Whipped Cream and Piano Wire

by Winnie Simpson

  My energy was drained from the emotional rollercoaster I had ridden for the last hour or so, but I still had to deal with the police. I gave myself a pep talk and made my plans. A few minutes to organize things, refine my story, and then, fingers crossed, to call the police. Detective Bristol answered the phone with his usual curt greeting. “Bristol.”

  “Mike,” I said. “It’s Ann Audrey.”

  I had no more gotten my name out, when he roared at me, “Where the hell are you?” I was so taken aback by his verbal assault I couldn’t stutter an answer before he began again. “You walk out of the station without letting me know, and I can’t find you anywhere. You haven’t been to the hospital to see Mrs. Humphries. Even Flynn Reynolds doesn’t know where you are.”

  Bristol was owed an apology for my not saying goodbye after looking at his files—I’d planned to soothe his feathers with some nice Southern girl’s platitudes—the kind you use to mollify your date when you’ve kept him waiting too long while you fuss over your hair—but instead I was thoroughly on the defensive. It galled me that he had checked up on me at the hospital. There’d been no change in Theo’s condition when I’d called the nurse’s station before leaving my condo, and I’d planned to go directly to the hospital after meeting Sissy. And how the dickens had Bristol gotten ahold of Flynn? More important—why had he done it? All of this whirled around my brain as I struggled to answer his questions. I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Did the hospital say anything about Theo?”

  “No change when I called them a while ago,” Bristol said. “Now—where have you been?” he asked in a tone that brooked no nonsense.

  “I’m at Sissy Mead’s condo in Atlanta,” I answered.

  I could have sworn I heard Bristol mutter, “Jesus Christ.”

  When there was nothing further from his side of the phone, I said, “I’m calling to report an assault.” There—that ought to get him off his high horse.

  “Are you okay?” His voice was thick with concern.

  “I’m good,” I said, “but I need some police assistance here.”

  “Just police—not an ambulance?” He was all business now. “Who’s the assault victim?”

  “Sissy Mead assaulted me,” I said, matching his tone, “but I’m fine. She’s okay, too. I just need an officer to take her into custody for that,” I paused for dramatic effect, “and for killing her husband,” I ended, trying not to sound too smug.

  If I expected Bristol to congratulate me, I was mighty mistaken. His voice was steady, but I thought there was a simmering undertone of anger. “Right,” he said, “assault, homicide… anything else to report?”

  Damn the man, he was not going to make this easy. I was glad I’d taken the time to get my story straight. I gave him the address, and added, “No sirens. This is a quiet neighborhood, no need to freak people out. Tell the concierge at the desk you’re there to see Mrs. Mead.” I hung up and waited, but not long. He must have used his siren to blast his way up I-75 to Buckhead and Sissy’s condo because he knocked at the door in less than twelve minutes.

  I opened the door to Bristol and a pair of uniformed officers. Bristol and I stared at each other while the uniforms shifted their weight from one foot to another. I confess I was glad to see him. It didn’t hurt that he looked good, his jacket straining at the shoulders like usual, his shirt smoothed neatly against his flat belly. For a moment I was distracted. I pulled my mind back into line and noticed that Bristol appeared to be cataloging every wrinkle on my blouse and pants, along with the mess my hair was in. I flushed because I looked like an unmade bed. To break his gaze, I pointed toward Sissy on the couch in the living room.

  Bristol took a look at my captive and whistled. “Nice job hogtieing her,” he said. “Where did you learn to do that?”

  “Girl Scouts,” I said. “I got a merit badge in tying knots when I was in the fifth grade.”

  He turned to the two officers who’d followed him in and pointed to Sissy.

  “One of you untie that lady and escort her to the car. Keep the air conditioning running so she’s comfortable. I’ll let you know what to do with her when I’m through here.”

