Even Christmas couldn’t tempt Vicki to rejoin the living. After cajoling, pushing, and even threatening to go without her, Leon caved in and canceled their plans to be with his brother’s family.
“I can’t understand it,” Leon tried again in a pleading tone of voice. “What is causing you to have these headaches?” He had hoped Preston’s death would have helped Vicki bury the past and move on.
Vicki turned over in bed, facing Leon. Her hair was a jumble of yarn. “I hate to admit it, but I probably need to go to rehab again. I know this isn’t a good time, financially, and I detest the prospect of it, but I’m so sick. I’m so sorry.”
Leon stroked his wife’s face from ear to chin. Even at this age, in this condition, she was still beautiful. They had been through so much together, the trauma of losing Tony, but lots of fun and exciting times, too. When Leon looked at Vicki, he still saw the cheerful, capable young sorority girl he had fallen in love with. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of everything. All you have to do is get well.”
***
The workmen were hammering, sawing, drilling, and Lord knows what-ing in the Blooms’ Park Avenue condominium, converting an office into a nursery. Both Les and Libby were at work, leaving Margo alone. The noise was giving her a pounding headache, as if her thoughts weren’t enough to cause her head to throb. I’ve got to get out of here and get a place of my own, she thought, not for the first time. Libby has been gracious enough, but she and Les need their privacy, and frankly, I can’t stand this noise for one more day. It’s time I got on with the rest of my life.
With that self-proclamation, Margo threw off the downy bedcovers, rolled onto her side, and lowered her legs toward the floor, pausing to slide her feet into the mink slippers next to the bed. She yawned, ran her hand through her auburn locks, and made her way to the bathroom, where she examined her face in the mirror.
The face that looked back at her was frowning, tired, unhappy. She examined it closely for wrinkles, knowing she could trust her recent procedures at Dr. Friedman’s to keep them at bay. She swallowed two Excedrins and reached for her toothbrush. Her life was a mess, and she hardly knew where to begin to fix it. She could go back to Tuscany. She had a beautiful life there--home, friends, things to occupy her time. But Tuscany was also filled with memories of Roberto, which left a discouraging aftertaste.
It was strange how just those few happy hours with Preston had colored her mind with anticipation of a new life in New York. Once planted in her brain, they had continued to germinate, despite Preston’s death. Margo had pictured herself as a bride once again, whole new vistas of the future projecting on the wall of her brain, and she had been happy.
Now she was left with a dream unfulfilled. The pain of it was not dissimilar to the way she had felt when Preston abandoned her the first time; only this time, she supposed, he had left unwillingly. She couldn’t help believing that even if he hadn’t told Nicole he was divorcing her, Preston’s love for her was real, and it would have resulted in their marriage.
I can’t believe Preston was poisoned. Who might have done it? How? Margo rubbed her expensive anti-aging cream into her forehead, as if to divine the solution to the mystery. Whoever it was committed a crime, not just against Preston, but against me, too.
The whirr of the buzzsaw carved into Margo’s thoughts once more. That’s it. I’m moving to one of the condos at the AKA Central Park until I can find a place to buy in New York. Meanwhile, I think I’ll call Caro and see if she wants to come with me to look for a place. Maybe she’ll know something about the police investigation, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll tell her about the plans that Preston and I were making. I’m sure I can trust her to keep them secret.
Chapter 32
Chief Schrik was chewing his paper clip and rubbing his brow, while he held the telephone receiver to his ear with the other hand. “Yes, President Dalton. Of course we are ‘on the case.’” He listened to several run-on sentences about how important Preston Phillips had been to the country, how he deserved better. “Of course, Mr. President. Detective Parrott is young, but I see that as a plus. He’s hungry. And he’s working hard.”
His door was cracked open, just enough for Parrott to hear his name being said in an apparent verbal volley on the phone. His fist was poised to knock, but he held back.
