“Meet me.”
“What?”
“I want to talk to you—informally. There’s some background you may be able to help me with.”
Informally—what the hey did that mean? Flynn had said that Bristol was known to occasionally bend the rules and think outside the box. I was uneasy about Bristol’s motives, but I started this conversation. I couldn’t back down.
“Fine,” I said. “What about the OK Cafe in an hour? It shouldn’t be too crowded then, and we can get a table.”
“See you there.”
* * *
I didn’t bother to dress up to meet Bristol, but went straight to the restaurant in my jeans and tee shirt. The OK Cafe sounds like it belongs in Wyoming or Texas, but is a popular spot for a power breakfast in Buckhead—the heart of Atlanta’s business community. It sits in a free-standing building next to a 1950’s era strip mall that would have been turned into a big box store or condominiums in any other Atlanta neighborhood. However, the location at the corner of West Paces Ferry Road in Buckhead insured the businesses in the mall were gold mines. The parking lot was so busy that on the slowest retail day of the year, you still had to keep circling to find a spot.
The cafe’s pine-paneled interior is lined with uncomfortable wooden booths accented by gingham half curtains at the windows. In addition to breakfast, the restaurant has a ‘meat and three’ menu served by waitresses in crisp mid-century white and blue uniforms and overdone Southern accents. I think they get those girls from Michigan. I normally avoid the cafe’s dining room and the faux waitresses and head to the separate entrance on the back side of the restaurant. Here is the OK Takeaway, where you hang a red basket over your arm while you heap takeout containers full of meatloaf or fried chicken or pot pie accompanied by fried okra, mashed potatoes and corn bread muffins.
The OK Takeaway is a panorama of Buckhead—bankers in suit and tie, car salesmen, construction workers who are ubiquitous as they build/rebuild commercial and upscale residential neighborhoods that surround the OK Cafe. Later come the soccer moms buying supper after the game at one of the three private schools within two miles. And then there are the little ol’ ladies. The OK Takeaway might be the last place in Atlanta where you see an elderly white lady trying to decide whether the collards are going to be too tough to chew, accompanied by the (invariably African American) nurse/housekeeper who with one hand is holding the old lady’s elbow so that she doesn’t do a header into the overcooked greens, and with the other hand balancing the loaded basket for checkout.
I eyed the Takeaway entrance with regret, and entered the main room of the cafe, asking the hostess for a booth toward the back. From there I could watch the door. I contemplated ordering a chocolate malt, but decided I might need my wits about me so I settled for coffee. The waitress had refilled my cup twice before I saw Bristol walk in. He gave the hostess a big grin and said something that lit up her face. She led him to my booth with a hip-swinging sashay.
“Sorry I’m late,” he apologized.
He didn’t look sorry. The brief interchange with the hostess had confirmed my opinion. Mike Bristol was a player. I couldn’t deny his attraction—handsome, muscled and self-confident—but I had no intention of becoming another notch on his belt. I quelled my instinctive reaction to be gracious and forgive his tardiness. “Sit down,” I said, “Do you want some coffee?”
“No thanks, I’m over my limit already.” He slid into the booth and sat, putting his elbows on the table and leaning forward.
He seemed to be searching for an opening, so I jump-started the conversation. “You said I might be able to help with some background.”
“Yeah. Tell me, how long have you and Mrs. Humphries known each other?”
“Too long, Theo would probably say. We met in college, the first day. We were standing in line for registration, and we struck up a conversation. After college we went separate ways, but we kept in touch.” It was a minimalist description of our friendship, but I was wary of telling him too much.
“You seem closer than just ‘in touch’.”
“We’ve become closer the last few years. She’s been a good friend to me, and I try to reciprocate.”
His answer was a noncommittal, “Un hunh,” his fingers tapping the table.
I struck back with the most reliable conversational gambit in Atlanta. “Where are you from, originally, Detective?
“Ohio. School in New Jersey. Rutgers.” He anticipated my next question. “I came to Atlanta with my ex-wife. She works for Turner Broadcasting.”
“So you’re one of the 50%?” It was well known that at least 50% of Atlantans were not Southerners.
“Right.”
“You’ve managed to fit in.”
“Not too hard if you learn to ignore some customs.”
“Such as?” He was treading on dangerous ground.
“Anne Audrey Pickering, for instance. What is it about Southerners that causes them to string three or more names together and hang them on babies?” He appeared dead serious.
I was preparing a scorching reply when I saw the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth. “It is a burden, but we learn to live with it. And it can give you a lot of flexibility.”
He threw back his head and laughed. He had very fine white teeth.
“About Mrs. Humphries. Did she tell you about her relationship with Cutler Mead?”
He was fishing for information. Thankfully, I didn’t have much to tell, so I didn’t feel like I was betraying Theo. “She told me they were seeing each other.”
“When did she start dating him?”
“He took her out to dinner after her husband George died. According to Theo, Cutler was commiserating with her over George’s death.” I couldn’t help myself. I deliberately drawled out the word commiserating.
“You seem skeptical.”