  Ignoring Bristol and glaring at me, Sissy allowed herself to be released from bondage. The taller of the two officers gently pulled her to her feet and waited for her to gain her balance. She acted a bit wobbly, and as he led her from the room, she leaned against him. I couldn’t tell if she was feigning a need for assistance or if she really was that unstable on her feet. I’d removed her gag before the cops arrived. She’d stopped moaning and hadn’t uttered a peep since. I guessed she was considering her options, one of which was to play the frail, delicate maiden. I didn’t think Bristol would buy it, but I’ve learned not to underestimate men’s stupidity around that helpless female ploy. I’d have to make sure he understood what Sissy was really capable of before he was alone with her in an interview room.

  “You stay here,” Bristol commanded me. He and the other officer prowled through Sissy’s condo from room to room, until they’d checked out the entire floorplan. They returned to the living room, where I sat on the spindly-legged chair and waited for the inspection to finish.

  Bristol dismissed the other cop and turned his attention to me. “Tell me what happened.”

  He seemed to be calmer, but I was still nervous that he might not believe that I had managed to knock Sissy out. Scot had disappeared, along with the gun Sissy had threatened us with, and trying to explain his part in this would distract Bristol from Sissy. I was determined that she was going to pay for everything she had done—and tried to do—to Theo, to say nothing of Cutler and George. I decided to ease into my story. “To begin with—I owe you an apology,” I said. “I should have told you what I guessed when I looked at those files, but I had to know for sure.”

  “So you came here first.” The muscle in his jaw was jumping as he clenched his teeth on the last word.

  “I didn’t realize how crazy she was,” I said, trying to defend myself and embed Scot’s suggestion to color the cops’ perception of Sissy’s version of the afternoon’s events. She was crazy, that much I was sure of. I just didn’t know what she was likely to say.

  Bristol kept his eyes focused on me. “You said on the phone Mrs. Mead attacked you. What caused her to attack you?”

  I cleared my throat, then mentally kicked myself for that show of nerves. “I came here to ask her whether she was at Cutler’s house the afternoon he was killed. She denied it at first, but then when I kept pressing, she changed her tune. She lost her temper and started for me.”

  Bristol stood in his signature pose, hands on his hips, as he listened. “So you slugged her and managed to overcome her. You tied her up and called us. That it? Did it occur to you that she could have killed you?” He leaned over me, his voice rising as he asked. I decided it was a rhetorical question I wasn’t intended to answer.

  “It’s all in here,” I said. I dug in my purse and came out with a small silvery box. I handed it over.

  “A tape recorder?” The machine was dwarfed in his hand.

  “You mentioned that I recorded conversations with my husband for the FBI,” I said. “That’s true. I couldn’t wire myself up for this interview, so I put this in my purse and had it running when I came through her door.”

  He turned the recorder over in his hands. “Is this going to give me a reason to arrest Mrs. Mead for murder—instead of you for assault?”

  It irritated me that he asked that question. “It’s on the tape,” I said, with maybe a little more emphasis than necessary. “She admitted killing her husband. It wasn’t the heat of an argument. She planned it and intended to frame Theo. She knew Theo would be there.”

  Sissy had spewed a flood of information on the tape. Before the cops had arrived, I had stopped the recording and backed up the tape, erasing anything after the point Sissy had confe
ssed to Cutler and George’s murder. There was nothing on the tape to show that Scot Raybourn had ever been here.

  Bristol strode to the front door, opened it and motioned one of the officers to him for a brief discussion. “I’m sending Mrs. Mead to the station in a black and white,” he said when he returned. “You need to make a statement downtown.”

  “I know,” I said. I wasn’t looking forward to more time in a police interview room. I was wiped out, and it would be hours before I could go home. “I need to call the hospital before we go, to check on Theo.”

  For the first time, Bristol looked sympathetic. “Good idea. Then you can ride downtown with me,” he said. “I’ll get someone to bring your car.” He put his arm around my shoulders, and we moved toward the front door together. “On the way, you can explain how you figured out Mrs. Mead was the murderer.”

