Kitty watched as Nicole, with Andrea’s help, eased out of the car and onto her walker. Nicole moved like an old woman, the physical pain seeming the lesser of the two burdens she carried. Her glossy blonde hair hung in clumps, adhered by dried tears. Whatever makeup she had put on before lunch was long worn off, and the purple curves under her eyes stood out like badges of grief.
***
Caro greeted the pair at the front door, hugging Nicole and murmuring, “I am so sorry.” She took their coats and led them into the family room, where a cozy fire brought little comfort.
Stan rushed from the dining room to hug his wife. He bowed his head toward Nicole. “Let me help you get comfortable,” he said, helping Nicole to the sofa where she had spent most of the previous day and night.
Just then Officer Barton and Detective Parrott descended the stairs. They found John E. at the base of the stairs on his way to the family room.
“Mr. Campbell,” Detective Parrott intoned. “Could we have a word with you?”
“Of course.”
“In private?”
“Sure. Let’s go into my office.” He led the officers into the office, on the far side of the family room and closed the door behind them.
Detective Parrott took the lead. “Officer Barton and I have inspected the upstairs bedrooms, particularly the suite on the fourth floor where Mr. Phillips was found unresponsive. We have just a few questions for you, and then we can meet with your party guests briefly before letting them leave the premises.”
“Okay.”
“When did you last see Mr. Phillips alive?”
“About two a.m. We had a long dinner party last night, followed by a smoke on the porch. The guys started heading to bed between one-forty-five and two. Preston stopped to say goodnight to his wife, here--” He pointed in the direction of the family room. “--before climbing the stairs to the fourth floor.”
“So his wife didn’t sleep with him last night?”
“No, her ankle injury left her unable to go up the stairs.”
“Did anyone, to your knowledge, see Mr. Phillips after two a.m., when he went up to his room on the fourth floor?’
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Was Mr. Phillips complaining that he didn’t feel well at any time during the evening or night?”
“Not that I remember. He was in good spirits at dinner and afterward when we were smoking.”
“Did he have a heart condition or any other medical condition that you know of?”
“You would have to ask my wife. Preston was her cousin, and she knew him much better than I--but, no, I thought Preston was in the prime of his life.”
“Okay, Mr. Campbell. Thank you for your cooperation. We’d like to meet with your houseguests now. We’ll give them instructions and get them on their way home. I’m sure they’re eager to get back to their lives.”
“Okay,” John E. said, “but before that can you just tell me one thing: do you think Mr. Phillips died of natural causes?”
Chapter 22
“At this point, Mr. Campbell, we have more questions than answers. I’m sure you understand,” Detective Parrott replied without making eye contact.
“Of course,” John E. mumbled, sorry that what had preyed so heavily on his mind had rolled so easily from his tongue.
“I’d like to speak to everyone in the house, Mr. Campbell. Which room would be the best place to gather the guests together?”
“I’ll ask them to step into the family room, so Nicole--er, Mrs. Phillips--won’t have to move. She’s got a rather severe ankle injury.”
“So I’ve heard.”
John E. went into the dining room, where he spoke to the group so quietly that his words were a series of unintelligible swishes, like the sound of a brush on the head of a drum. He returned to the doorway of the office, with his wife and guests in tow, and motioned for the officers to lead the way into the family room.
The scent of burning pine cones filled the room with a coziness that belied the occasion. The darkening snow-blanketed landscape seen from the window matched it better. Nicole was sitting on the sofa, packing a few belongings, mostly toiletries, as Andrea handed them to her. Her movements were swift and mechanical, as if she could not bear to think. She looked up as the parade of people entered the fire-lit room.
“What’s going on here?” Nicole asked, annoyance covering every surface of her voice.
Caro stepped in front of the officers and the others, hoping her relationship to Preston would give her more credibility in managing his distraught widow. “Nicole, dear, these gentlemen are police officers. They need to speak to everyone.”
“I can’t imagine what police officers would need to speak to me about,” Nicole cried. “Can they bring Preston back? Can they help me in any way? My life is falling apart. What do I need with police officers?”
Caro looked back at the officers and John E. It was obvious Nicole was becoming hysterical.
Parrott stepped forward and insinuated himself between Caro and Nicole. “I’m Detective Parrott, ma’am. I’m very sorry for your loss.” His deep voice exuded confidence and a rock-like strength, and Nicole responded by raising the curtain from her large eyes.
“Thank you, Detective.” Nicole put down the toiletries she had been holding, her glassy eyes meeting the detective’s sober ones. “I’m not myself right now. I just lost my husband.”
“I understand, ma’am. Mr. Phillips’ death has, I’m sure, come as a shock. I want you and everyone here to know that Officer Barton and I will do everything we can to expedite things, so you can all get on with your lives as much as possible.”
“What ‘things’ are you talking about?” Nicole asked, the curtain rolling back down over her grieving expression.
“Autopsy, toxicology reports, police reports, ma’am.” Detective Parrott spoke the harsh words as gently as possible. “All routine procedure in cases such as--”
Andrea interrupted to ask, “How long do you think these will take, Detective? I’m sure Mrs. Phillips would like to begin planning for Mr. Phillips’ funeral as soon as possible.”
