Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, dear. I look forward to hearing more about it when I get home tonight. I’ll be on the eight-ten.”

  Julia caught the anticipation in Marshall’s voice, just enough to let her know her message had been conveyed. She wouldn’t push him to talk about this at his office. Tonight, they would have a very interesting dinner conversation, indeed.

  ***

  In a lofty New York apartment, the yet-unopened invitation stood on end in a soldier-like array of the day’s mail, where Francesca, the well-trained maid, had set it. Neither Libby nor Les Bloom, the youngest couple on the invitation list, had arrived home from work yet.

  Their high-powered jobs--his at Sterling Martin Financial, and hers at Columbia University--kept them working at such a pace that they had hardly a moment to enjoy the trappings of their incredible wealth.

  Libby’s much older sister, Margo, recently divorced and visiting from her villa in Tuscany, glided past the entry hall, wearing earbuds and humming to the soundtrack of Les Miserables. She corrected her posture, barely averting a collision between her elbow and a Georg Jensen crystal vase of exotic fresh flowers. That was when she noticed the neatly arranged mail, particularly the cream-colored envelope with calligraphy on the front.

  “Hmmm, it looks like baby sister and her hubby are invited to a fancy party.” She turned the envelope over in her manicured hand, brushing the embossed return address with her thumb. Even without the name, Margo recognized the return address in Rittenhouse Square, the city home of Caro and John E. She had spent many happy and some not-so-happy times with the Campbells--she and Preston. It was years since Margo had allowed herself to think of Preston. Still, the pain that accompanied all thoughts of him stung, and her eyes filled in swift reaction.

  I’ll bet Preston will be in attendance at this little soiree, Margo thought, clutching the envelope to her chest. Maybe I can find out from Libby just what he’s up to these days. On second thought, she chided herself, I am much better off not knowing anything about Preston Phillips, now or ever.

  She hesitated before replacing the envelope into the line of Libby’s mail. She wished she hadn’t seen it. She wanted nothing to do with Preston Phillips--nothing at all.

  ***

  Caro was in a chatty mood as she and John E. packed for their ordinary weekend at their extraordinary Pennsylvania farm. “The invitations to your birthday party most likely arrived today, John E. I’ll be eager to see how many of our friends accept.”

  “I’m still having misgivings about it, you know. As big as the farm is, it might not be big enough for these twelve friends for an entire weekend.” John E. tossed a cashmere sweater onto the pile on the bed.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s been years since all the friction over money and politics.” Caro straightened the pile of clothes, toiletries, and reading material firmly and secured them with the inside straps. “I’m so glad we have doubles of everything at the farm. Makes packing so much simpler.”

  “Yeah, and don’t forget Margo. Libby and Les probably haven’t forgotten that,” John E. added. “Besides, everyone I know is so on edge from the income inequality issues these days. No one seems to be in a partying mood anymore.”

  “I know, dear,” Caro said. “That’s why we decided to celebrate in low-key fashion. I’m sure the weekend at the farm will be relaxing and pleasant for everyone. We can indulge in good food, drink, and company without pressures from the outside world.”

  “Don’t forget the cigars. The guys will definitely want Cohibas. We’ll have to order new stock.”

  “You know how I feel about cigars, John E. Outside only. You take care of the wine and cigars. I’ll focus on meals and bedroom accommodations. Deal?”

  “Deal. You’re really a sport to go to all this trouble for my birthday.”

  “My pleasure. After all, what good is Bucolia if we don’t share it with our friends?”

  ***

  Caro’s first cousin, Preston Phillips, was known as someone to admire, someone to fear. Raised among the ultra-rich in the Hamptons, Preston had the pedigree and experiences that opened doors. The best schools, the highest grades, the most prestigious positions, the highest salaries--all had been his for the taking. His athletic prowess was equally amazing. That and his striking good looks had made for a continuous parade of beautiful girls vying for his attention. He had lost count of how many women he had loved and discarded, Margo Martin, among them. He was on wife number four now, a pretty young thing he had met at the Lamborghini dealership.

