Someone comes to the party with murder in his heart and poison in his pocket...
A powerful and rich playboy, a rare but naturally occurring poison, a newly divorced woman with an axe to grind, and pressure from the former President of the US--these are just a few of the challenges that African-American Detective Oliver Parrott faces when he answers a routine call for back-up and discovers someone died at a country estate the morning after an elaborate birthday party. When Parrott learns the deceased is the wealthy former US Secretary of the Treasury and just about everyone at the party had a motive to kill him, he realizes this will be the investigation to make--or break--his career.
KUDOS FOR MURDER IN THE ONE PERCENT
“An Everyman detective is asked to solve a murder in a wealthy community in which ample motives and abundant resources make everyone a suspect. Detective Oliver Parrott, who takes charge of the case, is so struck by the partygoers’ consensual impressions of the selfish businessman that he realizes the case may be more about who didn’t kill Preston than who did.” ~ Kirkus Reviews
“The twists unravel then turn around and bite you. Saralyn Richard’s take on the classic murder mystery is fresh, fun, and deadly.” ~ Bob Bickford, author of Deadly Kiss, ITW Best First Novel Award winner
“Some might call Murder in the One Percent an American cozy with nods to contemporary social issues. I call it a page turner packed with humorous lines that made me laugh out loud. Or maybe it’s best to call this delightful mystery a satire about the upper class. However you describe it, Saralyn Richard successfully delivers a rollicking whodunit that will make you stay up late at night and leave you guessing until the very end. Move over, Dame Agatha Christie. There’s a new kid on the block.” ~ Ann Weisgarber, author of The Promise and The Personal History of Rachel DuPree
“Newcomer Saralyn Richard rolls out a swanky Rolls Royce of a novel in her debut mystery, Murder in the One Percent. It’s no simple task to clothe a troupe of shallow, upper-crust characters in true-to-life garments, but with this one, you can smell the over-priced cologne and catch the atomic blast blinding glare of perfect teeth while you settle in for the slow burn--there’s as much intrigue here and build-up as the best the genre has to offer. Ms. Richard has a modern winner in Detective Oliver Parrott, a real cop’s cop. If there’s a sequel coming, I’ll want first dibs.” ~ George Wier, author of the Bill Travis Mysteries and co-author of Long Fall From Heaven
“The festering secrets and grievances of the idle rich make for a combustible combination during a weekend birthday gathering in bucolic Pennsylvania horse country...With a crisp, felicitous prose style, and a vivid eye for the kind of detail that conjures a world and characters of dimension, Saralyn Richard stakes claim to territory pioneered by P. D. James and Agatha Christie...An impressive, page-turning debut...The perfect beach read.” ~ Mark Valadez, Executive Story Editor, USA Network’s Queen of the South, Crackle’s The Oath
“In this Detective Parrot mystery, Author Saralyn Richard gives the reader convincing insight into the lives of twenty-first-century party-going one-percenters, many with a motive for murder, and a puzzle worthy of Dame Agatha.” ~ Susan P. Baker, author of Unaware, A Suspense Novel
MURDER IN THE ONE PERCENT
SARALYN RICHARD
A Black Opal Books Publication
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2018 by Saralyn Richard
Cover Design by Rebecca Evans
All cover art copyright © 2018
All Rights Reserved
eBOOK ISBN: 978-1-626947-70-2
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
EXCERPT
Preston brought his young wife to the party, not knowing he’d encounter his first love, the woman he jilted at the altar years ago. Margo’s timeless beauty tantalized him once again, making Nicole wonder, Is the honeymoon over?
Alone on the fourth floor, Mr. and Mrs. Preston Phillips were having a marital spat. Having no clue that he had behaved boorishly throughout the evening, Preston had climbed the three flights of stairs feeling good about himself. He was sure Margo still had feelings for him, and he had to admit, he was still attracted to her. He had enjoyed the attention of Kitty Kelley, too. I’ve still got what it takes to attract a woman, he thought with a grin. And I rather enjoy aggravating the men, as well.
“What are you smiling at?” Nicole asked.
Her tone pierced Preston’s reverie. He had been expecting her to fall right into his arms. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, Preston. I’ve been watching you with your friends all night. Frankly, I think you’ve made a fool of yourself.”
“And how do you think I’ve made a fool of myself, Miss Expert? A few months of marriage, and you think you know me and my friends that well?”
“Totally. I know enough to know there’s something going on between you and that Margo, and the others either detest you or barely tolerate you. I may not have been around for the back story, but I’m not blind.”
Nicole sat at the dressing table and stared at her husband in the mirror.
Preston returned her stare in the mirror, aiming for sincerity. “There’s nothing going on with Margo and me. I haven’t seen her in forty years, for God’s sake.”
“Oh, yeah. Then what were you two doing for fifteen minutes when you both went upstairs?”
