Drummond thought. Too hard, in Rachel’s opinion. He breathed in through his nose and tilted his head back like a man who knew the answer but had to pretend he didn’t.
“I believe it was on the street, randomly,” Drummond said. “I was leaving a doctor’s appointment, and we just bumped into each other.”
“When was this?” Tally asked.
“Maybe a few months ago? I don’t remember the exact date.”
“Did you say anything to each other?” Serrano asked.
“We exchanged pleasantries.”
“What kind of pleasantries?” Tally said, leaning closer.
“Just this and that. Hello. Hope you’re well. That was it.”
“So it didn’t last more than a few seconds.”
“No. We both moved on with our lives several years ago, and I’m not much for small talk,” Drummond said. Isabelle seemed pleased with this response.
“I think Ms. Wright may have had some trouble moving on,” Serrano said. He took a folded printout from his pocket and handed it to Drummond. He underlined a number with his finger. “Is that your cell phone number?”
“It is,” Drummond said warily. Rachel sensed hesitation in his voice. Drummond was nervous. Isabelle leaned over to see the paper.
“Because Constance Wright called that number—your cell phone number—the day she died.”
Serrano let that sink in. Rachel looked at Isabelle. Her face showed no emotion. Either she knew about the call or wanted them to think she knew and simply didn’t care.
Drummond snapped his fingers. “That’s right. She did call my cell. But I’d deleted her number from my phone. So when it rang, I didn’t recognize the number. And I don’t tend to pick up calls from numbers I don’t recognize. Nine times out of ten it’s spam, you know?”
“Sure,” Tally said. “Spam.”
“So you didn’t speak to her?”
“I told you, Detective, I didn’t pick up the phone.”
Serrano nodded. “If you say so.” Drummond was getting defensive. If they kept pushing, Rachel thought, they’d lose him.
Serrano looked around, made a show of admiring the fabulous decor. Then he smiled and switched gears. “This is a gorgeous house. Which of you has the decorating touch?”
Drummond smiled. “That would be my wife.” Isabelle rubbed her husband’s hand.
“So when did you and Isabelle meet?” Tally said.
Drummond said, “Two years ago. I knew the second I laid eyes on her I wanted her to be my wife.” Isabelle smiled again. His answer was warm but practiced.
Tally said, “And where did Cupid strike, might I ask?”
“The gym,” Isabelle replied. “I was on the elliptical. He was using kettlebells—and with proper form. He was handsome. I don’t normally talk to men at the gym. They tend to be creeps.”
“That was two years ago?” Serrano said.
“Yep, two,” Drummond replied. He removed his hand from Isabelle’s and shifted in his seat. “Listen, I know my ex-wife had problems, and things didn’t end well with us. Not all of the issues between us were her fault. But when a couple gets divorced, you can’t blame the ex for what happens later.”
“Depends on whether the ex had anything to do with it,” Serrano said.
“Constance and I went our separate ways, and that was that,” Drummond said firmly. “I never wished any harm on her. I had nothing to do with Connie’s death, and I never had any ill will toward her. We broke up. I moved on. I have a wonderful wife. A great life. Now, if you’d like to ask more questions, I’ll be happy to call my lawyer. I’ve talked to you today out of respect for Constance. She was a good woman, and she deserved better.”
“Yes. She did,” Rachel said. They all turned to look at her. Serrano’s eyes grew wide. “I’m sorry, do you have a bathroom I can use?”
Isabelle stood up. She seemed more than happy to get away. “This way, Ms. . . .”
“Marin. Rachel Marin.”
“This way, Ms. Marin.”
Rachel followed Isabelle out of the sitting room. Rachel looked back at Serrano. He was biting his lip so hard she thought he might chew through it. He mouthed Don’t fuck us.
The sitting room was off a long hallway lined with ornate brass sconces ending in a T-junction. They passed a gorgeous open kitchen with stainless steel Viking appliances and a beautiful wooden island inset with a second sink. Nonstick pots and pans hung from a hammered steel rack.
“Wow. Now that is something,” Rachel said, stopping to marvel at the kitchen. She pointed at the island. “Look at the grain. What kind of wood is that?”
“Australian red ironbark timber,” Isabelle said proudly. There was a lightness to her voice that hadn’t been present in the sitting room. “It’s maybe my favorite piece in the whole house. We had it shipped over from Queensland. The locals call it Mugga.”
“It’s simply stunning,” Rachel said. “You have exquisite taste, Mrs. Drummond. Do you cook?”
Rachel already knew the answer, but she wanted to give Isabelle the satisfaction of answering. Let her feel confident and comfortable. Most of the pots and pans had scorched bases, a sign of frequent use, and Isabelle’s fingers sported several miniscule, long-healed-over cuts, evidence of culinary training.
“I do,” she said. “I try to cook at least five nights a week.”
“Oh my God, you’re my idol,” Rachel said. “With two kids at home and no husband, it’s all I can do to keep the house from burning down. I’m on a first-name basis with the delivery guy at Giuseppe’s.”
“I’m sure you do the best you can,” Isabelle said. Her voice dripped with both sympathy and superiority. Rachel was happy to let her feel both.
“I try,” Rachel said. “But it’s so hard.”
“You must be quite skilled to work with the police department. What did you say you do again?”
“Forensic consulting,” Rachel said. She actually liked the way it sounded. “Mainly, I’m just another set of eyes. But those two out there are pros. They don’t really need me. I’d rather be learning how to cook like you.”
Isabelle beamed. “Maybe one day I’ll give you a few lessons. The washroom is at the end of the hall.”
“Thank you,” Rachel said. “I promise to leave it the way I find it!”
Rachel headed toward the bathroom but stopped before she got there. She waited for Isabelle’s footsteps to confirm she was returning to the sitting room.
Rachel found the bathroom door and opened it. It was beautiful. Quartz countertops, a stone inlaid shower with a rainfall showerhead, and a deep soaking tub with massaging air jets. She might just have to befriend Isabelle in order to use her tub.
Without entering, Rachel closed the bathroom door. Loud enough to make a noise. Next to the bathroom was a small closet. She opened it. High thread count linens and soft towels. Artisan soaps and expensive cleaning supplies. Rachel scanned the shelves but didn’t see anything particularly noteworthy.
She gently closed the closet door, then followed the T-junction. She opened another door and found a walk-in closet filled with coats, scarves, hats, and shoes. The closet itself was the size of Rachel’s bedroom and far more organized. Rachel thumbed through the coats. More specifically, the small tab of cloth by the neck where each store had affixed its price tag.