  Despite being raised with all of the social graces befitting his station in life, Preston had, over the years, developed quite a mercurial temper. Those who knew him as Chairman of the Congressional Ways and Means Committee in the ’eighties had witnessed some of his mood swings during times of economic crisis. When the pressure escalated, Preston exploded. The flip side was that once he blew up, his intelligence kicked in, and he was the best economic problem-solver in America. Still, even his closest friends never fully trusted him.

  Now that he had been the US Secretary of the Treasury, and right-hand to the last president, he could add power with a capital “P” to his list of attributes. Of course, it was not an easy time for the rich and powerful, especially those from the previous administration. The backlash against the wealthy seemed to be growing and strengthening, a Grendel-like monster, with no Beowulf in sight, not even Preston Phillips.

  For this reason, Preston was distracted throughout cocktail hour and the elegant dinner placed before him. Despite Nicole Phillips’ attempts at conversation, he remained aloof and picked at his food. Maybe I can relax with a cigar and some jazz music, he thought afterward, as he recessed to his private man-cave, where he contemplated the serene movements of the tropical fish in his wall-sized aquarium.

  “By the way,” Nicole cooed a few hours later, as she seductively removed her silky blouse, revealing two perfect bare breasts, “we got an invitation to John Campbell’s birthday party today.”

  “John E.?” He raised his right eyebrow. “It’ll be another stuffed shirt affair at his country club, I guess. Maybe we can just make an appearance and duck out.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I totally didn’t get the invitation. It gives the date of the party as, like, December thirteenth to fifteenth? I think it might be a three-day party?” Nicole’s sentences often ended with the high pitch of a question mark.

  “I’ll take a look at it later. First, I want to give you my undivided attention,” Preston said, as he grabbed Nicole’s blonde mane, and pulled it hard.

  “Oooh, Preston,” she gasped. “You really do want me, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah, baby. There’s nothing I want more.”

  Chapter 3

  The state-of-the-art, rhinestone-encrusted iPhone rang from where it rested on the side of the marble bathtub, a whirlpool the size of Rhode Island. Vicki Spiller breast-stroked to answer it, careful not to spill a drop from the flute of crisp, cold Veuvre Cliquot on the ledge next to the phone.

  Who would be calling me at this time of the afternoon? she thought. My friends all know this is my meditation hour.

  The caller ID said, Restricted but something told Vicki she should answer. “Spiller residence,” she answered with a slight Hispanic accent, careful not to slur her words. She pretended to be the upstairs maid, someone she had been forced to let go almost a year ago.

  “Ta-ray-za,” the voice said with over-familiarity, “is Mrs. Spiller in? This is Julia Winthrop.”

  “I believe she is in, Mrs. Winthrop. I’ll check to see if she is available,” Vicki replied, hoping the sound of moving in the bathwater wasn’t giving away her play-acting. She muted the phone, set it down, and eased herself out of the tub. Ordinarily, she would have called her friend back later, but the invitation from the Campbells had changed everything.

  A full two minutes and a pat-down with a luxurious Turkish bath sheet later, Vicki unmuted the phone. “Julia, we need to talk.”
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  “I know. That’s why I’m calling. Did you get the Campbells’ invitation?”

  “Yes. I knew you must have been invited, too.”

  “I’m certain the whole crowd will be there, including ol’ PP. This may be our best chance to finally confront the old bastard. It’s not fair that he continues to breathe the same air as we do. As much as I hate to spend a weekend with him and his latest trollop, I must say I tingle when I think of what I’d like to do to him, and the weekend party will certainly give me an opportunity. What do you think?” Julia asked.

  “I agree,” Vicki replied. “If there is anyone who detests Preston more than you, it’s probably me.” As if to punctuate the thought, she took a long swig from the champagne glass.

  “So you and Leon are planning to attend?”

