Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  This is really going to happen, she thought, with both trepidation and delight. She took the final few stairs slowly. Is this really what I want? she asked herself for the millionth time. When she got close enough to see the golden slant of light coming from the lamp onto the bed, which had been neatened since the afternoon, she was overwhelmed with a feeling of finally coming home.

  When she entered the room, Preston was not there. A strip of light and the sound of water emanated from the closed bathroom door. She took a seat in the upholstered chair and waited.

  ***

  When Preston opened the door and saw Margo, her auburn hair glinting in the lamplight, he felt inflated, like a happy, floating balloon, filled with joy, hope, perhaps love. He inhaled her scent, floral. In that moment, accomplishments in the financial world, his massive wealth, all were forgotten. This, this is the ultimate triumph.

  Preston opened his arms, and Margo stood, opening hers in response. They met in the middle of the room, wrapping each other in a long, close, warm embrace, as if they would never let go. In a second, Preston remembered how well their bodies had fit together before, so many lifetimes ago. Wordlessly, they kissed--a long, deep kiss that spoke of nostalgia, regret, but also of promise.

  This time will be perfect, Preston thought. No rush, no acrobatics, just two pillars of flesh, yearning, reaching, melting into one. He couldn’t banish a fleeting thought of Nicole, how different it was with her. He smiled in amazement. All the old guys who chase young girls have it all wrong.

  This might be the most passionate he had ever felt. For the first time in his life, he wanted to give more than to get. He would not let anything stand in his way.

  ***

  Afterward, there was little talk. There was so much to say, giggly, heady plans to make, but it was already after three a.m., and both Preston and Margo had reasons to keep a blanket around their relationship for now. They decided to meet in New York the following week, exchanged cell phone numbers, gazed into each other’s eyes, and kissed one last time. Margo looked back at Preston as she left the room. Her eyes filled with tears at the sight of him, her first and last love.

  She descended the stairs with caution, hoping she could avoid the eyes or ears of any of the other guests. She breathed a sigh as she closed the door to her room and hugged herself, trying to memorize the feeling of Preston’s body against hers. She yawned and pulled open the plush coverings of her bed. She was just crawling between the crisp coolness of the linens when she heard the sound of metal against wood outside of her room. It’s nothing. I must be imagining things.

  When she heard it again, she pushed off the covers and swung her long legs out. Still wearing her lime silk outfit, she emerged from her suite into the hallway.

  What she found was Nicole, scooting up the stairs on her butt, dragging the awkward appliance behind her.

  “Nicole, what are you doing?” Margo uttered, holding back the shriek. She clutched the two sides of her jacket together in the center of her chest, as if to protect her heart.

  Nicole stared at Margo, eyes lingering on the silk outfit. She kept moving along the hallway toward the next flight up, peering around Margo into the open door of her room, as if to see if Preston were there.

  “What are you doing?” Margo’s sharp whisper cut through the thick air between them.

  Nicole paused, curling back on her spine, her bent knees in the air. It seemed a difficult pose to hold. “I’m going to Preston.”

  “Up to the fourth floor? On your rear end?” Margo instantly regretted the incredulous tone of her outburst.

  “Isn’t that obvious?” Nicole replied. “He is my husband, in case you’ve forgotten it. I decided I want to sleep with him.”

  Margo’s mind raced at the speed of light. If Preston had told Nicole he wanted a divorce, the last thing on earth she would want would be to scoot three stories up the stairs with a broken ankle to sleep with him. He didn’t tell you, Margo almost shouted loudly enough for the entire house to hear. I’ve been a fool! She felt her new-found happiness draining away as she faced the truth. She stared at Nicole, so young and beautiful, so agile and strong, and she wondered how she ever could have competed with her for Preston’s affections. I was nothing but another conquest for him. It wasn’t enough that he broke me once--he had to do it again.

  She wanted to clutch her side from the palpable pain that accompanied the shattering of her dream. She wanted to shake Nicole’s well-toned shoulders, warn her that her husband was the worst scoundrel ever, that he wasn’t worth exerting herself and risking her ankle. Instead, she realized that she pitied Nicole. No one knew of Marog’s liaison with Preston. She could go downstairs in the morning with her head held high, leave Bucolia, and forget all about this shabby interlude. But Nicole would have to continue to live with that two-faced two-timer and be subjected to his lies and abuse.

