Isla Phillips opened the front door wearing a dress that could start a riot—a billowy maxi-length number the color of a Georgia peach. The laces holding the plunging V-neck together weren’t good at their job. I glued my eyes to her angelic face.
“You came.” Her flushed cheeks were framed by waves of black hair.
“The invitation was irresistible.”
She held up a glass that was mostly ice. “You missed the first round. You’d better catch up.”
“Had one before I left. But hit me again.”
She led me into the kitchen where indie rock streamed from the sound system.
Can lights illuminated a countertop tiled in a Moroccan motif. Stainless basin sink and a pot-filler spigot. Modern appliances with touchscreen interfaces.
“Cocktail or beer?”
“Whatever’s coldest and wettest.”
Isla opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Cigar City Lager. “Foster liked these.”
“Have to appreciate a guy who drinks local.”
My host selected a can of White Claw for herself but went to the effort of pouring it over her glass of ice.
She caught me staring. “You like the dress?”
“Not going to thank it for obscuring an otherwise excellent view.”
Isla turned. “You talk to all the grieving widows you meet this way?”
“If it’s welcomed. You want me to pretend it’s not?”
She studied me in silence for a long moment, then turned on her heel and led me through the sliding doors to the back lanai, the dress swishing about her ankles.
There was a pool with lights that changed colors at the bottom, built-in planters around the deck. Cantina lights were strung above an outdoor bar—an inviting space. Beyond the screen enclosure was a well-kept lawn. I had a hard time imagining Isla behind a push mower but someone was taking good care of it all.
“Great place. How long have you lived here?”
She took a seat at the outdoor bar, gliding onto the stool and resting her drink on the bar top. I mounted a stool beside her. “A few years. It’s a work in progress.”
“LinkedIn had Foster’s job title listed as ‘freelance security.’ Does that pay better than I’ve been led to believe?”
Isla ran a forefinger along her perfectly formed lips and over her chin in a way that wasn’t distracting at all. “Foster worked a lot of jobs. Personal security was one. Is looking into our finances part of your investigation?”
“I’m rude and I like to pry.”
Isla laughed. “I don’t believe you. You don’t seem the type of man who talks for no reason. I admire that.”
My heart turned a somersault.
“I purchased the house a few years before Foster and I were married. When I started work at the casino.”
“What kind of work do you do for them?”
“Admin really. Sort of a concierge position. I fit certain players to the games they’d most enjoy. My clients mostly prefer high stakes poker.”
I made a mental note to investigate that further.
“Do you know anyone who wanted to harm Foster? Or any vices that might have got him into trouble? Drugs?”
“No. He never did any. Might have smoked once or twice with friends but it wasn’t his thing. He drank but never lost his head. He was used to not drinking around others who were.”
“Like you?”
She paused the drink on the way to her lips. “Mostly. I’m not one to waste a night off. But he’d probably agree with me now.”
“Life is short. Did he behave like he wanted a future?”
“God yes. He was always looking up dream vacation spots. Tropical beaches mostly. Even the morning of the day he died. I found a listing on his phone. We didn’t have a proper honeymoon when we were married, but he wanted to take me on one. I think he was trying to surprise me with a trip. I tried telling the police there was no way he would plan a vacation like that and then kill himself. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“It would be helpful if I could see his phone. You still have it?”
“In the bedroom. They gave his things back when they closed the case.”
“It seems like you’re doing well financially. Why no honeymoon?”
“My job demands a lot of my time. Clients are high profile and can be high maintenance. The management prefers that I keep myself available.”
“How did Foster feel about that?”
Isla shrugged one shapely shoulder. “He wished we were the ones on the other side of the table. But we were happy enough.”
“Can you walk me through the location where his death happened? Unless it’s too emotional for you.”
“No. Thank you. I’m fine.” She knit her fingers around her cocktail glass. “I want you to have everything you need.”
She glided off the stool and led the way back inside. The music seemed louder.
We turned left past the kitchen and she took me down a brief hallway that split to meet several doors. The master bedroom door was ajar and revealed an elegantly outfitted king bed neatly made with a mountain of decorative pillows. The office door was to my left and it was there that she guided me.
The desk was reclaimed wood. Three drawers with a slim silver monitor on top. A small lamp. Cords were all tightly bundled down the back. There was an armchair, a bookcase, an oval throw rug beneath the ottoman. Office chair was missing. Exercise ball sat in one corner.
“Would you say your husband was a tidy man?”
“Absolutely. Always kept his office like this. Nothing out of place.”
“What about the day he died?”
Isla’s cheeks grew taut as she clenched her jaw. She pointed to an area just left of the desk. “He was in his office chair. There. I threw it out because I couldn’t . . . his blood—”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it. If you could find the phone, I’d like to look at that.”
Isla wiped under one eye to catch a tear, smearing her eyeliner. “It was just like this. Only that chair—I’ll get the phone.” She spun out of the room and her dress wafted after her as she vanished.
Whoever had cleaned up had done a good job. The fresh paint was barely discernible on the wall where they’d patched a bullet hole.
Isla returned with the phone and disabled the security timer before passing it over. “Will you have to look through the photos? I haven’t had a chance to check if there’s anything . . . private on there.”
“You can take me through any relevant photos yourself, make sure we bypass anything of a delicate nature.”
“Yes. Thank you. If you can excuse me, I need to . . .” She gestured to her smeared eyeliner.
“Please do. I’ll only be a few minutes.” As she vanished into the master bedroom, I closed the office door behind her.
I thumbed through the unlocked phone of Foster Phillips, skimming the various apps he had installed. Nothing unusual. The open browser windows weren’t illuminating either. The news app. A few social media sites. A vacation rentals site. He had several places bookmarked. They did look tropical. Maybe Mexico. I checked his calendar. It was mostly blank after the day of his death. The only upcoming event noted was this coming Sunday. WORK TRIP. No time or destination was specified.
Not going to be making that.
That was all the cards he had showing. If this was a poker hand, I’d fold.
I flipped to the photos and checked for images of Foster’s house, using only the search bar and typing first “office” then “desk.” It was only when I tried “chair” that I finally had a hit that showed the home office I was in now. The rolling office chair had no arms and was tucked tightly against the desk. A smiling Foster Phillips grinned back at the camera from a standing position. Alive. This photo showed him with an amused smile. Dark hair, dark eyes. An intensity of focus to his gaze.
Another shot showed the office again, this time without him in it. Tidy. Like Isla said.
Okay. I would take the risk.
I double-checked the time on the phone. As much as I enjoyed Isla’s company, it was time to work. Time to visit the scene of the crime. I studied each photo of the office I could find and selected the space that was consistently unoccupied. I set the phone on the desk, then dialed my chronometer settings and pressed my hand to the edge of the bookshelf. It was time to see how Foster Phillips died.
I pushed the pin.