Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  “Come right in, Detective,” Libby said. “It’s Francesca’s day off. Let me take your coat.”

  A door opened, and Libby’s husband entered from the adjoining room, taking Parrott’s coat and the heavy wooden hanger from his wife’s hand. “I appreciate your scheduling this meeting for the afternoon, after the markets close,” Les said.

  “No problem,” Parrott replied.

  “Let’s sit in the dining room, shall we?” Les led the way to a formal dining room with large windows on one wall, a burning fireplace on the opposite wall. Above the mantle, a museum-quality oil painting showed a green meadow in the spring.

  The sturdy chairs and table were more comfortable than the ones in Marshall Winthrop’s office. Parrott hoped the meeting would be, too.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Libby asked.

  “No, thanks,” Parrott replied. “I’m good.” He opened his iPad.

  “I expect you have some questions for us,” Les pre-empted. “But before you start, I just want to make a statement.”

  The Winthrops’ proffer stood fresh in Parrott’s mind, but he maintained a friendly expression.

  Les went on. “Libby and I were invited to the Campbells’ party because of my relationship with John E. He was my teacher at Princeton, and he mentored my career. He also introduced me to Libby, so he and Caro are very special to us. We are not part of their usual social group, and we have no connection to Preston Phillips, beyond the fact that Libby’s sister Margo was engaged to him forty years ago. We are both shocked and saddened to have been on the premises where Preston died, but neither of us has any idea of who might have killed him.”

  Sensing Les was leading up to a complete brush-off, Parrott interjected. “I understand, and I appreciate your meeting with me. Do you remember the old Rubik’s cube puzzle? A murder investigation is a lot like that. Often people think they can’t turn the plastic the right way, but when we talk with them, ask the right questions, a pattern develops. Your input, as guests at the Campbells’ is very valuable.”

  “Okay,” Les answered, seeming to weigh Parrott’s words. “We’ll help any way we can.” He made eye contact with Libby, who nodded.

  Parrott glanced at his list of questions, although he had mostly committed them to memory. “You two slept on the third floor at Bucolia, while Phillips had the room on the fourth floor, correct?” When they nodded, Parrott asked, “Did either of you hear or see any activity, anyone going to or from the fourth floor other than the Phillipses on Friday night?”

  Libby answered, “I didn’t. But our room opened on a side hallway, and besides, I’m a pretty heavy sleeper with this pregnancy and all. Did you, Les?”

  “No. I was really tired Friday night, after working, traveling to the farm in that heavy snow, and eating and drinking. The beds were so comfortable, I fell asleep the minute my head hit the pillow.”

  “How about during the afternoon or evening before the dinner Saturday night?”

  Again the couple claimed not to have seen or heard anything unusual.

  Parrott asked the same question a third time. “We know Mrs. Phillips was injured and resting in the family room after the horse accident on Saturday. Is there anything at all you may have seen or heard to indicate that anyone besides Mr. Phillips went up to the fourth floor on Saturday night or early Sunday morning?”

  Les echoed his earlier comment. “It was so late when we all went to bed Saturday night. We were tired and slept soundly.”

  Parrott made eye contact with Libby while Les was speaking. Her green eyes shifted upward, as if she were remembering something. What? “Mrs. Bloom?”

  “I--uh, I slept soundly, as well. I got up a few times to go to the bathroom, but the house was quiet, and I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”

  Parrott knew there was more to it than that, but he went on. “Were either of you aware of any animosity between Mr. Phillips and anyone else in the group?”

  Libby and Les exchanged glances but remained silent.

  “I’ll come back to that question. What, did you think, was the state of the relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Phillips?”

  Libby answered, “They were newlyweds, you know. Nicole skipped going shopping with the ladies so she could be with Preston when the guys went riding. She was sort of clingy.”

  Parrott turned toward Les. “Did Mr. Phillips seem to cling to her?”

