Sissy hadn’t admitted a single fact that would tie her to an attempt on Theo’s life or Cutler’s death. I’d seen something in the crime scene pictures that proved she was a liar. Now I was sure there was more to it, and I was determined to force her to admit what she’d done. “You were bound to him by golden handcuffs. That’s what you told me at lunch. Because of Theo those gold bracelets were slipping off your arm. You’d lose the cushy lifestyle Cutler had given you.”
Sissy uncrossed her ankles, gathering her feet under her. My stomach twisted at that small movement, thinking that I’d finally gotten beneath her skin. I waited for her to spring at me, but she merely shifted her position, resettling herself before she spoke. “Oh, please. It wouldn’t have been me who’d lose their cushy lifestyle if Cutler and I divorced,” she said, her voice amused.
“You mean you’d have stripped him of every dime.” Sissy wouldn’t be the first woman to stab a philandering husband in the wallet. “What an ingrate,” I said. “You’ve been living in luxury, thanks to Cutler. He was the brains behind a lot of successful developments that funded your designer clothes and spa days.” I didn’t say that his successful methods were probably criminal.
For the first time my accusations appeared to have hit home. Sissy clinched her jaw, then said, “You still don’t get it.”
“Enlighten me, then.” There was clearly more to Sissy than I had guessed—although I wasn’t sure if she had more brains or just more chutzpah than I’d expected.
“I didn’t give a damn about Cutler and his floozies.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said.
She laughed. “You disappoint me. I thought you of all people would know to look behind the façade. You should have learned that from that scam artist you married.”
Naturally Sissy would have known about my disastrous marriage, but I didn’t get how that fit in to what she was up to. “I was slow to catch on to my husband’s activities,” I said, admitting the truth.
“You suspected long before you acted. You closed your eyes to him.”
What was she trying to tell me? She had acted as if she were bothered by Cutler’s cheating when we had lunch together at the Swan House. Was that all an act? Or was this an act? “So what have I closed my eyes to now?” I asked.
“You underestimated me, so did everyone, and that was fine by me. That left me free to work.”
“Work at what?”
“Directing Cutler. The man was an idiot. He’d be nothing without me. I had to explain the deals to him, tell him who to cultivate and how to blackmail them so that they’d cooperate.”
I was stunned by her bragging, but it made sense. Theo had told me the Chair of the Azalea Ball oversaw hundreds of volunteers, numerous events, multiple moving parts that ultimately resulted in tens of thousands of dollars. The same talents could run an even more profitable criminal enterprise—all while wearing high heels and lipstick.
“You knew about what happened to the squad in Vietnam.”
“Of course I did,” she said. “You don’t think Cutler could have kept that from me. I figured out how we could use it to force Scot and Tommy to play along. When Scot tried to renege, I told Cutler to threaten him with exposure. He gave up 25% of his company for that misbehavior.”
“What about Drew?”
“Cutler wanted to keep him out of it, but I suggested to Drew that he could be an accessory to murder. All he had to do was help get some developments through the zoning commission.”
I was struggling to keep up with her, now that it was all pouring out. While my brain was sorting through the criminal acts she was detailing, my spine was tingling with fear, but I had to hear it all. “If you didn’t care about Cutler’s philandering, why did you kill him?” I asked the million-dollar question as matter-of-factly as I could manage, trying to match her blasé recounting.
She made a moue of distaste. “Theo Humphries.”
“Cutler fell in love with her,” I said. So Theo was right, after all—I should have known.
“I couldn’t have cared less. In fact, it was good cover. With him carrying on his affairs, everyone felt sorry for Cutler’s poor wife. It kept them from paying attention to what I was doing.”
“Then, why?”
“Cutler felt guilty about George Humphries. I was worried the guilt would get the best of him and he’d tell her in some post-coital snuggle.” Sissy’s lip curled in distaste as she said it.
