“Right,” I said, “but we can’t just drop it. It could be connected to what happened to Cutler, and Cutler’s murder is where Theo is in danger.” I was thinking fast. “We’ve got to get to the bottom of Cutler Mead’s business. Did he pull this kind of fraud more than once? If so, there’s a much wider pool of suspects.”
We started picking our way back through the overgrown lot toward where we’d left the car, discussing how to find out more about Cutler’s previous developments and possible scams as we walked.
“The cops can do that better than us,” Flynn said. “You need to talk to Detective Bristol. A strategy confab. Tell Bristol everything you’ve found out. What you suspect. Bristol has to have all the facts if he’s going to find the real killer.” I didn’t reply, so Flynn went on. “Come on, Audrey. How many murder mysteries have we read where the heroine keeps some vital piece of knowledge to herself only to have it bite her in the ass later in the book?”
Since the third grade Flynn and I had read murder mysteries together. One way we vicariously escaped the roles our small town imposed on us. Even mystery fiction was gender specific, according to Miss Swerington, the librarian. Under her judgmental eyes, I filled out my library card with Nancy Drew mysteries while Flynn took out the latest installments of The Hardy Boys. Naturally, we swapped them, once around the corner where we had parked our bikes. With her expensive “runabout” convertible, Nancy was too mired in the upper middle class for me. The rougher Hardy brothers were more my style.
“I agree,” I said. I had already decided I wanted to talk over this new idea with Mike Bristol, but I needed more than a hunch to convince him to take me seriously. “I’ll call him, but first I’ll ask around. See if I can find out what happened the day George died.”
“Ask around where?” said Flynn.
“The scene of the crime, of course. I’m going to snoop around the Seaside Golf Course.”
“Do you want company? If Chad is working, he’s more likely to open up to me.”
“Chad has only been there for the last few months. I need to find somebody who was around when George died. That was several years ago. Anyway, I think it’s better for you to hang out with Theo for now. She needs company.”
“Fine,” said Flynn. “Take the car and drop me off at the cottage.”
19
Bobbie the Bartender
I wallowed in the luxury of driving Flynn’s BMW. The car was quiet and powerful, smoothly accelerating through the intersection at Frederica and Demere, the interior so hermetically sealed that I couldn’t even smell the smoke rolling off the grill at Southern Soul. I cruised by St. Simons’ tiny airport, primarily maintained for the private planes of Sea Island landowners, arriving at all hours from wherever the rich had last partied. At the four-way stop I headed down the driveway into the golf club parking lot.
Sun-blinded by the time I’d walked from the car to the clubhouse, I gasped with relief at the cool darkness of the clubhouse bar. When I paused inside the swing doors for my eyes to adjust, the woman behind the bar looked up. I wound my way between the litter of empty tables and pulled out a stool.
“What can I get you?” She was a determinedly cheerful faux blonde with deep crow’s feet at her eyes, no longer in the blush of youth, but still maintaining herself. A dark tan and her accent marked her as local. Over one shoulder a long braid rested and above it sparkly pink earrings dangled, swinging in time with the steps she took to reach where I was sitting.
“Wine spritzer,” I said.
“You waiting on a tee time?”
“No. Actually, I’m looking for someone,” I said.
Her friendliness cooled a bit. “Oh, yeah?”
“I’m Ann Audrey Pickering.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Pickering.”
“Call me Ann Audrey.”
“Okay, Ann Audrey. I’m Bobbie.”
“I’m a friend of a lady whose husband died here a few years ago. Maybe you remember him—George Humphries?”
“Oh, God, yeah. He was the sweetest man.” She dropped the retail friendliness for what appeared to be real sadness.
“He was indeed. One of the nicest guys around. Were you working the day he died?”
“For sure. I served him his last drink,” she said. She picked up a wet cloth and started wiping the bar in front of me. I moved my glass so she could reach all the way to the edge.
I couldn’t believe my luck. What were the odds I’d run into someone who was here that day and knew George? If only Bobbie could remember some of the details. “Can you recall who else was with him?”
She screwed up her face and thought. “With Mr. Humphries? It was busy. I know Mr. Mead was here, though, ‘cause he stayed after Mr. Humphries left.”