  “I don’t think so. I got the impression that he thought she was being juvenile, that he was a little embarrassed. But then again, maybe he was flattered.”

  “Mr. Phillips was once engaged to your sister, Mrs. Bloom.”

  Libby’s complexion grew pink, and she moved her hand from her belly to her forehead. “Yes, that’s true.”

  “What was your impression of how Mr. Phillips and your sister were getting along during the weekend?”

  “You’ll have to ask my sister, Detective. I can’t say.” She twisted an antique diamond bracelet around on her wrist.

  “Just your impressions.”

  “I think it may have been difficult for Margo to be at the same party with Preston after all those years, but again, you need to ask her.”

  “You weren’t part of the Campbells’ college group, so I’m curious to know what you thought about the conversation, particularly among the men, throughout the weekend, during cocktails, at the dinner party. What did they talk about? Would you characterize the conversation as friendly? Did you feel that they were friends, enemies, rivals?”

  Les responded this time. “It was typical social chatter. Some reminiscing, some sarcastic digs. Everybody likes John E. and wanted him to have a good birthday, so the conversation was basically positive.”

  “Anything that struck you as strange?”

  “Not really. At one point they were talking about fraternity pranks they’d pulled, kidnapping a guy and tying him to a tree somewhere, letting a greased pig loose in the frat house, putting laxatives into one another’s drinks. It all seemed pretty ridiculous to me.”

  Parrott’s brain fired with the mention of laxatives, and he thought about the Metamucil in Phillips’ toiletry kit, but he kept on. “Let’s get back to the question I asked earlier. Do you think anyone held a grudge against Mr. Phillips?”

  Libby answered this one. “I don’t think Preston was very popular with the group. He and Caro were cousins, and that’s probably why he was invited. Otherwise, he really didn’t fit in.”

  Parrott needed more of an answer than that. “Do you think there was animosity, for example, between Mr. Phillips and Mr. Winthrop?”

  “Rumor has it that Winthrop was about to sue Phillips. Something having to do with mismanagement of funds. But none of that came up over the weekend,” Les said.

  “How about Mrs. Winthrop?”

  “Oh, Julia wasn’t a card-carrying member of the Preston Phillips Fan Club. She didn’t go all goo-goo-eyed over him like Kitty, but I can’t see her killing him, either. Julia’s sort of all out for Julia. Not in a mean way.”

  “Did you overhear or hear about an encounter Mrs. Winthrop had with Mr. Phillips on Saturday afternoon?”

  “No, but Julia is the type of person who tells you just what’s on her mind. If Preston ticked her off, I can imagine she gave him an earful.”

  Parrott changed subjects. “I’d like the two of you to think back over the weekend. Was there anything you ate or drank that smelled or tasted odd or made you sick?”

  Les looked at Libby before answering. “We’ve talked to each other about that. Everyone ate the same food all weekend, and no one else got sick.”

  “Well, I wasn’t feeling that great, but I have a reason,” Libby said, patting her stomach.

  Parrott asked, “Was there ever a time when Mr. Phillips had something to eat or drink that no one else did?”

  Les shook his head and glanced at Libby again. “I don’t think so. We all had the same catered dinner. Except for Vicki’s truffles, which were all different.”


  “What do you mean, different?” Parrott asked. The ones Leon had given him to analyze looked all the same.

  “Different flavors, different decorations.”

  “How were the truffles served?”

  “Vicki passed them out herself,” Les replied.

  “Come to think of it,” Libby added, “I think I heard Vicki say Preston was allergic to chocolate, and she had made a white chocolate one for him.”

  Interesting, Parrott thought. There weren’t any white chocolate truffles in the batch I analyzed.

  “Anything else you can think of that Preston may have had that no one else did?”

  Les looked thoughtful. “The men all had cigars on the porch after dinner Saturday night. You don’t think there was poison in the cigar, do you?”

  “How were the cigars served?” Parrott asked, his voice thick.

