Whipped Cream and Piano Wire

by Winnie Simpson

  “Eleven o’clock. My condo. You know where it is?”

  “I’ll find it,” he said. “I’m a detective.”

  * * *

  Mike Bristol was right on time. I had hesitated about offering some nibbles, thinking it might seem too much like a social get-together instead of a business meeting. In the end, I put out some chocolate chip cookies, mainly because by eleven o’clock I’m usually hungry. Like the Southern hostess my mother trained, I offered him coffee. While I hovered over the pot, he prowled the living room, looking into my bookshelves and at the posters and photos of historic Atlanta that I’d hung on the walls.

  “Neat,” he said.

  “Thanks. I love those shots of the old Atlanta Crackers stadium.”

  “No. I meant, this place is awfully neat. You don’t strike me as a neatnik.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or not. I brushed his comment aside with what I thought to be humor. “You should see the rest of the place.”

  “I look forward to it,” he said.

  “That was not an invitation,” I said, a bit more forcefully than I intended. I quashed any further conversation in that direction and thrust a coffee mug toward him. We sat down, mutually sipping and munching.

  “I take it you learned something new while you were at Sea Island?” he asked, not wasting any further time on pre-meeting chit chat.

  I had already told him about the interviews with Scot Raybourn, Tom Boxer, and Drew Littlefield, but I filled out more details for Bristol than I’d been able to convey on the telephone. I described what Flynn had learned from Chad, the bartender at Seaside. Bristol listened intently, only occasionally changing his position to cross one leg over the other.

  “Sounds like the victim’s so-called buddies didn’t care for him much,” Bristol said. “Except for Drew Littlefield.”

  “From what I heard, Littlefield genuinely mourns him,” I said.

  “Yeah, I noticed that at the funeral,” said Bristol.

  “And they’re hiding something,” I said, emphasizing the conversation between Freddie and the golfers.

  Bristol hadn’t taken his eyes off me during my recital. I’d wolfed down a cookie, and I wondered if I had crumbs on my face. “Sure sounds like it,” he said, sounding uninterested.

  I was getting aggravated. How much information did I have to dig up before I got some kind of reaction from Bristol? “We also talked to Rob Prescott. He was George’s business partner.”

  “Who runs the company for your friend, Theo Humphries, I understand,” Bristol said.

  “Well, yes,” I said. Bristol had done his homework, it seemed. I summarized the story Rob had told us about Cutler Mead’s attempt to defraud Theo’s husband.

  Bristol gave me no satisfaction. He acted as if my news wasn’t news at all. “It fits,” he said. “We’ve found a few other projects where Mead suckered people into investing in his deals, only to find out they’d been had.”

  I was heartened that the Atlanta cops were looking into Cutler’s business deals. “Surely those people might be suspects,” I said.”

  “They seem peripheral. We’ve asked for alibis, but no one at the station or the DA’s office is seriously considering them. They’ve set their sights on Mrs. Humphries, and it’s hard to persuade them there might be someone else to seriously consider.”

  “You haven’t arrested her,” I said. I hugged that thought to myself for a minute. Could he be changing his mind about Theo? Maybe all these tidbits of information were wearing him down. And I hadn’t told him the rest—yet.

  He shrugged. “He had a lot of enemies, it seems. I’m keeping an open mind, for now. Still running down information.”

  “Theo didn’t know about Cutler trying to defraud George until Rob Prescott told us about the polluted land.”

  “How can you be sure?” he asked.

  “She was almost ill when she heard the story.”

  “So you say.” Bristol scrutinized the remaining cookies, which I read as him dismissing my opinion.

  “I do say,” I defended myself. “I know Theo, and she wasn’t faking that reaction. Did any of Cutler’s victims turn him in or sue him?” I asked.

  “Oddly, no. It seems like most of these guys were too embarrassed to publicly admit they’d been scammed.”

  I stood up from the sofa and moved around to the kitchen island, away from him but still in his view. I needed to tell Bristol my theory about George’s death, but I was too nervous about Bristol’s reaction to sit opposite him while I talked. “There’s something else,” I said. “George Humphries caught on to Cutler before the deal closed. He was planning to go to the district attorney and press charges.”

  Bristol’s face sharpened with interest.“Why didn’t he?”

  “Because he dropped dead on the golf course with a gin and tonic in his hand. Cutler Mead was playing golf at the same club when it happened.” I’d dropped my bombshell and I waited to see what Bristol would do.

  He stood up. In no time he crossed from the living room to the other side of the island, flattening his hands on the granite and leaning across toward me. He was close enough for me to smell that spicy soap he must shower in. “You’re taking quite a leap. When you use the phrase ‘dropped dead,’ I assume Mr. Humphries had a heart attack.”

  “That’s what everyone thought at the time.” My pulse was racing, but I wasn’t sure if it was because Bristol was so close to me or because of how quickly he’d moved. He wasn’t moving now. He seemed to be frozen in place. I couldn’t figure out whether my information would trigger him into action.