  31

  Manuel’s Tavern

  After the face-off with Sissy I had been tired, but that was nothing compared to my exhaustion after hours at the police station. Bristol was all business. Now that he had his man—or woman—he was taking no chances the collar would slip. As the tape recording of my confrontation with Sissy played, his attitude changed from official to curious to hyper-alert to angry to relieved. As far as the tape went, it supported my statement that I’d bitch-slapped Sissy after she’d admitted to killing Cutler. With the click of the player when the recording stopped, Bristol had completely abandoned any formality toward me. To my surprise—he was a man, after all—he showed no sign of resentment or sullen disappointment that I, not he, had broken the case. Instead he treated me with some respect as my statement was written, reviewed and signed, and the tape recorder entered into evidence, the chain of custody carefully laid out and documented.

  I pushed back from the grimy table and stood up. “Am I finished?” I asked.

  “For now,” Bristol answered.

  “Thank God.” I opened the door and headed toward the exit.

  Just as I reached the hallway junction, Bristol grabbed my arm. “Hold on a minute,” he said.

  From around the corner, a stiff-mouthed police matron was coming down the hall. She had a firm grip on Sissy Mead, still in her ivory pants and blouse, now accessorized with chrome plated handcuffs. It was a nice look. To avoid them seeing me, I stepped back into an open doorway, bumping into Bristol.

  “Don’t you want to gloat over the perp walk?” he asked.

  “No. I don’t ever want to lay eyes on her again.”

  His chest moved against me as we watched the procession, my hair curling as he exhaled or maybe that was my imagination. He didn’t let go of my arm, so I stood pressed against him until Sissy and her escort were gone from view. Finally I pulled away.

  “I’m glad that’s done,” I said. “I need to stop by the hospital to see Theo.”

  “Give them a call,” he said. “If there’s no change in her condition, come with me. You need a drink.”

  I didn’t argue. I used the phone in his office to call the nurse’s station, and, luckily got one of the aides who told me Theo was resting comfortably, but there was no change. First thing in the morning, after I’d had a good night’s sleep, I’d be at the hospital. Bristol and I took the elevator down to the police garage and found my car. He held out his hand, and I gave him the keys, grateful I didn’t have to negotiate downtown Atlanta streets as tired as I was. He slid behind the wheel and pushed the seat back to accommodate his legs. He took the car out of the garage and turned east down Ponce. We didn’t go far.

  On the edge of a run-down neighborhood, Manuel’s Tavern has been a favorite cop spot since it opened, referred to as Zone 7 by a police force with only six official zones. The patina of beer rings on the oak tables could have been carbon-dated to 1956. The place was dark and quiet, intentionally so. Manuel Maloof, a first generation Lebanese American and the bar’s founder, banned live music and juke boxes in favor of conversation. By virtue of its location, you’d expect a mostly blue collar clientele. Instead, due to the owner’s liberal (by Georgia standards) philosophy, the place is frequented by local and national Democratic pols—both Bill Clinton and Al Gore were here during the last election—laborers, bankers, Catholic church hierarchy, cops, journalists, and, notably, since its founding, occasional homosexual couples who were left unbothered to enjoy their beer at the bar.

  We went in through the rear entrance, a narrow hall funneling us toward the long, golden oak bar, hunkered over by a half-dozen drinkers on backless stools. A collage of Atlanta and American history rivaling any museum-quality folk art was mounted behind the bar. Franklin Roosevelt and Maloof’s hero, Jack Kennedy, stared out from their frames at patrons, alongside pennants from sports teams, local authors’ books, black and white historical photos, and hundreds of beer cans from around the world, brought back to Maloof by customers.

  Bristol swung to his right into the adjoining dining room. He nodded to a quartet of uniforms sitting over burgers at a four top and chose a table against the far wall. The foursome gave me the once over, but there were no knowing smirks, just curiosity, so I relaxed. Bristol offered me a chair beneath a faded white and blue sign reading “Atlanta Police Homicide Task Force.” The special task force working the Atlanta Missing and Murdered Children cases was stationed just around the corner in the 1980’s. When the unit relocated, their sign ended up at Manuel’s, alongside other police memorabilia.