  “Yes, Leon’s in, though he’d rather not be in the same zip code as that man. You know how he blames him for the horrendous tragedy.”

  “I know, and we’ve got our own reasons to hate him,” Julia muttered. “It will be much simpler knowing you’ll be at the party, too.”

  ***

  Andrea Baker, crime writer and horsewoman, was riding her beloved Mustafa along the trails between her farm and the Campbells’. The crispness of air and the steady clopping of horse’s hooves provided a soothing backdrop for her thoughts.

  The invitation from the Campbells had prompted her to think about the long history the two couples had shared. They had become especially close since the Campbells had bought Bucolia. Before that, John E. and Stan had worked together at Baker, McCall, and Brewster, the notable Wall Street firm. Before that, they had collaborated on several books about finance in their days together at Princeton. Though Stan was a generation older than John E., he respected the younger man’s intellect and ambition, and he felt an almost fatherly pride in John E.’s vast accomplishments. It warmed Andrea’s heart to see the Campbells following in Stan’s footsteps, moving to Philadelphia, buying the adjacent farm, and joining the ranks of horse owners.

  Andrea, pronounced “On-dria,” thought of herself as a no-nonsense woman. She managed her relationships as meticulously as she managed her waking hours. An early riser, she made a pot of decaf tea, donned her comfortable country clothes, and sequestered herself in her rustic office, where she conducted research and organized her current bestseller-in-the-making. The fact that she was now the premiere crime writer in America, and that stories came to her, instead of the other way around, didn’t appear to have gone to her head, any more than the fact that she and Stan were listed on the Forbes’ billionaire list year after year. She worked diligently throughout the day, rewarding herself with a late afternoon trail ride when she felt she had earned it. In the evening, she and Stan ate delicious, healthy dinners, and indulged in their passion for watching newly released films, mostly foreign, in their home movie theater. Most weekends, they hosted or visited their children and grandchildren, and, on rare occasions, got together with friends. It was a charmed life, Andrea knew, a blessed life, and she determined not to waste a moment of it.

  Today, as the sun was melting into the horizon, spilling vibrant pinks and corals over the horse stables to the west, Andrea was debating about whether she should be straightforward with her friend Caro. The thought of spending a weekend at the Campbells’ farm would ordinarily hold some appeal, since Stan and John E. were so close, and she and Caro had a lot in common. But the birthday celebration meant that she would have to suffer the company of some people whose values she truly disdained. Could she really tolerate it for a whole weekend? She didn’t think so. But she also couldn’t deprive Stan of participating in his protégé’s birthday celebration.

  At least I won’t have to stay at Bucolia for the whole weekend, she consoled herself. “Stan and I will be able to come and go as we please, Mustafa,” she murmured, patting her favorite Arabian stallion. “Maybe it won’t be so bad, after all.”

  Chapter 4

  Kitty Kelley glided on the arm of her husband Gerald to the ivory leather booth in the center of the new Japanese restaurant in Manhattan. People were vying for reservations at Oishii, but the Kelleys walked right in. Kitty loved being married to the head man at Miles Stewart. Gerald had penned a nonfiction best-seller, Essential Economics: Everyone Can Earn Millions. The fortune that had come from authoring the book paled by comparison, however, to the perks. Dry cleaners, shoe salesmen, restauranteurs, golf caddies, car parkers, literally everyone Gerald encountered, all recognized his name, if not his face. Kitty was happy to tag along.

  Tonight was Kitty’s birthday, so Gerald had planned a special dinner for just the two of them. As they settled into the comfortable seating, Kitty looked around with curiosity. She loved being the first to try new restaurants, and she was especially interested in the décor, since it was a hobby of hers to decorate and redecorate each of their three estates.

  “Hmm...” Kitty purred, as she assessed the sleek shapes and textures surrounding her. The delicate aromas combined with the visual motif to create a thoroughly pleasant feng shui.

  “I hope you like it,” Gerald murmured. “I wanted to do something special tonight.” With that, he drew a silver-wrapped square box from his suit pocket and placed it before Kitty’s rectangular service plate. “I hope you like this, too.”

