“Did Chad know Cutler?” I asked, starting to get more interested in Flynn’s tale.
“A little. Chad’s only been at the Seaside Bar a few months. He knows the other guys, though. The ones that were the pallbearers at Cutler’s funeral. They were all in the bar together recently.”
I could see Flynn sorting out the story in his head while he drank his tea. Flynn is a meticulous reporter of the “just the facts” school. Probably why he’s so good analyzing financials and making investment decisions. After a few seconds, he put down the glass, crossed his ankle over the other knee, and settled into the club chair.
“According to Chad, Scot Raybourn and Tom Boxer were in the bar just a few days after Cutler’s funeral. They were several rounds into celebrating a hole-in-one Boxer made that day. Freddie showed up, and he wasn’t in a celebratory mood.”
“I’m surprised Chad remembered Freddie’s mood,” I said.
Flynn chuckled. “I’ve only seen Freddie cleaned up at the funeral, but Chad described him as rough around the edges.”
“That’s for sure,” I said, remembering my experience with Freddie with a shudder.
“Chad likes them rough,” said Flynn. “That’s probably why he paid attention when Freddie came in ‘cruising for a fight,’ in Chad’s words. The other guys called Freddie, ‘Sarge.’ That piqued Chad’s interest,” said Flynn, “and made me sure it was Freddie.”
“No doubt about it,” I said. “What was Freddie’s problem?”
“Freddie insisted on talking to all of them. There had been a third guy who’d already left the celebration for the locker room, but Freddie ordered Boxer to bring him back.”
“That would be Drew,” I said.
“I figured,” said Flynn. “Boxer eventually left to find Drew, but not till he’d gotten the okay from Scot. Chad says Boxer pretty much follows Scot’s lead. Once the whole group was together, Freddie read them the riot act.”
“What about?” I asked.
“About Cutler’s murder exposing stuff they want to keep buried.”
“Whoa,” I said. “I can’t believe Freddie said that in front of the bartender.”
“Didn’t, exactly. Freddie waved Chad away, told him to take a break, so he moved down to the other end of the bar. The guys grabbed a table and sat, but Chad could still hear a lot of it. He can practically lip read, working all those years taking orders in loud bars. They may not have realized Chad was still there. Anyway, it got pretty heated. There was a lot of finger pointing.
“Scot said he was sick of the whole thing. He wanted to forget about it, leave it behind him now that Cutler’s dead. The rest of them jumped on him at that point, telling him he had an obligation to the rest of them to keep quiet.
“At one point, Drew claimed he wasn’t involved in whatever they were on about. Scot cussed the hide right off him—said Drew knew all about it, and he’d lose his law license if stuff he’d done for Cutler was exposed.”
“Whoa, that’s motive,” I said. “Maybe Drew killed Cutler to protect himself, if Cutler threatened to expose him.” My brain was running at high gear, thinking about the possibility that we were on the verge of uncovering Cutler’s murderer.
“There’s more,” Flynn said. “They’re looking for something.”
“What?” I asked. I could barely sit still with excitement.
“Don’t know. Seems like Cutler hid something they want to find. Scot convinced the steward to open Cutler’s locker at the club, but it—whatever it is—wasn’t there. Drew thinks it’s at one of Cutler’s homes.”
“That might explain why Freddie was so hostile when Theo and I snooped around in Atlanta,” I said. “He thought we were looking for it.”
“That reminds me,” said Flynn. “Your cover is blown, Audrey.”
“What?” I asked.
“Freddie said Theo had friends who were looking for other suspects. Scot said he’d already met one of those friends—remembered your name, in fact. You should be flattered.”
“Fabulous,” I muttered.
“No, wait,” Flynn was laughing as he talked. “Scot described you as a tight-assed redhead.”
Theo put her hand over her mouth.
“Up to then, Freddie had been nursing his beer. He didn’t react to your name, but when Scot came out with that description, Freddie sat up and said he knew you. Called you an interfering bitch.”
