Whipped Cream and Piano Wire

by Winnie Simpson

  I had never been so near to him in such a small space. The intimacy of the room and my anxiety over whether I could persuade him to help made me nervous. He’d barely sat down when I launched into my spiel. “The attack on Theo doesn’t make sense.”

  “You keep calling it an attack,” he countered as he settled himself behind his desk. “We don’t know yet that she didn’t try to commit suicide.”

  “Go along with me for a minute,” I said. “Let’s assume it was an attack.”

  “Okay. I’ll listen—just to hear what you have to say.”

  I remembered Flynn’s advice that withholding information from the police could bite you in the ass. Flynn’s words, not mine. I had to give up some information to get Bristol on board, but I didn’t want to tell him everything Drew had revealed, since I had no proof. “I think Cutler was blackmailing at least two people—Scot Raybourn and Tommy Boxer. Maybe Drew Littlefield, too.”

  Bristol’s dark blue eyes locked onto mine, watching me like a terrier at a woodchuck hole. I couldn’t look away. The Atlanta police station’s AC must not be as efficient as the hospital’s, because I was downright sweaty. I plunged on. “See, I’ve been thinking for a while that this bad thing that Cutler was holding over the head of these guys was what led to his death. But what if it wasn’t?” I paused to see if he’d say anything. I was strung so tight with the effort of trying to persuade him—to say nothing of the effect on me of his intense gaze—that I was sure he could hear my nerves humming. I told myself to get it under control and went on with my argument.

  “The thing is—if this bad thing had been over their heads for so long, why kill Cutler now?” I asked. “I see only two possibilities: one, something has happened recently to make them fear exposure of this bad thing, or two, it’s not the motive for Cutler’s murder.”

  Bristol finally broke eye contact with me. “It’s an interesting analysis. First things first: do you have any proof of blackmail?”

  “Not really,” I said, ”it’s just something I heard.” Bristol’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but I wouldn’t say more. I had only Drew’s tale to support my blackmail theory, and I didn’t think that would hold up without the gun and dog tags Cutler had hidden.

  “You could be on the wrong track entirely,” Bristol said.

  His tone was neutral, not dismissive, and I was encouraged that maybe we were actually considering alternatives together. I propped my elbows on my knees and put my chin in my hand. “Were there fingerprints at the crime scene?”

  “Lots of prints in the house and in the study. All could be explained by frequent visitors to Cutler’s home.”

  That made sense. I was sure that all of the golfers and Freddie had been in that study often. If it was one of them, which wasn’t a certainty. “What about those coffee cups in the study?” I asked.

  “You’d have thought. But prints on both of them were smudged.”

  I wondered how to narrow down the list of suspects. “Do you know when he was killed?” I asked.

  “Not precisely, but the ME thinks it wasn’t more than an hour before Mrs. Humphries says she found him, based on liver temp.”

  I was unhappy with Bristol’s use of the phrase ‘says she found him’, but I didn’t want to waste time confronting him about his language. I tried another tack. “What about alibis?”

  “Looking at anybody in particular?” Bristol asked as he leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head.

  I tried not to look at his muscled torso, the buttons on his shirt straining when he pulled his arms back. I jerked my mind back to the task at hand and answered his question. “I’m interested in all of the golfing buddies—Raybourn, Littlefield, Boxer, Freddie Somerset.”

  “The veterinarian, Boxer, claims he wasn’t here, but he doesn’t have an alibi as such. No one on the island saw him, and you and I both know he could have driven to Atlanta and done it.”

  So Tommy Boxer was a possibility, and Bristol was aware of it. We were making progress. “What about the other three?” I asked.

  “Well, Raybourn and Littlefield say they were together the whole time. They did have a business meeting mid-day, but after that they don’t have anyone to corroborate what they were doing. They’re basically alibiing each other, and I’m never satisfied with that.”