“No sir, I don’t think he’s too inexperienced. He’s got more energy than any ten experienced officers put together. Just give us another week, ten days. We’ll have something solid by then. Yes, I know it’s my reputation on the line. Thank you, Mr. President. I appreciate your confidence in us.” Schrik put down the receiver quickly, as if it had scorched his hand.
He looked up as Parrott rapped on the door and beckoned for him to come in, not failing to notice the tired lines around Parrott’s eyes. Had his praise for Parrott’s energy been misguided? “My new best friend. He wants to know if we are making progress in the Phillips case.” He paused. “So, what do you have to report?”
“Not nearly enough,” Parrott replied. “These rich people are hard nuts to crack, Chief. First of all, they’re very smart--not just book smart, but cagey-smart. I get the feeling they are three steps ahead of my questions all the time. On top of that, they are so powerful. They’re masterful at throwing up roadblocks. The Campbells, they just lawyered up on me, man.”
Schrik stood, walked around his desk, and placed his hand on the detective’s shoulder. “That’s to be expected. I’m not worried about their lawyers. If anything, that just shows they are feeling insecure. And insecure is what we want them to feel.” He sat down in the adjacent client chair and made full eye contact. “Don’t let me see you get discouraged, Parrott. You heard me telling Dalton how much faith I have in you.”
“I know. I appreciate that, Chief.”
“Anyway,” Schrik went on, “you’ll be glad to know we made some progress here today.”
Parrott tilted his head, his eyes brimming with hope.
Schrik reached across his desk for a folder, turned it 180 degrees and opened it. “Three things. The Phillipses’ pre-nup. The victim’s will. And Marshall Winthrop’s family trust agreement. Phillips was trustee. These are your copies.” He closed the folder and slapped it against the edge of the desk. “Basically, the new Mrs. Phillips is sitting pretty as a result of her husband’s untimely death. The pre-nup is typical. It provides way more for her in his death than it would have in divorce. But the will says she gets lifetime use of their principal residence, that gigantic co-op in the Dakota, and ten percent of his estimated three and a half billion dollar estate, about three hundred fifty million.”
Parrott whistled. “Think that’s enough to motivate her to bump him off?”
“It’s more than she could have earned as a receptionist at the Lamborghini dealership in a thousand lifetimes. That’s for sure.”
“Who else benefits?”
“The son, Peter Phillips. He gets two billion after taxes and administrative costs. We checked him out, too. Aside from the fact that he was in Santa Monica, California, at the time of the father’s death, he’s living comfortably, no addictions, no scandals, no apparent need for more money.”
“Geez, I can’t believe we are talking about that much money. But what about the rest?”
“Charities--Choate, Princeton, Harvard--the Guggenheim.”
“What about the Winthrops, did you say?” Parrott asked.
“It seems Marshall Winthrop’s parents left several hundred million in trust with Marshall as the sole beneficiary, but with Phillips as the trustee.”
“Why would they do something like that?” Parrott asked.
“Usually to protect the money till the beneficiary is capable of managing it on his own. The parents died young--while Marshall was serving a stint in Viet Nam.”
“Still, he must have resented having Phillips control his inheritance. When did he get the money?”
“He doesn’t get the money until after Phillips’
death. The parents must have placed a lot of trust in Phillips, not so much in their son.”
“So you’re saying that as a result of Phillips’ death, Marshall Winthrop will get his hands on several hundred million dollars?” Parrott’s voice rose an octave on the last three words.
“That’s right. You and I are on the same wave length now, and you know I promised Dalton, just one more week. So what do you propose we do next?”
Parrott took a deep breath and plunged into the plan he had been crafting. “I’ve been thinking I’d like to know more about Phillips. I thought I’d see if I could get an interview with the person who’s known him the longest--his mother.”
“Good idea. And I’ll bet she doesn’t bring in a criminal defense lawyer, either.”
