Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  ***

  One of the benefits of being a cop was being able to speed without penalty when necessary, and on this day, it was necessary. Parrott was blessed with less-than-normal traffic, blue skies, and some jaunty, jazzy tunes on the radio as he traveled to the Caron Foundation Hospital. If he timed it right, he might just be able to work his way in to having a private visit with Vicki Spiller before her husband intervened with the hospital authorities.

  He pulled up in the circular driveway of the beige building with maroon awnings. It looked like a five-star hotel. “Nothing but the best,” he muttered to himself, amazed at yet another reminder of the wealth and power of the people he was investigating. He patted his hair and smoothed his glossy mustache before entering the sumptuous lobby.

  He strode confidently to the reception desk. He had to remind himself this was a hospital, as the beautiful appointments, soft background music, and faint aroma of furniture polish seemed more in keeping with a resort. Across from the desk in a large paneled room with a fireplace, a few well-dressed people were sitting on upholstered furniture, surrounded by antiques and floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. Cozy.

  “May I help you?” a plump, gray-haired woman with purple glasses on her bosom asked.

  Parrott introduced himself, drawing his badge from the breast pocket of his sport coat and placing it on the marble counter. “I’m here to speak with Mrs. Vicki Spiller about a police matter. Just a few questions. Won’t take but a few minutes.”

  “Just a moment, Detective,” the pleasant-sounding woman replied. “You will need to speak with Dr. Stander.” She withdrew from Parrott, walking backward, like an awkward geisha. She glanced over her right shoulder as she moved backward. It was as if she didn’t trust Parrott not to bolt into unauthorized areas while she turned her back on him.

  Within seconds, she returned to the desk with the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk in tow. The giant extended a beefy hand. “Dr. Alfred Stander. How can I help you?”

  Parrott shook his hand, amazed to find his fingers and thumb intact afterward. “I need to have a few minutes with Mrs. Vicki Spiller, Doctor Stander. It’s part of a murder investigation.”

  “Sorry, Detective, but our patients are not allowed to have visitors, most particularly--”He grunted. “--visitors that may upset them in any way, as I imagine you might.”

  Unfazed, Parrott went on, “I assure you, Doctor, I have no intention of upsetting Mrs. Spiller. I simply have a few questions to ask her about a party she attended two weeks ago. In fact, you or any of the hospital representatives may be present to assure yourselves of Mrs. Spiller’s complete safety and comfort during this meeting.”

  “There will be no meeting, Detective. We have a strict policy to protect our patients from these types of intrusions.”

  “I would hate to have to resort to having her brought before the grand jury, but tha’s what will happen if you don’t allow me a few minutes with her now.”

  Stander chuckled with sarcasm. “Go ahead and get your subpoena, Detective, but you will not have access to Mrs. Spiller while she is at Caron. And that’s final.” He crossed his arms and stared at Parrott, cold and immobile as the marble of the counter.

  Parrott realized there was no point in arguing with the human guard dog. “Thanks anyway,” he replied. “I’ll be back after I meet with the district attorney.” He retreated through the lobby and back to his car, where he turned up the volume on the radio, determined not to let anything deter him from his mission.

  ***

  Twenty-five minutes later Parrott pulled up to a three-story brownstone in a distinguished old neighborhood of New York. I thought houses like this didn’t exist anymore. His gaze swept over the neat row of brick homes with spacious porches. How this street had escaped being torn down in favor of skyscraper condos confounded him. And these are the poorest of the bunch. He imagined the houses in this location would sell for several million dollars each.

  It was two minutes to eleven when Parrott rang the doorbell. He heard a molten golden ding-dong, followed by the yapping of a dog.

  Spiller opened the door. By his side was a wise-looking standard poodle with piercing eyes and a long nose. Spiller unlocked the storm door and said, “Come on in, Detective.”

