Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  “Hi, Les.” Libby stood on tiptoes for a kiss. “Happy New Year.”

  Les removed and hung up his coat, remembering the servants were off for the holiday. He kissed his wife and patted her stomach, marveling once more at the miracle of gestation. “Boy, it smells wonderful!” He pointed toward the kitchen and dining area. “Is Margo working her kitchen magic in there?”

  “Absolutely. And I am the cheerleader,” Libby said, taking a bow.

  “Can’t wait to taste it,” Les said. “Let me go freshen up first.”

  He disappeared into his personal bathroom, and Libby returned to the kitchen, perching on one barstool with feet propped up on the foot bars of another, while Margo moved gracefully from island to stove to refrigerator, her auburn curls twisted in the back and held by a barrette, her Lilly Pulitzer outfit partially covered by a frilly apron.

  “I hate it that you are doing so much work on New Year’s Eve,” Libby said to her sister. “Maybe I shouldn’t have given Sylvia the holiday.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Margo replied without looking up. She was rolling the paper-thin veal with onions and breadcrumbs into kebabs and securing them with toothpicks. “I love cooking, and it’s the least I can do after you let me stay with you for so long. Besides, none of us is in the mood for partying this year.”

  Libby inhaled the aromas of spadinis and the accompanying dishes. She picked up the crystal toothpick holder from the counter and rolled it around in her hands, thinking. “Sis, I hate to bring up a sensitive subject, and you can tell me to mind my own business if you want--”

  Margo stopped stirring the simmering homemade tomato gravy, thick and spicy, and shot her sister a glaring look. “But you want to ask me something about Preston.”

  Libby lowered her gaze. “Well, I was right there all weekend. I saw how he showered you with attention. And I heard you crying in your room that Friday night.”

  “And I’ve been mopey ever since,” Margo continued. “So what’s your question?”

  “It’s not so much a question as a statement. I worry about you. I know your feelings for Preston bordered on hatred. But since the party and Preston’s death--”

  “Not so much. Who was it who said, ‘There’s a thin line between love and hate’? After Preston stood me up at our wedding, I never wanted to see him again. I married Roberto, moved to Italy, and thought Preston was totally out of my system.”

  “Until I took you to that party,” Libby said.

  “Yes, until I walked into Caro’s family room and saw him beaming at me, the way he had when we were young. I had forgotten how a smile from Preston could ignite a flame inside of me. I guess the pilot light never went out.”

  “Well, obviously the feeling was mutual,” Libby said, scooching her bottom into a more comfortable position on the bar stool. “It was hard to miss how he was drawn to you all weekend.”

  “So what is it you want to know?”

  “Margo, I’m concerned. You haven’t been right since that weekend. You have circles under your eyes, and you don’t sit still. It’s as if you’re afraid to confront your thoughts or feelings.”

  “All true.”

  “It’s just a matter of time until we are questioned by the police. Probably the only reason it hasn’t happened yet is the holidays. Maybe it would help to talk to me before you have to talk to them.”

  Margo stared at Libby. “I’m nineteen years older than you, old enough to be your mother. I’m not used to being the one who needs emotional support.” She inhaled sharply and shuddered, dropping the wooden spoon and covering her face with her hands.

  “I didn’t mean to make you cry, honest I didn’t,” Libby said, rushing over to hug her sister. “But if you do feel like crying, do it with me. You can let it all out in this kitchen, and I promise I will never tell anyone.”

  Margo clung to her sister and sobbed. It seemed as if she would choke with all of the gasping for air. After several minutes, she broke from the embrace and returned to the pasta machine on the counter. Somehow it was easier to breathe, to talk, when her hands were occupied.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Margo began. “My life is a shambles.” The long strips of dough that would be the evening’s linguini were emerging from the machine in slow, dignified order. “P--Preston told me he loved me, he always had. I thought he was just playing around with me, hoping for another conquest.”

