Parrott rubbed his head with both hands, the springy growth of hair reminding him it would soon be time for another haircut. He couldn’t remember the last time he had done anything personal, not related to the case. He sighed. “I’d like to say we’re close. I was hoping for more information from the Winthrops, but I got some good info from the Blooms. Andrea Baker is coming here at eight tonight, and I meet with Margo Rinaldi tomorrow, so the picture is filling in with details. I guess you could say I’m optimistic.”
“Are you still leaning toward the widow?”
“Yeah, but Marshall Winthrop is high on my suspect list, too, especially after today.”
“Don’t let the lawyer’s fancy footwork prejudice you against Winthrop. That’s just how most of those rich guys are. We’re lucky all of the party-goers didn’t lawyer up.”
“I know,” Parrott replied, biting off the bitterness in his voice. “But Winthrop had a money motive, he’s got an aquarium full of corals in his office, he was about to file a lawsuit against Phillips, and, get this, he brought and passed out the cigars to the guys on Saturday night. What if he gave Phillips a poisoned cigar?”
“Hard to prove now that the cigar’s been consumed. And then there’s the Metamucil.”
“Yeah, I know.” Parrott pondered the facts and innuendoes of the case thus far. “I’m hoping Mrs. Baker’s visit will give us some new insights. She’s a crime writer, you know. I don’t think she’d be wasting her time coming in if she didn’t think she had something important.”
“Well, I’m going to head for home now. The wife’s cooking a pot roast tonight, my favorite.” He grabbed his lined trench coat from the coatrack behind his desk and thrust one arm and then the other into it. He turned back to look Parrott in the eye. “I’m behind you a hundred percent, but keep in mind that the clock is ticking.”
Chapter 49
With two hours to kill, Parrott grabbed a makeshift meal from a package of ramen noodles in the bottom drawer of his desk, a blueberry muffin he found in the break room, and a cup of coffee left in the pot since morning. It would have to do. He microwaved the entrée and ate at his desk while flipping through his notes. As he read, he made a mental list of which of the fourteen party guests could be eliminated from consideration as the killer. The Blooms were out. A full generation younger, their only connection to the victim was the fact that he had hurt her sister back when they were young kids. Caro and John E. Campbell appeared to be lacking in motive, as well. The Bakers, likewise, seemed innocent, and the fact that they did not stay at Bucolia overnight limited their opportunity. He was less sure of the Kelleys, but having spent so much time with Kitty at the hospital, he had a gut feeling she was clear as well.
He drew a stack of index cards and a felt-tip pen from his top drawer and designed a neat list of suspects, one name per card He then began listing details that implicated each person. When he was finished, this is what he had:
1. Nicole Phillips
Inherits $350 million if married to PP when he dies
Cremates body, hiding evidence?
Has aquarium
Computer search history shows palytoxin
Has possession of Metamucil container/poison
Bartosh?
Jealousy over Margo?
2. Marshall Winthrop/Julia
Trust broken, giving MW control of $
Wife argues with PP Saturday afternoon
Brought cigars to party/passed them out
Has aquarium
Has New Year’s Eve party, cover?
Lawyers up, refuses to answer questions
3. Vicky Spiller/Leon
Revenge for son’s death
Alcoholic drinking, loss of control?
Truffles made and passed out, white chocolate for PP?
Has aquarium
Goes to rehab after PP’s death, guilt?
4. Gerald Kelley
Revenge for PP’s appointment as treas secy
Jealous of Kitty’s attention to PP
Stroke after PP’s death, guilt?
5. Margo Rinaldi
Revenge for desertion at altar
Flirting on Friday night, afterward?
Sometimes it helped to make lists. Parrott stared at the cards for a while, shuffling through them several times. No matter how I look at it, the strongest suspect is Nicole. Certainly, the one-percenters would be relieved if she were prosecuted for her husband’s murder. So much cleaner if it wasn’t one of them.
Parrott gathered the trash from his food and drink and threw it in the wastebasket. My job is not about politics. It’s to discover the truth and then prove it. I wish Tonya were here. I could sure use a woman’s point of view. Or maybe just a hug or two. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Enough time to make a few phone calls.
***
When the phone rang at Bucolia, Caro gave a startled cry and grabbed at the pearl choker around her neck. Right away she thought of Gerald, so she was relieved to see West Brandywine PD on her caller ID.
After exchanging pleasantries with the detective, she asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to ask you a few questions about the invitations to the birthday party. When did you tell me they went out?”
“November thirteenth, one month before the party.”
“All sent on the same day?”
“Yes.”
“So all of the guests were invited at the same time?”
“Yes. But remember, I didn’t send an invitation to Margo. I wasn’t aware she was back in the US until Libby called to RSVP. Libby asked if Margo could come, and, of course, I said yes.”
“Did the other guests know Mr. Phillips would be at the party?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose they would have guessed so, since Preston was my cousin, and he usually comes to our parties.”
“At any time before the party, did anyone ask you whether he was going to be there?”