“I’ll admit I was surprised, but they were acquaintances. I believe George and Cutler had done some business together. Theo grieved George Humphries for a long time—years. He was probably the love of her life.”
“Probably?”
“That’s my opinion, I don’t know about hers. I don’t think you can ever know for sure who people love most. People love a person as much as they can, and when that ends, they try to love someone else just as deeply. Maybe it works—maybe it doesn’t.” I regretted saying that as soon as it was out of my mouth. I didn’t mean to give this man any insight into my thoughts. I hoped he’d ignore it. No such luck.
“Are we talking about Theo Humphries here?”
“That’s who you asked about.”
“Sorry.”
The atmosphere in the booth became chilly. He shifted on the hard seat. Those pine benches are brutal on people with no padding on their backside.
“How did you and Mrs. Humphries become such close friends?” Bristol asked.
“I told you we’d known each other a long time.”
“I’ve known guys I went to college with that I wouldn’t invite for a beer.”
His blue eyes were looking right into mine. He seemed to be waiting for me. I looked down at the table top and reconsidered that chocolate malt. What the hell, I thought. I need to play this out for Theo’s sake.
“When my husband…” I swallowed, “was indicted, and the police revealed that I would be testifying against him, there was a lot of publicity. People I thought were my friends made it clear that they were not. A lot of nasty phone calls. From family. People I didn’t even know. I finally changed my number, but they still found me.”
“But Mrs. Humphries wasn’t one of those people?”
“No. Not Theo. She never wavered. She was in my corner the whole time.”
He shifted again. He must really be uncomfortable.
I hadn’t intended this meeting to be so one-sided. It was time I got some information out
of him. “What did the medical examiner’s report say?” I asked.
“Death from blunt force trauma.”
“One of the golf trophies in the study?” I hoped he wouldn’t realize that I’d slipped into the foyer to get a closer look when the scene was off limits.
He sat back and didn’t answer. What was he thinking? Had I overplayed my hand? After a minute, he said, “Right.”
“Then it couldn’t be Theo,” I said, in a manner that brooked no room for disagreement.
“Why not? She was right there. She was covered in his blood when we arrived.” He didn’t seem angry that I’d been so definite. It was more like he was enjoying the give and take, as alert as any sports competitor, watching for his opponent’s next move.
“That happened when she found him—as she already told you. And anyhow, how would Theo, who’s barely 5 foot 2, strike Cutler Mead in the head? He was a very tall man.”
“He could have been seated. She could have gotten up and grabbed the trophy while they were arguing.”
“You can’t be serious. That’s a stretch even if they’d been arguing—which they weren’t. I know when Theo’s happy, and she was happy with Cutler Mead.”
That drew a soft chuckle from him. “I forgot—you didn’t know. Cutler Mead was going back to his wife.”
“What? I don’t believe it,” I said. Bristol was starting to aggravate me, maybe intentionally.
“When I interviewed Mrs. Mead she told me they were reconciling. How do you think your friend would have reacted when he told her that?”
I thought back to the icy widow I’d watched at the funeral. Could she have really seduced Cutler away from Theo? I didn’t think it was likely. “Did anybody else know that the Meads were getting back together?”
The detective blinked at my question. “We’re trying to find any witnesses who might corroborate Mrs. Mead’s statement. But in the meantime, there’s no question your friend remains the most likely suspect.”
“Most likely,” I repeated. “Are you at least looking for other suspects?” I was angry that he still couldn’t see that Theo wasn’t capable of this.
“We’re following other leads,” he said.
I played a hunch. “When we spoke on the phone, you said I could help you with background. What did you mean? Something other than these questions about Theo?”
For the first time in the conversation, Bristol looked uncertain. “I think the crux of this case is out of the APD’s jurisdiction—on the coast—either St. Simons or Sea Island.”
I put my own elbows on the table and leaned toward him. He smelled like some kind of spicy soap. “Go on.”
“Mrs. Humphries is well ensconced in society down there. She probably knows most of the people that Cutler Mead knew or did business with.”
“Probably.” I wasn’t about to let on that he was telling me precisely why Theo and I wanted to go to the coast.
He seemed to be searching for how to continue. He unwound the napkin on the paper placemat and played with the silverware. “I’m not encouraging you to do anything dangerous,” he began.
“Thanks. I’m familiar with the standard trope to leave everything to the police.” Not that I had abided by that rule when I decided to go after my husband. Charlie would still be swindling people if I’d left it up to the cops to stop him.
“If you talk to people on the coast, and you discover something I should know about this murder, I want you to tell me.”
“Of course.” Easy enough. Why wouldn’t I tell him anything that might exonerate Theo?
Bristol didn’t look convinced by my statement. “Tell me—Ann Audrey—and let me handle it. Don’t put yourself or Mrs. Humphries in danger.”
Let’s not kid ourselves. I would have said anything just to get his permission for us to leave Atlanta. “Of course,” I said. “So Theo and I can go to Sea Island—with your blessing?”
