It was possible Audrey Drummond only knew part of the story.
Court cleared his throat to draw her attention toward him. “And you were okay with your husband seeing a dominatrix?”
Drummond met his eyes with an uncompromising stare, her lips twitching upward at the corners. “I was more than okay with it. I was thrilled he was seeing her. Whatever they did together, and no, I don’t know the gritty details, made him relaxed and happy. He would return from his sessions calm and serene. He was better for it.”
Court digested this bit of information for a second before continuing. Sessions. She used the word with the same casualness as she might have used referring to a shrink. “And you had no jealousy over this other woman being with your husband?”
Drummond flicked her hand as if brushing a fly away and shrugged. “As long as he did whatever it was they did away from me, and out of my sight, I didn’t need to think about it much.” She clasped her hands together and pushed a knuckle against her chin, a prayer-like gesture. “I put that part of his life in a box, detectives. I didn’t want to know the details. He became a better man after he started seeing her.”
“In what way, better?” Ivy asked.
“More patient. He drank less. He was more assertive with me, in a good way. Whatever they did together gave him a whole new virility.”
Court glanced at the lawyer, who smiled weakly. It was sort of strange that Eccles didn’t object to Audrey Drummond speaking with such candor. Maybe he had complete confidence in his client’s innocence?
“Would you say his relationship with the dominatrix was a positive one?” Court asked.
“Wait a minute,” Drummond said, her voice rising in pitch and volume. “You’re not surprised by this. Is that where he died? With her? Did she kill him?”
“He died in her office,” Ivy said. “But she has a pretty strong alibi.”
Drummond’s shoulders slumped and her eyes went wide. She held out her hands in supplication. “Oh. Dear lord. Would you please do me the favor of laying it all out for me? When and how, exactly did my husband die?”
Everything about her was screaming surprise. She had been convinced her husband had committed suicide.
“The autopsy will confirm the exact nature and time of his death, Mrs. Drummond,” Ivy said. “But we’re thinking sometime Wednesday evening.”
Drummond stood up again, reaching for her glass as she rose. She added another shot to her glass and paced around the room like a caged animal, swirling the liquid around and around. “He was found at her … place?”
“Yes. Yesterday afternoon.”
She stopped in front of the Van Gogh with her back to them. “When will the media be all over this? Can you keep it from them?”
“Are you concerned about his reputation?” Ivy asked.
She spun back around. Her face had gone a pasty white. “Of course I am. Can you keep the dominatrix thing out of this?”
“It’s bound to get out, Mrs. Drummond. You should prepare yourself. The photos, the details… if it goes to trial. They’ll be made public at some point.” Ivy’s voice was soothing, apologetic.
Drummond tossed the remaining contents of her glass back in one gulp. No one spoke for a long time. Court willed Ivy to stay quiet, wait for Drummond to talk.
Finally, Drummond let out a long slow sigh. “What now, detectives?”
Ivy tapped her notebook, the dull thud of her eraser making an erratic drumbeat. “Mrs. Drummond, do you happen to know how and what your husband paid his dominatrix?”
She looked up. “Too much, I’m sure. He was always generous, even tipping at restaurants and other services. But, no. I never asked what he spent. On anything.”
“Knowing your husband’s habits, can you explain why he would have several cashier’s checks made out to her in his possession?” Ivy asked.
“I’m guessing he was planning on ending things with her. It sounds like him. Leaving her extra money. He’d want her to get by for a while without him.”
Could it be that simple? If Drummond had been planning on a suicide sometime soon, maybe he was leaving extra money for the domme he loved and didn’t want to leave high and dry. Was a hundred K merely “getting by”?
“Mrs. Drummond, can you tell us where you were Wednesday afternoon and evening?”
Drummond returned to her seat, sagging against the back before she spoke. “I already told you. Are you seriously considering me as a suspect?”
Didn’t everyone on the planet know the spouse is always considered a prime suspect? Maybe this lady didn’t pay close attention. “Mrs. Drummond, answering our questions is the only way to ensure that we cross you off our list.”
Eccles put a hand on her arm. “I think we’re done for the day, detectives. If you have further questions for Mrs. Drummond, you can ask them another day.”
He rose and extended a hand to help her up. She brushed his hand aside as her color returned to normal. “No, Harlan. Let’s get this over with. I have nothing to hide.”
Ivy leaned forward. “We need to know what you were doing Wednesday evening.”
Drummond slipped her hands under her legs, pinning them between her thighs and the seat cushion. “I was home all evening. I got home after my hair appointment and stayed in for the rest of the evening.” She looked down at her knees. “That’s it.”
“Was there anything unusual about not hearing from him on Thursday?” Ivy asked.
“He had told me he would spend all day Thursday at the office. He’d cut his time there to one day a week, and it was usually Thursday. When he didn’t come home on Thursday night, I suspected he’d carried out his plan. By Friday morning, I was wondering when he would be found.”
“Why didn’t you report him missing?” Ivy asked.
“Honestly? I think I was hoping he’d show up, tell me he would put up with whatever was going on in his head so he’d be with us a little longer. If I called the police, there would be a media frenzy and man-hunt for him. I knew he wasn’t kidnapped. The only reason he’d be missing would be because he’d killed himself.”
