“No. To be honest, I think of all the guys at the party, Preston was the last one I would have pegged to die first. I talked to him throughout the entire evening, and there wasn’t the slightest indication he wasn’t feeling well.” Indigestion burned in her esophagus as she thought of how vibrant Preston had seemed. Breakfast, no matter how attractively presented, held no appeal for her. “Gerald, I feel sorry for Caro and John E., for Nicole, actually for all of us. It is quite traumatic when you think about it.”
“Do you think the police suspect foul play?”
“That will probably depend on the results of the autopsy. We all had plenty to eat and drink Saturday night, and you guys smoked those god-awful cigars, but Preston was the only one who turned up dead, so who knows?”
“Hmm...I’m beginning to regret what I said that afternoon about wanting to kill him,” Gerald said. His eyes bored into his wife’s. “You know I was kidding, right?”
***
Andrea was no stranger to deaths, especially unexplained deaths. Her work as a crime writer had taken her to crime scenes, courtrooms, police stations, and cemeteries. She had met face-to-face with family members and investigators, and she had a well-developed sixth sense for determining when someone had died under suspicious circumstances. With six books under her belt, all successful, she considered herself expert in reading the tea leaves. Now, sitting at her uncluttered desk in her wood-paneled writing studio on her spectacular farmland in the country’s Northeast, her hands wrapped around a ceramic mug of cinnamon-spiced tea, she was harboring some definite pangs of conscience about last weekend’s party at the Campbells’. Even before the guests had assembled on Friday night, Andrea had felt misgivings about participating. She had been glad to have another place nearby to sleep, so she wouldn’t have to spend hours upon hours with the other guests. Her words to Stan as they were dressing for the party Saturday night echoed in her brain, ‘I’m dreading this evening for some reason, Stan. I just don’t have a good feeling about it.’ Now she wrapped her arms around her middle with regret. Was there something she could have said, something she could have done to prevent Preston’s death?
Andrea picked up the phone, intending to call Nicole. Perhaps she could help with the funeral arrangements. Poor Nicole had so much on her plate with her ankle, on top of the pressures of planning a funeral. She was so young and inexperienced, and clearly out of her league when it came to dealing with Preston’s stature in the financial community. Maybe she would welcome some help from me, and maybe I could find out whether she’s had any news from the police.
The dial tone hummed as she contemplated what to say. When the fast busy tone came on, Andrea replaced the receiver into its cradle. She was, after all, not what one would consider a close friend, either to Nicole or to Preston. She was just a true crime writer whose antennae were humming with the premonition that Preston’s death might make quite a fascinating book.
***
Vicki was trying to keep busy this Monday morning. Leon had left for work, and there was no one in the house but her. Since she had let Tereza go, it was up to Vicki herself to keep the house clean, except on Fridays, when the regular cleaning service came. It was not too big a sacrifice, because it gave Vicki the privacy she craved to do whatever she wanted during the day. Today she embraced the quiet. She busied herself with lightly dusting the family room. She hadn’t slept more than an hour last night, thoughts of Preston rolling through her brain like a silent film.
She ran her dust cloth over the framed pictures of Tony, remembering the joyful young man, and trying to block out the pain of losing him. She moved on to the fish tank. The vivid creatures were going about their day, some languid, some purposeful, but all with an enviable peacefulness. Vicki adored her fish tank. The beautiful creatures inside required so little, but gave so much. She could watch the brilliant shapes for hours. Presiding over the indoor biome gave her a sense of timelessness, as well as a sense of power.
She shuddered, still thinking of Preston’s death, replaying her ugly encounter in the stairwell with him just hours beforehand. She was right to blame him for Tony’s death and the destruction of her dreams. For all the accolades Preston would receive in the newspapers in the coming week, he had been an arrogant, reckless, even cruel bastard. She could not feel sorry for him now.
***
Marshall sat at his desk at the Federal Reserve Bank on Liberty Street in New York. He and Julia had taken their private plane into the regional airport near their waterfront manor on Kirby Pond in Rye. They hardly spoke the entire way, each lost in thought. The weekend had been a roaring success, in Marshall’s opinion, up until Sunday afternoon, when Preston’s death had put a definite pall over the festivities.
It was hard to concentrate on his latest report for the Beige Book, because images of Preston kept popping into his frontal lobe, clamoring for attention, much the same as Preston himself had. Marshall’s feelings about Preston had always been jumbled. When they were kids, neighbors, Marshall had looked up to Preston with an almost-brotherly admiration. They had been best of friends until adolescence, when Preston’s athletic accomplishments and preference for female company created a rift. Still, Marshall remained loyal, enjoying being an active observer in Preston Phillips’ seemingly charmed life.
All of that changed when Marshall went to into the service. With his low lottery number, Marshall was forced into service, and he chose not to take the National Guard route, as so many of his friends had, because he had hoped for an eventual career in politics. His hero had been General Dwight D. Eisenhower, whose leadership in World War II and afterward inspired patriotism and confidence. In Marshall’s absence, his parents had remained enthralled by Preston’s intelligence and emerging financial expertise.
