The Drummond house wasn’t one of the largest houses on the street, but it was newer than most. It had a gate, and the view of the house was unimpeded by shrubs and trees. They were buzzed in at the gate when they identified themselves, and a driveway wider than the road they were on led them around a landscaped circle with a tall red metal sculpture in the center. He recognized it immediately.
Ivy paused as they drove past. “Looks like that thing at Seattle Center. Near the Space Needle.”
“Same artist. I think this one is called Spider. One of Calder’s smaller pieces.”
Ivy turned to him, eyes narrowing on him. “You’re into art?”
Wanting to cultivate the friendly Ivy, Court needed to give a little more than he got. So, he gave. “My dad was a curator at the Fine Arts Museum of San Francisco for thirty years. Our vacations always included trips to museums. I picked up a lot of art-talk and info along the way.”
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Pearson?”
11
They parked at the front door next to a burgundy Tesla. The house itself was a modern architectural dream with exposed wood beams, poured concrete walls, and a metal shed roof slanting in one direction toward them. The solar panels tucked inside the roof framework were well camouflaged, definitely much more attractive than the blue and silver monstrosities he’d seen elsewhere.
“This is how the other half lives,” Court said.
“More like how the one-percent lives.” She pointed at the Tesla as they climbed out of the car. “Looks like Eccles is here already.”
An unsmiling woman, dressed in black slacks and white button-down blouse, opened the door as they stepped onto the stairs leading up to it. “I’m Mrs. Drummond’s personal assistant, Carina Simpson. She’ll be ready for you in a few minutes.”
She led them through the formal entry and past two large rooms, clearly designed to impress and entertain, to a smaller room. Court wasn’t sure what to call it. He’d never lived in anything but the most conventional of homes. Nothing like this. He imagined it was “the morning room” where the owners might sit to write letters with fountain pens. The room’s western exposure gave them an incredible view of the lake. If this were his place, he’d spend his afternoons here. The sunsets must be stunning. The room was an odd assortment of old and new. Old furniture, old art, new architecture, new lighting. Every fixture was modern and most likely all LEDs.
“Please have a seat. I’ll be back in a few minutes with coffee.”
Court tore his eyes away from the lake view to focus on the rest of the room. A painting of a basket with six oranges on a vivid yellow-and-blue background hung on the south wall. Even though he recognized it, he leaned in close to check the signature and let out a slow whistle—Vincent. It hung in a recessed alcove to protect it from sun exposure. Turning around, he spotted Ivy with her nose almost touching a bronze sculpture of a ballerina on a pedestal in the corner. It had to be a Degas. A Renoir hung in another alcove opposite the Van Gogh. He wondered who the collector was. The dead man or his widow?
There were no personal photographs, no small mementos or trinkets, nothing indicating a family lived here. Everything was neatly arranged, as if the house was a hotel or small private museum. But the furniture was worn and used. Court had heard the rich let things fall into near ruin. They didn’t need to impress anyone.
When the door handle turned they both jumped, like children caught with their hands in the cookie jar.
Audrey Drummond strode into the room, followed closely by her lawyer. She let him close the door behind them as she reached out a steady hand in greeting. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your names last night?”
Court responded by thrusting his hand into hers before Ivy could, re-introducing them both. He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to her as Ivy did the same. Mrs. Drummond took them, and barely glanced at them before passing them to Eccles.
She wore a classic dark blue Chanel suit with a triple string of pearls at her neck, pinning her champagne-colored silk blouse to her skin. Her pumps were elegant but short-heeled. Her eyes were clear, she was wearing makeup, and her hair was neat and tidy.
She gestured them to the small brocade sofa and slid into an armchair with a poise implying many hours of ballet or, maybe, Pilates. Eccles settled onto an ottoman next to Drummond, his knees bending up toward his chest because of its low height. The overall effect was one of Mrs. Drummond sitting on a throne with a lapdog perched nearby.