It was interesting that Cutler’s presence in the bar had stuck in Bobbie’s memory. “Are you sure?” I said. “It’s been a while.”
“I remember because Mr. Mead just died too, you know. Killed. And Mr. Humphries dead, too. That day was the last time I saw them both in the bar. Weird coincidence, I think.”
Bobbie was more observant than I’d given her credit for. She was proof that the standard bias against blondes—even fake ones—was wrong. To keep her talking I said, “Yeah, I heard about Mr. Mead. But he was murdered in Atlanta, wasn’t he?”
Bobbie stopped wiping and leaned on the bar. “That’s true. But he mostly lived on the island. He was a regular at the club. In here a lot before and after his rounds.”
“Big drinker?”
“Not so much. He liked to buy drinks for other people.”
Would Bobbie name names. “Other people?” I asked, coaxing her to be more forthcoming.
She winked. “Ladies. That one really liked the ladies.”
“Any one in particular?” Theo was probably on Bobbie’s list, but who were the others?
“Sometimes he’d bring the same lady, but they didn’t usually last too long.”
Just as Scot Raybourn had told me. That particular morsel of gossip didn’t need to be reported to Theo. “A handsome man,” I said, blatantly leading the witness. “Tall, well dressed.”
“And wandering hands,” she giggled, filling in the picture with facts I could have predicted.
“Did he give you any trouble?” I asked, disliking Cutler more and more with each minute of this conversation.
“Shoot, no. ‘Sides, I’ve handled a lot worse than him. He was mostly talk—and I’ll put up with talk if the guy’s a good tipper.”
“Was he?
“You bet. I always liked when he was in the bar. I knew I was going home with a fat tip that night.” She cocked her head. “You know, it wasn’t just women. If it was business or his foursome, he’d buy for men, too.”
She was defending him, but then, her livelihood depended on her ability to handle boors like Cutler. She had developed a tough hide as a result. I was careful to make my response neutral, so she’d keep talking. “That can get expensive,” I said.
“You’re not kidding. The manager used to say Mr. Mead’s bar tab was bigger than his golf bag. None of my business, though.”
“You seem to know him pretty well.”
“That’s why I remembered serving him right after I made that drink for Mr. Humphries.”
“I see,” I said, although I wasn’t sure that I did.
She continued as if I hadn’t interrupted her. “See, Mr. Mead always, always, either drank one of two drinks. A Heineken if he was golfing, or a Blanton’s bourbon. But that time, right after Mr. Humphries walked away from my bar, Mr. Mead ordered a gin and tonic, the very same thing I’d just made for Mr. Humphries.”
Bobbie’s recall of the drinks was consistent with studies of how people on trial juries remember evidence related to their line of work. Engineers remember timing and how alibis fit into a timeline; secretaries rem
ember whether documents were signed; chefs remember witnesses testifying about a mealtime conversation. I pressed to find out just how detailed Bobbie’s memory of that day really was. “Did Mr. Mead drink the gin and tonic?” I asked.
She fiddled with the braid at her shoulder while she thought. “I can’t remember. Oh, wait. I do remember. I was doing the drinks cart that day.”
Maybe the axiom about ditzy blondes was right after all. Bobbie’s monkey brain had apparently jumped to another subject. “Drinks cart?”
“You don’t golf, do you?” She gave me a kindly smile.
“No, sorry.” Humility was my only play to keep her talking, even if the conversation appeared to be nonsensical at this point.
“Well at the turn—the end of the first nine holes—lots of golfers take a break.” She twirled the tail of her braid while she waited to see if I followed her explanation.
“That makes sense,” I said.
“So, we have a cart at the turn—sort of a minibar on wheels—so the golfers can order a drink. And that day, I was driving the cart.”
“Since you were driving the cart, you didn’t see Mr. Mead drink that gin and tonic,” I said.
“No. Sorry, I should have explained better.” She adjusted one of the pink earrings as she thought out loud. “Back in the bar, when Mr. Mead realized I was leaving to drive the drinks cart, he told me to cancel the G and T. He’d order it from me at the turn.”