  “Let me help you,” Margo offered with convincing sincerity. She placed a gentle hand on Nicole’s shoulder.

  ***

  Nicole’s eyes bored into Margo’s. Truthfully, Nicole had braved the stairs on her butt mostly to find out whether Margo was sleeping with Preston. Now that she saw Margo’s willingness to help her, as well as the fact that she was alone in her own bedroom, after all, Nicole had to admit it was an ordeal to have come this far. “Preston’s probably sound asleep anyway,” she answered. “Maybe you could help me get back down the stairs to the sofa?”

  “Sure, I will,” Margo replied, bending to help lift Nicole to a standing position on her left foot. She placed a supportive hand around Nicole’s waist and let the younger woman’s arm go around her neck. Between Margo and the stair rail, Nicole was able to hop down the stairs to her walker.

  “Thanks for everything,” Nicole told Margo. Thanks for being in your room, thanks for not sleeping with my husband, thanks for seeing past your sorority sisters to help somebody you hardly know.

  “My pleasure,” Margo responded. She was surprised to find that she really meant it.

  Chapter 19

  After the formality of the nine-course dinner the night before, Sunday brunch was designed to be laid-back and casual. No wake-up calls, seating arrangements, or fancy menus. It was a good thing, because everyone was tired from being up so late, their stomachs, livers, and kidneys still processing all they had devoured and imbibed.

  John E. had set out an informal buffet of smoked salmon and venison, an antipasto vegetable tray, and some caviar and blini with chopped egg and capers to garnish. The aroma of spicy chili from a crock pot scented the room, as well. Bloody Marys and an ice bucket of chilled champagne sat on a shiny silver galley tray, where guests could serve themselves on their way into the dining room.

  “I’m sort of glad the servants are off today,” John E. remarked to Caro, who was arranging coffee mugs, sugar, and creamer at the end of the buffet counter.

  “I know what you mean. Sometimes I find it hard to carry on a normal conversation with friends in front of the servants. I fear they will think badly of us.”

  “If that’s your worry, I’m sure they’ve heard enough this weekend to keep their tongues wagging for months.”

  “What do you mean, specifically?” Caro asked.

  “Well, there has been enough boasting and one-upmanship this weekend to satisfy any bystander’s curiosity about how the other half lives.”

  Footfalls on the stairs interrupted the conversation. Seconds later, Libby and Les entered the room. “Good morning,” they chirped in unison.

  “Are we the first ones?” Libby asked, looking around.

  “Mmmm...coffee smells great,” Les said, eschewing the alcoholic drinks and heading directly toward Caro. He planted a kiss on her cheek as he grabbed a coffee mug and served himself a fragrant, steamy mug full.

  “What a beautiful buffet,” Libby remarked. “You two have outdone yourselves this weekend!”

  “Yes,” Les chimed in, “I’m going to hate to go back to my humdrum world after this w
eekend.”

  “Your world is anything but humdrum, Les,” John E. laughed. “And anyway, you youngsters have to keep the economy going so us old farts can collect Social Security.”

  “Who’s collecting Social Security around here?” Leon Spiller boomed, as he entered the room. “That’s a laugh!”

  “Shhh,” Caro said. “Nicole’s sleeping in the next room.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Leon apologized. “I forgot about Sleeping Beauty.”

  “Where’s Vicki?” Libby asked.

  “Another sleeping beauty. She’ll be down after a while. Whoa, look at this caviar.”

  “What’s happening down here?” asked a freshly shaven Gerald, leading Kitty by the elbow. “That was quite a birthday dinner, John E., Caro.” He patted his ample midsection as if to confirm its satisfaction with the previous night’s menu.

  “Morning, everybody,” Kitty murmured as she, too, headed for the coffee. “Nice party last night.”

  “How did everyone sleep?” Caro asked.