  Finally, Bristol spoke. “I can’t investigate that—even if it were Atlanta PD’s jurisdiction—unless Mrs. Humphries decides to exhume the body, and that might not tell us anything. Did he have a heart condition, high blood pressure? I assume the death certificate was signed with no question.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But it would be a perfect cover to slip something into his drink. All those overweight guys milling around, waiting to tee off, sweating in the sun, drinking.”

  “Do you have any actual proof—someone was around him when it happened—not just speculation?”

  “I have a witness who says Cutler was there with the same kind of drink as George. She’s the bartender. She remembered because that was not Cutler’s usual beverage, he ordered it after he heard George order one.” I waited to see what the detective would do with that bombshell.

  Bristol put his hands on his hips the way he did the first time I saw him. I was beginning to guess it was a tick, a move he made when he was thinking. “That’s good. Worth following up. It’s probably a wild-goose chase, but I’ll pull the death certificate.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. In the very unlikely event you might be onto something, you’ve just given your friend an even stronger motive for murdering Cutler Mead,” he paused, “even if you think she didn’t know about it.”

  Bristol’s comment reminded me of my thoughts on the beach about who benefited from Cutler’s death. “One other thing. Did Cutler Mead have a will?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s in it?” I asked.

  He hesitated.

  “I’ll see it eventually, when it’s filed for probate.” I crossed my fingers behind my back.

  “Most of his estate goes to his wife.”

  That was to be expected, but it still gave his wife a juicy reason to want him dead, assuming Cutler had anything to leave. Most developers I knew of were overextended. “And the rest of the estate?”

  “A few surprises. Mead left his stock in New Century Tech to Drew Littlefield. That bequest is either worthless or could be a fortune, according to our people. They provide software for that Y2K problem. And he left his Sea Island residence to Freddie Somerset with some money, probably enough to p
ay the taxes for a few years. He could sell it for a pretty penny.” Bristol looked at me, waiting for my reaction.

  “Drew I can understand—he was the only one who sincerely liked Cutler. But Freddie?” I said. “Why him?”

  Bristol’s answer was a shrug.

  My hair had fallen into my face as I thought about what he’d told me.

  Bristol leaned further across the kitchen island, his hand brushing my face as he tucked my hair behind my ear, “Suits you,” Bristol said.

  My heart beat sped up with his gesture. Heat radiated off him, even after almost an hour in the frigid air of my condo, and it was all I could do not to lean my cheek into his warm palm. Instead I stepped back from the granite counter, and he lowered his hand.

  “Ann Audrey,” he said. “Assuming your friend isn’t a murderer, one of the people around Cutler Mead probably is.”

  “I know,” I said, but I was so heartened by the hint that Bristol was considering someone other than Theo as the murderer, I brushed his warning away.

  “Stay out of it from now on. You’ve given me good information that would have taken the police much longer to dig up. Give me some time to run down all the leads you’ve found. You’ve done enough.”

  “I have to go back to Sea Island in a few days,” I said. “Theo needs me.” That was true, but I hoped that while I was with Theo, Bristol would find the real killer and lift the weight of responsibility off my shoulders.

  His mouth tightened. “Be careful. You may have stirred something—or someone—up.”

  I wasn’t going to lie to him, but I couldn’t stop now. I decided to compromise. “I’ll try.”

  21

  Lunch with Sissy

  After the tension of meeting Mike Bristol, I needed some exercise, but the trail alongside the Chattahoochee River would be hot and buggy, even in running shorts. While I waffled over starting an uncomfortable run, my phone rang.

  “Annie, I’ve got your lunch with Sissy Mead set up. Joan called her and said you were interested in buying a table at the Azalea Ball,” Theo announced.

  “Yeah. Great.” Theo would not let me avoid this interview, despite my evasive maneuvering. It needed to be done, but interviewing Sissy Mead under the pretense of the Azalea Ball made me uneasy.

  “Can you meet her tomorrow at the Swan House about 12:30?”

  “I’ll be there, but give me more background, so I can pretend interest,” I said. “What exactly is Sissy’s role in this Azalea Ball?”

  “Sissy is the overall chair for the ball. There’s the social side of the event—the music, the decorations, you know—and also the budget and the fund raising,” Theo said.

  “How much work is involved?”

  “It’s huge,” said Theo. “Overseeing committees full of bickering socialites, all the while trolling potential benefactors. She’ll be wheedling donors for cash or in-kind donations worth tens of thousands. She has to organize dozens of different groups.”

  “Sounds like the Atlanta Olympic Committee could have taken lessons,” I said. Three years ago the city’s elite had exhausted itself volunteering and sponsoring events to raise money for the Olympics in Atlanta, only to have the city’s reputation tarred by petty corruption and the chaos of a bombing in downtown Olympic Park.

  “You can’t even imagine. The chairwoman has to manage all that while staying perfectly groomed and poised. Everyone who counts in Sissy’s crowd will be watching her to see if she’s up to the task in spite of her husband’s murder.”

  The next morning I surveyed my wardrobe for something to wear to lunch. I found a silk blouse and some slacks that I hoped would pass muster. I stuck my diamond studs in my ears to add some class. Diamond studs are routine for Buckhead women, worn with jeans to the grocery store or with sweat pants to drive the carpool. Mine were very fine one-carats, given to me by my ex-husband Charlie before he became a crook.