  “They were a birthday gift for John E., passed out by the person who brought them.”

  “And that was?” Parrott asked.

  “Marshall Winthrop.”

  Chapter 48

  Chief Schrik was masticating his paper clip double-time as he listened to former President Dalton’s drawl over the telephone. Dalton had been shouting for several minutes without giving Schrik an opening to reply. The diatribe centered on Parrott’s lack of progress on the case, though the real matter, Schrik suspected, had more to do with Parrott’s losing his temper while meeting with the Winthrops and Rodney Ballenger. Words and phrases such as “unheard of,” “impertinent,” “disrespectful,” and “out of line” peppered Dalton’s language.

  Schrik tuned in and out, as he considered how to respond to this powerful politician without becoming impertinent himself. If he were totally honest, he would have to say he could understand Parrott’s frustrations with the Winthrops and their high-powered attorney, who had pushed the limits of the law to evade answering what amounted to first-round questions in a murder investigation. But total honesty would intensify the situation, and it was his job to keep things as calm as possible.

  “Yes, I understand what you are saying, Mr. President. Of course, I do...yes, I’m aware that the Winthrops are solid citizens--”

  “Maybe I was foolish to think such a small police department could handle a case of this magnitude. If Parrott’s the best you have, then maybe I should make a call to the FBI Director.”

  Schrik took out the paper clip and took in a breath. “On the basis of what federal crime? Now, listen, Mr. President, we are well on our way to solving the case. Calling in the FBI now would mean starting all over.”

  “It’s been almost a month since Preston’s death, and your man Parrott is just getting around to interviewing some of the most important figures in America, and insulting them, too.”

  “I’m not making excuses, but don’t forget the holidays have intervened in this investigation, and the important figures, as you say, have been unavailable for interview. We’re trying to be sensitive.”

  “Listen, there’s no getting around Parrott’s behavior with the Winthrops. It was unprofessional and offensive.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. President. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again, but I ask you not to bring the feebies into this case. Give us a few more days, and we’ll give you the murderer.”

  “Okay, Schrik. You have one week, but do me a favor. Keep Parrott away from the Winthrops.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind, Mr. President, but Parrott is the chief investigator, and the Winthrops are on the suspect list. Just so you know.”

  ***

  Andrea entered her home office after a glorious afternoon ride on Mustafa. She shed her outerwear and riding boots and warmed her hands and sock-clad feet in front of the fireplace, where a cinnamon-scented log burned black and orange. She felt energized, healthy, and lucky, very, very lucky. The events of the past three weeks had shown her just how precarious life could be. She promised herself for the millionth time never to take the good things in her life for granted.

  Moving from the fireplace to the desk, she glanced at her cell phone. I wonder if Detective Parrott tried to reach me. She pressed the side button, and the screen lit up. Three voicemails. As she pushed the voicemail icon, the phone rang, and Caro’s number appeared.

  Andrea answered the incoming call, cancelling the former operation. “Caro? Hi.”

  “Bad news,” Caro said, her voice almost a whisper. “It’s Gerald.”

  “Oh, no. What’s happened?”

  “Another stroke, and it’s very bad. Kitty could hardly talk, she was so choked up. She had to put Lexie on the phone.”

  “Poor Gerald. Poor Kitty.” Her voice oozed with sincere pity.

  “He’s on a ventilator. If he does make it, who knows how much brain damage he will have? Maybe it would just be better for him to go peacefully.”

  “Well, we don’t get to choose these things,” Andrea said.

  “Kitty doesn’t want company, at least not tonight. We’ll see what tomorrow brings. Oh, Andrea, ever since John E.’s party there’s been a curse on us. I can’t get it out of my head that Preston’s death was the trigger for all of this sorrow--Gerald’s stroke, Vicky’s rehab, and now maybe Gerald’s death, too.” She burst into sobs. “Who--whoever killed Preston--you might say he or she was responsible for all of it.”