Court’s late-night internet search had netted him some basics. Audrey Drummond was fifty-six and Drummond’s only wife of thirty-two years. Their three children were grown and out of the house living their own lives. Audrey Drummond spent her time fundraising and volunteering for local charities. She split most of her time between the zoo in Seattle, and a foundation serving homeless youth that the Drummonds had started after their youngest son had been beaten into a coma while he was a street runaway.
As they settled in, Mrs. Drummond’s assistant returned with a tray and placed it on the low coffee table between them, disappearing as quickly and silently as she had appeared.
Court sipped at a cup briefly before putting it back on the table. It was kind of hard to take notes and drink coffee. “You have quite an amazing art collection. The Calder out front surprised me. Every Calder I’ve seen has been in public settings.”
Audrey Drummond turned her head toward the front of the house as if she was trying to remember what was out there. Her shoulders lifted and she shuddered. “Oh? I hate that monstrosity. Berkeley thought it was heavenly, but it will be one of the first things I get rid of.”
It had taken him almost a year before he could get rid of any of Amanda’s things. He still had a box of Bailey’s baby and toddler clothes. What else is she looking forward to getting rid of? “I take it your husband was the collector, then?”
She waved her hand in a sweeping gesture to include the Degas, the Van Gogh, and the Renoir. “Yes. All of them. We have pieces of major art in almost every room. I thought it was a waste of money. Money we could spend in better ways. More useful ways. But Berkeley, well, he loved art, and he kept reminding me we had plenty of money. I plan on donating every last one of them to the Seattle Art Museum in Berkeley’s memory.”
An icy chill shimmied down Court’s back. She had seen her dead husband less than twelve hours before, and she’s already decided what to do with his art? “That’s very generous of you, Mrs. Drummond.”
“Yes. I suppose it is. I don’t like living with the overhead. It’s too much.” She held out her hands, palms upward. Her voice took on a business-like tone. “Detectives, tell me what you came to tell me, so we can all get about our days?”
Court had no idea what Audrey Drummond was talking about. From the look on Ivy’s face, she was equally dumbfounded. “What do you mean, Mrs. Drummond?” Court asked. “Why do you think we’re here?”
Audrey Drummond clasped her hands together and tightened her lips. “I know how these things work. Any suspicious death is investigated to be determined whether it is homicide, an accident, or a suicide. So, please, get on with it, and I’ll tell you why Berkeley killed himself.”
Court rubbed the back of his neck, the mention of suicide sending his train of thought off the rails. Come to think of it, they hadn’t even discussed the circumstances of Drummond’s death when talking to her last night. “What makes you think we’re here to tell you your husband committed suicide?”
The first flicker of doubt crossed the woman’s face. “Why else would you be here?” She cast a quick glance at her attorney.
“Are you saying this is a homicide, detectives?” Eccles sat up at attention. He had gone from lap dog to guard dog.
Court kept his eyes on Mrs. Drummond. “His death is suspicious. We’re investigating every possibility, but we’re certain it’s not suicide.”
She flinched. Her hand fluttered up to her pearls, fingers twisted around them until her knuckle
s were pressed against the hollow of her neck. “No. That can’t be. I saw the marks around his neck. He hung himself.” Her voice took on a strident urgency.
Court leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “You thought he had killed himself, why?”
Her jaw dropped open for a second, her brow wrinkling in confusion. Her fingers relaxed their grip on her pearls and dropped to her lap. She pulled at the hem of her skirt, smoothing it across her knees. “But, the marks. He didn’t hang himself? How … how did he die?”
Court noted the transformation from self-assured, to confused, to dumbfounded. “I’ll be happy to explain, but first, what made you assume it was suicide? When you saw your husband last night at the morgue, what did you think had happened?”
Audrey Drummond’s lips twisted before she pulled them in tight over her teeth. She dropped her head and focused on her hands, twisting her simple gold wedding band in circles around her finger. “I assumed he had committed suicide.” Her voice was barely audible. “The lines on his neck….”