“You were afraid Cutler would confess he’d killed George.” I stated it back to her to make sure I understood and get her to spell out her motive. “Wouldn’t that be unlikely? Why would Cutler risk losing Theo by telling her he’d murdered her husband?”
“Cutler was weak,” Sissy said with disdain. “I had to explain to him how to do it, how to slip the nicotine into the gin and tonic and leave it in the golf cart for George to drink. Cutler was a blubbering fool afterwards. It took days to get him under control.” Sissy delivered these details as dispassionately as a college professor explaining a well-worn theory that was beyond challenge.
I swallowed in fear. I was talking to a psychopath in her own home. Why hadn’t I told Mike Bristol where I was going? “And Theo?” I asked, hoping to keep Sissy talking, while I figured out how to get away from her.
“I couldn’t take a chance that Cutler would tell her something, at least enough for her to put it together. She had to go.”
I was staggered by Sissy’s revelation and even more staggered by her nonchalance. We could have been discussing whether the Braves would win another pennant.
“You won’t get away with it,” I said. “They’ll know you killed Cutler.”
“They don’t have a shred of proof,” she said, preening with satisfaction.
“You were at his house that afternoon. Must have been a shock to find out Theo Humphries was asleep in the master bedroom.”
“Not a shock. I knew she would be there—a ready-made fall guy—make that fall girl.” Sissy laughed. “She’ll be convicted. There’s no evidence I was anywhere near that house when Cutler died.”
“You’re wrong about that. You gave yourself away,” I enjoyed saying it, letting her know she wasn’t away scot free. She’d forgotten that she’d had coffee with Cutler, and even though she’d wiped those coffee cups, in her hurry she’d left empty yellow packets at the scene, visible in those pictures.
“Oh, and how did I do that, exactly?”
“At the Swan House.”
She frowned, then shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean—but it doesn’t matter. Cutler was a fool. I needed him to front the business or I’d have gotten rid of him years ago.”
She eased her arm behind the cushions on the settee. When she pulled her arm out she had a pistol in her hand. The handle of the gun seemed too big for her hand, but she managed to keep her manicured fingertip on the trigger while pointing the barrel toward me. Mesmerized by the gun, I couldn’t look away from how it followed me as I shifted my weight slightly. She moved one of the pillows under her elbow for support. I watched her get comfortable while I eased myself backward from her.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked, stalling for time.
“It’s Scot Raybourn’s. The gun Cutler took from him in Vietnam. I knew where it was hidden.”
“So that’s why you were talking to Scot in the bar at Sea Island last week.”
“I wanted him to understand that Cutler’s death changed nothing—except who they’d be answering to. I know what Scot and the others had done.” No wonder Scot and his buddies were still searching for the proof that Cutler had held over their heads.
I heard the creak of the swing door that led into the kitchen and felt a faint breeze. I’d backed into something large. A man’s dark arm, its hair bleached almost white from the sun, reached around my neck until the elbow was directly under my chin. The
arm’s flexion pulled up the short sleeve on the knit shirt, revealing a line of white skin. Squeezed between his forearm and muscular bicep, my carotid artery stopped carrying oxygen to my brain.
Golfer’s tan, I thought, before I blacked out.
29
Scot and Sissy
Scot Raybourn. I recognized him through blurred eyesight. He was arguing with Sissy, the two standing in the center of the room, their voices distant, muffled by the pounding in my head as blood began to flood my brain. I was on the floor, propped up against the wall, hands and feet tied and something stuffed in my mouth. The two of them were so intent on each other they hadn’t realized I was awake. I thought it was best to keep it that way, so I gave up my undignified struggles and focused on what I could make out.
“I told you to wait in the kitchen.” I recognized Sissy’s voice.
“And I would have, until you pulled out my gun. I’ve wanted to get my hands on that weapon for a long time.” Scot’s voice was taut with anger.