  “What’ll you have?” Bristol asked.

  I had to think about it. Beer was the obvious choice, since Manuel’s only started serving hard liquor in the late 70’s, but I needed a spine stiffener.

  “Maker’s Mark. Straight up, with an ice water chaser.”

  ”Whatever the lady wants,” he said, heading to the bar to give the order.

  “Kathy’ll bring it,” he said, reseating himself. “I’m hungry. When’s the last time you ate?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Okay, then. Burger or dog? Or meatloaf?”

  “Burger,” I said. I wasn’t about to mouth one of Manuel’s foot longs in front of the cop audience across the room.

  He dropped the inquisition, and we waited for Kathy to bring our drinks. She was a hefty fifty plus with a dirty blond pageboy and straight cut bangs that didn’t hide the roadmap that was her forehead. Around her eyes, deep-set crow’s feet from smiling showed she had a rich sense of humor, despite, or maybe because of, years behind Manuel’s bar. Kathy gave the full wattage of her smile to Bristol and carefully set down a full pour of Johnnie Walker Black without spilling a drop.

  “Honey, how’s your day been?” she asked, not looking at me. I may as well have been a crumpled napkin she’d have to clear up later.

  “Pretty good, Kath,” he answered. “Wound up a tough one today, thanks to this lady.” He pointed to me.

  “That right?” she said, still ignoring me. “Well, how ‘bout something to eat?”

  Bristol cut his eyes in my direction, asking permission to order. I nodded him to go ahead.

  “Two burgers, Kath. Everything. And fries.”

  “You got it,” she said. “Give us a minute.”

  “She likes you,” I said, when Kathy sashayed toward the kitchen.

  “Kathy likes cops, in general. Her husband was one. Manuel hired her when Bill was killed working off-duty security. Liquor store holdup.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Yeah. She mothers everyone in the force.”

  I didn’t think Kathy’s attitude toward Bristol was particularly motherly, but I kept my mouth shut. When the food came, we both tore into it like ravenous dogs.

  “I meant to thank you,” I said, chewing my last French fry.

  “For what?”

  “For the way you handled this case. You could have put Theo in jail and refused to look any further.”

  “You should thank yourse
lf, not me. You kept finding things that kept the case open—Scot Raybourn’s grudge about his company, the fraud Cutler tried to pull on George Humphries, that squabble among the golfers. Most of that I might have uncovered, but it would have been easy to limit the investigation to Theo Humphries.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “You were so passionate about her, so convinced that she was incapable of killing anyone. That’s pretty common, of course. I’ve had countless parents and wives who were sure their dearest could not have murdered someone. But you weren’t content just to say it. You got out and turned over one rock after another. I couldn’t ignore that.” He gave a soft laugh. “And when you came to me with the theory that Mrs. Humphries’ husband had been murdered, you were so torn up about that, I realized I wanted you to be right about your friend. You’d changed my thinking.” He reached across the table and put his hand on my wrist, circling it between his thumb and index finger. I hoped he couldn’t feel my pulse jumping into high gear.

  “You’re an unusual woman, Ann Audrey. Unpredictable.”

  My heart was pounding in my throat as I tried to think of what to say. “Detective…”

  “Mike,” he said.

  “Okay—Mike,” I said. “I may be a tad unusual. I’ve had a weird life, the last few years.”

  He turned my hand over and lightly massaged the base of my wrist and thumb, continuing up into the palm of my hand, all the while watching me with those navy blue eyes. When I tried to speak, my mouth was dry.

  “I don’t know...”

  “Yes, you do,” he said.

  I pulled my hand away from his grasp. “I’d like to go home now.”

  He broke his gaze and looked down. “Are you sure?”

  I felt I owed him the truth. “To be honest—no.”

  “Good.”

  When we reached my car, I hesitated. He came around me and opened the passenger side door.

  “Do you want me to drive you home?” he asked. “I can get a black and white to pick me up.”