By then, in 1969, Preston was starting at Harvard Business School. While Marshall was committing murder-under-orders in the hot, miserable jungles near Khe Sanh, Preston was charming Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop with his talk of doubling and tripling their sizeable wealth.
By the time Marshall was honorably discharged after his parents’ deaths, in 1972, Preston had his doctorate in business and was working on Wall Street. He had tied up the Winthrops’ portfolio, tighter than Scarlett O’Hara’s corset. He was the sole trustee of their trust fund, so in addition to controlling the money, he’d received a hefty compensation all of these years. He ripped us off with bad investments and then ripped us off some more. Not that we’ve starved, but I’ve had to work twice as hard to earn what we have, and, by all rights, I should have had those two hundred million dollars.
All that is water under the bridge, Marshall thought now, gripping his computer mouse and gazing at the blank screen. The tension building in his head was getting the best of him; the skin above his right eye visibly throbbed.
***
Caro was puttering around the kitchen at Bucolia, unable to sit, unable to think clearly. She had waved away the downstairs housekeeper, sending her to help the others with laundering linens and cleaning bedrooms and bathrooms. After any such party, there was a let-down when it came to cleaning up after the guests. The preparations had kept her busy for months, and now it was over in a flash.
This party, however, had ended horribly, and it had left her with an unending nightmare, a mind full of regrets. She took over operations in the kitchen, sorting through leftovers, boxing up most of them for the servants to take home. Now, unloading the dishwasher, she dropped a still-hot coffee mug. With a loud clink, it shattered into hundreds of shards.
John E. rushed over to put his arms around his wife, who had covered her face and was racked with silent sobs. “It’s okay, Honey. It’s going to be okay.” He held her tightly.
It took Caro a few long minutes to catch her breath enough to talk. When she did, her voice sounded unnaturally high and child-like. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get over this.”
“I know. I feel devastated, too.”
“I feel even worse, because I worry about my
Aunt Penny and my mother. Neither of them is in good health. Oh, why did this have to happen in our house? I feel so responsible!” Fresh sobs erupted, as Caro broke away from John E.’s embrace. She turned this way and that, looking for, but not finding, consolation in this room.
“I need to clean up the mess,” she muttered.
“Leave it,” John E. said. “The housekeeper can take care of that.”
“I wish someone could fix everything else,” Caro cried. “I can’t believe Preston is gone.”
***
After treating herself to a lavender-scented bubble bath, Margo wrapped herself in a cotton candy-colored fleece robe. She was so touchy that even the softest of her clothes felt scratchy. She retreated to the quiet of Libby’s guest bathroom, where she was perched on the side of the Jacuzzi, one knee drawn to her chin. She desperately needed a pedicure, but the thought of having to talk to someone at the other end of her feet was unbearable.
“I’ll just do it myself,” she muttered, dabbing the cuticles of her toes with soothing oil. She needed time to think, although she had done nothing but think since the previous afternoon. She relived the events of the weekend, from the time she entered Bucolia on Friday evening until the moment when she knew Preston was dead. So much had transpired in those few hours. Preston had made her feel young, desirable, yes, even happy. He somehow melted her resolve to ignore him, and she had given him her trust. The wee hours of Sunday morning had been sheer ecstasy. Being loved by Preston had filled her with a giddiness, a wholeness, that she hadn’t felt in years.
On the other hand, colliding with Nicole on the stairway afterward, and realizing that Preston had deceived her about divorcing his wife, cut short her happy feelings, as surely as a sharp needle taken to balloons. That was when she had decided to go back to Preston’s room, one last time, to give him a piece of her mind and to tell him that no way was she going to be made a fool of again.
Ouch, that hurt. Pushing back her cuticles with an orange stick, Margo jabbed herself. A drop of blood appeared on the skin above her big toenail. She wiped it away with a cotton ball, wishing she could wipe away the larger pain consuming her.
Now, with Preston dead and policemen sniffing around the farm, Margo was on edge. If the autopsy and toxicology reports indicated foul play, it would only be a matter of time before she would be questioned. There had been ample hints of flirtation going on between Preston and her all weekend. Nicole had probably already conveyed her suspicions to the police. Besides that, her fingerprints were probably all over that fourth floor room. If the police seek me out, what am I going to tell them? Tears of anger and fear welled in Margo’s green eyes. In all her life, she had never felt so alone.
Chapter 24
Nicole hung up the phone, proud of herself for maintaining her composure throughout her conversation with President Dalton. She had never felt quite so alone as she did now that Preston was no longer the ruler of her domain. The past twenty-four hours had challenged her in ways she’d never dreamed of. Not only did she have to manage the pain of her broken ankle, imminent surgery, and the logistical trials of everyday life, but she also had to converse with people from Preston’s family, career, and social circle, people whose intellect and lifestyles were vastly different from hers.
Jeez, even the way I talk is different, she thought, feeling thoroughly inadequate. Well, at least I got through talking to Preston’s mom and sister and son, and the former President of the United States, for gosh sakes, without bursting into tears.