  “But he wasn’t?” Libby asked, resettling herself at the counter.

  “I don’t think so. He told me he was going to leave Nicole. He wanted to make it up to me for what happened in the past. He spoke with such urgency, such sincerity.”

  “So you believed him.”

  “Well, not at first. And then I did. And then I didn’t.” She threw up her hands. “I sound demented, I know.”

  Libby started to say, “Not demented,” but Margo went on before she could get the words out.

  “I slept with him, Libby. He led me to believe he had told Nicole he wanted a divorce. I slept with him, we made plans for the future, and I loved every minute of it. Then I went back downstairs to my room to go to sleep.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Around three-thirty or four. My head was spinning with happy thoughts. I could still feel Preston’s body on mine, and I was relishing it all. Then I heard a noise coming from the staircase. I was still dressed, so I went out into the hall. It was Nicole coming up the stairs with that metal thing on her ankle.”

  Libby took in a gallon of air before saying, “Omigod. She was on her way up the stairs to kill Preston?”

  “I don’t think so. At least not then. She seemed surprised to see me in my clothes. Said she wanted to go to her husband. She didn’t seem to be angry with him, just desperate to be with him. It infuriated me, because I thought Preston hadn’t told her about the divorce at all. He had lied to me.” Margo paced back and forth as she spoke.

  “So what did you do?”

  “I talked her into going back downstairs, even helped her get settled on the sofa.”

  “So she didn’t kill him?”

  “Not unless she came back up the stairs later. After I left Nicole, I tried to go to sleep again, but I was so worked up. At that moment I almost wanted to kill Preston, myself, for ruining my life a second time. I felt like a fool.”

  Libby gasped. “But you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”

  Margo shook her head. “I wanted to go back upstairs, kick, scream, throw something at him, but I couldn’t do that to Caro and John E., and I didn’t want to awaken the whole household. I tried to calm down, took a thousand deep breaths. Then I went back upstairs to have it out with him, but--”

  Libby muttered, “Oh, no, how is this going to sound to the police?”

  “--when I got there, Preston was sound asleep.”

  “Are you sure he wasn’t dead?” Libby asked.

  “No, he was definitely breathing, and he had a smile on his face, as if he could still feel my body on his, and he was happy. I sat in the chair and watched him for a while, my fury subsiding into mere anger. I used his bathroom, thinking he might wake up from the sound of the flush, but he didn’t. I decided whatever I had to say to him could wait.” She uttered a laugh that sounded like a bird’s caw. “Of course, I never got to have it out with him the next day--or ever.”

  Libby was turning the details of Margo’s narrative over in her mind when Les’s footsteps presaged his arrival into the kitchen. He walked in smelling of expensive aftershave lotion, a jolly smile on his face. “Happy New Year,” he said, walking over to the Subzero and pulling out a bottle of Dom Perignon. “When do we eat?”

  Chapter 43

  This was the second New Year’s Eve that Vicki had spent drying out. The first was twenty-four years ago, six months after the tragic accident. Vicki shut her eyes, trying to block out the memory of that excruciating pain, the remnants of which burned inside her still. “Funny,” she remarked to Leon, stirring her steaming
mug of cappuccino, “that New Year’s Eve all I could think of was Tony and how I would someday make Preston pay for our loss. This year, Preston’s gone, and the only one I keep punishing is myself.”

  Leon swallowed the bite of chocolate-covered biscotti and chased it with a swig of black coffee. “I know. I hope this will be the last time.”

  “Intellectually, I realize that drinking to cope with grief just causes more grief. Emotionally, it’s hard to accept. I’m really going to try to be strong this time. I promise.” She rubbed the fabric of her silk wrap dress between her thumb and forefinger. The smooth texture gave her the feeling of control.

  “I know you will. I have confidence in you.”

  “I just hate what this does to you, Leon. The stress, the cost. Having a hag for a wife.”

