“Good idea. We now have a plan.” I reclined the passenger seat and squirmed deeper into it so that I could nap for the remainder of the drive.
* * *
I woke when I felt us climbing for the first time in 300 or so miles. Theo had turned the car onto the Torras causeway, which connects the mainland to St. Simons Island. The highway rises onto a bridge stretching four miles over salt water marshes that hide where the land stops and the water flows. A green sweep of cord grass makes up the marsh, a few crevices in its velvety surface revealing a gleam of water and the true nature of what from the bridge looks like a dry prairie.
Low tide had exposed a border of grey mud where the marsh meets creeks that meander between the grasses and the Frederica River. A turkey buzzard swooped over a clump of trees that had managed to grow up from a hummock in the middle of the waving bog. I was glad I wasn’t driving so that I could enjoy the view. The sight was hypnotic, as many drivers on the causeway bridge learned to their detriment. Until a center divider was installed, marsh-gazing tourists had often drifted over the center line to smash head-on into oncoming traffic.
Theo guided the car down the other side of the bridge’s span onto St. Simons Island and bore left onto Sea Island Road, a two-lane blacktop that circles through St. Simons before leading onto the much smaller—and private—Sea Island. The two islands are separated by only the narrow Black Banks River and a wide swath of money. Spanish moss-draped live oaks line the road, their branches stretching from the road’s shoulder as far as the center yellow line, curtaining the road from the late afternoon sun.
In a day or so, we’d start working our way through meeting Cutler’s golfing buddies. I don’t play golf, but I pay attention to the Masters Tournament each spring, if only to see pictures of the spectacular azaleas blooming on the course. I had researched the tournament for this year. The 1999 green jacket had been won by a Spaniard named Olazabal, chased by Greg Norman and Davis Love II in the final round. Golf was important to the men we were planning to interview. I needed to educate myself, and besides, I was tired of sitting in the car. “Theo, which golf course did Cutler prefer to play?” I asked.
“Seaside.” Her answer was firm. Clearly she knew what he’d liked.
“Could we swing by the course before we go to your place?” I asked.
“Now?” she asked. “We’re almost at the cottage.”
“It can’t be very far,” I said. “St. Simons is only twelve miles long, and a lot of that is marsh.”
“All right,” she said, turning the car around. “Just tell me why.”
“I need to get a feel for where these guys spent their Sundays together before I interview them.”
Theo turned south and headed for the Sea Island Golf Club, a golfer’s paradise of three courses, including Cutler Mead’s favorite. Once into the club grounds, we followed Retreat Avenue alongside the Avenue of Oaks, a spectacular double row of 160 year-old live oak trees, constantly babied and fussed over by the maintenance crew. Theo drove toward the main clubhouse, weaving around to park on the verge of one of the narrow lanes bordering the course. “Most of what you can see closest to the clubhouse is the Plantation Course,” Theo said. “Seaside is over there,” she waved toward the west. “We can’t get onto the course,” she said, “but you can see some of it from here.”
The undulating fairways were smooth, emerald. Even the rough was carefully manicured to rise away from the fairway to a punishing scrub. The course weaved through marsh grass, around sandy dunes, and beneath towering oaks, nudging the shoreline. Around and in the water hazards snowy egrets stretched out their long necks. A heron stood on one leg, ruffled feathers blending in with the foliage, only the occasional flash of a beady eye giving him away. The course overlooked the Atlantic Ocean and offered spectacular views from several vantage points. I began to understand why Cutler Mead wanted to spend his Sunday mornings here.
“Let’s get out and watch for a while,” I said.
“In this heat?” Theo had left the car motor running with the air conditioning on.
“I want to get out of the car and stand up,” I said. “There’s a good breeze. Look at those palms swaying.”
The heat smacked me when I opened the car door, but the wind was strong enough to dry off the perspiration before I got sticky. I held my hair up off my neck, and Theo flapped her blouse away from her body to take advantage of the cooling air current. We leaned against the car to watch a couple of golf carts carrying a foursome of middle-aged men approach the hole. The wind from the Atlantic was rattling the fronds of the Palmetto palms. Each hole on the Seaside course is marked with a pole topped by a red basket, instead of the usual green flag. With each gust, the black-and-white poles swayed and bent.
By the time the carts were parked and the men stepped on the green, the wind was whipping the golfers’ pants around their legs, but the golfers seemed determined to finish their round. One jammed his cap down to his ears as he bent over his shot, trying to chip into the wind and avoid seeing his ball gust off the green. The other three crouched, backs to the wind, hunkered down until it was their turn. No one would make par in this weather, but the foursome fought the gale and their own wild shots to clinch the hole, laughing and slapping each other on the back before heading to the locker room.
When the last of the foursome had disappeared, Theo turned to me. “Seen enough?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m ready to go home.”
We climbed back in the car and Theo started the engine, cranking the air conditioning to high. We reversed our route and before long were pulling into the half-circle driveway in front of Theo’s three-bedroom cottage.