  Andrea wished she could give her friend a hug through the phone. “Take some deep breaths, Caro. You’ll make yourself sick blaming your party for every bad thing that happens. Gerald might have had these strokes anyway, and Vicky’s rehab is probably a good thing, after all.”

  Caro took several inhales and exhales. “I know you’re right. I think I’m still in shock from the whole thing. I mean, I’ve been going along from year to year, thinking that sixty-five is the new forty-five, and all that, and suddenly it doesn’t matter how good we look or how comfortable our lives are, we are completely vulnerable, defenseless against illness and death. I’m almost afraid to get out of bed in the morning for fear another bad thing will happen.”

  “Have you discussed this with John E.?”

  “Not really. I think he’s suffering from guilty feelings of his own. That, plus whatever feelings he has about his own mortality after turning sixty-five. I’m trying not to lay anything else on him.”

  “I understand how you feel, but as long as you two have been together, he can probably see through your protective screen, and you’d probably feel better if you shared it with him. Just saying.”

  “You’re probably right. Maybe I’ll talk to him when he gets back from New York tonight. He had a late afternoon meeting with Marshall.”

  “Good idea. And if you want me to go with you to the hospital tomorrow morning, I’ll be glad to. The only plans I have are to complete some revisions. They can wait, though.”

  “Thanks, Andrea. I really appreciate you. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  ***

  Andrea hung up the phone and called her voicemail. Three new messages, two from Parrott, and one from her editor. Ordinarily, her writing came first, but everything had seemed topsy-turvy since December fourteenth. She pushed 88 to return Parrott’s second call.

  “Parrott speaking,” the deep voice answered after a single ring.

  “Andrea Baker.” Her voice remained in neutral. Contacting police officers during investigations could be dicey. Some welcomed her expertise and ideas, but some resented layperson interference. Parrott could go either way.

  “Yes, Mrs. Baker. I was returning your call.”

  It sounds like he is driving. “I wondered if you might have time to meet with me. I’ve been thinking about Preston’s death, and there is something I want to share with you. It might be important.”

  “Of course. I’m on my way back to the station now. I could come there this evening or first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Andrea thought about Gerald and decided to leave her morning free in case she had to go into New York with Caro. “How about I’ll come t
o the station to meet with you tonight? Would eight p.m. be okay?”

  “Sure. Eight p.m. And thank you.”

  Andrea disconnected the call and thought about what she had to tell Parrott. Maybe it would turn out to be nothing, but she didn’t think so. He does sound genuinely interested. And maybe if this all pans out, it will help Caro get her life together again, as well.

  ***

  It was only six p.m. when Parrott pulled into the station parking lot, shifted into park, and killed the ignition. It was cold and dark. The lights shining from the station windows beckoned him inside, though he yearned to go home instead. The day had been difficult.

  Chief Schrik’s car sat in its parking space. Parrott readied himself to face his superior officer. It wasn’t that he was afraid. Schrik couldn’t have been more supportive of him if he were his own family member. Remembering how he had left the Winthrops and their smooth-talking attorney still singed the edges of his psyche. It wasn’t like him to lose his cool that way, but even now, with hints of regret simmering inside, he remembered the smug looks on their faces and wanted to punch their lights out, one and all. He shook his head as if to clear out the cinders, as he strode into the station and directly to Schrik’s office.

  The cleaning crew had just been through, so a pleasant minty fragrance greeted him. Chief Schrik was bent over an open file of papers, black-framed glasses pushed down the slope of his nose, his signature paper clip resting between generous lips. He looked up as Parrott’s tall frame filled the doorway. “Oh, hi, Parrott. Come on in.”

  Parrott noted the weariness in his voice. “Anything new?”

  “Nothing except for the ultimatum issued by our favorite ex-pres. We have a week to solve the case, or the Feebies will come in and relieve us. So, make my day, and tell me we can put this baby away in a week.”