  “Just stop, now. You’re still the same beautiful girl I fell in love with in college. And don’t worry about the cost. You are worth every bit of it.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Besides, you’ve stood by me through tough times.”

  “You know, I’ve done a lot of thinking. Maybe Preston’s death will give me the closure I need to move on.”

  “I hope so, Vicki, but if I were you, I’d be careful saying that to anyone but me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the wrong person just might think you’re the one who killed Preston.”

  ***

  In the double dressing room of the Winthrops’ mansion in Rye, Julia and Marshall had a few moments alone before guests would arrive for their annual New Year’s Eve party. They and their four servants had been preparing all day. A few hours ago the consultant from the exclusive Parties Perfect Company had arrived with her crew of ten to complete the preparations. Now, all that was left to do was get dressed.

  “How is it that no matter how much help we have, my feet hurt before the first guest crosses the threshold?” Julia complained, crossing her long legs and peering into the dressing table mirror.

  “Maybe we should have cancelled the party this year, with all that’s been going on,” Marshall replied, a worry line deepening between his eyebrows. He took a sip from the crystal glass of Dewar’s he had brought in with him.

  “And what would all our friends on the boards of the opera and art museum have done for New Year’s Eve? They count on us for this, just like we all count on the Greshams for July fourth.” She pushed the three-carat emerald stud through her ear and fastened it. “Besides, I think it would have been a tactical error to cancel. It would have drawn too much speculation. Better to act as if everything is normal.”

  “Even when it’s not,” Marshall replied. He was playing with the matching emerald studs and cufflinks that went in his tuxedo shirt. He had bought the jewelry for them both as a Christmas gift just ten days before.

  “I know you’re worried about Thursday’s meeting with the police. I am, too. But at least we have competent legal representation. Bally’s idea of presenting them with a proffer, instead of having us talk to the detective, gives me hope we can get through it smoothly. It was well worth the time we spent at his office yesterday, preparing it.”

  Marshall brushed his dark hair straight back from his forehead and used a small comb to smooth his graying sideburns. He looked like a Mafia don, preparing for confrontation. “Just because we use the proffer, doesn’t mean that will be the end of it. In fact, I’ll be surprised if the police stop there. High profile case, and all.”

  Julia finished applying her lipstick in a four-step process then pouted to admire the results in the mirror. “Let’s put it out of our minds for now. I’m sure Bally will take good care of us. And really, we shouldn’t have anything to worry about.”

  She gazed at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Not bad, she thought, turning this way and that. But I’ll have to snack on the sushi appetizers and skip the Beef Wellington if I want this dress to look right all night.

  She pecked Marshall on the cheek and swooped out of the room, calling, “See you downstairs,” over her shoulder.

  ***

  In rural Pennsylvania, another couple was getting dressed in a lavish master bedroom suite. Stan and Andrea had cancelled their plans to attend a house party in New York, in favor of having Caro and John E. over for drinks and dinner.

  “Are you sorry we aren’t going out fancy tonight?” Andrea asked.

  “Not at all. I’m sorry for the reason, but, actually, I’m relieved not to have to make such a big deal out of ushering in the new year. After so many years, that has grown old.”

  “It was the least we could do to help our friends at this difficult time,” Andrea said, sounding as though she had rehearsed it. “Caro is still taking Preston’s death very hard.” She readjusted the Hermes scarf around her neck and tucked the ends into the V-neck of her sweater.

  “Yes, and I suppose it is even worse for them because Preston was murdered in one of their bedrooms--”

  “And likely by one of their friends. Really, I don’t know how either of them can stand it.”

  “What choice do they have?” Stan said, always the practical one. He slipped his feet into soft loafers the color of melted chocolate.

  “The best thing we could do for them tonight, I think, is to take their minds off of the whole thing. Let’s agree not to talk about anything having to do with Preston all evening.” She sprayed two puffs of Paloma Picasso into the air in front of her then walked into it. “Mmm, I love that aroma.”