  I drove down West Paces Ferry, relishing the parade of elaborate plantings and velvety lawns in front of one mansion after another until I turned down Andrews Drive and into the Swan House driveway. A former carriage house on the backside of an Atlanta cotton broker’s 1928 mansion, the restaurant was a favorite of ladies spending old money to plan society weddings or debutante balls. The dining room nestled amid vintage pink fabric wallpaper, large floral blooms tumbling from ceiling to the molded chair rail. The clamor never rose above a soft murmur, the decibel level dampened by the insulation of the ladies’ decorum and the necessity of whispering the juiciest tidbits.

  Carolee “Sissy” Mead was not what I expected. At the funeral I thought she was barely holding herself together. A few days later, when Flynn and I saw her at the Sea Grill restaurant, she was wound pretty tight. By now, I anticipated Cutler Mead’s estranged wife would be a delicate feminine doll frazzled around the edges by her husband’s murder. Instead, Sissy Mead was no-nonsense and appeared in complete command of herself. Every strand of her highlighted blond bob lay obediently in place. Her makeup was flawless, down to the lip liner matching her peach lipstick. The impeccable fit of her St. John suit clung to—but dared not squeeze—her slim figure.

  One of the Swan House’s ancient waiters, stooped and shuffling, served us and bowed himself away. The conversation dwindled following our consultation over the menu. Sissy ordered a small field green salad and fish. She specified unsweet tea, which she sprinkled with yellow packets of artificial sweetener retrieved from her Chanel bag. Clearly a woman who exercised self-control. I opted for the Swan’s Favorite—two scoops of viscous chicken salad inside heart-shaped cones, accompanied by cheese straws and a slice of frozen fruit salad. I picked at it, took a swallow of the Swan House’s tooth-jarring sweet tea, and plunged in.

  “I was sorry to hear about your husband,” I said.

  “Thank you. It’s a difficult time.” She spoke in a plummy southern accent, soft and rounded, an audible indication of class, money, and education.

  I murmured sympathy. “Yes. It must be hard. Were you married long?”

  “Since right after college. We met at a fraternity mixer at Auburn—Thetas and KAs. As soon as he danced with me I fell for him. We started dating and fell head over heels in love. Then came the lottery—the lottery for draft numbers to go to Vietnam. That changed everything, you know?”

  I knew what she meant, even though I was too young at the time to be overly concerned about it. In 1970, CBS broadcast the proceedings of the Vietnam draft lottery live from Washington to a huge television audience. Slips of paper printed with the birthdates of American men born between 1944 and 1950 had been placed inside opaque capsules in a big plexiglass jar. Dark-suited men drew out the capsules, opened them one by one, and assigned them sequentially rising numbers. The lower your birthday’s number, the more likely you would be drafted and sent to Vietnam. A nation of young men and their loved ones watched in high anxiety while their futures were cast.

  “Cutler’s birthday was November 22,” Sissy said. “His lottery number was 9 out of 366. There was no way he could get an exemption, though his family tried. Senator Isdell was a friend of the family, and even he couldn’t help. So, we married right before Cutler left for the war.”

  “You must have been glad when he came back okay.” She must have loved him, at least in the early days. Maybe they really were planning to reconcile.

  “I was ecstatic at first—but that didn’t last. When he returned, Cutler was different.” She must have told the story many times, maybe in therapy. Her voice was flat, no longer honeyed and soothing.

  I remembered Dr. Boxer’s reaction when Flynn and I brought up Vietnam. “Don’t you think most men who served there were changed by the experience?”

  Sissy fiddled with her silverware while she considered her answer. “Of course. But Cutler never got too far away from whatever happened over there. Even on the golf course.”

  She’
d handed me a gift with that unexpected segue. “The golf course?” I asked, pretending a polite interest in the topic.

  “Golf was like going to church for him, a worship service. He played golf almost every Sunday with a bunch of boy-men who liked island life and good times. They were all Vietnam vets. He cared more about them than anything.” She sounded bitter. I didn’t blame her.

  “Maybe he had some good memories with those guys,” I said, trying to steer the conversation toward whatever might have happened to Cutler and his crew during the war.

  The look she gave me was cold enough to freeze hot coffee in July. “He suffered nightmares for years after he came back. He told me he couldn’t bear to talk about some of the awful things he’d seen.”

  Maybe Sissy didn’t know the secret the men were hiding, or perhaps she was deliberately letting me think she didn’t. At any rate, thus far in the conversation Sissy’s revisionist memories of Cutler weren’t giving me any leads. I decided to pressure her a bit. “Maybe he was grateful to them for something he didn’t want to talk about,” I said. Let’s see what she does with this. “Didn’t he leave his Sea Island house to one of those guys? And some stock to another?”

  She blinked in surprise at my questions. “How did you know that?”

  I shrugged. “News gets around. Did those bequests surprise you?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business—but, yes.” Not a happy surprise, I guessed, given how her grip on her fish fork had tightened till her knuckles were white. “Since you’re prying into Cutler’s estate, I assume you’re trying to help his latest mistress, is that it?” Sissy asked.