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“Can we sit down somewhere and talk?” Casey asked Suzanne.
“Why don’t we take a few kitchen chairs and go into Glen’s study?” Suzanne replied. “The police have finished going through it. The place is a mess, but it’s comfortable. And we won’t be interrupted.”
That choice piqued Claire’s interest. “Did your husband spend a lot of time in his study?”
“Yes. That was his sanctuary. He spent long hours there, doing work or just thinking.”
“Good. Then I’ll have the best chance of connecting with him in that room.”
The study was a richly paneled room with a wall of bookshelves, a traditional desk and swivel chair, and a window ledge of potted plants. Although there were quite a few disconnected wires, the components of a state-of-the-art computer system remained on the desk and printer stand.
Casey got the immediate sense that Fisher kept things in strict order. The books were alphabetically arranged on the shelves, the plants were lined up equidistant from one another and the desk was in the exact center of the room.
“A total control freak,” Marc muttered behind Casey.
She gave a curt nod, then sat down on one of the chairs they’d moved in from the kitchen.
“Is there anything you’d rather Claire not touch?” she asked Suzanne.
That particular psychology worked well on people. It put the ball in their court, gave them control of the process. This way, they relaxed, and Claire wouldn’t have to worry about setting them off if she picked up some off-limits treasure.
Sure enough, the guard-dog look vanished from Suzanne’s face.
“I’m fine with you touching whatever you choose to. We have no valuables in this room.” She seated herself behind the desk in an unconscious attempt to erect a wall between herself and the FI team.
“Thank you.” Casey gestured for Claire to get started. Meanwhile, her own mind was already on the process at hand.
Marc lowered himself into the chair beside Casey’s, draping one arm across the back in a relaxed position. The less formidable he appeared, the better. As it was, Suzanne kept edging nervous glances his way.
“What can I tell you?” she asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Let’s start with how and where you and your husband met,” Casey suggested.
An innocent enough question—one that was usually greeted with some sign of tenderness or nostalgia.
There was none in Suzanne’s reply. It was almost as if she were reciting a well-memorized speech. “We met eleven years ago in a pharmacy right here in midtown. We both had the flu and were hunting down medications to make us less miserable. We ended up comparing notes on home remedies. Glen was charming, even with a fever. I gave him my telephone number. He called a week later to see how I was feeling and to ask me out to dinner. We dated for about five months. Then he proposed. We were married a month after that.”
“Wow.” Casey’s brows rose. “You planned your wedding in record time.”
“We didn’t have a traditional wedding,” Suzanne explained. “Neither Glen nor I have any family. Nor are we religious. So we went to a justice of the peace and said our vows.”
“I hope you at least had a honeymoon.”
“We took a cruise.” Once again, Suzanne tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “It was lovely.”
Clearly not. The woman was so strung out when she spoke about her husband and their relationship that it screamed dysfunctional. Suzanne’s body language was a manifestation of fear. No surprise, given the monster she was married to.
“I heard that you teach piano,” Casey continued, still sticking to safe ground. “Are your students adults or children?”
“Both. Mostly children.” A hint of a smile. “They’re challenging. It’s hard to make Mozart cool. But I love watching their reactions when they get it right.”
Mission accomplished. Suzanne had relaxed.
“You’re obviously good with kids,” Casey noted. “What about your husband—does he like children, as well?”
The mask snapped back into place. “He has no problem with them. But he’s not the paternal type, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Time to abandon that subject.
