“Freddie told me.” I offered no explanation and waited to see what Scot Raybourn would do. I thought he’d follow up to find out more, but he didn’t seem interested in discovering how I’d met Freddie.
“Cutler wanted him there.” He shrugged again. “Cutler would call Freddie when we were on the back nine and he’d meet us at the clubhouse for a beer.”
“It all sounds like a feel-good buddy movie.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.” His expression changed. No more charm and easy gossiping about his buddies. He moved away from me toward the other end of the sofa.
“You said you did business together,” I said, “those of you who had served in Vietnam together and came back here. What business did you do with Cutler Mead?”
“Cutler owns shares in New Century Tech.”
“What percentage?”
He shifted his weight on the sofa. “New Century Tech is a private company. That information isn’t for public consumption.”
“I’m just trying to understand all of Cutler’s business interests.” I tilted my head and attempted to look, if not innocent, at least harmless.
“Not that it’s anyone’s business, either yours or Mrs. Humphries, but he owned 25%.”
“A big chunk,” I said. “What happens to those shares now that Cutler is dead?”
“According to the agreement, I have the right to repurchase them—at cost.” The green eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
“Were you in Atlanta when he was killed?” I asked.
“I was, as a matter of fact.” He didn’t seem the least bit uneasy about answering the question. “I drove up there with my lawyer for a meeting.”
“Is your lawyer Drew Littlefield?”
“That’s right.” Raybourn rose to his feet. “Sorry to end this conversation, but I need to get moving. Please give Mrs. Humphries my condolences.” He extended his hand to help me up from the low sofa.
“Thanks for talking to me,” I said, when I was on my feet. “If you think of anything that might be helpful to Theo, please let me know.” I retrieved a card from my purse and gave it to him.
He looked at the card, which showed only my name and a phone number.
“I can’t help but wonder,” I said. “Why did you continue to play golf with a man you obviously despised?”
Raybourn gave an old-fashioned bow as he took my hand.
“Miss Pickering, sometimes in life, we have to do things just to get on.”
That statement left open a lot of possibilities.
12
Arzy
When I left New Century Tech’s office, it was too early to pick up Theo, so I decided to wait for her at the only place on Sea Island where I don’t feel out of place. The Beach Club is the most casual spot in the cluster of venues that make up the resort. It sits across the road from The Cloister Hotel, an elegant three-story Spanish colonial built in 1928. The hotel grounds of manicured Bermuda grass are dotted with trees planted by U.S. Presidents, royalty and celebrities during their visits. The heavy weight of protocol squats on the Cloister’s red-tile roof. Oriental carpets, massive chandeliers, gothic stained glass windows, stuffy restaurants adhering to strict dress codes.
In contrast, the Beach Club serves buffet breakfast and lunch from steam tables sitting on vinyl flooring, in deference to the sand tracked in by the hungry patrons. Standing in line for waffles, omelettes, or grits, sun worshippers in bathing suits and shorts rub shoulders while they help themselves. Smells of bacon and coconut oil fight for supremacy. Diners carry their own trays out to the patio overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, where they chew and gossip.
Beach Club habitués are mostly female—golf widows watching the kids play while their husbands spend the day on the links. Coppertone basted sunbathers bake poolside, only occasionally venturing from the tiled pool area to the nearby beach when their children scream loudly enough to cause embarrassment. I snagged a table to myself under the shady porch that encircled the pool area, which kept me out of the sun and mostly out of the direct view of the cluster of women around the pool. The temperature was creeping toward 90 degrees, and despite the faint offshore breeze, the humidity was keeping pace. I sat down to watch and wait.
Theo emerged from the spa next door just as I was settling in. She was wearing pink capri pants and a Lilly Pulitzer blouse. Her sunglasses—Jackie O dark—completely obscured her eyes. Four-inch platform sandals accessorized the look, the combination of the capris and sandals showing off her trim ankles. I waved and she cut across the pool area toward me, moving effortlessly on the high platforms. A few women beckoned to her, and I stared hard, in case anyone was rude enough to directly snub her. Theo waved to them but didn’t pause as she zigzagged between the chaise lounges to reach me on the porch.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Why?”