She made it sound so rational. So normal. Court breathed in slowly through his nose, concentrated on his notes.
“Do you have any idea who might want to murder your husband?” Ivy asked.
She flinched. “Such an ugly word. Murder. But, no. I can’t think of anyone who would want to have killed my husband. He was one of those men who come across as too good to be true. He was equal and fair in business dealings. He never cheated on me—not in any real sense. His children loved him. He changed their diapers while other men of his stature hired twenty-four-hour nannies.”
Court’s earlier assessment of the woman’s innocence was drifting away again. Was she delusional? Or was Berkeley Drummond the near saint she claimed?
“Are you involved in the business?” Ivy asked.
“No. I didn’t have anything to do with the business once the children came.”
“How were you involved before the kids?” Court asked.
“We met in college. Me, Berkeley, and Henri. We all brainstormed the concept of the company together. The boys managed the technical and business ends. I handled the marketing. I came up with the name, designed the logo.” Her fingers fiddled with her pearls again.
Nothing in last night’s search detailed the company’s origin. “Colchuck Down?” Court asked. “What does the name come from?”
“Colchuck Lake is up in the Alpine Lakes area. In the Cascades. We used to hike up there when we were younger. All four of us. Me, Berkeley, Henri and Monica.” She shrugged. “I liked the way it sounded. Colchuck Down.”
“And, to be clear, you’re talking about Henri Montpelier?” he asked. Last night’s internet search hadn’t told him much beyond the fact there’d been a falling out, a lawsuit ending in an undisclosed settlement, and a fistfight between the two men at a Mariners game.
She nodded.
“You think he could have had some
thing to do with this?” Court asked.
Mrs. Drummond made a face and let out an astonished laugh. “Heavens no. Henri? Kill Berkeley? Absolutely not.”
The emphasis she gave those last two words were pretty full of conviction. “They had a pretty public fight.”
“That was six years ago, Detective. They’ve long since made up.”
Court let it go for now. They had other ways of following up on Montpelier. “Did he say anything about any problems he was having with the business? Any problems with anyone at work at all?”
“I suppose there could be. He worried out loud, and I learned years ago that I didn’t need to worry with him. Saying things out loud helped him work through things whether there was anyone listening or not. I usually tuned out work-related issues.”
She tilted her head to one side as if hearing a ghost of one of those worry sessions. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, moving her head slowly back and forth as if considering the possibilities. She opened her eyes after a few moments of careful consideration. “No. There’s nothing. I guess I must have stopped listening.”
They spent another half hour getting a list of people from Audrey Drummond. Known associates, business contacts, employees, past employees, relatives.
They emerged from the interview into clear weather. The sunshine glinted off the Calder out front, giving the sculpture a different character than before. From this angle, and in this light, it looked like a gigantic spider about to jump onto the house. He could see why Mrs. Drummond might not want to keep it there.
Court slumped into the seat and shut his eyes. He’d investigated at least a dozen suicides since Amanda’s, and he’d never wondered if she’d ever practiced before. Flashes of Amanda slumped against the dark mahogany of their bed, holding the only stuffed animal of Bailey’s they’d kept. Amanda not quite dead, the lower half of her face a gaping maw. Blood on the headboard. Blood on the green sheets. Blood everywhere. Her eyes wide in confusion, shifting into sorrow, apology or regret. He never knew which in the end.
Ivy waited until they were on the freeway before saying anything. “So, what’s going on? You went blank for a while in there.”
He wasn’t ready to talk to Ivy about Amanda. Not yet. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
“Seriously. I need to know what is going on with you. Is this some PTSD thing going on? Are you going to go all la-la every time the word suicide gets mentioned?”
PTSD? No. Maybe? Was he ready to talk to Ivy about Amanda yet? “No.”
“Your face went white. Totally pale. I thought you were going to pass out on me.”
“Was it obvious?”
“They might not have noticed, but I sure as hell did. I got them to focus on me instead of you.”
Court leaned into the shelf of the car door, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. He stared out at the lake. This time he had a good view of the new bridge under construction. Little sail boats fluffed across the gently waving water. Happy boats filled with happy people.
Suddenly, Ivy hit the dashboard with a hand. “Oh, crap. Pearson… I’d completely forgot about your wife. I was so intent on the interview.”
Her knowing about Amanda was simple proof of the way things get around in the department. How people talk and talk and talk. Cops were the worst gossips on the planet. This was nothing new. He counted on the gossip to keep from having to discuss things. He’d never had a direct conversation with anyone in the SPD about Amanda.
There was some unspoken rule to not talk to him about family while he was around. No one talked about their kids, their wives, or their happy lives. The typical gallows humor that filled a homicide squad around particularly gruesome deaths quieted when he came into the room. Not all the time, but certainly when suicide was on the table.
Court focused on a wooden boat, its sails full and puffed out. He tried to block out the image of Amanda holding the gun in her hand and moving it back and forth, trying to decide between mouth and temple. “I’d never thought she might have made a choice. When Audrey Drummond went on about it… I don’t know, I’d never imagined her practicing.” Maybe she had. He didn’t even know why he said it aloud. Why now? Why pick Ivy?