  Kitty took her time opening the neat package. She loved imagining what treat lay in store almost as much as actually seeing it. “Oh, Gerald,” she cried, “it’s exquisite, and I love it.” She donned the South-Seas-pearl-surrounded-by-diamonds ring, happy that she had left her right ring finger unjeweled when she dressed for the evening. It’s so lovely being Mrs. Gerald Kelley.

  After the waiter took their drink order, Kitty remembered to mention the upcoming weekend at John E.’s and Caro’s. She toyed with her wooden eating utensils as she considered the upcoming party particulars. Secretly, she was looking forward to seeing Preston Phillips again, even though she hated him for standing her friend Margo up at the altar all those years ago. She had always felt magnetically drawn to Preston, maybe because they were both tiger-ish in pursuing what they wanted from life. She could never disclose those thoughts to anyone, however, especially not within earshot of Gerald, who had an even more compelling reason to hate Preston.

  “Let’s not ruin this beautiful evening talking about John E.’s birthday party,” Gerald said. “As much as I love John E. and Caro, I can’t bear to think of who will be at the party.”

  “Oh, we’ll have a fine time catching up with everyone, and that farm is so big, you’ll be able to avoid being next to the person you don’t want to talk to. I won’t even mention his name.”

  Gerald wiped his hand across his forehead, as if to erase the thought inside. “It’ll be a miracle if one of us doesn’t wring his neck in those thirty-six hours. Now, what would you like for your birthday dinner?”

  ***

  John E. Campbell stood in his farm’s vast temperature-controlled wine cellar, pondering which of his lovelies to select for the party. Despite Caro’s desire to keep the party low-key, he couldn’t entertain friends without treating them to samples of the many fine wines he had collected. Let’s see, he thought, we’re having an eight-course meal, so I can uncork thirty bottles from my seven favorite categories. He ran his fingers along the rows of reds and whites, sparklings and stills. Mentally reviewing Caro’s menu for the eight courses, John E. pulled appropriate bottles to make superb pairings.

  Many of the bottles evoked memories of his years at Baker, McCall, and Brewster when Stan Baker had taken him under his tutelage as both financier and wine collector. Others reminded him of his partnership with Marshall Winthrop, which had taken them both to southern France. In fact, many of John E.’s most prized bottles were purchased at the time when he and Marshall were growing their herbed cheese import business that had taken America by storm. It’s funny how a specific brand and year of wine can elicit so many memories, John E. reminisced. He moved the chosen bottles to the “on deck�
� shelves. There, they would recline in all their glory until called upon to impress the palates of some of the most sophisticated tasters in the country.

  ***

  Upstairs, Caro sat at the long soapstone counter, head in her hands, trying to figure out which couple to place into which bedroom. She and John E. had designed the house to accommodate large groups of family and friends, so space was not the problem.

  Let’s see, she reviewed mentally, we’ve got a total of six couples and nine bedrooms. The Bakers will stay at their own farm, so that leaves five couples. Why is this so hard? There were three bedrooms on each of the three floors. Like most of the country manors in this part of the country, there was no elevator and no bedroom on the first floor. That meant everyone would have to climb stairs to get to their accommodations. Her ruminations were interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone.

  Caro wondered who might be calling her so early on a Sunday.

  “I hope I’m not calling too early?” Libby Bloom said. “Les told me John E. usually goes riding early on Sundays.”

  “Oh, hi, Libby,” Caro said, glad to put down her pencil and paper. “I was just going over the room accommodations for the party.”

  “Well, actually,” Libby began, “that is why I am calling you.”

  Oh, no, Caroline thought. If Les Bloom isn’t at the party, John E. will be upset. Having mentored Les at Baker, McCall, and having introduced him to Margo’s sister, Libby Martin, John E. felt a patriarchal attachment to both Les and Libby. “I hope you haven’t changed your minds about coming.”