Drummond hesitated. Then he looked at Rachel. “Who’s she?” he asked.
Serrano opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Rachel said, “Rachel Marin. Forensic consultant. I’m helping the Ashby PD on the Wright murder. Detectives Serrano and Tally have asked for my expertise on this case. It’s official police business.”
Both Serrano and Tally glared at her with barely contained anger. Rachel could tell it took every ounce of willpower for them not to rip her head clean off. But she knew starting a fight in front of Drummond could make him skittish, suspicious. And the cops needed him calm and, ideally, unlawyered. Rachel was happy to exploit that need.
“That’s right,” Serrano finally said, through gritted teeth. “Ms. Marin consistently surprises us.”
“Yeah, like diarrhea,” Tally muttered under her breath.
“All right,” Drummond said. “But let’s make it quick.”
Drummond led them into the house. Rachel followed but felt Serrano’s hand on her elbow, holding her back.
“We’re going to have a serious talk when this is over,” he said.
“I know, I know. Detention, right? Maybe take away my iPad for a month?”
“This is a criminal investigation, Ms. Marin,” Tally said. “You are a citizen. And if Drummond realizes that, you’re a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
“I just want to know who killed Constance Wright,” Rachel said. “If it wasn’t for me, her death would have been labeled a suicide and forgotten about. She would be buried, and a killer would be walking your streets, Detective.”
“I hate to say this,” Serrano said softly, “but if we send her packing, it’s going to make Drummond wary. That’s not how we want to start this questioning.”
“What, so she comes, then?” Tally said, exasperated.
Serrano nodded resignedly. “Lesser of two evils.”
“Goddamn it,” Tally said. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “All right, Ms. Marin. Come with us. But you’re going to look, and you’re going to listen. That’s it. Anything else, and I’m sending you home in an Uber. In one piece if you’re lucky.”
“That’s all I want.”
Rachel entered the house. She could feel their eyes on her. The entryway of the Drummond home opened up into a large foyer, with clean black-and-white marble flooring, a curved wooden staircase with a wrought iron railing that led up to a second floor covered with taupe carpeting, recessed lighting dotting the cream-colored ceiling, and a crystal chandelier dripping with ornaments overhead. Every fixture looked custom built, every appliance renovated and upgraded. Given these furnishings, Rachel revised her estimate to $4.5 million. And she knew it hadn’t been purchased with Drummond’s money.
In his divorce filing from Constance Wright, Nicholas Drummond had claimed that, during their marriage, he had become accustomed to a certain luxurious style of living. And despite the Wright family’s debts, much of which Constance was on the hook for as a minority owner, he was entitled to a substantial portion of her liquid assets. Drummond managed to negotiate a hefty spousal support, a decision many derided, given Constance’s perilous financial situation and that Nicholas had developed a reputation as a freeloader early on. The press derogatorily referred to him as “Saint Nick,” since he expected other people to bring him presents.
So he’d cleaned Constance out, married Isabelle Robles—a woman seventeen years his junior and wealthy—and consequently become the envy of most men in Ashby and a scoundrel to most women.
“Would you mind taking your shoes off?” Isabelle asked them. Rachel noticed the immaculate foyer was lined with a white Surya Milan carpet. The cost of cleaning it was probably more than a Fifth Avenue mortgage. They took off their shoes and assembled them neatly on a small maple bench next to the front door. Rachel placed one of her shoes six inches in front of the other, as a test. When she stepped away, Isabelle made sure to line them up precisely side by side. Rachel saw Tally notice it as well.
Drummond led them into a sitting room covered in fine Oushak rugs with gilded floral patterns. Rachel had seen them in magazines; they cost about four grand apiece. They sat on a pair of overstuffed white Haute House Smith sectional sofas. A quick Google search told Rachel that each one retailed for about $9,000. Large bay windows overlooked an expansive, fenced-in backyard with a pool, covered for the winter, and a large swing set, dappled with fresh snow. The slide looked like it had never been used. The swings and ladders were pristine, no rust on any of the metal. No scuff marks. Rachel noticed that the house had not been childproofed. The swing set was built on a wish, and for a moment she felt a pang of sympathy for Isabelle and Nicholas Drummond.
They all took seats on the Haute House couches: Isabelle and Nicholas on one, and Rachel, Serrano, and Tally on another. Rachel could feel Tally’s gun against her hip. She guessed it was a Glock—those were the most popular law enforcement handguns—but couldn’t tell whether it was a 19 or a 22.
Isabelle looked miserable. Rachel could understand. The young woman thought she’d married a man whose ugly past was behind him, yet now the police were sitting in her home preparing to question him about his dead ex-wife. Christopher had disappeared somewhere in the house. He seemed too disorganized, too erratic to have killed Constance without leaving an abundance of evidence. But she still didn’t know why he was at both the press conference and the river the night of Constance’s death. Even if he wasn’t the killer, Christopher Robles knew something.
“Mr. Drummond,” Tally began, “thank you for taking the time to speak with us. And let me say first off, we’re sorry for your loss.”
Drummond nodded slightly. He put his hand on his wife’s knee.
“Connie and I had our troubles, we’d both moved on, but of course I was sad to hear about her death.”
You mean you moved on, Rachel thought.
Isabelle spoke up and said, “Can we get this over with?”
“All right,” Serrano said. “As you know, Nicholas, your ex-wife, Constance Wright, is recently deceased. We are investigating her death as a homicide. Can you tell us the last time you saw or spoke to your ex-wife?”
Isabelle spoke up. “First off, is my husband a suspect? Because if he is, I’m going to want our lawyer here before we say another word.”
“Mrs. Drummond,” Tally said, “right now all we’re trying to do is understand the timeline of Ms. Wright’s life prior to her passing. I’d prefer to keep this cordial. Whether or not it stays that way is wholly up to you two.”
Isabelle said gruffly, “I saw her at the supermarket a few weeks ago. She definitely saw me too. Dropped a jar of almond butter on the floor. It shattered, and she walked out, fast.” Isabelle paused, then said, as if to clarify, “We weren’t exactly on speaking terms.”
Serrano nodded. Tally said, “And you, Mr. Drummond?”
“Haven’t seen Connie in a long time,” he said. “Our split wasn’t exactly the kind of thing where you sent each other Christmas cards.”
“I have an ex-wife too,” Serrano said. “I understand that. But can you tell us, specifically, the last time you spoke to her?”