“You dropped that chokehold too soon,” Sissy said, ignoring his comment. She sat down again on the couch and leaned back to look up at him. He towered over her, but she seemed to be the one in control. Maybe it had something to do with the gun in her hand.
“I knew what I was doing,” Scot said. “I wanted her out of the conversation, not dead.”
“Don’t you understand? She can’t leave here and go to the police. Choke her again, and we can decide how to get rid of her body.”
“Me? Why should I do your dirty work?” he said. “I’m only here to negotiate buying back the shares of my company.”
“We are negotiating.”
That seemed to give him pause, but he said, “No.”
“Don’t be such a baby. We’ve got to deal with her,” Sissy said. I kept my eyes closed and my mouth slack so that they wouldn’t know I was awake, but I was sure my ears were waving with the effort of hearing every nuance while the two of them decided my fate.
Scot shook his head. “She’s not my problem.”
“She is now. She knows, Scot.”
“What d’you mean?”
“She’s talked to Drew. He told me. Called me right after she left him. She knows you’re a rapist and a murderer.”
“Drew didn’t see anything. Whatever he told her was guesswork.”
Sissy shrugged. “Maybe so, but the accusation will ruin you. Take care of her, and I’ll forget about what you did.”
“There’s nothing tying me to Vietnam except that gun. Give it to me, and I’ll take care of her.”
“I’m not a fool. Clean this up first.”
He seemed to think about it, to my great unease. He turned away from Sissy and looked towards where I sat with my chin on my chest. Apparently satisfied that I was still out of commission, or he didn’t care, he turned back to her.
“What about my company? You’ll still hold those shares.”
“Get rid of her, and we’ll talk about that.”
The two of them stared at each other. Sissy tightened her fingers around the pistol grip. My mouth was dry from fear as I watched Scot decide.
“Cutler was right. You are crazy,” Scot said.
“Cutler shouldn’t have said that. And you shouldn’t either.”
“Are you threatening me? After what I just overheard?” He laughed.
Sissy rose from the settee. She had to lift her chin to look him in the eyes, but the effect was icily regal, the oversized pistol a scepter in her hand. She trained it now on Scot.
“You didn’t hear anything that can be proved,” she said, “and I’ll deny everything.” Sissy waved her free hand toward me. “She won’t be here.”
Scot crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head. I had to hand it to him. He wasn’t cowed by the conniving lunatic.
“You going to shoot me, too? Then you’ll have two bodies to dispose of.”
“I hadn’t planned to shoot her, but it’ll be easier to use your gun, and tell the police that you did it. Miss Pickering came here to warn me that you’d killed Cutler and I could be in danger. You shot her to stop her from telling the police.”
“That’s nuts.”
“It’s your gun. Cutler told me the Army records personal firearms. Tommy or Drew might be able to identify it. It’ll be enough to start an investigation.”
He took a step back. “That’s what you had planned all along. Did you invite me today to set me up?”
“I always have an alternative plan, Scot.” She was smug as she explained how she would frame him. “I invited you here to ensure that your fingerprints were around the condo, on the glasses of iced tea and the plates of cheese straws. You could never pass up my cheese straws.”
Scot gestured toward my side of the room. “Were you expecting her, too?”
“I knew I would see her again. I could tell she wasn’t going to give up.” Sissy gave a soft laugh. “It was serendipity you both showed up at the same time.”
For a big man, he moved fast. With his open hand he slapped her hard enough to snap her head back, while his left hand grabbed her wrist and forced the gun upwards. The blow knocked her off her feet and backwards. He held her up by her wrist and twisted the gun away before dropping her back on the sofa. She lay there stunned, and he came toward me.
“Don’t do this,” I tried to say, through the gag.
“Turn over.”
I stayed where I was, propped against the wall.
“Turn over, dammit.”
I decided that maybe it would be better to not see the gun he had trained on my skull. I rolled over, and he straddled my legs. I closed my eyes and prayed. There was a tug and my hands were free, then my feet. He nudged my hip and I rolled over on my back, opened my eyes and looked up at him.