  I remembered the report of the meeting among the golfers and Freddie at the Seaside bar, and how Scot had tongue-lashed Drew for claiming he had nothing to do with the Vietnam affair. Drew was undoubtedly cowed by Scot and would say whatever Scot wanted him to. Bristol was suspicious, and my spirits rose on Theo’s behalf. “But what about Freddie?” I asked.

  “He was shopping,”

  I was incredulous. “Freddie? Shopping? For what, pray tell.”

  “Art supplies, he says. He had some receipts, but the time stamps don’t clear him. Don’t know what else he might have been up to. It is a big town.”

  “And Mrs. Mead?” I was intrigued that Bristol hadn’t mentioned her. I was convinced that she was hiding something.

  “She’s alibied for most of the time, with some kind of committee meetings. But dozens of people came and went. It’s not clear exactly when the meeting broke up. She might’ve been able to slip away and not be noticed. It’s not airtight.”

  So not a single one of Cutler’s so-called buddies or his estranged-or-not wife was in the clear. There had to be something out there to place one of them in Cutler’s Atlanta home the afternoon he was murdered. I was running out of ideas, and the lumpy padding in the chair was killing me. I wondered if Bristol would let me look at the police files to see if there was something that we hadn’t considered. I was sure those files weren’t usually available to the public, but, maybe if I asked nicely. “Detective, would it be okay if I looked at the crime scene photos?”

  He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair and appeared to consider the request. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “Not really,” I said, admitting the truth. “I thought I might spot something.”

  He studied me. His hair curled over the edge of his shirt collar. He still needed a haircut. “Are you sure you want to see them?” he said. “I know you were there, but the crime scene guys get lots of close-ups. Those kinds of shots aren’t pretty.”

  I grimaced, but didn’t want to back out now. “Warning taken.”

  “They’re in the incident room.” He dragged his long legs out from under his desk and scooted his chair back. “I’ll set you up where you can look at them.”

  I followed him down the hall to an unoccupied office. He turned on the lights for me and disappeared. In a few minutes he returned and dumped a red bucket file of photographs onto the desk. I waited for him to leave the room before I started through them. I didn’t want Bristol to witness my reaction to those pictures. I imagined that they were gruesome, and I was right. I skipped the grisliest ones where the police photographer dwelled with ghoulish interest on the hash that had once been Cutler Mead’s head. Instead, I tried to make sense of the framed pictures, leather chairs, and side tables with coffee mugs that made up his masculine study. I had tried to memorize everything, and most of it I remembered seeing when I had come to pick up Theo at the scene.

  The place was a personal shrine for Cutler. All those trophies and pictures of himself and buddies engaged in golf. His religion, Sissy had called it. But someone had violated the temple. I started back through the photos, trying to sort them into piles by subject. An inclusive shot of the setting. The body in situ. Then the body close up. The picture frames. The furniture. The coffee cups on the tables. The blood-soaked rug with the body. The rug after the body was removed, revealing the bloody golf trophy. Red smears imbedded in the dimples on the golf ball that sat on top of this memento of Cutler’s victory. I flipped through the photos again, from the bottom of the stack. I went back to the inclusive shot of the
entire scene. What was that on the floor near the end tables? What did it remind me of that I’d seen recently?

  28

  Confrontation

  I slipped away from the empty office where Bristol had parked me with the file, and took the elevator back down to the lobby. Unclipping my visitor’s badge, I handed it to the officer on the front desk and left the police station. I found my car in the lot and headed home. I was conflicted about what I’d seen, and I wasn’t ready to run it by Bristol, in case it was a crazy idea. Okay, I knew it was a crazy idea, but one that I needed to rule out. The only person who could clear this up was Sissy Mead. I would need to see her, but it would be tricky. An understatement. I didn’t have any idea how she’d react to what I was going to say, but something told me not to call ahead and warn her I was coming.