“No--o--o, not that I can remember.”
“Okay, thanks, Mrs. Campbell. I appreciate your help.”
“No problem.” Caro disconnected the call, but held the receiver in her hand, a pensive look on her face. I know what he’s getting at. He’s trying to figure out who had a month to premeditate Preston’s murder. She imagined mug shots of each of the party guests, parading before her eyes like a black and white silent movie. As she considered the possibility of each one of her dear friends being a murderer, a pain stabbed her belly.
***
The next call went to Leon, who was putting in a few hours at his office.
“Mr. Spiller, Detective Parrott. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
Parrott took the diplomatic route. “I wanted to ask your wife a few questions about her truffles, but perhaps you can help me, since she may be hard to reach.”
“I’ll try.”
“Do you know whether the truffles she took to the party were freshly made or frozen?”
“That I know. Vicki spent the whole day the Thursday before the party making those truffles. She wanted them to be fresh. That was our birthday gift to John E.”
Parrott detected the pride in his voice. “Do you know how she goes about making all of the different fillings? Does she make one type at a time and start all over, or does she have all of the fillings out in the kitchen at the same time?”
“I’ve seen her making candy for years. She usually makes one type at a time and freezes them, but since this batch was special, she probably had all the shells and all the fillings in the kitchen at the same time. It would have been an all-day process.”
“What if a person was allergic to chocolate--or nuts--or some other ingredient? Would she do anything different in preparing the truffles?”
“Vicky has a variety of shells and fillings, so anyone who is allergic can avoid exposure. The white chocolate ones are for people allergic to chocolate. She’s especially careful about nuts.”
Parrott played with his
moustache, thinking. “So there’s no chocolate in white chocolate?”
“No. White chocolate doesn’t have any chocolate--unless you consider cocoa butter chocolate. But most people don’t react to that.”
“One more question, please. Who cleans your home aquarium?”
Leon sounded perplexed as he answered, “Uh, I do.”
***
In the few minutes left before Andrea’s appointment, Parrott called Maria Rodriguez, the medical examiner. He wanted to know whether freezing palytoxin would alter it. He really didn’t think Vicki’s truffles were the murder weapon, but the ones he had analyzed had been frozen, while the ones served at the party were not.
“Interesting question. Don’t know, but I’ll find out. Palytoxin is so new, there are lots of things we don’t know about it.”
“Give me a buzz when you find out, please.” That’s the kind of minute detail that could make or break a case. After all of this time and effort, I’m going to adopt “Thorough” as my middle name.
***
Wearing a black hooded shearling coat, fuzzy mittens, cashmere scarf, and black suede Ugg boots, Andrea breezed into Parrott’s office. Expensive, but simple, Parrott thought. This woman doesn’t flaunt her wealth. I respect that.
“Thanks for letting me come,” she began, as she took off the coat and sat opposite Parrott.
“I should be the one thanking you.”
“Some detectives I’ve worked with didn’t want anything to do with the opinions of lay observers. They especially didn’t want authors snooping around, polluting the case.”
Parrott gave an indulgent smile and leaned forward on his elbows. “Well, this detective appreciates your coming out here in the cold, dark evening.”
Andrea unwrapped the scarf from around her throat and folded it on her lap. She seemed to be considering just where to start. “I don’t know whether you’ve heard. Gerald Kelley has had another stroke. It’s looking bad, and everyone is worried for him and Kitty.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Parrott replied. He thought of how open Kitty had been with him at the hospital, and he realized that he truly was sorry.
“That’s not the reason I’ve come, of course.” Andrea paused to pick a piece of lint from her lapel. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Preston’s death. Funny how different it feels to think about a murder investigation when you are actually involved in it. Anyway, what I want to talk to you about is Nicole.”
Parrott’s heart skipped a beat, but he kept his face in neutral. “What about her?”
“You know, I spent a fair amount of time with her that Saturday, both before and after she was thrown from the horse. I don’t mean to brag, but I have good instincts about people. And, while I’m sure Nicole is a prime suspect in the case, I just don’t think she is intelligent or sophisticated enough to have killed Preston.”
“Let me remind you, Mrs. Baker, Lizzie Borden was neither intelligent nor sophisticated, yet she was suspected of a vicious murder.”
“Yes, I know, but this is different. Preston was a very astute man, but let’s face it. Nicole was a trophy wife, pure and simple. Besides that, I was there when they took him out of the house. If he was poisoned, it wasn’t with cyanide or arsenic or strychnine, or any of those common poisons. There was no blood or vomit, no telltale complexion change. I just can’t see Nicole being scientific enough to pull something like that off.”
“Nowadays anybody can learn about poisons on the Internet,” Parrott responded, thinking of the search history for palytoxin on the Phillips computer.
“That’s just it,” Andrea replied, “Nicole doesn’t know anything about computers, either. I know it sounds unbelievable in this day and age, but I think she’s telling the truth. She told me she’d signed up for a beginning computer class that started that Monday, and she guessed she would be missing it because of her broken ankle. I was surprised she wasn’t computer literate like so many people her age, but she said she’d never needed it in any of her jobs, and now that she had time to learn, she felt it was important.”
