I didn’t want to sit in Drew Littlefield’s driveway any longer. I swung my legs under the steering wheel and started the car. I drove back to Theo’s cottage and threw myself onto the couch in the sunroom to try and make sense of what I’d learned.
Cutler Mead hadn’t participated in the Vietnam murder, but he knew about it and kept quiet. He might even have stifled any inquiry. In return for his silence, once the squad members returned stateside Cutler demanded favors—shares of Scot Raybourn’s company and venture capital from Tom Boxer. No wonder Raybourn and Boxer were happy Cutler was dead. While Drew Littlefield hadn’t participated in the criminal acts, according to him, he had helped Cutler by greasing the political wheels for Cutler’s business schemes. I suspected some of Drew’s assistance crossed the lines of legal ethics, at a minimum. Perhaps were even indictable offenses.
The curious thing was that they had all kept quiet for so long. I would have expected someone to break the silence—get fed up with Cutler’s demands. He must have put the fear of God in them. It made sense that Cutler’s death was the result of someone reaching the breaking point. Who, though? Scot Raybourn’s company was busy with lucrative Y2K contracts. Maybe someone was interested in buying his company, and he wanted those shares he’d signed over to Cutler. Tom Boxer’s dismal investments with Cutler could have Boxer on the brink of losing his veterinary clinic. What about Drew? I couldn’t imagine what would cause him to kill the man he said was his best friend, but even the best of friends could have a falling out. Suppose Drew had snapped and struck Cutler. What I was seeing as grief could be regret for his own loss of control. Thinking about Drew made me sit up. Now that he had exposed the group’s misdeeds, he might be in danger if the others found out he’d blabbed.
That left Freddie. Where did he fit into the decades-long blackmail? I guessed Cutler liked to keep him around to remind the others of their history. The other men seemed to accord Freddie respect, likely earned during the War. Freddie hadn’t struck me as an active participant in the blackmail. He’d ignored it and benefited, with free room and board from Cutler. Living on the premises, he had plenty of opportunities to do away with Cutler in less obvious ways. On the other hand, Freddie admitted that he had been “really crazy” after they had returned. Although he had gotten his act together, I knew that PTSD could recur. He could have struck out in the midst of one of his episodes. He might not even remember what he’d done.
I sighed. “Lord, what a mess,” I said out loud to the sunroom. I needed someone to talk all this through.
“Theo?” I called. When there was no answer I prowled through the cottage and the back yard. I picked up my cell phone and called, but Theo’s phone went to voicemail. Maybe Theo had gone to the spa and turned off her phone while she got a massage. Deciding to give her an hour before trying again, I went into the guest bedroom to change. I’d worn a pair of Tahari slacks and a silk blouse for my visits around Sea Island—no sense in spooking the residents. Hard thinking required jeans, tee shirt and sneakers.
When I opened the door to my room, I saw a page covered in Theo’s scribble stuck to the mirror.
“A—Sissy Mead left note when I was at the spa,” it read. “Gone to meet her. T.” At the bottom she’d added, “P.S. At Cutler’s.”
That was interesting. Sissy Mead back on Sea Island. Perhaps I’d said something at our luncheon that caused her to drive here. Or had Mike Bristol done something to stir her up? Probably neither one. If she was at Cutler’s house, she was probably clearing out whatever she could get her hands on. Freddie owned the house now, but Sissy could be entitled to the contents, some of which might be valuable.
I mulled it over. What on earth did Theo think would be gained by talking to Cutler’s widow? Maybe Theo thought she’d get more information out of Sissy than I had. While I doubted that a chat between those two would be anything more than a hiss fest, I was glad that Theo was willing to take Sissy on. I changed into my jeans and sneakers and went back out to the sunroom.
I sat down and began to organize what we had found out. Sissy Mead, Scot Raybourn, Drew Littlefield, and Freddie all had been in Atlanta when Cutler Mead was killed. But where had Tom Boxer been at the time of the murder? We needed to check his alibi. I trusted that Detective Bristol had that covered, but I needed to ask him.