“Normally it would take you 15 minutes to get through that crowd, what with laughing and gossiping along the way.”
“Hmph. The ones who want to chat only want the awful details about Cutler’s death.”
“Right.” I eyed her behind my own sunglasses. She was wound up, humming with some emotion that she was suppressing for now. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“You first. What did you think about Scot Raybourn?”
“He’s handsome and knows it. Sexy. Probably conscience-free where women are concerned.” I’ll admit I was embellishing a bit, but probably only a bit.
“Sorry I missed it.”
“You won’t be when I’m finished telling you about him. He didn’t like Cutler very much.”
“I see.” Theo leaned back in her chair. One of the Beach Club’s staff came by cleaning up leftover plates and silverware. Theo took the opportunity to order two glasses of iced tea. She did not specify, nor did the server ask, whether the tea would be sweet. That was a given. While we waited for the server to return, I filled Theo in on my interview of Scot Raybourn.
“We probably shouldn’t read too much into what Raybourn told me,” I said. “He might have a grudge against Cutler for some stupid guy thing—cheating at golf or some such.”
“I don’t think so,” Theo said. She took a swallow of her tea. The dark lenses of her glasses wouldn’t turn my way. Her lips pursed in sour distaste, though the tea was excellent—sweet but not tooth rattling.
“What do you mean?”
“Well…I had a manicure after my tai chi class.” She waggled her fingers so I could see the glossy sheen of the new lacquer.
“Nice. How is Arzy?”
“She doesn’t seem to have aged a day. It’s unreal,” Theo answered.
Arzeleen Montgomery, a tiny bent figure, had been tending to the hands of Sea Island matrons for more than 40 years. Behind thick bifocals, her brown eyes loomed huge. A tight helmet of salt and pepper hair framed her small face. Despite her age—she must be close to seventy by now—her café-au-lait complexion was unlined.
“She’s always been fond of you,” I said. On the few occasions I managed to get an appointment with Arzy, she’d made it clear that she was only willing to tackle my ragged nails as a favor to “my sweetest girl,” her nickname for Theo. Because Theo lived in a cottage built by her grandfather, my friend qualified as “old” Sea Island. That appealed to Arzy, an intractable snob whose standards were high. She disdained the nouveau riche women who wore artificial nails. None of Arzy’s clients—whose Sea Island cottages hid million-dollar art collections behind low tabby walls—would be so trashy.
Arzy had filed and smoothed Theo’s nails through three marriages, two divorces and George’s untimely death, even coming in on her day off to give Theo a manicure before George’s funeral. Theo once told me that Arzy could deduce the state of her clients’ marriage or finances from the condition of their cuticles. It occurred to me that Arzy probably knew a lot about what was happening behind the scenes
at Sea Island. The manicure table is an intimate space. Many of Arzy’s clients sat across from her, their hands in hers, every week. They felt safe confiding their personal business, knowing that she would keep a confidence for her regulars.
“She’d heard about Cutler,” Theo said.
“No surprise.” Undoubtedly Arzy had heard the whole sordid tale before Theo and I had even driven out of Atlanta.
“No,” Theo said, “but she was so kind and sympathetic.”
I was glad to hear that Arzy’d been kind to Theo, unlike the blonds who’d given her the cold shoulder when she tried to go shopping. Times like this you find out who your real friends are. “What else had she heard?” I asked.
“Most of Arzy’s client’s husbands did business with Cutler, but Linda Littlefield’s reaction to his murder was the strangest.”
“Who’s Linda Littlefield?” I asked.
Theo rolled her eyes. “She’s Drew Littlefield’s wife, Annie.”
“Oh. I thought Arzy was tight-lipped about her regulars.”
“She is. Arzy made it clear she rarely saw Linda.”
