re asking if it’s ok by me for a suspect in a violent murder to leave the Atlanta PD’s jurisdiction.”
“She’d still be in Georgia,” I said.
“What if she decides to jump on a plane and head out of the country?”
He wasn’t going to make this easy. “I said I was going with her. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Sarcasm dripped through the phone. I wasn’t liking the way he was taking this, so I decided to change tack. “Theo only wants to go home and get away from the Atlanta circus.”
“You can’t seriously expect that she won’t be in the news down there?” He chuckled.
“No. There might be gossip, but it’ll be harder for someone to camp outside Theo’s doorway and ambush her. There’s private neighborhood security, and non-residents stick out on Sea Island.”
“Might be gossip. What an understatement. Theo Humphries killing her married lover has got to be the juiciest tidbit on the coast. If she wants to hide, she’d be better off in an Atlanta high-rise with lots of security to keep out the riff-raff.”
That put me in my place, all right. But my task still hadn’t changed. If I couldn’t get Bristol to approve our leaving Atlanta, Theo would bolt without me, and be brought back in handcuffs. “I’ll be there to keep an eye on her,” I said, “and you can ask the local police to keep an eye on us.” When he didn’t respond, I asked, “How can I convince you to let us drive to Sea Island?”
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