  “Fast,” Gerald replied. “I don’t think we got to sleep much before three. I think some of us forgot that we’re not in college anymore.”

  “I slept like a baby,” Julia claimed, picking up the conversation seamlessly as she entered the room, stopping to pick up a Bloody Mary on her way. “Loved the dinner, loved the company, great party.”

  She kissed John E. on the cheek and sat down at the table.

  As more guests drifted downstairs, and the volume of voices increased, Nicole stirred on the sofa then sat up with a gasp of pain.

  Caro excused herself from her conversation with Julia and called to Nicole, “I’m coming, Nicole. Be there in a second.”

  “I’m okay, Caro,” Nicole said. I just need to go to the bathroom.” She fumbled with the bottle of pills then swallowed one before mustering the will to stand and use the walker.

  “Let me help you,” Caro offered.

  “Thanks, but I’m going to have to manage on my own sooner or later.”

  Caro hovered, nevertheless. She felt so responsible for Preston’s wife. After all, they were now cousins. “When you’ve washed up, come on into the dining room. We’re having breakfast.” It’s a shame we didn’t build a bedroom on the first floor. Then Preston could have stayed here with Nicole and taken care of her. It’s so awkward having her down here with almost strangers, while he sleeps away on the fourth floor.

  ***

  By noon Andrea and Stan had arrived, and everyone had come downstairs for brunch, except for Margo and Preston. Nicole was sitting uncomfortably at the table, her leg propped up, pushing tiny bits of food around on her plate. “I wonder how long Preston is going to sleep,” she mused aloud.

  “Why don’t you call him?” Caro suggested. “It’s time he woke up, anyway, or he’ll miss the tail end of the party.”

  Nicole tapped into her Smartphone and waited while it rang once, twice, three times. Four times. Then voicemail. “That’s odd. He’s not answering.”

  “He must be wasted after all of that partying last night,” Marshall said with a laugh. “You know, he’s not a spring chicken anymore, like the rest of us here.”

  “I’m going up,” Nicole said, ignoring Marshall’s implied dig. She used the table to stand and grabbed her nearby walker.

  “No, you’re not,” Caro said firmly. “I’ll go up and check on him for you.” She took off for the stairs before Nicole could give her an argument.

  As she mounted the stairs to the second floor, she encountered Margo, who was fully made up, her hair in a ponytail, and heading downstairs. “Hi, Caro,” Margo said, yawning. “Sorry I overslept.”

  “No problem. Just go on down. Everyone’s having brunch and getting in some last-minute visiting.”

  “Where are you headed?” Margo asked.

  She replied over her shoulder, “Checking on Preston. He’s still asleep and not answering his phone.” She kept moving past Margo and up the stairs.

  Margo shook off a fleeting thought of concern for Preston. He’s not my problem, she repeated in her head, as she reached the first floor and moved into the dining room. “Hi, how’s everybody?” She started to pour herself a glass of champagne, the bottle tilted in the air, when she heard Caro’s muffled voice from the fourth floor, then knocking, then pounding. What she heard next caused her to set the bottle down on the table with a bang.

  “Omigod! John E., come quick. Call for help.”

  John E. darted for the stairs, taking two at a time. He shouted over his shoulder, “Somebody call nine-one-one.”

  Pandemonium overcame the dining table as everyone began talking at once, speculating as to what was happening.

  Nicole screamed, “I knew something was wrong with Preston. He never sleeps this late. I’ve got to go to him.” She leaped up as fast as the appliance on her ankle would allow, grabbing her walker.

  Andrea, sitting next to her, jumped up, as well, intending to put her arms around Nicole’s shoulders. The young woman was too quick, however, and she slipped away, scooting and sliding toward the stairs. “Nicole, stop. You’re in no shape to climb three flights of stairs. Trust me, I know about these things.” Andrea shuddered as she thought of her previous night’s premonition, and then of some similar experiences she had known from researching her true crime stories.

  “You can’t stop me,” Nicole shouted, beyond all reasoning. “I’ve got to get to Preston.” She abandoned her walker at the base of the staircase and began scooting up the stairs on her rear end.