Theo muffled a giggle. I glared at her to let her know I wasn’t amused by Freddie’s description.
“Okay, okay,” I said, holding up my hand to indicate I’d had enough. “Good work, Flynn. But what exactly have we learned from all this bad boy chatter?”
“They’re hiding something,” said Theo.
“Something they don’t want to come out,” said Flynn.
“Agreed,” I said. “But is it connected with who killed Cutler Mead?”
Theo and Flynn both shrugged.
“We’re going to have to keep going,” I said. We’ll have to keep working our way through each one of these guys to see if we can figure out whether one—or more—of them is involved in Cutler’s death. “We’ve talked to Scot Raybourn and Drew Littlefield. Dr. Boxer is next. Unless one of y’all has a better idea.” I looked at each of them and waited. Neither Theo or Flynn moved from where they sat.
Flynn whistled to his dogs who came running to him. “Okay, Porgi and Amor. Get ready. We’re going to interview a veterinarian tomorrow, and you two will be the main distraction.
16
Dr. Boxer
Flynn had argued it was better to interview Tom Boxer at his clinic, hoping the familiar location would put Boxer at ease and more amenable to answering questions. After my experience with Scot Raybourn, I would have opted to ambush Boxer somewhere that I was comfortable, but he was not. But I deferred to Flynn. After all, he was supplying the dogs. At any rate, now that Cutler’s friends had found out who I was and my reasons for asking questions, the advantage of deception was lost. We might as well make a direct approach, even if it meant masquerading as pet owners to get in the front door.
The next afternoon four of us sat in the reception area—the two dogs yawning, Flynn bouncing the foot he had crossed over his knee, and me.
“I wonder whether it’s true that some people start to look like their dogs,” said Flynn.
“We should research that,” I said, smiling as I looked at Flynn’s elegant dogs, sitting next to his Cole Haan loafers. Flynn’s shoe wardrobe rivaled Theo’s, which is saying something. The loafers he’d chosen today were a two-toned woven leather, the top of the shoe a light beige and the rest tobacco brown. Stylish, but not over the top.
As if to answer Flynn’s question, a head of curly white hair entered through the clinic’s outer door. An elderly lady, bent with arthritis, hobbled into the waiting room. She leaned forward, digging her cane into the tile floor to offset a scrabbling Bichon at the end of a dainty leash. Finally pulled through the door by her owner, the animal dived under a chair and snuffled at the floor. The dog’s fluffy white coat was perfectly groomed, and its fuchsia vest exactly matched its leash. Both matched their owner’s immaculate suit. Flynn turned to me with a look of triumph as an assistant in a blue smock approached the old lady.
“How is Tipper doing, Mrs. Williams?” the assistant asked, eyeing the dog hiding under the old lady’s chair.
“She wouldn’t eat anything for two whole days.”
“Oh my. That’s not good.”
“She seems better today. I cut up some Vye-eenas and mixed them in her kibble and she ate that right up.”
“Uh hunh.” The vet’s assistant took the leash and led Tipper and his mistress away.
I laughed in recognition. My own mother had used Vienna sausages—thumb-sized weiners, invariably pronounced “Vye-eeenas”—as a treat and cure-all. As I chuckle
d, another assistant ushered us into a claustrophobic exam room. Flynn asked both dogs to sit, and I stood back against the wall to give them room.
Dr. Thomas Boxer swept into the room and greeted the dogs by crouching down on the tile floor and tilting his head sideways. Porgi and Amor were polite, and maintained their dignity with a delicate sniff at the vet’s hand. Like the greyhounds, the vet was lean and immaculately groomed. He wore his thick silver hair a bit long and cut in subtle layers. A jaunty turquoise bow tie perched at the throat of his white coat. On his feet were Gucci loafers. Like Flynn, the vet wore his shoes island-style, without socks.
Dr. Boxer lifted Porgi and Amor one at a time onto the table and ran his hands over them, checking their ears and eyes before looking toward Flynn.