  “Me, too,” Stan said, wrapping his arms around her from behind and nuzzling her neck. “But since we’re all alone now, can I ask you one thing I’ve been dying to know?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Who, do you think, murdered Preston?”

  “Seriously? You know I’m not privy to many of the details of the case.”

  “Yes. With all of your experience with murders, I’d bet that you have a pretty good idea.”

  “Well, this is the first time a murder has happened this close to home, thankfully. The obvious suspect would be Nicole. She has the most to gain and the least to lose by killing him. And she’s the most palatable choice for all of us, because she’s the outsider.”

  “Interesting. Do I hear a ‘but’ coming?”

  Andrea looked amused. “You know me so well, Stan. But--I don’t think it was Nicole.”

  “Why not?”

  “Gut feeling, I guess. I was with Nicole quite a bit when we went riding and after her accident. I got the distinct impression that she was a person who really loved her husband. Idolized him, even. I’m guessing she’d pinned a lot of hopes and dreams on becoming Mrs. Preston Phillips, and I don’t think the honeymoon was over yet. I think she needed him too much to kill him. Besides, she’d have had a very hard time overpowering him, even with poison, with her foot in that contraption. She was so drugged out she couldn’t even stay at the dinner table the whole time, remember?”

  “So if she didn’t do it, who, do you think did?”

  “Between you and me?

  “Of course.”

  “Confidentially, I think it must have been the other person who benefited most from Preston’s death. I hate to even think this about one of John E.’s closest friends. But the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that the murderer was Marshall.”

  Chapter 44

  A quick search for white males aged twenty-one to thirty-five, height five-ten to six-one, in the New York metropolitan area named William, Bill, or Billy Bartosh had yielded nine hits, two with misdemeanor records. Parrott examined the nine summaries on his desk, combing through the details for something that would attract his sixth sense: suspicion. No matter what, the fact that the grieving widow was entertaining a male suitor just two weeks after her husband’s death was enough to solidify her place on the Likely Killer List.

  It was New Year’s Day, and the office was quiet. If it hadn’t been for this case, Parrott would probably have driven to his mother’s in Connecticut. He would have put his feet up on the cush
ioned coffee table and snacked on Chex Mix while watching his alma mater, Syracuse, in the afternoon bowl game. That, not fancy homes and cars and parties with gourmet food, was his idea of celebrating a holiday.

  He thought of his Aunt Rachel, celebrating the holidays without her only son from now on. The wound of Bo’s death was still fresh for them all.

  He wondered what Tonya was doing right now. He looked at his watch. It’s almost seven p.m. there. What kind of New Year’s Day did you have, my love? Whatever it was, he knew that giving up the Syracuse game would have been the least of Tonya’s sacrifices. He allowed himself to daydream about the brave young woman, so full of fire and light and life. Only fourteen more months, and she’ll be back here in my arms for good. Wedding, kids, the whole nine yards--

  Brrrinnng, brrrinnng. Parrott’s direct line interrupted the pleasant reverie, causing an abrupt return to reality. “West Brandywine Police, Detective Parrott speaking,” he answered, his voice deepened even further from the morning’s lack of use.

  “Happy New Year, Parrott,” Chief Schrik boomed from the receiver.

  “Same to you,” Parrott replied.

  He could hear the tiny click of Schrik’s shifting the paperclip from one side of his mouth to the other. Guess he does that even at home. “Thought I’d catch you in the office, despite its being a national holiday.”

  “I know, Chief, but if I don’t keep going on this case, it’s going to freeze up on me real fast.”

  “Well, I do have President Dalton on my tail, making ugly threats. Did you see that report we left for you on Bartosh?”

  “Looking at it right now. I hate putting you in the position of having to stall Dalton.”

  “Well, keep me posted. I think you’re onto something with this guy. Good bit of detective work last night.”