Scot Raybourn, Tom Boxer and Sissy Mead all had motives. Raybourn and Boxer—hiding what happened in Vietnam. Mrs. Mead—fed up with Cutler’s philandering and maybe hoping for financial gain. If so, Cutler’s will must have been a disappointment. What motive might Drew Littlefield have had? He was clearly emotionally stirred up by his friend’s death, but that didn’t mean Drew was innocent. Was his part in Cutler’s failed development near the golf course likely to cause him problems if it became known? The Bar Association would not look fondly on Drew’s role, even less if Cutler was kicking back profits to Drew. The scandal would undoubtedly ruin Drew Littlefield. Men have killed for less.
Where did Freddie Somerset fit in? He knew about Vietnam, but wasn’t a participant, according to Drew, who had no reason to lie about that. Freddie seemed capable of murder—more than capable—I thought—but what did he have to gain? I was convinced he was shocked to discover Cutler’s bequest of the house to him.
I tossed my pen down and put my feet up on the couch. After the emotional drain of the morning with Drew I was tired. Dragging one of the lavender-colored pashminas from the back of the couch, I closed my eyes for a nap. I would talk over everything with Theo later.
When I awoke the sun was low. I listened for the sounds of Theo rustling about the kitchen. The house remained quiet. I reached for my cell phone and called Theo’s number again. No answer. I stepped across the front yard and introduced myself to the neighbor Theo called “the nosy cat lady.” Maybe she’d noticed what time Theo had left. Sure enough, the neighbor said Theo had pulled out of her driveway early afternoon. She couldn’t help but notice because she heard the Mercedes’ tires on the pea gravel in Theo’s driveway, although the neighbor couldn’t exactly pinpoint the time. Theo had been gone for hours.
I returned to the cottage and searched for the note that Sissy had left for Theo. I found it crumpled in the waste basket in Theo’s room. The notepaper was nondescript and the message was printed, not cursive. It read:
“Mrs. Humphries,
I’d like to sit down and talk with you. It appears we have much in common. I’ll be at Cutler’s house this afternoon, if you’d care to stop by and share a glass of wine.
Sissy Mead.”
Who leaves a written note for someone these days? Why hadn’t Sissy phoned Theo and left a message? And finally, how did we know this note was written by Sissy? The block printing could have been done by anyone. The run-of-the-mill stationery didn’t look like something Sissy would use. I gave Theo’s cell phone another call. No answer.
There was definitely something wrong.
25
Theo in Trouble
I got in the car and retraced my route to Cutler Mead’s Sea Island home—more accurately, Freddie Somerset’s home. Several nights ago, I had gone around back to find Freddie. This time, I intended to go in the front door. If Theo were still here, either she and Sissy Mead were having a mutual girls’ cry over a bottle of Chardonnay or there was trouble.
Theo’s car wasn’t in the driveway, nor was any other vehicle in view. I parked and jogged up the three steps to the porch. The double doors were dark oak on the bottom, but rippled glass from the waist up, admitting light, but managing to obscure the house’s interior. I rang the doorbell, and the sound echoed through the house. I put my nose to the wavy glass panel and tried to make out if was someone inside. I pounded on one of the glass panels, but there was no movement, and no one approached. I pressed the thumb latch on the door handle. To my surprise, it released and I pushed the door open.
“Mrs. Mead?” I called, deliberately making
my voice sound friendly. “It’s Ann Audrey Pickering.”
There was no answer, so I slipped into the house, undecided if it was better to thunder in like the cavalry or silently, like a cat burglar. I chose the quiet way, walking softly past the foyer to stand at an open great room. Unlike the Atlanta house, where—except for Cutler’s study—Mrs. Mead or her decorator had stamped a feminine, or at least a neutral tone in most of the home, this place was clearly a male domain. Two enormous leather couches faced each other under a pecky cypress beamed ceiling. The floors were more dark wood, and the walls were hung with enough leaping fish to stir the heart of a marine biologist.