Parrott felt a bubble burst. If this were true, he would have an even harder time proving a case against the young widow. He made eye contact with Andrea and asked, “Since you don’t think Mrs. Phillips killed her husband, who do you think did it?”
Andrea looked at the scarf in her lap. She hesitated as though climbing a tall fence, about to go over, but unsure of what awaited her on the other side. Parrott knew her friendship with Caro and John E. tugged at her to remain on one side. She took a deep breath. “I’m not privy to all of the facts in the case.”
“But you do have an opinion,” Parrott prompted.
“All along, I have suspected Marshall Winthrop,” Andrea said in a quiet voice. “A friend told me he was about to file a lawsuit against Preston.”
“Then why kill him? Why not let the legal system do its work?”
“Good point. Maybe he didn’t have the stomach for the adverse publicity.” Her voice trailed off, and she appeared to be lost in thought. “Marshall certainly has the intellect to research and use a poison, though I hate to think the President of the New York Federal Reserve Bank is so unscrupulous.” She rearranged the scarf around her neck. “Well, that’s what I wanted to tell you, about Nicole and Marshall, and I hope it helps.”
She rose and reached her arms into the shearling. As she buttoned the coat, she said, “I don’t know whether Marshall is the one who killed Preston or not, but I’ll bet Preston would have liked to kill Marshall. If that lawsuit had been filed, it would’ve dragged Preston through the mud. In fact, if Marshall had been the one killed, my first suspect would have been Preston.”
Chapter 50
Margo’s stomach had been acting up all night, probably in anticipation of the next morning’s meeting with that black detective from West Brandywine. Caro had told her he was very polite, very professional, but having never had much to do with police before, she took little comfort. If she were honest with herself, though, it wasn’t the detective making her stomach so jumpy. It was Preston.
How ironic that she had spent forty years getting him out of her system, and in just one weekend, he had taken up permanent residence in her heart. She had revisited those miraculous moments from the weekend at Bucolia, analyzing every word, every gesture, every touch. She’d critiqued the events from the lenses of Preston the Lover, Preston the Liar, and Preston the Other Woman’s Husband.
Then she began all over again, this time looking at her own behavior: Margo the Strong, Margo the Smitten, Margo the Wounded. Each time she hoped for a different ending. In the three weeks since his death, she had tried everything to distract herself from the constant string of “what ifs.” She’d indulged in shopping trips, romance novels, dry martinis, bubble baths, sleeping pills. Nothing worked.
Was Nicole having these problems? Margo considered calling her, making a date to get together, just to see if the suffering was any different for the legitimate widow. What held her back was the encounter with Nicole on the stairs in the wee hours of the morning of December fifteenth. Everyone thinks Nicole had the best alibi because of her broken ankle, but I know different. She must have been the one who killed Preston. Nobody in our crowd would have done it, no matter how much they disliked him. For the umpteenth time, she considered how much to tell the detective.
Now, after a miserable night of little sleep and much pain, both physical and emotional, she looked at the bedside clock. Five thirty. I might as well get up and start getting ready. She started to rub her eyes before remembering her plastic surgeon’s warning against it. She climbed out of her spongy memory-foam bed and stumbled to the bathroom. The mirror confirmed it had been a bad night. Her hair was jumbled, and those persistent wrinkles she had spent so much money to erase were threatening to creep back onto the sides of her eyes. Too much crying, she admonished herself.
Margo opened the door to her closet and peered inside. She looked for something
comfortable to wear for the meeting with the detective. The lime green silk lounge suit peeked at her from behind her fluffy bathrobe. She hadn’t worn it since Bucolia, hadn’t even had it cleaned. It would always remind her of Preston and those last intimate moments. On impulse, she took it from the hanger and laid it on the velvet bench. Maybe this would give her the strength she needed for the interview. She viewed it as a form of armor, the closest thing she could think of to wrapping her body with the essence of Preston, himself.
***
Andrea’s exit line had echoed in Parrott’s ears for the rest of the evening and into the next morning. What she came to tell Parrott about Nicole’s lack of computer skills was a droplet in an ocean compared to the roaring waters set loose by her chance remark about Preston and Marshall. Parrott felt infused with a new vitality in the case. This could be the break he had been hoping for. When the alarm buzzed at four-forty-five a.m., he was ready to embark on the day’s journey.
Despite this new energy, Parrott wasn’t exactly looking forward to his eight a.m. interview at Margo’s residence within the AKA Central Park. There were more important people to talk to. Yet, as the last guest to be interviewed, Margo was a necessary part of the investigation. He smiled at the memory of having thought of himself as “thorough” just yesterday. “Thorough” meant questioning every witness with the same skill and determination. He resolved to closet his thoughts about Winthrop and carry through with the Rinaldi interview as efficiently as possible. Before he left New York, he would pay Nicole another visit, too.
Murder in the One Percent Page 29