Preston turned away from the mirror, pacing. “Maybe we shouldn’t have come this weekend. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Answer my question. What were you and Margo doing?” Nicole’s voice rose in pitch, as if she were about to cry.
“Keep your voice down. We weren’t doing anything. We were talking. We are old friends.”
“You could talk to your old friends all night long, right in front of everyone. You didn’t have to leave the table to follow that old hag. I asked you not to leave me alone with these people, but I never dreamed you would go off pussy-chasing. I’m mortified.” She stood and paced around the room, brandishing her hairbrush.
“I’m not going to apologize to you, Nicole, because I didn’t do anything wrong. I love you, and I married you. End of story. Now let’s go to bed.”
“Don’t think this is the end of this discussion, Preston. If you do one more thing to upset me this weekend, you’ll live to regret it.” Nicole’s voice trailed off at the end of the threat, as Preston grabbed her from behind, both hands sliding smoothly into the front of her panties.
Annoyed as she was with him, her first impulse was to push her husband away. On the other hand, this was how she and Preston communicated best. She moved against him, signaling that the argument was over, and the making up was underway. Let them eat their hearts out, she thought. Preston Phillips belongs to me.
“Mmmph,” Preston groaned into her ear, feeling the full effect of the blue pill he had taken earlier. “Don’t worry. You’re the only woman I need, baby.”
To Ed, the perfect partner in all things
But what is happiness except the simple harmony
between a man and the life he leads?
~ Albert Camus
Chapter 1
Sunday, December 15:
Sundays usually meant good luck. Parrott had been born on a Sunday, and every important event in his life that he could remember had happened on a Sunday, too. He’d met Tonya
on a Sunday in the fall of freshman year. It was Sunday when he’d scored the winning touchdown for Syracuse at the Texas Bowl. It was Sunday when he’d received the news of being promoted to detective of the West Brandywine Police. But this Sunday, Parrott just wasn’t feeling it.
Why he’d thought being a detective in the affluent horse country outside of Philadelphia would be a rewarding job, he couldn’t imagine. There was no way a young African-American was going to fit in with the elite WASP community there. Or maybe he was just rattled by all the racial tensions associated with being a cop these days.
As he prepared for the weekly Skype-date with his fiancée, he surveyed his two-bedroom bungalow, satisfied, at least, that all was scrubbed, folded, sorted, and arranged. It might not be a mansion, but everything’s exactly the way I like it, he thought. Parrott put the final touches on the birdcage, an immaculate microcosm of the house. Horace, the cockatiel, perched on Parrott’s shoulder and whistled something over and over that sounded like, “Oh, dear.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Parrott replied. He’d had bad news last night from St. Louis.
Parrott looked at the clock. With characteristic efficiency, he polished the bars of the cage door and rang the little bell, signaling completion. “Let’s go, Horace,” he whispered to his pearl-and gold-feathered companion. “It’s almost Tonya Time.” Hearing the name of his faraway mistress, Horace nuzzled Parrott’s neck. Parrott offered his index finger as a resting place, and the bird hopped aboard for a special petting of his orange cheeks.
Tonya’s tour of duty in the US Navy had taken her to Germany, Iraq, and now Afghanistan with two stateside assignments between deployments. With the exception of furloughs the last few Christmases, she had been mostly gone since they graduated from college together five years ago. Parrott picked up her framed picture, seeking comfort from Tonya’s smiling eyes. He closed his eyes and conjured images of her that neither photo nor Skype could provide--the firmness of her slender frame, the subtle smell of sandalwood, the way she fit against him. She was strong and brave and smart and witty, and she knew all of the ragged places in his heart and loved him anyway.
It was rough being apart like this. Parrott put down the photograph in its proper place, opened the laptop with his free hand, and pushed the power button. He tucked his brooding thoughts away and positioned himself and Horace where the camera would capture them both.
As the honking of the Skype connector pierced the air around the kitchen table, he patted Horace’s head, wishing for something far from reach. When Tonya’s face appeared on the computer screen, he pasted a smile on his face and tried to look normal.
“What’s wrong, Detective?” Tonya said at once, one perfectly shaped eyebrow lifted in concern.
Parrott’s baritone voice cracked. “Nothing.”
“You can’t fool me, sweetheart. I see it in your eyes. So c’mon. Out with it.”
She looked so damn beautiful with those full lips and large brown eyes, those Hollywood eyelashes. Parrott felt like smashing the computer screen to get to her. Instead, he said, “It’s nothing. I’m not going to gripe to you with all you’re going through over there. Tell me about you.”
“Everything’s fine here. Quiet. Busy, but peaceful. Now you.”
“Okay, okay. I didn’t sleep much last night. Police shooting in Missouri last night--this time my cousin Bo got killed.”
“Oh, dear,” chirped Horace, a Greek chorus in the room.
“Bo Jones? The guy who showed me how to fix my bike when we were freshmen?”
“Yeah.” Parrott stood and paced around the kitchen table, remembering Bo telling him then, “She’s a keeper, Ollie. Better not let that girl get away.”