***
Penelope Phillips met with Parrott in the parlor of her mansion in the Hamptons, where she had lived with her husband and raised her children. The house was way too large for a family of one, and she had closed off five of its seven wings. It was becoming more and more difficult for her in her eighty-ninth year of life to manage the stairs, the long hallways, the wide expanses within the first floor rooms. Still, she hated to sell what had become almost a third child to her. She couldn’t imagine turning over her home, with all of its personally chosen antique furnishings, to just anyone. She had hoped that Preston or Frances, his sister, would take up residence there upon her death. Meanwhile, the home glowed with impeccable style and meticulous care.
Mrs. Phillips took no less care of her person. At eighty-eight, she was slim, perfectly outfitted in a russet-colored silk suit with low-heeled alligator Ferragamos to match. Her silver hair was freshly coiffed, and she wore just the right amount of makeup to enhance her blue eyes and rosebud lips. Her dimples remained a distinctive part of her beauty, still evident despite time and sorrow.
As Parrott was announced then brought into the parlor, Mrs. Phillips rose from the pastel loveseat perpendicular to the fireplace, her spine straight and surprisingly tall. “Welcome, Detective,” she said, extending her right hand for a warm and firm grip before motioning for him to sit in the opposite loveseat.
Parrott expressed his condolences.
Mrs. Phillips’ eyes shone glossy with unshed tears, but her voice remained steady as she thanked him. “Truthfully, I don’t think it has hit me yet that Preston is gone. I go to call him several times a day before I realize that I can’t. I’m afraid it will take a long while to adjust.”
“I understand, ma’am. And I want you to know the West Brandywine Police Department will do all we can to solve the case in a speedy and respectful manner.”
She considered a reply, but merely nodded.
“Mrs. Phillips,” Parrott began, modulating his voice volume to fit the cozy space they occupied in this large room, “I wondered if you could tell me something about your son: his personality, his values, his relationships.”
“That’s a monumental opening question, isn’t it? How to sum up a person’s whole life in one paragraph.” She thought for a minute, glancing at the portrait hanging over the mantle of Preston as a young man. His piercing gaze and confident posture conveyed an invincibility that caused her to shudder She lifted her chin and spoke softly. “Preston was extremely clever, almost from birth on. He was constantly asking questions, pushing the proverbial envelope. Some people didn’t appreciate the way his mind worked. But he was brilliant.” She paused to dab at her mouth with an embroidered handkerchief. “I suppose you might say Preston valued money and the things it could buy. He loved fast cars, beautiful women, expensive clothes. He also loved money for its own sake, just the accumulation of it. He was proud of having earned his own way, instead of relying on his family fortune, which he very easily could have done.”
“What about his marriages?”
“Well, he had four of them, you know.” For a second, a smile traversed her lips, and the dimples showed themselves fully. “Five, if you count Margo Martin, Preston’s first true love. I assume you know their wedding was called off because Preston had fathered a baby with another woman.” Parrott nodded. “That baby was Peter, Preston’s only child as far as anybody knows,” she said. “The marriage was never a good one, and Preston never wanted to have more children. I think he took care of that risk medically. The wives were all decent people, no messy divorces or anything. Preston just wasn’t lucky in love after Margo.”
“What about the most recent marriage--Nicole Phillips?”
Mrs. Phillips spoke as if choosing her words carefully. “I really don’t know Nicole very well. She and Preston were only married a few months. I don’t know what the two of them had in common. She is quite a bit younger than Preston, but I do think she loved him.”
“Mrs. Phillips, do you know anything about Preston’s relationship with Marshall Winthrop?”
“Marshall? Well, yes. We were neighbors of the Winthrops, and the boys grew up together. Preston is a couple of years older than Marshall, who always looked up to him. Our families were close, and Marshall’s parents treated Preston like a second son. In fact, they loved him so much they put Preston in charge of their finances. Then they died in a tragic accident, so young.”
“Were you aware of any animosity between Preston and Marshall over the money, or otherwise?”
“No, but both boys chose careers in finance, very competitive, so I would imagine there might have been some friction from time to time.”