“And did he?” The conversation was not so nonsensical after all. I sipped at my spritzer and waited for her answer.
“For sure. I remember because he drove his cart up in a hurry. He jumped out and ordered before the other guys had even gotten out of their carts.”
“What happened then?” Had she seen what Cutler had done with that drink?
The question seemed to confuse her. “Nothing special. I got busy. A couple of other foursomes pulled up all at once. It was pretty warm, so everybody was thirsty.”
“Can you remember who all was there?” If Bobbie hadn’t seen what Cutler did with the gin and tonic, maybe I could track down another one of the golfers who’d been at the turn the same time.
“Mr. Humphries was there with his group,” Bobbie said. “They were out of their carts and chatting away. Razzing each other, you know, like guys do. They ordered a round, and I was hopping to get everybody’s order filled before they drove off for the back nine.”
“Don’t they stay at the turn to drink?”
“Sometimes. But mostly they just stick the drink in the cupholder on their cart and take off.”
She had nothing more to add. I tipped Bobbie out of proportion to my tab for the wine spritzer, but her information was worth every cent. I turned the air conditioning on high in the BMW and let the cold air from the dashboard blast my face. It was looking like my theory had merit. The bartender’s story was a good lead, but she hadn’t conclusively linked Cutler to George’s death. There were big questions unanswered—was George poisoned, and if so, did Cutler put the poison in the gin and tonic he’d ordered from Bobbie? If we were to prove it, I would have to convince Theo to exhume George’s body. That was a conversation I didn’t want to even contemplate.
20
The Azalea Ball
Theo and Flynn were sitting at the kitchen island when I returned to the cottage.
“Good,” she said. “You’re back.” Theo’s eyes were no longer puffy from crying. Her mouth was set in a straight line that brooked no nonsense.
I glanced at Flynn who raised his left hand and tugged on his ear lobe, our private way of communicating something was up—angry parents, suspicious teachers, backstabbing so-called friends—since junior high.
“Yeah, it was nice to get out a bit,” I said, hoping Theo wouldn’t ask what I’d been doing. Her next sentence made it clear she’d rebounded from the shock of Rob Prescott’s story and was moving to clear her name—and separate herself from her infatuation with Cutler.
“While you were gone, I had a phone call from Joan Mc-Kendree about Sissy Mead,” Theo said. “Come into the sunroom and sit down. We need to make plans.”
Joan McKendree, a hard edged brunette who flaunted layers of David Yurman silver jewelry, queened over the women lounging at the Beach Club. She was a fixture on Sea Island, and a long-time social, though not intimate, friend of Theo’s. “What about Joan?” I asked as Flynn and I dutifully followed Theo into the adjoining room. I pushed aside a mound of newspapers from one of the sunroom club chairs and sat down. Flynn picked up Porgi and put him on the sofa. The dog curled up with his nose on his paws. He and his master watched me.
“Well, first of all, Joan says the night before last Sissy was at the Cloister Bar with Scot Raybourn,” Theo said. “An acrimonious tête-à-tête, is what Joan tells me.”
“Scot Raybourn?” I said. “That’s interesting.”
“Why?” said Flynn.
“When I talked to Scot, I got the message he didn’t like Cutler,” I said. “I’m surprised Scot’s meeting Mrs. Mead. On the other hand, he’s a man who likes the ladies. Maybe there was something going on there. Giving both of them a motive to get rid of Cutler.”
“The description of their meeting doesn’t sound like a lovers’ tryst,” said Flynn.
“No,” agreed Theo. “But I’ll ask around. If the two of them were having an affair, someone would know. I’d vote no, though. Sissy hardly ever comes to Sea Island. This is—was—Cutler’s place. And Scot’s business is here.”
I remembered the long-haired young man at Sissy’s side during the funeral. “Is her son here with her?” I asked.
“No. Joan says he’s got a job in California, somewhere outside San Francisco. He just flew into Atlanta long enough for the funeral and then went back to work.”
Mike Bristol would check up on that, I hoped, but it sounded like Sissy’s son was not a suspect. “I wonder how long she’s going to be on the island?” I asked.