“Autopsy usually takes two to three days, after which we can release the body for the funeral. Toxicology can take much longer, perhaps as much as three weeks. In this instance, though, because of--er, Mr. Phillips’ standing in the community and such--we will push for quick processing. I would think you could have the funeral by mid-week, if you want.”
The group of guests stood stock still as they contemplated the circumstances: Preston’s death, the police presence, Nicole’s predicament, an upcoming funeral, and the possibilities that might evolve from the medical examiner’s findings.
John E. cleared his throat and spoke first. “I’m sure we would all appreciate your expediency, as well as your discretion in handling these matters. I don’t need to tell you that Mr. Phillips, as well as most of us here, was a public figure. You know how the press can be when they get wind of something they can play up as sensational. It would reflect inappropriately on Mr. Phillips, as well as the rest of us, if that were to happen.”
Unfazed, Detective Parrott continued in silken tones, “Officer Barton here has taken down personal information from all of you, except for Mrs. Phillips and Mrs. Baker, whom I will interview. Here is my phone number.” He paused to distribute business cards to each guest. “If you think of anything we should know, anything we should look into, please give us a call. Otherwise, you are free to return to your homes and get on with your lives.”
Julia broke the silence. “Okay, guys, I guess we should start packing up.”
Inwardly she was relieved. Having police gather everyone together like that had given her the impression that they were going to make some pronouncement or accusation. She still felt wary of Detective Parrott, though. Something in his authoritative manner reminded her of a fox. She took Marshall by the elbow and headed for the stairs. The others followed quietly, politeness holding them from chattering or rushin
g up the stairs.
***
“I can’t wait to get out of here,” Libby whispered to Les, once she was out of earshot of Nicole and the rest of the group. “Those policemen were giving me the creeps.”
Les’s brow furrowed. “I know. But they were just doing their job. I’m sure Preston just had an ordinary heart attack.”
“It bothers me that Margo has been so distraught all afternoon. I wish I knew what she’s been thinking.”
“Maybe she’ll talk once we get out of here and on our way back home.”
***
“Mrs. Phillips, ma’am,” Detective Parrott began, sitting in the chair adjacent to the sofa, where Nicole had her packed belongings next to her.
Nicole looked up at the courteous man, her youthful energy depleted, her eyes lacking sparkle, her face drawn in tension. Her lack of response was less a result of indifference than of exhaustion.
“I hate to disturb you further, but I need to ask you a few important questions.” He looked at Andrea and asked, “Would you please excuse us?”
Andrea nodded and glided toward the kitchen, leaving Nicole alone with the two officers.
Officer Barton had his iPad ready to record notes from the interview, while Detective Parrott did the talking. “Mrs. Phillips, how long have you and Mr. Phillips been married?”
“We just celebrated our six-month anniversary last week.”
“And have you notified Mr. Phillips’ other family members?”
“I called his son Peter from the hospital. Peter told me he would contact Preston’s mother and sister.”
“And who, among Mr. Phillips’ associates, did he refer to as ‘chief’?”
For the first time all day, Nicole felt the twitching of an incipient smile, yearning to break forth. “Why, Detective, that is none other than the former President of the United States. I told you guys Preston was an important person.”
“Fine.” Parrott stole a glance at Barton. “Now, Mrs. Phillips, can you tell me when the last time was that you saw Mr. Phillips alive?”
“We spoke around two a.m. when Preston was getting ready to go upstairs to bed.”
“You weren’t sleeping together last night?” Neither officer made eye contact.
“I wanted to go upstairs with him. I begged him to let me, but he was tired and told me I needed to rest my ankle.”
“So where did you spend the night?”
“Here on this sofa. I’ve been here pretty much non-stop since yesterday afternoon.” She pointed to her ankle in its awkward appliance.
“Yes, we know about your accident,” Barton interjected. “I was on duty yesterday when it happened.”
“Did Mr. Phillips seem unwell to you at two a.m.?”
“He didn’t say anything. He looked tired, but he had been eating, drinking, smoking cigars, and everyone was tired by that point.”
“Had he taken any drugs that you know of?”
“Not that I know of...” Nicole said, her voice trailing off as she remembered Preston had taken several of her oxycodone tablets. “Well, he did take a couple of my pain pills.” She rifled through her makeup bag to pull out the vial prescribed for her. She held it out for Officer Barton to inspect, and he made a note of the type and strength.
“Why would Mr. Phillips take your pain pills?” Parrott asked, keeping his tone of voice neutral.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask him. I assume he was having some pain.”
“Let’s change the subject. Can you give me your date of birth, address, and contact information?”
“May 26, 1994. We live in the Dakota, One West Seventy-Second Street, Manhattan. I can give you contact information.” Nicole thought for a moment, the reality of her situation hitting home again. “But why all this?”
“We will need to keep in touch with you about the autopsy and other reports, ma’am.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot for a minute.” Nicole bit her fingernail and fought back tears.