“Who would you say were Preston’s closest friends?”
“I would have to think hard on that one. Preston didn’t have close friends, per se. He was close to his sister, his cousin Caroline Campbell, and me, of course. Former President Dalton was a close professional colleague, but that’s not the same thing as a friend. Preston spent a lot of time with the ladies, but, except for playing sports, he was never one to socialize with the guys. He would prefer to spend his time making money.”
“What about Leon and Vicki Spiller? Do you know anything about Preston’s relationship with them?”
“Oh, that’s the couple who lost their son at Peter’s sixteenth birthday party. Tragic, that was. They were college friends of Preston’s and Margo’s, but I don’t think there’s been much of a relationship with them since the tragedy, which is understandable, don’t you think?”
Parrott nodded. “How about Gerald and Kitty Kelley?”
“College friends. I think Kitty had a crush on Preston way back then, but no, they are better friends with my niece, Caroline.”
“Is there anyone you know of who might have wanted to harm Preston?”
“To kill him, you mean? You don’t have to sugarcoat things with me, Detective. I’ve already suffered the loss of my only son, and to imagine that someone took his life makes it all the more horrible.”
When Parrott didn’t respond, she went on. “I know Preston has made enemies. Anyone who has had the financial and political success Preston had couldn’t have gotten there without stepping on toes or offending. What are the reasons people kill other people? Envy, greed, a desire for revenge? All I know is Preston deserved better. He worked hard to get where he did, and to have his life cut short before he could enjoy it--” Her voice broke off and her midsection began to shake with silent sobs. “Forgive me, Detective. I’m afraid I have lived too long.”
“You deserve better, too, Mrs. Phillips. I appreciate your meeting with me.” He drew a card from his jacket pocket and placed it on the coffee table between them, next to a delicate-looking Faberge egg. “If you think of anything else I should know, please call. I’ll see myself out.”
***
On the way to his car, he thought of Mrs. Phillips’ graciousness and affability, especially considering the circumstances. As she spoke about her son, he had wanted to give her a sympathetic hug, but he knew the differences between them were too great. It was as if a clear plastic wall ran between them. They could see and hear one another, but touching was out of the question.
What echoed in
his mind most was this remarkable lady’s list of possible motives for killing--envy, greed, and a desire for revenge. Those pretty much summed up what he had been thinking about the way the guests at the party may have felt toward Preston Phillips. The problem was that almost all of them had motives.
Chapter 33
Upon leaving Preston’s mother’s house in the Hamptons, Parrott punched previous destinations for the Phillipses’ co-op, into his GPS. The chief had arranged for him to swing by and pick up certain of the victim’s belongings, including his cell phone, his daily planner, and a list of the boards and committees he served on. Parrott hoped to have a chance to interview Nicole, as well. He was counting on her limited mobility to keep her at home, and her inexperience with police procedures to loosen her tongue. He had been reviewing his notes and coming up with more questions for the new heiress.
It was two p.m. by the time he pulled up to the entrance of the posh co-op, where a white-gloved doorman greeted him by name. Parrott nodded and concealed a smile. Guess I’ve come up in the world.
When he reached the penthouse hallway, Rosa met him at the door. “Hello, Detective.” She ushered him inside with a broad flourish of her arm. Her uniform looked so crisp he expected it to crackle when she moved. “May I take your coat?”
Parrott stuffed the Burberry-knockoff scarf into his coat pocket and shook his arms out of his wool-lined trench coat. He handed it over to Rosa, who hung it with almost as much care as he took at home.
“Mrs. Phillips, she is waiting for you in the breakfast room. This way, please.”
Parrott followed Rosa at a respectful distance, gazing into the study with the aquarium as he passed through the entryway. They passed the living room, where a cinnamon-scented fire was blazing. It reminded him of those contemporary lithographs of interior scenes, all architecture and furnishings, but no people.
Murder in the One Percent Page 18