“Not long at all,” said Theo. “According to Joan, Sissy is headed home to Atlanta. She’s throwing herself into running the Azalea Ball—full throttle.”
“Azalea Ball?” I asked. I was pretending not to know what Theo was talking about, though anybody who lived in Atlanta, even one as removed from society as I was, knew about it.
Theo closed her eyes so as not to view my pretense of ignorance. “It’s one of the premier charity balls in Atlanta, and Sissy is the chairwoman this year.”
I shuddered. “A Disease Ball.”
“That’s what she was talking about the other night when we saw her at the Sea Grill,” said Flynn.
“Right. A benefit to raise money for a chronic disease. And an excuse for those with money to dress up and feel righteous about it,” I said. And maybe, in Sissy Mead’s case, a way to forget about her husband’s death. It seemed strange that a recent widow would throw herself into such an undertaking. They say everyone grieves in their own way, but still….
“Don’t be so bitchy,” said Theo. “Many of these charity events raise a lot of money for worthy causes.”
Flynn ducked his head and pretended to talk into Porgi’s ears.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Theo broke into my apology. “Annie, don’t you see? It’s the perfect opportunity for you to get a one-on-one with her. You can pretend to be interested in buying an entire table.”
Buying a table meant purchasing tickets—expensive tickets—for 8 or 10 people, a substantial investment in any charity do.
Flynn was still avoiding my eye. He bent over and picked up the other dog, who’d been begging to join the group on the couch. “Ann Audrey Pickering goes to the ball. You need a fairy godmother?”
“Stop there. Both of you,” I said. I hadn’t dressed up for a formal ball since I’d left the law firm, where partners were expect
ed to show up for those affairs as a matter of business. I’d always hated those evenings, and my present reclusive lifestyle allowed me to avoid such functions.
“Annie…” Theo started to argue with me.
“Theo, even if I were willing to do this, how am I going to approach her?” My voice rose to coloratura range as I scrambled to avoid this train wreck.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get Joan to set it up,” said Theo.
Flynn turned toward Theo. “Baby girl, how are you going to pull that off?”
“My question exactly,” I said. “Why would Joan do that?”
“She’s furious that Sissy got the chairmanship,” Theo said. “It’s very prestigious, you know. They’re sorority sisters, so if Joan asks her to meet you, Sissy’ll do it.”
I faced the two of them—Flynn and Theo—staring at me with expectant looks. The two dogs stared at me with the identical expression.
“Theo, you’d be so much better at this kind of meeting,” I said, with a weak attempt at escape.
“Probably,” she said. “But Sissy’s not likely to give me the time of day.”
Her answer was so firm I was surprised. Finding out that Cutler had attempted to defraud her husband had really put steel in Theo’s spine.
I sighed and gave in. “Fine. Get it set up and I’ll meet her. I need to go back to Atlanta anyway.” I turned to Flynn. “Can I ride back with you?”
“Sure. I’ll ask Porgi and Amor if they mind sitting in the back.” He gave me the lopsided grin he used in the eighth grade when we were planning to skip school together.
That settled, I walked outside to call Mike Bristol in private. “Detective, this is Ann Audrey Pickering.”
“Ann Audrey,” he replied, his voice low and silky. He rolled the syllables around like they were candy in his mouth.
I cleared my throat. “Yes. I’ll be back in Atlanta tomorrow, and I wondered if we could get together?”
“My place or yours?” he purred.
Choosing to ignore the double entendre, I said, “I loathe cop shops.” On the other hand, I’m careful about who I let in to my condo. Maybe a coffee shop? The West Coast had been downing lattes and macchiatos since the 1970’s, but coffee culture was slow to migrate to Atlanta. I goggled at the first Starbucks in Atlanta when it opened on West Paces Ferry Road five years ago in 1994. Who would drink hot coffee in Atlanta in the summer? Lots of folks, apparently, as the place was packed both indoors and outside, even in July. No, not Starbucks. I didn’t want anybody else listening to my theory about George’s possible murder. If I was to get help from Bristol, it appeared I’d have to open the door to my sanctuary.
Whipped Cream and Piano Wire Page 13