You really do need to know the rules of the game to keep score. I supposed that by indicating that she only occasionally saw Linda Littlefield, Arzy was telling Theo it was okay to gossip.
“So what?” I said. “You and I know Drew Littlefield not only played golf with Cutler, but was his lawyer. She’s probably worried about losing those legal fees.”
“You’d have thought. But Arzy says, it’s the opposite. She was surprised that Linda seemed relieved.”
“Did Arzy know why?”
“Not really. Only Linda was glad her husband would no longer be doing business with Cutler—said he was a bad influence on Drew.” Theo hesitated, then continued. “Arzy also told me Cutler wasn’t a nice man, and I was better off without him.”
I was reaching the same conclusion, but I was surprised that the manicurist had come right out and said it to Theo’s face. I was a tad ashamed that I hadn’t had the courage to tell Theo myself. “Wow. Did she give you any reason other than what Linda Littlefield says?”
“No. But Annie, she does the nails of a lot of women on this island. She knows more than she’ll say. She’s trying to help me.”
Way back in our first conversation about Cutler, Theo had told me some woman slapped his face when he wouldn’t back away. Was there another suspect out there? A woman or her husband who wanted revenge for a rape? I reminded Theo of what she’d said to me. “Did you ask Arzy about Cutler and other women?”
Theo pushed her dark glasses more firmly against her face as if to hide from me. “I did. It was awkward, but Arzy understood. He was known around the island for chasing women, but Arzy had never heard anything about him assaulting anyone. And she would have heard, Annie.”
“Can’t you get more out of her?” I was frustrated that these women were going to close ranks, and we’d never be able to learn what we needed to help Theo.
“I wouldn’t try.”
“Why? Theo, this is important.”
Theo gave me an incredulous stare. “It’s her livelihood, Annie. If word got around she’d been revealing people’s private information, she’d lose her position. I can’t do that to Arzy. We’ll have to find another way.”
There really was no rebuttal to that. Theo’s sense of loyalty had worked in my favor in the past. I wasn’t cruel enough to deprive Arzy of that kind of support.
13
Three Friends
Theo and I were sitting in the sunroom in Theo’s cottage when we heard the thunk of an expensive car door closing. We went outside to welcome Flynn and his two miniature Italian greyhounds, Porgi and Amor, sitting side by side in their doggy seat on the passenger side. While Flynn pulled his suitcase from the trunk, the dogs hung their front paws out the window, quivering with excitement. Their owner lifted them down and the two ran around his legs, swerving occasionally into Theo’s azaleas to investigate seductive smells and mark their territory.
We settled amongst the exuberant floral upholstery of couches and chairs in the sunroom. Theo and I took turns bringing Flynn up to date on the interview with Scot Raybourn and the gossipy tidbits we’d learned. Theo was an active participant in the reporting. Maybe Arzy’s advice about Cutler had changed Theo’s attitude, encouraging her to fight for herself against a murder charge.
“It doesn’t sound like Cutler was any different from any other real estate developer,” said Flynn, bending over to scratch Porgi behind his pointed ears. “You’ve got to have a tough hide to be in that business. Those guys are either loved or hated by people around their latest development.”
“That’s true,” said Theo. “The locals are furious about all the new development on the island.
“Might be a motive,” Flynn said. “While we mull that over, can we reconvene this meeting somewhere else? I could use a drink and some fresh seafood.”
We adjourned to a back booth at Frankie’s, known for stiff drinks and shrimp fresh off the boat every morning. Frankie’s is an upscale version of a fish shack, the primitive beach restaurants where shrimp boats and anglers brought their catch to be cooked and eaten, dockside. The old shacks are gone, smothered by the condos now lining the coast. Frankie’s, pine-paneled and dim, is the perfect place to occupy a booth, peel shrimp, and talk about suspects.
“Other than people who were unhappy about one of Cutler’s developments, who else could have had a beef with him?” Flynn asked.