“These pups appear to be in terrific shape. What brings you here?”
Before Flynn could answer, I spoke from my corner. “We wanted to ask you for some information.”
Dr. Boxer straightened up from the exam table and handed Amor back to Flynn.
“I’ve seen you before,” the doctor said to me. “Weren’t you in the Cloister Bar the other night?”
“Ann Audrey Pickering.” I held out my hand and he shook it.
“Scot Raybourn told me you’d been to see him. Said you were asking a lot of questions.”
“We’re friends of Theo Humphries, who…”
“I know who she is,” Boxer interrupted. “Recognized her with you in the bar.”
“Yes,” Flynn broke into the conversation. “We’re trying to help Theo—Mrs. Humphries. She was a close friend of Cutler Mead, and she’s very upset about his death. We were hoping to find out more about him. She’s been through a lot these last few years….”
At the mention of Cutler Mead’s name the veterinarian shifted his weight. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t appreciate you coming here under false pretenses.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Flynn said. “I thought it would be less intrusive to visit you during an exam.”
“Less intrusive?” Boxer protested. “I’ve just wasted my time in this exam. You could have seen me in my office.”
“Well, you are the best vet on the island,” Flynn said. “I’m down here a lot, and I want to have the best for Porgi and Amor.” He patted both dogs as he spoke. “I’m depending on you to keep my buddies healthy. As for our questions, we didn’t mean to sandbag you.”
I was on tenterhooks waiting to see if Flynn’s diplomatic approach would work.
Flynn’s charm offensive seemed to have a calming effect. “I’m not sure how I can help,” Boxer said, crossing his arms.
“I was at the funeral,” Flynn said. “And I noticed you were a pallbearer, so I assumed you were a close friend.” It sounded incredibly lame, but if Flynn could get information using his considerable charm, who was I to interfere?
Dr. Boxer seemed to accept Flynn’s explanation. “We’d known each other for ages. We both grew up around here. I was a little older than Cutler, a class ahead in school.”
“You played golf every Sunday with him,” Flynn said, making it a statement, not a question.
The veterinarian thrust his hands into the pockets of his white coat. “Cutler was the organizer of the foursome. I’m not sure we’ll keep it together now.”
“Maybe you can play as a sort of memorial.” I didn’t know why I said that; the words just popped out of my mouth. The reaction was not what I expected. The doctor drew his brows together and clenched his jaw. He looked more angry than sorrowful.
Flynn stepped in to defuse the suddenly hostile atmosphere, turning the conversation in another direction. “Were you involved in any of Cutler’s real estate developments?” Flynn asked.
Dr. Boxer appeared to relax somewhat at the change of subject. “I invested in some of his projects when I was invited.”
“Invited?” Flynn asked.
“Look, I don’t know anything about real estate development. Several times Cutler said he needed capital—to show the banks that he had backers to get a project off the ground—so I’d buy in.”
“How’d that turn out?”
He grimaced. “Not too well, to be honest.”
“Why did you keep investing with him?” Flynn asked.
“He was a hard man to say no to.”
Boxer’s indication that Cutler had bullied him, gave me an opening. “I understand you served under him in Vietnam,” I said. His eyes flickered. Apparently I’d hit a nerve.
“What made you mention that?”
“You played golf every Sunday with him and others who’d served together,” Flynn answered for me.
“We had a bond, I guess. That was a lifetime ago. We were just kids. Didn’t know whether we’d ever get home. Made us pretty crazy.”
He spoke to Flynn, ignoring me. “Look, I need to get back to my patients.”
I hate being ignored by bow tie wearing men. “One other thing,” I said. “Where were you stationed in Vietnam?”
“We were all over the place.” He looked down at the tiled floor before he turned to face me.
“I have some friends who served in that war,” I said, trying to keep the subject open for conversation. “I just wondered if you were in any of the same places.”