The way she said it sent fresh shivers down Court’s spine. The only thing hinting at any emotion was the way her eyes shimmered from pooling tears. The first real sign of emotion.
Court dropped his voice low. Comforting, Soothing. Inviting. “Why would your husband want to kill himself, Mrs. Drummond?” A whisper, an echo from his past. Why would anyone want to commit suicide? He brushed it away. Forced himself to focus on the woman in front of him.
“My husband was dying. He had an inoperable brain tumor. He’d been trying crazy alternative therapies, but they were ineffective. Useless. The pain was beginning to be crippling. He was getting excruciating headaches. We knew it was about time…time to…” She broke off and covered her mouth with both hands.
Inoperable brain tumor? It sure would have been nice if Mary had been able to do the autopsy before heading out to the accident before they’d come over here. Now they’d have to wait until Monday, maybe Tuesday before knowing for sure. Court rubbed at his chin, running through what it meant. He didn’t like to be blindsided like this in the midst of an interview, either. The whole “spouse as prime suspect” theory pretty much went poof.
Ivy cut in before she could continue, but her voice was soft, understanding. “Was that the plan, Mrs. Drummond? For him to kill himself when he couldn’t stand it anymore?”
Court turned to look at Ivy, mouth dropping open for half a second. He hadn’t given her any sort of signal for her to take over. He slammed his mouth shut, jaw clenched tight, and returned his attention to Mrs. Drummond.
She dropped her hands from her face. “Yes. He said he would do it without telling me exactly when. We always said goodbye as if we would never see each other again. When it happened … I assumed…and I felt okay with it. I’ve been grieving ever since he was diagnosed.”
Court leaned back against the soft curve of the sofa. Every signal from Mrs. Drummond was genuine. Cancer and suicide. A tragic combination. He didn’t need to hear this story. He had already lived it once.
Eccles handed Drummond a pristine white handkerchief. She took it, dabbing at the corners of her eyes to collect tears tipping out of their confines, not even smudging her makeup. She took several deep breaths, clearing her throat before continuing. “However, I am not okay with someone killing him. I want you to find whoever did this.”
Ivy nodded. “We totally understand, Mrs. Drummond. Anything you can tell us will be helpful.”
Court decided to let Ivy continue with the questions and only jump in if he felt she was leaving something out or missing something obvious. Trying to take back the interview now would look peevish on his part.
“I don’t think anything I know would be of use to you.”
“We need details about your relationship, your husband’s company, your family. You need to let us figure out what’s relevant.”
Backtracking was a good idea. The way Ivy leaned forward invited Mrs. Drummond in, nodding as Mrs. Drummond spoke, was a technique he’d seen plenty of times; Ivy pulled it off with a natural grace he had not expected.
Court catalogued the way Mrs. Drummond tilted her head, when she nodded, when she waved her fingers around. Her hands were in constant motion, adding expression to her words.
The groundwork laid, Ivy got to last night. “When we picked you up at the zoo fundraiser, you weren’t surprised to see us.”
“No. I had texted Berkeley to check on him earlier in the day. He didn’t answer. I had assumed by the dinner, he had decided it was time. Then, at the morgue, I assumed he hanged himself. Those horrible marks around his neck. He would never tell me what kind of suicide he had planned. I should have known hanging would not have been his style.”
Court kept his eyes on Mrs. Drummond, looking for any signs she was lying or otherwise evading the questions. She was unflappable. If she had killed him, faking a suicide, she would have pressed it further. Pushed for a suicide determination.
Ivy clasped her hands together, holding her notebook closed over a finger and leaned in close. “And what would his style have been, do you think?”
Drummond shuddered and raised delicate long fingers to her lips. Several brown spots on the back of her hand told a different story than her unwrinkled face. “For a while, I thought he’d jump. Into the ocean. I imagined him driving up to Deception Pass and jumping into the churning waters there. Then, I realized he wouldn’t leave us in any doubt about his death. Somewhere like Deception Pass might mean we’d never find his body.”