“The guys who played golf with him every week can probably give us those names,” I said.
Flynn gripped a shrimp between his teeth, struggling to yank off the tail. “Don’t forget his wife, Sissy,” he said, tossing the shell into the discard bowl.
Theo looked down at her pile of shrimp and reached for the coleslaw.
“Let’s leave her for later,” I said, giving Flynn a dark look. “Anyway, she’s in Atlanta, and the other suspects are here on the coast.” As a good friend of Cutler’s mistress, I was uncomfortable at the thought of interviewing his widow. The idea seemed tacky. Maybe I could leave her to Detective Bristol. Then I remembered Sissy’s claim she was reconciling with her now-dead husband. Bristol seemed to be buying Sissy’s story. I gave a mental sigh. I’d have to talk to her myself to get some sense of whether to credit her story.
“Cocktail sauce too hot?” asked Flynn. “You aren’t eating.” He drew his brows together as he watched me from across the booth.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m just slowing down.”
“Okay,” said Flynn. “So, who else could provide information, besides Raybourn?”
“There’s Tom Boxer,” I said. “He’s a veterinarian here on St. Simons island. And Drew Littlefield, Cutler’s lawyer.”
“I think Drew might be helpful,” Theo said. “George had some falling out with him. I’m sure it had something to do with Cutler.”
“Since you know him, Theo, see if he’ll talk to you,” Flynn said.
“Um. Okay. I’ll try,” she said. “I’ll have to figure out some excuse to meet him.”
“What about this vet, Tom Boxer?” Flynn asked.
“I don’t know him,” said Theo.
“Want me to try and approach him?” asked Flynn.
“Yes,” Theo and I chorused.
“Come to think of it, might be a good idea if you came with me, Audrey,” said Flynn. “I’ll make an appointment to take the dogs in for a checkup. While I’m there, we can see if Boxer will tell us anything useful.”
With this decision, we’d exhausted our ideas. We demolished an extra-large platter of shrimp, then ordered bread pudding with bourbon pecan sauce to finish.
On the drive home, Flynn slowed as we passed the village and pier on St. Simons. “How about a nightcap?” he asked.
“Not for me,” said Theo. “I
just want to get to bed.”
I looked at Flynn’s fingers tapping on the steering wheel and got the message. “Sure, I’m game. Just a short one.”
“That’s my girl,” Flynn said
We dropped Theo off at the cottage and circled back to the village. Flynn parked and we walked out onto the pier.
Side by side, we leaned our elbows on the railing, watching the waves lap against the pilings. “What is it?” I asked.
“You’ve got something on your mind,” he said. “Having second thoughts about taking this on?”
“Not second thoughts. Fourteenth and fifteenth thoughts. All our talk about interviewing these friends of Cutler’s. What for? I didn’t get anything out of Scot Raybourn.” It was a relief to voice this out loud. Theo needed me to be confident that she was going to emerge unscathed from this. Not unscathed, but free of suspicion of murder. But only if we—I—found the real culprit. I wasn’t sure I could carry that burden.
“You found out that Cutler Mead wasn’t a nice guy, and that his friends didn’t like him.” Flynn pressed his shoulder against mine as he spoke.
“Big deal. Long way from that to finding the murderer.”
“Stop it. You’re panicking.”
“I think I have that right.”
“Think again,” said Flynn.
I turned my back to the water, gripping the pier railing with each hand. “I hate you when you’re practicing tough love.”
He laughed quietly. “Somebody has to. Most people are too afraid of you to call you out when you have an attack of nerves.”
“If telling me I scare people is supposed to encourage me, it isn’t working.”
He turned around and put his arm over my shoulders. For a while we just stood there, leaning back against the pier railing.
“We can do this, Audrey. I’m in it, too. And Theo. You’re not alone.”
“There really isn’t any choice, is there?”
“Nope,” Flynn said. “Not one you can live with.” He squeezed my shoulder. “C’mon, let’s walk over to the Sea Grill and have a drink.”
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