I didn’t want Sissy or Freddie to find me wandering around. I called out again, “Hello. Anyone home? Mrs. Mead?” The house was silent, the temperature comfortably cool, but that meant little. This time of year, most people left their thermostats set low even when they weren’t at home. I moved into a casual seating area at the rear of the house. From there a series of arched windows overlooked the pool area where I’d been with Freddie a few nights ago. The room was stunning, marred only by the intrusion of what looked to be Corinthian columns between each of the arched windows. Cutler or his architect clearly didn’t understand when enough was enough. To my right was a charming breakfast nook overlooking the pool. On the table was an empty wine glass and a small plate with crumbs of what looked like brownies.
“Brownies,” I said out loud. “Theo’s kryptonite.” Only one wine glass? Theo was supposed to be meeting Sissy.
I continued into a faux French Country kitchen, its dramatic marble island surrounded by bar stools. A hum caught my attention. It wasn’t the SubZero refrigerator. The sound came from behind a locked door to the garage. Through a window in the door, I could see Theo’s Mercedes, its engine running. Someone was slumped behind the wheel.
I turned the door knob, but it wouldn’t budge. A Hobart mixer was plugged in to the center island. I pulled the cord away from the outlet and grabbed the thing in both hands. Bending into a squat, I heaved the 50-pound mixer over my head, then swung it downward against the door. A direct hit, but the door held. My forearms were numb from the impact, but I managed another wind-up and smashed it again. The doorframe gave way.
I clambered down the steps to the garage where the big Mercedes was pumping exhaust at full throttle. Through the windshield I could see Theo behind the wheel. I pulled at the door handle, but the car was locked.
“Theo,” I pounded on the window. “Wake up and open the door.”
I ran to the kitchen, found the keypad to open the garage door and hit the green button. The overhead gears screamed in protest, but the garage door jerked upwards, and I bent over to run under as it rose. Once outside, I flung my purse on the ground, dumping the contents. A knot of hair ties, a handful of Sharpie pens, used Kleenex, nickels and pennies, I pawed through them with both hands. At last I found the duplicate set of Theo’s car keys she’d given me.
I opened the car and shut off the engine, but moving Theo was impossible. Alert and responsive, Theo was heavy, but now she was dead weight. Tugging at her limp body, I sensed someone behind me. I turned, both hands held like claws to rake whoever stood there.
“Get out of the way,” Freddie said. “Let me shift her.” He leaned into the car. When I didn’t move he yelled. “Move, goddammit.”
I slid away from the car, dizzy from inhaling exhaust fumes and the effort of trying to haul Theo.
Freddie heaved Theo out of the car. He was clearly stronger than his lanky frame implied.
“Grab her feet.”
I clamped my hands around Theo’s ankles, and we carried her into the fresh air, laying her down on the driveway. Freddie pressed his fingers against Theo’s neck.
“Call 911,” he ordered. “She’s alive.”
I wasn’t about to let go of my friend. “You call. There’s my cell phone.” I pointed to the contents of my purse scattered on the ground.
Freddie looked at me across Theo’s prone figure and reached for the phone. He dialed the emergency number, demanding an ambulance, and I heard him giving the address. When he hung up, I was sitting on the driveway with Theo’s head in my lap. The hot concrete burned my thighs and rear end, but I was not going to move.
“Ambulance on the way,” he said.
The EMTs were quick. There are only a few roads on St. Simons’ and Sea Island, but island drivers always moved their cars to the shoulder at the sound of sirens. The EMTs were on the ground with Theo in minutes, and I got out of the way to let them work.
As they lifted Theo into the ambulance, I turned to Freddie, who was watching from the edge of the driveway.
“Thank you,” I said to him. I was still queasy and foggy from the exhaust. “What made you come out here?”