“Tie her up with these,” he said, holding out the scarves that Sissy had used on me.
I spit out my gag and hurried to comply, fearful that Sissy would rouse. I tied her hands and ankles, looping the scarves so that her wrists and feet pulled against each other if she struggled.
I sat back and looked at Scot, still holding the gun on Sissy. I wondered if he wanted to murder her for all the years she’d tortured him.
“She’s a dangerous bitch,” he said.
“You’ve been called dangerous, yourself,” I said.
“I’m not the same person I was back then.”
I wondered what had happened to Scot Raybourn over the years. When we’d met, I hadn’t felt threatened by him. I wouldn’t call him a pussycat, but he wasn’t menacing, sexually or otherwise. Given my own marital history, it was obvious that men could snooker me. But Scot hadn’t set off the tiniest gut alarm. Maybe he had changed. Maybe he had been out of his mind in that war. I gave myself a mental shake. I couldn’t begin to guess Scot’s motives or what was in his head—then or now.
He dropped his gaze. “I’ve done everything I could think of to make up for what happened. Diagnosed with PTSD after I broke down bawling in front of the Wall. My knees are shot from running charity races for veterans. I’ve travelled back there and tried to apologize to complete strangers.”
He waved one hand back and forth to brush away what he’d said. “I’m better off than most guys—don’t always have the nightmares.” He gave a huffing exhale. “I need to be free of it.” He gestured toward Sissy. “Free of her.”
“Here’s your chance,” I said. “Help me put her away.”
He shook his head as he tucked the gun into the back waistband of his khakis. “I’m leaving.”
“Are you just going to walk away?” I asked.
“Yep. I’ve got what I wanted. I’d appreciate your not mentioning that I was here.”
“But what about Sissy?”
“She can’t do anything to me now.” He looked down at her, tied up and drowsi
ng against the sofa cushions.
“You can’t be sure of that,” I said, trying to will him to stay around.
“She’s not going to squawk about my past, if she can’t produce any proof. That woman only plays the sure thing.”
“She’s not exactly rational. She’s likely to say anything,” I argued.
“All you have to do is say she’s a raving lunatic. They’ll believe you.” Scot sounded more confident than I felt.
“What should I do with her now?” I asked him. “How am I going to explain this situation?” Would Mike Bristol and the Atlanta cops believe I’d managed to overcome and tie-up a pistol-carrying Sissy Mead by myself?
He shrugged. “You seem like a lady who can figure out what to do next.”
I mulled it over. I couldn’t stop him from leaving, even if he didn’t have the gun. The Northside Drive bridge over the Chattahoochee River was 10 minutes away. We’d had lots of rain this summer, and the river was raging. If Scot tossed that gun into the river, there was little hope of retrieving it, even if Sissy or I could convince the Atlanta PD to look for it. I wouldn’t forget what Scot had done all those years ago, but if he was tortured by his wartime history, maybe that meant some kind of justice. And he had saved my life, despite Sissy. Prioritize, I told myself. Nail Sissy for killing Cutler and George. I’d started this whole thing to save Theo. That was my task. A moralist might disagree, but I was a pragmatist.
Scot was watching me. He must have seen me make up my mind.
“If you’ve really got something that’ll tie her to Cutler’s murder, call the cops,” he said.
“I’ve got something.”
“Then you don’t need me,” he said, as the door into the kitchen swung shut behind him.
30
Ann Audrey Explains
In the wake of Scot’s departure, I sat on Sissy’s elegant rug and considered how to play this. Sissy was half conscious on the couch, moaning and squirming to free herself. I debated removing her gag, thinking it might appear a bit extreme. In the end, I decided to leave it in place so I wouldn’t have to listen to her in case she woke up and started spewing invective.
Whipped Cream and Piano Wire Page 20