10
Drive to Sea Island
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t believe it for one minute,” Theo said, clenching the wheel of her Mercedes so tightly that her knuckles were white. I wasn’t sure whether her death grip was because I had just told her that Sissy and Cutler Mead were reconciling or because of the traffic flowing around us. We were moving fast on I-75 out of Atlanta, so fast that switching lanes required total concentration. South-bound lanes five across sped wheel to wheel far above the posted speed limit. You had to keep up or be run over. This kind of driving was not Theo’s forte, and I regretted distracting her.
“I’m just reporting what Detective Bristol told me,” I said. “Maybe Cutler didn’t say anything to you because he didn’t want to upset you.”
“I promise you, Annie, if Cutler Mead were planning to go back to his wife, he would not have had to tell me. I would have known.” She flung one arm out, her palm open, dismissing the possibility.
“Keep both hands on the wheel.”
There would be plenty of time to hash over my conversation with Mike Bristol during this drive. The trip from Atlanta to St. Simons and Sea Island is almost five hours, even taking the interstate the whole way to avoid speed traps in small towns. At one time the town of Ludowici, outside of Brunswick, was so notorious that then-Governor Maddox erected billboards warning drivers to take another route. No, we would stay on the interstates. South from Atlanta to Macon on I-75. Turning east on I-16 toward Savannah. Diving south again on I-95, until we exited on the Golden Isles Parkway toward the city of Brunswick and the barrier islands that protect the coast from the Atlantic Ocean.
I leaned my seat back and closed my eyes to hint I was taking a break from the conversation and to avoid watching Theo drive. I took the opportunity to consider what Sissy Mead had told Detective Bristol. Did Sissy know the effect that information would have on the case against Theo? If the Meads were reconciling, a prosecutor would relish painting Theo as a woman scorned. She would have a motive to murder the man who had been leading her on. I could imagine the opening statement at the trial now.
Could Theo have read the signs wrong? Cutler was a deal-maker. Theo and Sissy were competitors, so to speak. He was used to keeping secrets from competitors. He might have told his wife he wanted to return to her, while he was still carrying on with Theo. Whether he was a businessman or not, he was a man, so deception came naturally.
We drove in silence until signs began to appear for Macon, where we would pick up eastbound I-16. If I were alone I would pull off and stop into the Waffle House for pecan waffles and a side of bacon, but Theo was determined to drive straight to the coast. As she negotiated the Macon bypass, she restarted the conversation.
“I still don’t believe Cutler was going back to his wife.”
“Yeah, you said that.”
“Annie, there’re a thousand signs that a man is losing interest, and Cutler wasn’t showing a single one. In fact, if anything, he was getting serious.”
“What about him looking at his watch at lunch? You told me you wondered if he was meeting someone.”
“Not his wife!” Theo kneaded the wheel.
We wrangled amicably about the perfidy of men (me) or their loving natures (Theo) while she drove. This part of the route, the 150 miles or so between Macon and Savannah, is tedious: low-land, sometimes forested, occasional standing water edging up to the highway. The terrain dropped slowly, scrub pine, Palmettos, and sandy patches indicating we were approaching the Georgia coast.
“How do you want to do this?” Theo asked.
“You mean, how do we investigate Cutler to find out if anyone had a motive to kill him?” I saw Theo wince at my bald statement. “We start with people you know, like the guy you think was aware of why George and Cutler had a falling out,” I said.
“That would be Rob Prescott. He was George’s business partner.”
“Okay. That’s a good place to start. Then we
can try to interview the guys Cutler played golf with, the ones who were pallbearers at his funeral. The problem is that some of them might not want to talk to us.”
“Can’t we just casually chat with people and see what anyone knows?” said Theo.
“We need a bit more organization.”
“Not my strong suit.” Theo wrinkled her nose.
“You forget I was there when you planned your wedding to the last toothpick—in colors that matched the bridesmaids’ dresses.” Theo could be organized when she wanted to. I wasn’t fooled when she put on that helpless act.
“That was different. That was fashion and interior design. I can do all that.”
“You made lots of lists and kept up with expenses and deliveries. This is similar. We need to work our way through anybody we can think of who might give us information about Cutler. When do you think you can get an appointment with Rob Prescott?”
“Don’t worry about Rob,” Theo said. “He’ll meet us anytime that’s convenient for me.”
I turned in my seat and widened my eyes. She had the decency to blush.
“It’s not what you’re thinking. I own half of the company—Humphries Enterprises—Rob and George’s company. George left his shares to me when he died. Rob offered to buy me out, but it didn’t make sense to me when the company was doing so well. I guess you could say I’m a silent partner now.”
Once again I remembered not to underestimate Theo. There was more to her than designer clothes. If anybody could figure out a way to learn more about Cutler Mead, it’d be Theo. I turned my thoughts from the murder victim to our suspects. “When we looked at the pictures of the golfers you said you didn’t know Scot Raybourn. His office is on St. Simons in the Village. I’ll make a call and see if he’ll meet me. But first I want to talk to Flynn and see what he’s been able to find out.
“Fine.” Theo put on the blinker as she moved into the left lane to pass an overloaded truck carrying logs to the area papermills. “I’m going to my tai chi class while you do that. I might pick up some information at the spa. Everybody on Sea Island goes there.”
Whipped Cream and Piano Wire Page 7