Changing tactics again, Parrott asked, “How did you and Mr. Phillips meet?”
“I was a receptionist at the Lamborghini dealership where Preston bought his last car. It was love at first sight.”
Officer Barton wrote “L@1S” in his notes, restraining himself from rolling his eyes at the young woman’s naiveté.
If this turns out to be a murder, I’d peg this lady as the number one suspect, even with this contraption on her ankle.
“I want to make sure I have this straight, Mrs. Phillips,” Parrott continued. “You and Mr. Phillips arrived here when?”
“Friday night.”
“And you stayed together on the fourth floor?”
“Yes, Friday night we did. And then we went horseback riding Saturday morning, and I broke my ankle.”
“So since Saturday morning, you have not been in the room on the fourth floor?”
“No. I’ve stayed down here in this room. Till this morning, when Les carried me up the stairs.”
“You haven’t been able to climb the stairs at all?”
Nicole bit her bottom lip, thinking of her early morning foray up the stairs, where she had met Margo.
Detective Parrott repeated, “You haven’t climbed the stairs at all, Mrs. Phillips?”
“No, Detective. I haven’t.”
“By the way, Mrs. Phillips, what were you wearing on Friday night?”
Wondering what in the world her apparel would have to do with anything, Nicole answered, “Black low-cut pants, white cashmere skimmer, Stuart Weitzmans. Why?”
“It’s our job to be thorough. That’s all.” Detective Parrott scratched his head before asking a final question. “Mrs. Phillips, how were you and Mr. Phillips getting along this weekend?”
Nicole’s posture stiffened. “Just fine. We were practically honeymooners still. Why would you think otherwise?”
“Not saying I do, Mrs. Phillips. Sometimes even the most devoted married people have arguments.”
“Well, Preston and I were very much in love.” Nicole refused to let the niggling memory of her suspicions about Preston and Margo and what Preston told her on Saturday night during the dinner party creep into this now. She was Preston’s wife, and she would be Preston’s widow.
“Okay, Mrs. Phillips. Thank you for your cooperation. We extend our deepest sympathies to you and to Mr. Phillips’ family. And I do need that contact information.”
“Here. I’ll write it down for you,” Nicole said, and she pulled a Montblanc pen and notepad from her handbag and jotted down her phone numbers. She handed the paper to the now-standing detective. “Whatever you’re thinking about me and Preston,” she said, her voice becoming shrill, “Preston was my soulmate, and no one, not even Death, can take Preston Phillips away from me.”
Chapter 23
Wall Street Journal.
Monday, December 16th:
NEW YORK ~ Preston Phillips, 67, former US Secretary of the Treasury and Wall Street financier, died yesterday of an apparent heart attack at the farm of a close personal friend, John E. Campbell, where he was attending Mr. Campbell’s 65th birthday party.
Mr. Phillips was the first-born child of (the late) Theodore and Penelope Bartlett Phillips of the Hamptons. He attended Choate Rosemary Hall and Princeton University undergraduate, where he was captain of the football team. He earned his doctorate in business from the Harvard Business School. Elected to Congress from New York’s 22nd Congressional District in 1984, he became Chairman of the Congressional Ways and Means Committee in 1994 and served in that position until nominated by President Dalton to be secretary of the treasury. He returned to private life after President Dalton’s re-election.
Former President Dalton issued a statement extolling Mr. Phillips’ long and distinguished service to his country. “We are shocked and saddened by Mr. Phillips’ untimely death. America has lost one of its brilliant stars, and Mary and I have lost a close personal friend. Our deepest sympathies go out to Preston’s family, along with our thoughts and
prayers.”
The White House has also issued a statement, noting Mr. Phillips’ contributions to the United States, and extending the president’s and first lady’s personal condolences, along with the condolences of the American people.
Mr. Phillips is survived by his wife Nicole; his mother; his sister Frances Phillips Worthington; and his son Peter. Funeral arrangements are pending.
***
Gerald and Kitty sat down at the breakfast nook in their primary residence in Chappaqua on Monday morning. Neither had slept very well. Their freshly ground Kona coffee filled the air with a delicious aroma but remained untouched. Gerald unfolded the Journal, placed as usual next to his linen napkin. Preston’s obituary leaped from the bottom of the fold on the first page.
“Kitty, look. Preston’s obit is on page one.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Preston was a very important man, especially in financial circles.”
“It says here he died of an apparent heart attack.”
“Well, wasn’t that what killed him?”
“If you ask me, he died from having no heart at all, but that’s just me. I know you feel differently.”
“I do, Gerald. Preston wasn’t as bad as all of you made him out to be. In fact, he had a certain charm about him. I, for one, am very sad that he’s gone.”
“You and probably a thousand other ladies who have thrown their panties at him over the years. I never could see what Preston’s appeal was, but I have to admit he had it.” Gerald took a first gulp from his coffee mug. “The thing is,” he mused, taking a fork to his egg-white omelet, “Preston seemed to be in great shape. He wasn’t sick, overweight, or old. I sure didn’t see any signs of a heart attack coming, did you?”
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