  My jeans and tee shirt wouldn’t do for a visit to Sissy, so I took some pains to dress and do my makeup. I found her home address in the phone book. She had set herself up in an exclusive condo development tucked away off one of Buckhead’s main thoroughfares. The place was an architectural embodiment of all I knew about Sissy—controlled, perfectly groomed and inaccessible. An iron gate protected a drive that circled a spraying geyser. Beyond the fountain, three arched windows, two stories high, showcased a marble lobby. Just as I was trying to figure out how to get by the gate, the goddess of blind luck took pity on me. A Jaguar driven by a woman with a bouffant hairdo dyed a hard black slowed to a stop alongside the intercom. The woman was oblivious as I nosed my car to her Jag’s bumper. When the gate swung open, I drafted behind and glided under the raised arm, steering to the right to park around back and out of sight of the concierge loafing behind a tall desk in the glassed-in lobby.

  My hands were shaking. I sat in the car and rehearsed what I knew and what I would say, centering myself. This might be my one shot to learn the truth about Cutler’s death. My questions had to crack Sissy’s elegant coating of Southern charm. Hiding underneath that patina might be something downright ugly.

  The concierge looked up when I entered the lobby. I told him who I was visiting and signed in. “It’s 302, isn’t it?” I asked.

  He gave me a questioning look. In response, I peered down my nose at him. The time I’d taken to dress and do my makeup, even throwing a Hermès bag—swag hard-won after years toiling for a big law firm—over my shoulder had been worth the effort. My disguise was apparently convincing.

  “Not quite, ma’am,” he said. “It’s 316. To the right off the elevator.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I remember. Thank you.”

  I headed toward the elevator, punched the button for the third floor, and, following the concierge’s instructions, turned right toward 316 as I exited. Sissy opened her door at my knock.

  Her expression was blank at first. I wondered if she remembered me. Then she gave me the well-practiced socialite’s smile, the welcome not making it up to her eyes, and said, “Well, Miss Pickering. This is a surprise.”

  She didn’t invite me in. Dressed in ivory silk, pants belted at the waist with a matching sash, the long-sleeved blouse tucked in and buttoned up to the collar, she stood her ground on a busy Aubusson tapestry rug.

  “I hope you don’t mind my dropping by,” I said, walking forward so that Sissy was obliged to retreat and allow me inside.

  “No, not at all,” she said, leading the way into a robin’s egg blue sitting room, furnished in delicate antiques. A huge mirror in a baroque frame reflected a formal dining room behind me where an old-fashioned swing door probably led to the kitchen. I wondered if a butler would appear to ask if we wanted tea.

  “Thank you.” I placed my purse on the seat of a dainty chair with spindly legs, but I remained standing. I wanted to keep open my options, in case I needed to beat a hasty retreat.

  “Have you come to make a donation to the Azalea Ball? All of the tables are booked, but we’d be happy to accept a check.” Sissy sank gracefully onto a pillow-laden settee, managing to sit and cross her ankles in one smooth movement. I was impressed, despite myself.

  “Not exactly. I wanted to say that I regret the way our lunch ended.”

  “There’s no need to apologize.”

  “I made you uncomfortable,” I said. “My mother told me that was something a lady never did.”

  She looked down at her hands, graceful in her lap, her lavish diamond wedding ring, the center stone at least 3-carats, blinking from her left ring finger. “Mine said the same.”

  “Mama isn’t always right.”

  Her head came up. Sissy had feline grey eyes, the pupils circled by a dark gold ring. I was being watched by a very alert, predatory cat.

  We stared at each other. I let the silence draw out before saying, “Theo Humphries is in the ICU.”

  “I heard.” She sat back against the sofa cushions.

  “I couldn’t figure out at first why someone would attack Theo,” I said.

  “Then you have very little imagination,” Sissy said. “Oh, that’s right, your husband isn’t around these days for Theo Humphries to toy with.”

  I swallowed, surprised by her direct insult, but managed to keep going. “I think you put her there.”

  “My goodness.” Sissy’s eyebrows rose. “Is that what she said?”