  Ignoring the negative attitude, Parrott nodded. “I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

  The house had a typical floor plan with a staircase in the entryway, living room to the left, dining room to the right. Spiller ushered Parrott into the former, a high-ceilinged room with windows facing east and catching the day’s strongest sunshine. The room’s furnishings were elegant, although more casual than what he expected from such old construction--a circular sofa covered in forest green leather; green, eggplant, and ecru print chairs, and a glass and chrome coffee table that must have weighed a ton. The grouping was held together by a thick Aubusson rug with swirling patterns and silky fringe. Parrott’s eyes landed on a large item behind the sofa. Though his heart skipped a beat, he was careful not to react. It was a sparkling fish tank, about eight feet across and six feet tall. Inside were multi-colored swimmers, beautiful corals, and slender plants.

  “Have a seat,” Spiller said, pointing to a spot on the leather sofa. He lowered himself into the chair opposite, never taking his eyes from Parrott’s. “Now what can I do for you?”

  Within a matter of minutes, Parrott extracted from Spiller how he and Vicki related to the Campbells and the rest of the group. Spiller explained how his son Tony had been killed in a boating accident while participating in Phillips’ son’s birthday festivities. “I’m afraid it is something we will never get over,” he said, “particularly my wife. Every time she thinks about that accident, she rips the scab from her grief.”

  “I understand,” Parrott said, “terrible loss.” He caught a glimpse of several photos of a good-looking teenager across the room. “I suppose in such a situation it would be easy to blame Mr. Phillips and hold a grudge.”

  Spiller jerked his gaze from the floor to Parrott’s eyes. “What are you implying?”

  “I’m merely speculating that the incident in which your son was killed would most probably also kill any friendship that existed between the two of you and Preston Phillips.”

  Spiller squeezed his hands together in a tight ball. “It would be fair to say so, Detective, but that doesn’t mean we wanted him dead.”

  Parrott changed the subject. “You say Mrs. Spiller is in alcoholic rehabilitation?”

  Spiller nodded, the corners of his mouth drawn downward.

  “How long has she had an alcohol problem?”

  “She’s been drinking on and off for twenty-five years. She’s been to rehab twice before.”

  “Does that twenty-five years coincide with the year of Tony’s death?”

  “Y--Yes, it does,” Spiller responded. “I’m sure you can imagine, Detective, how a tragedy like that could put someone over the edge. Tony was our only child.”

  “I understand, of course,” he replied. Changing course once again, Parrott said, “I’d like to ask you a question about the Saturday night dinner at the Campbells’.” He pulled the folded calligraphic menu from his pocket. He pointed to the dessert item, Truffles a la Vicki. “Mr. Spiller, can you tell me about this item on the menu?”

  Leon started to shake. This was the tell Parrott was looking for. Whether there was a connection between the candies and Phillips’ death or not, this guy was scared.

  “M--My wife’s specialty is candy-making, Detective. She finds a great deal of satisfaction in making the world sweeter. She used to sell her truffles to hotels, wedding planners, restaurants. Now she just makes them for family and friends. Everyone loves her chocolates.”

  Parrott asked several questions about the truffles, the varieties, the recipes, the kitchen where they were made, how they were stored. Each question brought a tiny flinch.

  Parrott made a mental note to question Mrs. Spiller thoroughly about the candies sh
e had brought to the party, whenever he had the chance. He wondered if there were any leftovers at the Campbells’ farm, as well.

  Preying on what he thought was a chink in Spiller’s composure, Parrott pushed on. “I wonder if I might see the kitchen where the truffles were prepared.”

  Spiller shrugged, as if it didn’t matter, but the damage was done. He led the detective to the spacious modern kitchen. He pointed out the copper pots and pans hanging over the stovetop island where the candies were made. He opened the sub-zero freezer where boxes and boxes of truffles were stored. “Here, Detective. Why don’t you take a box of truffles with you, back to the station? I’m sure you and the other officers would enjoy them.”

  Parrott accepted the box of candy with gratitude. He had plans for the truffles, but his plans had little to do with eating them.