“I do my damnedest to forget every miserable inch of that godforsaken jungle. In fact, I’ve spent a lot of energy for a lot of years trying not to remember anything about that life.” Boxer’s face was flushed and the veins in his neck bulged above the bow tie. “Now get out.”
He spun around, flung the door open and left Flynn, me, and the dogs in the exam room.
Porgi and Amor, made anxious by the vet’s display of temper, had wound themselves around Flynn’s legs. He spent a few minutes soothing them before we walked out of the clinic. In the parking lot, Flynn shifted the leashes into one hand and fumbled for the keys to his BMW. “I’m not sure that was even worth the trip,” he said.
“Well, we now know Tom Boxer lost money investing in Cutler’s schemes. Maybe he resented Cutler forcing him into a bad investment. Although I can’t see how killing Cutler would help Dr. Boxer, unless it was sheer fury over the loss of money.”
“The doc clearly has a bit of a temper,” said Flynn.
“True. I wonder if that temper ever gets out of hand.” I opened the front and back passenger doors and waited for the hot air to float out.
“Why did you ask him where he’d been stationed in Vietnam?” asked Flynn.
“Thought it might have something to do with whatever it is those guys are hiding. Maybe a way for us to figure out what that is.”
“Good idea,” said Flynn. “We have to keep snooping until we hit on something. We know Theo didn’t kill Cutler Mead, so it had to be someone who knew him.”
“I wonder if the Vietnam connection is even important,” I said.
“The Doc bolted out of the room when you brought that up. He must have some nasty memories.”
“So why did he play golf every week with the same guys who were with him during the war?” I asked. “There’s gotta be some other reason he doesn’t want to talk about it.”
17
Rob Prescott
After the interview with Tommy Boxer, Flynn dropped me off at Theo’s. I hollered to let her know I was home, and walked straight through the house to sit outside on the deck to call Mike Bristol. I wasn’t sure how my call would be received, and I didn’t want Theo overhearing some of my report. Bristol picked up the call on the first ring, and I identified myself. Without preliminaries, I gave him a summary of the conversations we’d had and what Flynn had learned from his bartender friend Chad. When I’d finished, there was silence on the other end of the phone.
“Detective, are you there?” I asked.
“Sorry. Someone else is at my desk trying to t
alk to me, and I was distracted,” he said.
His lack of interest in the information I’d gathered irritated me. He was dismissing my efforts, and I don’t like being treated as useless. “I apologize for wasting your time,” I said in my frostiest tone.
“Ann Audrey,” he said, “there’s a lot going on here.” He sounded tired, not as forceful as I remembered from the two times I’d been with him.
I was curious. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“Aren’t you watching TV?” he said, with an edge to his voice.
“I haven’t turned on the six o’clock news yet,” I said, baffled as to why he seemed annoyed with me.
“We had a mass shooting in Buckhead today. Day trader lost a bunch of money and shot his family and the people in his office. Thirteen dead. Every cop in Atlanta is working full time on it.”
“My God—I didn’t know.”
“Worst scene I’ve ever been at,” Bristol said, “and I’ve seen a lot of homicides. The two children tucked up in bed….” His voice was thick with emotion and fatigue.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant I was sorry for him. What kind of life is that, having to look at the grisly aftermath of violence every day?
“It’s the job,” Bristol said, his voice brisker than before. “Keep doing what you’re doing. You’re getting stuff worth considering. Apologies, but I gotta go.”
When he hung up, I flipped my phone closed and sat down under the massive live oak that stood in the center of the deck circling Theo’s backyard. I wished the conversation had gone on longer. Hearing the sadness in Bristol’s voice had connected me to him in a different way. I shook off my increasing interest in the man and reconsidered Bristol the cop. I’d get the particulars of the Atlanta mass shooting on the news later, and it would be horrible. But there was a silver lining. The Atlanta PD would have their hands full dealing with that incident, easing the pressure on Bristol to arrest Theo, and giving me more time to find Cutler Mead’s killer. And the press would be distracted from Theo for a while. I was only moderately ashamed of myself for being so callous.
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