Hers is one of the smaller so-called cottages on Sea Island, built by her grandparents before the years of McMansions. Flanked by tall Palmetto palms and lush foliage, the single-story house had a red-tiled roof above pale yellow stucco walls. I loved the portico, situated to the east of the front door and offering covered access to a side door of the house or to a high wooden gate that blocked Theo’s back yard from public view. You couldn’t see much of the house from the street, but the relatively narrow frontage hid wings that jutted back from the entrance to wrap around an ancient live oak and a decent sized swimming pool. Theo’s sunroom was glass on three sides, overlooking the tree and the decking that paralleled the encircling wings of the home. Inside the sunroom Theo had set opposing couches upholstered in bright florals. The effect was comfortable and relaxed, perfect for putting my feet up to plan the next stage of our investigation.
I thought back to the scene we had just witnessed at the golf course. Those men looked like they were fighting a war. Is that what Cutler and his foursome did every Sunday—re-live their time in Vietnam? Why would they do that? On the other hand, on most days playing the Seaside course, the blue skies and the ocean would have been soothing. My imagination was running away with me since I couldn’t do anything until I heard back from Flynn about Scot Raybourn. I looked up to see Theo watching me. She had a glass of wine in each hand.
“Can we call it a day?” she asked.
“Let’s do that.”
11
Scot Raybourn
We spent the next day keeping a low profile. Other than some annoying phone calls from reporters hoping to get an interview, things were quiet on the island. I went for a long run on the beach. I was anxious to get started, to feel that I was moving toward a real investigation, something that would prove Theo wasn’t a murderer. I got back just in time for the call from Flynn reporting on what he’d been able to find out about Scot Raybourn.
“Whatever you may think about the guy, Audrey, you got to admire his ability to survive and prosper. New Century Tech is his fourth or fifth business. His previous ventures either went bankrupt or were sold for a profit.”
“Is he lucky or crooked?”
“Hard to say. Maybe he’s
got good lawyers.”
“And now?”
“New Century Tech seems to be doing well, but I’m reading tea leaves here. It’s a private company.”
I understood. Flynn was telling me the company didn’t have to make the kind of public filings with the SEC that someone with Flynn’s knowledge could parse to discover the real financial picture.
“What do they do?” I asked.
“Have you heard of the Y2K issue?”
“Sure. At the turn of the century the world is coming to an end, planes will fall out of the sky, etc. because every computer in the world will stop working on Jan. 1, 2000.”
“Uh, yeah. That’s the mass media hysteria version.”
“It must be true. It was on the cover of Time magazine.” I waited to see if Flynn would pick up on my sarcasm and banter with me, but he stayed serious.
“It’s actually a fairly banal software glitch,” he said. “Seems that most computers were programmed to recognize only the last two digits of the year—97, 98, etc.”
“Okay, so?”
“Well, when the calendar turns to the year 2000, that’s going to mess up all the calculations based on dates. The computers will read 2000 like 1900—see?”
“What does that have to do with Century Tech?”
“Most private companies and the U.S. Government are working on patching the problem—rewriting the software to recognize 4-digit years. I’m seeing estimates that the government alone will spend over $100 billion for the fix. That’s a pretty good incentive.”
“So they’re working on reprogramming computers.”
“Essentially. If this Y2K thing doesn’t happen, a lot of money will be spent for nothing.”
“And one way or another, a chunk of it will be paid to New Century Tech.”
“Right.”
The next morning, I called and got an appointment to see Scot Raybourn. After dropping Theo at her tai chi class, I headed to Century Tech’s office in the Village of St. Simons at the southernmost end of the island. I drove down Frederica Road, watching the sun flash between the twisted branches of overhanging trees. I tapped the brakes just long enough to salute the 4-way stop and turned left onto Kingsway. I had reached the corner where Kingsway intersected Mallery, the heart of the Village and tourist central. To my right small shops and restaurants on both sides of Mallery led to a pier that jutted out into the Atlantic. As usual the tourists and some locals were hanging out, staring into the ocean or just sunning themselves on the benches.
The New Century Tech sign came into view, and I looked for a shady spot to park. I swung up a side street and parked half on the cracked asphalt and half on the sandy ground, the car snugged under a moss-dripped live oak. As I walked out of the shadowy gloom, the sun’s glare blinded me. I put my hand up to shield my eyes. Squinting, I managed to pull open the heavy doors and stepped with relief into the cool interior.
New Century’s plush executive suite was a mix of cool aqua and grey, almost spa-like, an ethereal atmosphere that might have been decorated to lower the thermostat for the benefit of Scot Raybourn’s female audiences. He emerged from his office into the waiting area, Hollywood handsome, a thick head of dark hair greying at the temple. His green eyes were intent on me as he approached.
“You’re that friend of George Humphries’ widow, aren’t you?”
“Ann Audrey Pickering. Thanks for meeting me.”
He shook my hand with warm, gentle pressure. Still holding my hand, he gestured toward the open door of his office and an oversized sofa lounging against one wall.
Once in his office, he released my hand and invited me to sit at one end of the sofa. He joined me on the adjacent cushion and sat turned toward me. I wondered if I should have opted for the Barcelona reproduction placed at a right angle nearby, to keep some space between us. The chair’s backward tilt would be difficult to scramble out of. I decided to stay put.