“Preston,” she intoned, looking upward, “I had no idea you were this important. So many famous people are calling to give their sympathy and ask about funeral arrangements.” Nicole picked at the skin around her fingernail. “I wish the police would release your body, so we could move forward. Both of us are in limbo right now.”
The brring of the phone pierced the air and Nicole’s thoughts once more. She regretted having sent her personal attendant to run errands.
She leaned over her lunch tray to answer it. “Nicole speaking, may I help you?” This was the same way she had answered the phone at her desk in the Lamborghini showroom.
“Mrs. Phillips?” the voice said. “This is Ted Lambert, your husband’s personal attorney. I wonder if I might have a moment of your time?”
“Sure, Mr. Lambert. How can I help you?”
“I was wondering if you could come into my office sometime this week to discuss the matter of your husband’s will.”
Nicole felt a chill, hearing the word “will.” She knew, of course, that Preston had been worth a lot of money, and she knew that as his wife at the time of his death, she would be a major beneficiary, but the reality of becoming an heiress, of actually having lots of her very own money to spend, overwhelmed her in a way that the broken ankle and Preston’s death had not. She glanced at the gooseflesh on her forearms before finding her voice.
“Mr. Lambert, I don’t know whether you know or not, but I have a broken ankle? It’s in a halo contraption while I wait to schedule surgery. I have all of the funeral arrangements to make, as soon as Preston’s body is released for burial, and--”
“Oh, I am so sorry to hear that, Mrs. Phillips. Would you like for me to wait a few weeks, until things settle down for you, before discussing Mr. Phillips’ will?”
Not wanting to seem greedy, but with her curiosity getting the best of her, she replied, “I didn’t mean I’m not interested, Mr. Lambert. I was just wondering if you could come to me.”
Nicole could hear the tongue in the lawyer’s cheek, as if he had her pegged as a money grubber. “Of course. What would be a good day and time for you?”
“How about tomorrow at one p.m.?”
“That would be fine.”
“Do you know where we--er, I--live?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s right here in front of me. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thanks so much.” Nicole paused before hanging up the phone, and then impulsively said, “Oh, Mr. Lambert?”
“Yes?”
“Could you give me a rough idea of how large Preston’s estate is?”
“Certainly, Mrs. Phillips. Your husband was worth over three and a half billion.”
Nicole tried, but couldn’t suppress a soft gasp into the phone. “That much? I had no idea.”
“Yes, well,” Mr. Lambert replied. “We will have much to discuss at tomorrow’s meeting.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow.” Nicole put the phone down slowly, the words “three and a half billion” echoing in her brain. That was more money than she had ever dreamed of. Even with the pre-nup she had signed, at least ten percent of that three and a half billion would soon be hers. Suddenly, the broken ankle, impending surgery, and funeral plans seemed like minor inconveniences. Three and a half billion had released adrenalin in Nicole’s brain. She needed to call her hairdresser, manicurist, and personal shopper. She would need a gorgeous black outfit for the funeral, something that would look good on television. Maybe a hat or a veil, too. “Preston, I want to look good, so you’ll be proud of me,” she said aloud, looking heavenward.
Another telephone ring interrupted thoughts of fashionable splendor. “Hello?” Nicole answered, still in nouveau riche mode.
A familiar tenor voice, carefully modulated, greeted her. “Well, hell--oo, baby.”
“I told you never to call me here,” Nicole whispered into the receiver. Though hushed, her voice had a strident quality.
“That was when the old man was alive. And I tried to respect your wishes. But it’s a new game now, baby, a very, very rich game.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t want to talk to you, Billy. Not now, not ever.”
“Oh, come on, now. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten about me, Nicky. I’m the only one who’s ever understood you, the only one who can really make you happy. And now that you are the young and beautiful widow of a very rich old man, we can be together again.”
The voice conti
nued on, though Nicole heard nothing more. Her mind was speeding down a track, turning corners here and there, hoping to find the right thing to say to disengage herself from this call, this caller. “Billy, you can’t call me here. I’m not alone, and I’m not free to talk. I’ve got a million things on my plate to deal with, and I can’t have you interfering.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you have a million things, even more than that, baby. I’ll let you go, but I just wanted you to know I’m here, waiting for you, and sending you love every day.”
Desperate to hang up, Nicole said, “Okay, thanks. Now don’t call me. I’ll call you.” She slammed the phone down this time, suddenly frightened about what the future would hold. No sooner than the prospect of becoming rich in her own right had appeared, so had the specter of people from her past who would come swarming around her, seeking to benefit from her pot of golden honey. She knew how the game was played. She, herself, had played it for years.
Her mind wandered to Preston’s death. She was still in shock, most likely, from the suddenness of it all. One moment she had been worried about losing Preston to Margo, and the next moment she lost him altogether. I wonder what the medical examiner is going to find, she thought, picking again at her cuticle. Suddenly she straightened her back and stared ahead, a chilling thought striking her for the first time. Isn’t it always the wife who is the first suspect in a murder investigation? Oh, Lord, what have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 25
The first phone call Nicole made on Tuesday morning was to Detective Parrott. She was surprised how difficult it was to get through to him. He seemed to have more personnel guarding his privacy than she did, since she preferred to answer her own calls.
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