  Chapter 39

  Kitty smiled at her friends who had come to the hospital to cheer her after Gerald’s stroke. They were sitting at a round table for four in the hospital cafeteria, the remains of their breakfast growing cold. “I’m so glad you girls came in today. I can’t tell you how hard it is to sit here hour after hour, not knowing if or when Gerald will recover.”

  “What was that pledge we made all those years ago, ‘Sisters Forever’?” Caro replied. “You know we love you, Kitty, and Gerald, too. Oh, I asked Julia to come in with us, too, but she couldn’t make it. She’s got a thousand things to do to get ready for her annual New Year’s Eve party. She said to give you her love and tell you she’ll be here one day next week.”

  Kitty looked across the cafeteria table at Caro and to her left at Margo. She saw both women not as they looked today, but as they had looked in college with their long, straight hair, parted down the middle, colorful scarves woven through the belt loops of their bell-bottoms. Her eyes moistened with the memory. “I never realized back then how important those sorority bonds would be later on in life.”

  Andrea reached across the table to touch Kitty’s forearm. “Even though I wasn’t your sorority sister, Kitty, I hope you know how sorry I am that you are going through all of this.”

  “Thanks, Andrea. I know you mean it, and I’m glad you’re here.” She looked around the room at the other diners, many of them dressed in hospital garb, but others obviously family members of patients, like her. “Some way to end the year--first Preston and then Gerald. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  Margo curled the paper wrapper from her straw around her index finger, first in one direction then in the other. She had never been the talkative one.

  Picking up the baton without missing a beat, Caro responded. “I suppose we’re getting to the age where we can expect to see our peers become ill and die, but this has been such a shock. I think I’m in denial over the whole thing.”

  “Exactly,” Kitty said. “But every time I see Gerald, all that brain power locked up in his head and unable to come out, it becomes a little more real.” A barely-contained sob caused the last three words to be uttered in two octaves higher. “I can’t help wondering whether he’ll ever recover. Whether he’ll ever talk or walk again. Or what will happen to Lexie and me.” A parade of tears spilled over the rims of her eyes and marched down her cheeks.

  Margo leaned over and gave Kitty a long hug. Kitty clung to Margo. After a quiet moment, their table a silent oasis in the hubbub of the busy cafeteria, Kitty spoke. “Hey, Margo. I was thinking the other night about you and Preston the Friday night of John E.’s birthday. Was it my imagination, or did he leave the table to follow you when you went to the bathroom?”

  Margo winced, as if a two-ton stone sat inside her windpipe, suffocating her.

  Caro broke in. “Kitty, leave it to you to be thinking about Preston and Margo, even now, when you have so much else on your plate.”

  “Well, it helps to change the mental scenery sometimes, and besides, I don’t think I’m the only one who noticed how Preston couldn’t take his eyes off of Margo the whole weekend. It was like old times. And, remember, I sat by Preston at dinner Saturday night. He was staring at you the entire evening.”

  Margo swallowed before speaking. “I--I don’t know what to say. You know I’ve hated Preston for all these years. I’ve blamed him for everything that didn’t go right in my adult life.”

  Sympathetic nods and murmurings encouraged Margo to go on.

  “I didn’t know how it would feel to be face-to-face with him again. I imagined all sorts of confrontations, put-downs, accusations, but it wasn’t like that at all.” Margo expelled a sigh that bordered on crying. “It turned out to be more like a reunion with a long-lost friend. So...I guess I’m grateful to have had that weekend.” She made eye contact with Caro. “Thanks for letting me come.”

  Andrea was taking in Margo’s words and body language. She could tell there was more to the story than Margo was letting on. She wanted to press her, but she was the odd-woman-out in this group, so any probing would need to be very delicate. She cleared her throat, and everyone’s eyes shifted to her. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Preston’s death, myself,” she began. “It’s distressing for all of us, even for Stan and me, to have a death in the midst of a wonderful birthday celebration among friends. But the thought that Preston may have been murdered has been haunting me. Who among us could have done such a thing?”