“I heard you were on the island,” he said.
He saw my surprise. “Tommy Boxer told me he’d seen a pretty woman with Mrs. Humphries at the Cloister bar last night. Tommy’s a sucker for long-legged redheads.” He grinned, a brilliant gleam of teeth set off by a tan permanently baked in by rounds of golf in the Georgia sun.
“Tommy Boxer?” I ignored the heavy-handed compliment. I wondered if that kind of approach was how Raybourn typically interacted with women.
“He’s a close friend from way back.”
“Did you and he grow up on the island?”
“No, I grew up on the mainland in Brunswick. Wrong side of the tracks. Tommy’s family is old St. Simons.”
“Does ‘Old St. Simons’ mean old money?”
“Not really. St. Simons was always more downscale, casual. I knew Tommy because the kids on St. Simons went to school in Brunswick. There was a lot of mixing in those days between the Islands and town. Nowadays the big money stays on Sea Island. It’s become quite exclusive.”
He straightened, turning away from me, and sat back, indicating that the preliminaries were finished.
“I’d imagine Mrs. Humphries is well versed in the history of this area,” he said. “So, what can I do for you, Miss Pickering?”
“I’ve come down from Atlanta to help Theo. She’s been very upset by Cutler Mead’s death.” I wondered if the man sitting next to me was gullible enough to buy my pitch.
“I’m sure.” His expression was interested, but noncommittal.
I plunged in with the script I’d devised for explaining why I was asking questions about a dead man. “Theo wants to know as much as she can about Cutler. His death makes no sense to her, at least she can’t envision the man she knew as a homicide victim. I think she wants to understand what happened to him, and that means she wants to know his friends. She feels she owes him that, somehow.”
He looked doubtful, his mouth in a tight smile one muscle shy of a smirk. “Women. I’ll never understand them.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
“Mrs. Humphries doesn’t owe Cutler Mead a thing. Between you and me, I’m sure he was no more faithful to Mrs. Humphries than he was to his long-suffering wife. Cutler was not a man you’d rely on for your happiness.”
He’d confirmed my suspicions about Theo’s boyfriend, and I wondered if there was more bad news to come about Cutler Mead. “Nevertheless, she’s curious.”
“I don’t believe curiosity is the right word. I knew her husband, by the way. In fact, I was playing golf at the same club when George died. Wasn’t Mrs. Humphries at Cutler’s house when he was killed? She must be the prime suspect.” Raybourn’s attitude was matter-of-fact. We could have been discussing what to order for lunch.
“Theo did not murder Cutler Mead.” I should start keeping a count of how many times I’d said those words.
He shrugged, the most masculine shimmy I had ever seen. I couldn’t help but imagine his broad shoulders without that silk sport coat and pale shirt. It was a good thing I was conducting this interview and not Theo.
“Weren’t you one of Mr. Mead’s best friends?” I said.
“Not really.”
“I understood that you were a pallbearer at his funeral.” I deliberately phrased the question so that I didn’t have to admit that I’d been there in person. I didn’t want him to guess the extent of my interest—at least, not yet.
“We had known each other a long time, so Sissy asked me and some buddies to do the honors.”
“How long had you known each other?” My question related to his relationship with Cutler, but I remembered the exchange I’d witnessed between Raybourn and Sissy Mead at the funeral. He’d casually used her first name. How close was their relationship?
“He was our lieutenant in Nam,” Raybourn said. “We all ended up in the same squad. A bunch of us were from this area originally,
so we kept in touch after we got back—did business together, played golf.” His tone was offhand, as if the information were no big deal.
“You and Tommy Boxer, you mean?”
“And Drew Littlefield, too. He’s from here.” Raybourn leaned closer and spoke softly. “Comes from money. Mommy issues, in my opinion. Cutler was kind of a father figure to him.”
“What about Freddie?”
“Freddie, oh my god. He may be the best one of us.”
That was a surprise. Freddie hadn’t struck me as the best kind of anything. I pressed for an explanation of Raybourn’s opinion of that weirdo. “He’s from this area, too?”
“No. Somewhere in the West, I think.”
“What does he do? I thought he was some kind of handyman.”
“You could call him that. Freddie can do pretty much anything, but I was thinking about during the war. He didn’t have any nerves. That’s a valuable man. Someone who doesn’t panic, stays cool.”
The goon who threatened me at Cutler’s house had certainly not panicked when he’d discovered Theo and me. Sure, he’d taken control of the situation, but he was intense. I hesitated before saying. “He doesn’t appear that cool.”
“I only ever saw him unsettled once. When one of our guys...” Raybourn trailed off. “Long time ago, sorry.”
“And after you guys came back from Vietnam?” I asked.
“He’s had some issues,” Raybourn said. “But he seems to be doing pretty well these days. Stays in the present, when I’ve been around him.”
“Does Freddie play golf, too?”
Raybourn chortled, head thrown back and mouth open. “Are you kidding? No way. Freddie thinks golf is for wimps.”
“Then why did he meet you at the golf course every Sunday?”
He closed his mouth and tilted his head to one side. “Now how did you know that?”
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