Ivy’s jaw dropped open and shut. At length she let out a very long, slow, “Ooooh.” She kept her eyes fixed on the road, with a dogged determination, the way people avoid crazy street people or the homeless. As if acknowledging their existence makes them contagious.
13
Court’s stomach growled loudly into the silence that had fallen between them. They stopped for a slice of pizza at the Pagliacci on Tenth before they headed south across Capitol Hill toward the scene of the crime and their second interview with Karen Hunter.
“So, did you buy the whole ‘my husband was a perfect man’ line?” Court used a finger to move a devilishly hot red pepper to line up with the point of his slice of pizza and bit down. The fiery pickled pepper stung his lips, filled his mouth and cleared his sinuses with its pungent spice and heat. He chewed it slowly, relishing the sensation.
Ivy put down her slice of chicken and pesto pizza and leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “No, I didn’t. I don’t buy the fact she was totally fine with her husband seeing a dominatrix, either. I’ve never met a wife who was cool with her husband seeing a domme. It just doesn’t happen.”
“I can see a compromise. Maybe she knew about the domme, but wasn’t as relaxed or easy about it as she told us. You know, telling a lie around a truth works better if you tell it as close to the truth as possible.”
“Can’t put my finger on it, but there was something about her I didn’t like.” Ivy picked up her pizza and took a healthy bite.
“The autopsy will show us if he had a tumor and how far it had spread. But I totally get the planned suicide. That part hit painfully close to home, but I believe it.”
Ivy finished chewing and wiped her lips with a napkin before answering. “She wasn’t lying about the tumor and the fact he was going to die. That stuff can easily be proven, so there’d be no reason to lie about it. Add in she was expecting him to die soon, there’d be no reason for her to kill him. Let him die of the tumor and be done with him.”
Killing a dying man made absolutely no sense. Court was with Ivy on this one. They sat alone with their thoughts for a couple of minutes while finishing their pizza.
“Did you notice how she shoved her hands under her legs when she was telling us about Wednesday night? The rest of the time they were in full-out Italian mode,” he said.
“Huh,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “maybe that’s what I couldn’t put my finger on. I hadn’t noticed. But yeah.” Ivy crumpled her napkin and tossed it onto the empty paper plate in front of her. “The domme has an alibi, the wife is unlikely, we have bupkis.”
“Not true, we have the extra key. The other person getting in at four thirty. And the list of friends, family and business associates Mrs. Drummond gave us. Don’t forget about all those juicy leads. Plus all of the domme’s clients.”
Ivy grimaced. “Fine. I doubt her client list is worth much. Not unless we can link one of them to Drummond directly. It will make a huge difference if Hunter knows about the extra key. You think she did it with an accomplice?”
Court shook his head. He didn’t like to think Karen Hunter was involved either. Why kill such an important client? Some sort of misguided sense of euthanasia? Still, an accomplice would make for a convincing scenario. She was one of the few people who could issue the second key and remove data from the system.
“And the money? That would be one hell of a goodbye present. Or was she maybe blackmailing Drummond?” Ivy asked.
“If that were the case, he would have been more likely to kill her, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I can’t see someone laying out a hundred thousand like that.”
Rich people did things Court didn’t understand all the time. Why not give someone you love a hundred thousand
when you have billions? It’s just a drop in the bucket.
Hunter’s response to the second key and how and when it was used would be critical. Court would, again, take the lead in questioning.
The pizza re-energized Court’s senses, knocking away his funk. There was something about Audrey Drummond he didn’t get. She had been too calm and collected. Too passive. Not angry enough. Not sad enough. Not anything enough.
The weekend traffic made Capitol Hill even more slow moving than usual. It was the main reason Court didn’t bother with a car. His little house, a bungalow not far off the main drag, was in an area with a very high “walkability” rating. Coffee houses, bookstores, restaurants, grocery stores and bars were all within easy walking distance.
They pulled into the parking garage under Hunter’s office building, a newish modern affair. Architecturally bereft buildings erected after the Second World War were being methodically replaced by the modern idea of community-style structures. The trendy new combination of restaurants and retail on the ground floor, small business offices on the next floor and apartments above was gaining in popularity throughout the region. It had to be at least three years old, though, because Court remembered it being there when he moved up from San Francisco. It was in his memory bank even if he hadn’t paid much attention to it.
There weren’t any lookie-loos or lurking journalists hanging around. There had been a small crowd outside when the ME and CSI cars had parked out front last night, drawing attention to the scene. They had dispersed by the time Court and Ivy had left to collect Audrey Drummond, and now, everything had returned to normal.
Large signs reading For Patrons of Pratchett Building Only kept the casual parker at bay. A metal gate separated the private garage for residents. How many people enjoying their croissant and lattes inside Gerard’s Cafe were aware there had been a murder above their heads?
The two security cameras, set across from each other kitty-corner in the garage, would have caught anyone coming or going. “What about Drummond’s car?”
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