Drummond paused to pick up the coffee cup she’d been ignoring until then. She swirled the contents around without drinking any, grimaced and put the cup down. She stood up and walked to the Van Gogh, running a finger along the frame as if she were testing for dust along the ridge. “He wouldn’t have done anything to put others at risk, like driving off a bridge or into oncoming traffic. Then, he bought a handgun a couple of weeks ago. I caught him with it one day. Sitting at his desk in the office upstairs. He didn’t see me.”
Her eyes glazed over as she went through the inventory of her imagination, and her voice grew slow and dulled, like she was hypnotized. “He put it in his mouth, and I thought he might do it then, not knowing I was watching. Then he lifted it to his temple.” She held up a finger like a fake gun and put it against the side of her head. “Then he put it back in his mouth. He did this about ten times. He squeezed the trigger and flinched. He had never loaded the gun. He was … practicing. He did this over and over. Mouth, forehead, mouth, forehead. Pulling the trigger every now and then until he stopped flinching.”
Court watched her finger moving back and forth from her mouth to her forehead in silent, unmoving horror. How could anyone stand there and watch another person point a gun at their own head? Repeatedly. Maybe she had wanted him to do it. For him to end things.
The warmth drifted out of his face and dropped into his stomach, causing a burning churn. A rushing sound filled his ears threatening to crash the world around him. He breathed in through his nose, counted to ten and exhaled slowly through his mouth. He needed to stay focused on what Drummond was saying. What was happening in the here and now. But he couldn’t shake the question he’d never considered before.
Had Amanda practiced?
Ivy jabbed his side with her elbow. What had he missed? Damn. Voices. Their words were suddenly clear and distinct. He’d have to get Ivy to fill him in. Focus. Focus. Focus.
Ivy flipped to a new page in her notebook. “When was the last time you saw your husband?”
“You mean, when was the last time I saw him alive? I did see him at the morgue last night.” She had glided over to a small wet bar underneath the Renoir. She poured something brown out of a carafe into a cut crystal glass and returned to her seat.
Stupid semantics. What kind of person comes back with that kind of quip when their spouse was freshly laid out in the morgue? Someone who also drank at ten in the morning? Court clenched his jaw shut. Ivy’s head jerked a littl
e to her left, as if her neck had a kink or something. He’d seen it before, and now recorded it as a tell he could count on from his partner. Was she annoyed at herself for her sloppy question or at Audrey Drummond for her snide reply?
“Yes. I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear. When was the last time you saw, or spoke to your husband, or had any sort of communication with him, when he was alive?” Ivy spoke through clenched teeth.
Audrey Drummond downed the drink in a single movement and set the empty glass on the coffee tray. “Wednesday. We spent the morning on the boat together. Had lunch up in Kirkland. I went off to a hair appointment in the early afternoon.”
“You didn’t see or speak to him since early Wednesday afternoon?” Ivy asked.
“That’s what I just said, Detective. We didn’t speak. He texted me a couple of times Wednesday … logistics for his plans. He told me he was going to spend the night after his session with his…” She paused for a long moment. But then squared her shoulders, sucked in a deep breath, and spoke firmly. “He told me he was going to spend the night in Seattle after his session with his dominatrix. I wasn’t even expecting him home Wednesday night.”
Court sat back against the seat of his chair, stunned. He exchanged a look with Ivy, and knew, for the first time, they were both thinking the same thing. What kind of guy told his wife he was seeing a domme? What kind of wife would put up with it?
Ivy’s jaw dropped open for half a second before she spoke again. “You knew he was seeing a dominatrix?”
“Of course I did. I’m his wife. He told me everything.”
12
Court had heard of open marriages, but this was something else entirely. Could it be Audrey Drummond was feigning nonchalance? Or was she naive enough to believe her husband had been completely honest with her? Was anyone ever truly open and honest with anyone else?
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