“Heard the garage door go up” he said. “One reason I never oil the thing. Even if I don’t see the silent alarm light up, I can hear that damn door screeching and know somebody’s here.”
“You must’ve heard it go up when Theo’s car was driven inside.”
“Nah. I just got here.” He pointed to a car parked next to the guest house. “I was dropping a piece off at the gallery.”
“Which gallery?”
Clearly offended by my question, Freddie stiffened, but he answered me. “Marie Kimpton’s gallery on Frederica.”
I wasn’t thinking straight because of the fumes, but that could be checked. If Freddie had put Theo in the garage, he wouldn’t have helped me drag her out of there. Would he?
I tailgated the ambulance to the local hospital where the EMTs disappeared through the emergency entrance. I followed inside, but got only a glimpse of Theo, her face covered by a plastic mask, an EMT forcibly squeezing oxygen into her lungs as she was rolled past. I took a seat on one of the hard plastic chairs, prepared to wait all night if I had to. I was barely settled when a doctor emerged though the double doors that led to the treatment rooms. He looked around and I stood up.
“We’re sending her on to Atlanta by emergency air service,” he said. “The Emory hospital has the best resources for this.”
“Can I go with her?”
“Are you family?”
“No. We’re friends.”
“Sorry. Family only.”
I didn’t wait to watch for the helicopter to pick up Theo. I ran to my car and headed to the interstates. I could speed on I-16 to I-75 and lessen my chances of getting pulled over. With no stops for gas or bathroom breaks, I shaved almost an hour off the usual trip to Atlanta, slipping through the strangling traffic to park in the deck at Emory.
I found my way to the floor where Theo had been admitted, only to be met by a scrum of people with clipboards and nametags. “We need to contact her next of kin,” they insisted.
“I’ll find them,” I said.
Theo never had children of her own, but George’s adult children adored her, visiting several times a year. One of his sons lived in Texas, his daughter in Wisconsin. Both would come. Theo had a brother in New York, who traveled all the time. I would track him down. In the meantime, I was here.
“I’m her best friend,” I kept repeating, only to have another person wearing a shapeless pastel smock ask me the same question about next of kin.
I waited. Finally a doctor appeared from the treatment room. He paused in the hallway near me, looking at his pager. He wore his crisp white coat over a neat bow tie. His salt and pepper hair was brushed long across his forehead. I took a chance that he was senior enough to ignore the rules about family only.
“How is she?” I asked.
He looked me over. “Are you the friend who found her?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve put her in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber. She’ll be on pure oxygen in there with the air pressure two to three times higher than normal. The pressure speeds up the replacement of carbon monoxide with oxyge
n in her blood.”
It sounded like science fiction, but I was willing to believe anything if it would help Theo.
“That will help protect her heart and brain tissue,” he continued. His brown eyes were kind. I was afraid to ask, but I couldn’t help myself.
“What’s her prognosis?”
“According to the EMTs she was still breathing when you got to her. That’s good news. She couldn’t have been exposed to the carbon monoxide too long. The bad news is that she was unconscious. That usually means more severe poisoning.”
“I think she may have been drugged,” I said, remembering those brownie crumbs. “She might have been unconscious before the exhaust got to her.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “That’s not unusual in these cases. We’ve done blood tests to identify drugs in her system.”
“What do you mean—in these cases?”
“Suicides often take something to make them drowsy before they take the final steps.”
I blinked in confusion, not sure I’d heard him right. “What? Theo did not try to commit suicide.” By the time I’d forced out those words, I’d moved from confusion to fury. Was this a setup to make it look like Theo had tried to kill herself?
“I’m sorry. You should probably talk to the police about this. ” He turned and started to walk away.
“Wait—doctor. Is she going to be ok?”
“We’ll do some tests when she wakes up.”
I focused on the blue-grey squares of the linoleum hallway. “What could happen—when she wakes up?”
“We’ll just have to see. There can be long-term neurological complications,” he said. “Has her family been contacted?”
Whipped Cream and Piano Wire Page 17