  “Well, at least let me help you,” Les said. “I can carry you much faster.” He formed a chair with his arms, scooping the slim woman aboard to ride sideways. Andrea followed, carrying the walker.

  Stan put away his cell phone and gave instructions to the rest of the group, taking charge as captain of the teetering ship. “Keep calm, everyone. Clear the driveway and keep the stairway open for the paramedics.”

  ***

  It took nine minutes for the paramedics to traverse the winding road to Bucolia, a very long nine minutes in which the party of fourteen struggled to remain composed in a most shocking situation. After the first moments of chatter in the dining room, everyone became starkly silent, each holding his or her own thoughts and feelings inside. While most held no love lost for Preston, it was nevertheless disconcerting at the very least and horrifying at the most to imagine that one of their own might be in mortal danger. Twice Margo jumped up from her place at the table, as if to run upstairs, but apparently thinking better of it, sat back down. Marshall rose and paced from the dining room to the stairwell and back, hoping to hear something to indicate what was transpiring.

  Sounds of Nicole’s screaming and crying, wafting down the staircase, had signaled that Preston was either in grave condition or beyond. Stan took it upon himself to organize the car clearance operation, so paramedics could park in the circular driveway immediately in front of the doorway. The only car that couldn’t be moved was Preston’s Lamborghini. Luckily, it was positioned at the far end. Just to have something to do, Margo began clearing dishes and putting food away. Whatever appetites anyone had before had vanished in the instant Caro had shouted, “Omigod!”

  Just before the paramedics arrived, Les came barreling down the stairs and rushing into the dining room. Everyone crowded around him, anxious looks pressing him with questions. His pale complexion and the grim set of his mouth were enough to cause Libby to rush into his arms. He hugged her tightly, burying his face into her neck for a moment before looking around at the assembled group. “It looks bad. John E. is doing CPR. That’s all I can say.”

  The paramedics arrived at the same moment that a police car pulled into the circular driveway, both having been routinely dispatched at the time of the nine-one-one call, both vehicles flashing and wailing in the frigid afternoon air. What was not routine was an emergency call from one of the upscale gentlemen’s farms, which is why, despite their haste to attend to the patient, the service personnel gazed abo
ut them at the elaborate furnishings. Stan pointed the way up the stairs, and the trio moved quickly, the EMTs carrying triage equipment. They rushed into the bedroom, where John E. was straddling Preston, administering CPR. John E.’s face was flushed and dripping with perspiration. His own breaths were ragged from exertion. In contrast, Preston’s face was pale, frozen in a grimace, eyes scrunched.

  Nicole was hunched in an almost-fetal position on the floor, her ankle with its metal contraption pointing in front of her like an arrow, holding onto Preston’s arm with all her might. She muttered unintelligible words and phrases, possibly prayers. Her expression and tightly closed eyes mirrored those of her husband.

  Andrea and Caro were standing behind Nicole, two sentinels of silent support. They exchanged glances several times as they observed John E.’s ministrations. Unspoken fears were evident in their expressions.

  The paramedics did a double-take when they saw Nicole. They were the same ones on duty yesterday when Nicole had been the patient they transported to the hospital. Nicole opened her eyes as they called for everyone to stand back, so they could assess today’s patient. They immediately placed defibrillator tabs onto Preston’s chest, trunk, and limbs, and the machine proceeded to shock his heart multiple times. Between shocks, the EMTs did CPR.

  The patrolman frowned as he examined the room with a well-trained eye. Left to right, ceiling to floor. While it was extremely unlikely that foul play would be involved in a place like this, with people like this, one could never be too careful in assessing the details. If this turns out to be a crime scene, he thought, it’ll already be totally screwed up with the CPR, the woman on the floor, and now the paramedics.

  The early afternoon light coming in from the window was the only illumination in the room. The officer focused on the patient. The guy looks normal, he thought, good looks, fit, mid-sixties, I’d guess. No signs of blood, vomit, ligatures, bruises. Maybe a heart attack? He sniffed. Smells like designer cologne or perfume, and something else. He moved closer to the bed, and then he knew. There was an unmistakable smell of ejaculate mixed with sweat.