  “She’s still unconscious.”

  “Ah.” Sissy stretched her arm along the back of the settee. “I’d say your accusation is a bit premature. Why don’t you wait and see what your friend says when she wakes up—if she wakes up.”

  “I don’t need Theo to tell me what happened.” Sissy was apparently not in the least dismayed by my accusation, and her unruffled poise made me uneasy. I gauged how many steps it’d take to reach the front door in case I needed to leave in a hurry.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sissy said, her expression complacent, even bored.

  “You left that note inviting Theo over to Cutler’s house on Sea Island. Merely a hint of wanting to be friends because of your mutual love for Cutler. ”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I would never pretend to be that woman’s friend.”

  “Yes, it would be ridiculous for you and me to consider that kind of détente, but Theo is different. Theo is the kindest person I know. She tears up listening to a stranger’s tale of woe on an airplane. Once she came in the door, all you had to do was convince her that you were hurting over Cutler, and she’d be sympathetic.”

  Sissy looked up at me and tilted her head. “So you believe Mother Theo came over to comfort me, is that it?” She rolled her eyes at my suggested scenario, but she hadn’t budged since I’d started my tale. “There’s not one iota of proof that I was there, and I’m told that note was printed on cheap paper. Not my style,” Sissy said.

  I had already figured that one out. “It was cleverly done—a double bluff—printed so your handwriting wouldn’t be recognized, and you could claim that someone else sent it and signed your name.”

  Sissy didn’t argue the point further. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” she said, waving one hand in dismissal.

  “You told her to park in the garage,” I said, “probably claimed that you were expecting movers who would block the driveway. You were planning to take some of the expensive furniture and art out of the house, weren’t you?”

  “Why not? It’s mine. No reason to leave it down on St. Simons in all that heat and humidity. Lord knows what that clod Freddie Somerset is going to do with that house, but I’m not letting him put his filthy shoes on my furniture.”

  I went on like she had never spoken, working out in my mind what must have happened to Theo as I paced back and forth. “When Theo arrived, you offered her something to drink and served brownies.”

  “I never eat brownies. Overrated calories.”

  “Did you know Theo wouldn’t be able to pass them up?”

  Sissy smiled. It was no
t a nice smile. “Everyone on Sea Island knows that Theo Humphries is a chocoholic. The Cloister Bar expressly stocks those little Godiva nibbles to put on the bar when she comes in for a drink.”

  “You laced those brownies with something.”

  “No.”

  I was stymied at her flat denial. I was positive Theo had been drugged with something in the brownies. I thought back on the scene at the house. The saucer with crumbs. The empty wine glass.

  “Rohypnol. The date rape drug. You put it in Theo’s wine glass to incapacitate her. Then you told her some weepy story about how much you’d loved Cutler, and she probably told you she’d once loved him, too.”

  I had a vision of Theo, reaching across the table to grasp Sissy’s hand in sympathy—right before Theo blacked out.

  “Love. That’s a pretty word for what she had with Cutler,” Sissy said. She straightened her shoulders, and as I moved back and forth across the Oriental rug in front of the settee, she moved slightly to keep her body in line with mine.

  “You managed to get her into her car,” I said. My heart was racing as my mind pictured the scene. “She could probably still walk with your help. You started the car with the garage door closed. You washed your own wine glass and put it away before you left her there to die.”

  Sissy was still as cool as a cucumber. “Why would I kill that slut?”

  Was she deliberately goading me to slap her? My head was buzzing. I ground my teeth, but kept going. “Theo figured it out. You murdered your husband because he was finally going to divorce you. He may even have told you he was interested in marrying Theo.” There, I’d named the shame that would undo most of the women in Sissy’s circle. It was one thing to overlook a husband’s discreet dalliances, but being tossed aside publicly would be worse than being accused of murder.

  Sissy’s calm didn’t ripple. “Cutler would never have divorced me,” she said. “We were a team.”