  Caro stared at her hands, clasped together around her now-cooled cup of hot chocolate. “I’ve thought of little else. It actually feels good to be able to talk to you girls about it. I think John E. is sick of my moping and crying, remembering Preston this and Preston that. I keep thinking if we hadn’t had the party, none of this would’ve happened.”

  “It’s not your fault, Caro,” Kitty said. “You had a magnificent party.”

  “I shouldn’t have invited Preston. Too much bad blood between him and the others. He had words with both Julia and Vicki that Saturday. I just thought that enough time had gone by, and, honestly, I thought my mother and Aunt Penny would have killed me if I’d left him out.”

  “And then there was Nicole’s accident,” Andrea added.

  “Do any of you know whether the police have any suspects?” Margo asked.

  “Detective Parrott met with Stan and me.”

  “John E. and me, too.”

  “He was here at the hospital the day that Gerald was struck.” Kitty looked at Margo. “Has he interviewed you yet?”

  “Not yet, but I expect it will be my turn soon. I really don’t have anything to tell him.”

  Andrea’s right eyebrow lifted. She said gently, “Don’t you?”

  “Look,” Kitty added. “Preston was obviously smitten by you, Margo. We all noticed it. Pretty young wife or not, he was drawn to you like the tide to the moon. I’ll bet the detective is going to want to know what you and he talked about. You might as well tell us first.”

  The curled straw cover was in shreds. Margo looked each woman in the eyes, one by one, then nodded as if she had made up her mind to trust them, at least a little. “Preston, as all of you well know, was full of hot air.” She looked at Caro, who slightly nodded. “I learned the hard way not to trust anything he ever said.”

  “So?” Kitty said. “What did he say that weekend?”

  Andrea leaned forward, as if taking notes directly onto her brain.

  Margo swallowed again, and the biting sting of tears overtook her. “He said,” she started and then stopped, her voice shaky. “He said that he still loved me.”

  “I knew it,” Kitty said. “I could just feel the vibes, just like old times.”

  “So,” Andrea prompted, “the plot thickens.”

  Everyone looked at Andrea. After all, she was the most expert sleuth among them.

  “What are you thinking?” Caro asked.

  “Well,” Andrea replied, “obviously someone in the group had it in for Preston enough to kill him.”

  Margo burst into tears and put her head on the table. Kitty patted her on the shoulder. She knew eventually it would come to
this--everyone looking at one another and wondering who among them was the killer.

  Between sobs, Margo lifted her head and took in air. “I just feel so terrible. I should never have come to the party.”

  Caro studied her dear friend whose distress so closely mirrored her own. “I think we all have regrets, Margo. But all of the crying in the world won’t bring Preston back.”

  “I know that. But what if Preston’s attention toward me is what brought about his death? How can I live with that?”

  “What are you thinking?” Andrea asked.

  “I’m thinking the same thing that probably all of us are thinking,” Margo moaned. “I’m thinking that Nicole saw what was happening between Preston and me, and she killed him.”

  Chapter 40

  There’s something about New Year’s Eve, Parrott thought, as he pulled up to the station that morning. It’s as if the whole world screeches to a stop to evaluate the events of the last twelve months. When you’re in the midst of a murder case, though, New Year’s Eve is just another day.

  Parrott had hoped to interview the Winthrops, the Blooms, and Margo Rinaldi before the end of the year. His determination to solve this case dominated every waking moment, but he was learning that interacting with the rich and famous was like treading through rough territory and trying to avoid land mines. The comparison reminded him of Tonya, whose duty in Afghanistan was equally treacherous. He touched his chest the way she always did to show her love. Then he opened the door of his car and stepped out into the world of the murder case.

  Normally a murder investigation would take precedence over suspects’ daily activities, even New Year’s Eve parties. Parrott was itching to interview Marshall and Julia. He had lots of questions about the family trust, which had conveniently ended with Phillips’ death. The cigars Marshall brought to the party also piqued Parrott’s interest. His plan was to show up at the Winthrop mansion in Rye, but Chief Schrik had other ideas.