“I’m really sorry. He was a good guy,” Tonya said. “He sure doesn’t seem like the kind to get mixed up with police, though.”
“He wasn’t. Apparently, an innocent bystander. Senseless. No details yet.” Parrott stood and paced in front of the computer screen, oblivious to the fact that Horace now perched on his head.
“I can tell you’re taking this hard. Don’t blame you, either.”
Parrot sat. “Yeah. Maybe I chose the wrong profession. I thought I could get the bad guys, make things better for the good guys. But now, seems like people think cops are bad guys, and I’m not sure who is who. I almost envy you for being in Afghanistan. At least the good guys and bad guys are better defined.”
Tonya shook her head. “Oh, no. You aren’t even making sense. Are you letting those rich folks mess with your head, Oliver? You’ve accomplished a lot, and you’ve earned respect from ’most everyone you’ve met.”
“Maybe.” He twirled the hairs in his moustache. “But there’s not much to be proud of when all your cases involve stolen property, insured property belonging to people so rich they hardly even miss it when it’s gone.”
Tonya grinned, showing that endearing tiny space between her front teeth. “Are you saying you’re hankering for something more gruesome--assault and battery, rape, or murder?”
Parrott ran his hands through his short-cropped hair and gave a sheepish smile. “The dilemma of a cop--the best opportunities come from other people’s misfortune. Can’t say I want someone hurt, but I sure would like to get something challenging, something where I can make a difference. And after what happened to poor Bo, I hope it happens soon.”
***
Just as Parrott disconnected from Skype, his cell phone jangled in his pocket. The caller ID showed W Brandywine PD, unusual for a Sunday.
When he answered, prickles traveled up his spine.
“Parrott, hate to disturb you on your day off. Need you to check out a death at the Campbell farm. Lots of important people at a weekend party. Looks like natural causes, but you need to make sure.
Be careful what you wish for? “Okay, Chief. I’m on it.” Parrott shut down his computer, refilled Horace’s water bowl, and escorted the little fellow back into the cage. He put on his heavy coat. He glanced back at Tonya’s picture before he stepped out and closed the door.
Chapter 2
One Month Earlier:
The invitation to what would be an unforgettable birthday party was postmarked precisely on November thirteenth, one month before the event. Examining it once again, the hostess ran her long fingers over the engraved ivory vellum, picturing the faces of the dozen invitees, imagining them as they opened the thick, lined envelope and read the simple, but elegant wording:
Please Join Us for a Weekend Celebration
In Honor Of
John E. Campbell
On the Occasion of His
65th Birthday
December 13-15
Arrival at 7 p.m.
Bucolia Farm
RSVP Caro
Caroline Campbell, or Caro, as her friends called her, felt a frisson of excitement about welcoming their oldest and dearest friends for a weekend at the sixty-acre gentleman’s farm in rural Pennsylvania.
She and John E. had just moved into the remodeled country mansion, and she was eager to fill its rooms with the laughter and reminiscences that only close friendships could provide.
Her plans, however, had been tempered by her genteel upbringing, which prohibited her from doing anything to show off. These days, with so much negative attention in the media, parties of the rich and famous had become passé, as, it seemed, the rich and famous, themselves, had become passé. So Caro had toned down her husband’s birthday celebration. Instead of a full-blown dinner with live music and dancing, she had chosen an intimate gathering of John E.’s closest friends and colleagues. Even so, the bubble of anticipation rose from her core to her brain, and, like a heady champagne, it made her giggle.
***
Julia Winthrop dropped her jeweled, twenty-four-karat-gold letter opener into the lap of her suede skirt, as a throng of butterflies danced inside. What a coincidence that this invitation had arrived today, just as she most welcomed it. She grabbed her iPhone and speed-dialed her husband’s off
ice, knowing his personal cell phone would be turned off during the work day. Impatiently, she tapped her shiny salon gel-wrapped index fingernail, waiting for his assistant to answer.
One ring...two rings...three...
“Federal Reserve Bank, Marshall Winthrop’s Office,” the velvet-voiced Trudy answered.
Trying to keep the excitement out of her voice, Julia asked to speak to her husband.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Winthrop,” Trudy oozed. “He has just ended a meeting. Let me connect you.”
Julia waited exactly two minutes, as usual. Marshall didn’t believe in answering calls quickly. He felt eagerness would be interpreted as weakness, even when the caller was his wife.
“Hello, Julia. How’s your day going?” Marshall’s deep voice was one of the things Julia adored about him.
“Marshall,” Julia began. “You’ll never guess what came in today’s mail.” She paused before gushing on, “An invitation to John E.’s sixty-fifth birthday party. And this one is a weekend retreat at the farm.”
“That’s nice, dear.”
Julia could hear the shuffling of papers.
“Don’t you see the significance?” Annoyance crept into her tone. “This may be the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.”
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