“Noooo,” Libby said. “In fact, we’re really looking forward to John E.’s birthday. It’s just that we have a problem with Margo.”
An unexpected chill climbed up Caro’s spine. “What about Margo?”
“Well, you know she’s recently gotten divorced. She’s been staying with us. We thought it would be temporary, but when the time came to go back to Tuscany, she just couldn’t. She’s been looking at apartments in New York and Philadelphia.” She took a long breath. “Anyway, she’ll be here through the Holidays, and I don’t feel right leaving her for the whole weekend, especially when she’s so close to practically everyone coming to the party.”
Caro took a deep breath. A thousand thoughts tumbled in her mind, but her patrician upbringing gave her the good sense to suppress most of them. “Of course, Margo should come. Everyone would love to catch up with her, and we have plenty of room.”
“Thanks, Caro. I hate to impose, but I just didn’t know what else to do.”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” Caro replied. Let me do the worrying, she thought ruefully. How ever will I do the room accommodations now?
“See you in two weeks,” Libby said. “The three of us will be there with bells on.”
***
It was probably fortunate Caro couldn’t hear how the excitement in Libby’s voice dropped as she hung up the phone.
“Now,” Libby thought aloud, “how am I going to break this to Margo?”
Chapter 5
The Winthrops were the first to pull into Bucolia’s circular driveway Friday evening, December thirteenth. Julia unfastened her seat belt and opened the passenger door even before Marshall had come to a full stop. She was dressed fashionably in a citron charmeuse silk blouse, brown country tweed skirt, and high-heel Manolo Blahniks, with an Hermes scarf to complete the casual-chic picture. Her shiny black hair had been recently processed and trimmed to highlight the aesthetic facial enhancements she had treated herself to last month. There was no doubt in her mind that she looked good. She wanted to impress their old friends for Marshall’s sake, if not for her own.
***
In the spacious kitchen, Caro was putting finishing touches on the fresh flower arrangements, one to go in each guest bedroom, as she observed the Winthrops’ arrival from the kitchen window. The host, hostess, and farmhouse looked ready for the big weekend. The antique ceiling timbers and floor planks glowed. The pastoral scenes, Andrew Wyeth originals, warmed every room with the natural beauty of the outside brought in. The dining table was set with casual linen placemats and napkins, multiple wine glasses, and centerpieces made from fragrant heather and rosemary. A pine cone-scented fire completed the scene. Caro called to John E., her voice amplified by the intercom system, “First guests arriving, Julia and Marshall.”
“Coming up the stairs right now,” John E. called from the wine cellar, where he had been reviewing the wine selections with one of the caterers. He rushed up the stairs nimbly for his age, almost colliding with Butch, his all-purpose farm-hand-slash-butler, as he emerged in the kitchen. “No need to stop what you’re doing. I’ll help them with their luggage.”
“Happy birthday, John E.,” Julia sang, as she breezed through the front doorway. “Did you realize it’s Friday, the thirteenth?” She double air-kissed John E.’s cheeks as she handed over her Tumi overnight bag.
“Lucky day for me,” John E. replied. “I was born on Friday the thirteenth.” He held out his right hand, grasping Marshall’s elbow with his left, as they loosely, but warmly, hugged. “So glad you could make it.”
Marshall inhaled the aroma of osso bucco and sighed, as he stepped in from the frigid outdoors. “We wouldn’t miss it. It’s not every day you get to celebrate a big birthday with best friends. And, besides, I’m looking forward to some good food, good wine, and good cigars. In fact, I brought you some Cubans as a birthday gift. Don’t tell anyone where you got them.”
“My lips are sealed.”
Caro rushed in to welcome the guests. “Julia, Marshall, so glad you could make it. I was worried that the Fed might not be able to spare you, Marshall, with the Holidays coming up so soon.”
“I wouldn’t miss John E.’s birthday, no matter what the Fed had to say about it,” Marshall said, easing his burly frame onto a priceless Chippendale chair.
“Nor I,” Julia piped in. “I’ve wanted to see Bucolia for a long time.” She peered at the antiques in the built-in vitrine cabinet. “I want the full tour.”
John E. switched on the surround-sound system to play the golden tones of Lena Horne, backed by Blue Mitchell, one of his favorite CDs, while Caro, flowers in hand, showed the Winthrops to their suite on the second floor. “I hope you don’t mind sharing the floor with the Spillers. At least every couple has a bathroom of their own.”
Julia ran her fingers over the custom-made quilts on the beds. “I love how you’ve coordinated this fabric with the rug and draperies. Aren’t these the British country colors of Farrow and Ball paint?”
Caro was about to answer when she heard John E. opening the front door downstairs. The noisy chatter of Vicki and Leon Spiller drifted upward.
“Tour is on hold for now,” Caro said, smiling at Julia and Marshall. “Make yourselves comfortable, and come downstairs whenever you are ready. We’ll have drinks and hors d’oeuvres by the family room fireplace.”
***
Caro descended the staircase with perfect posture as she welcomed Vicki and then Leon. “Come on in out of the cold,” she said warmly, happy the party was finally beginning. She just hoped everyone would put aside their old grudges and jealousies for John E.’s sake. If it weren’t for Preston, I wouldn’t have to worry. But my mother would kill me if I didn’t include her dear nephew. She might be the only one who can’t see his faults.
“Is Preston coming?” Vicki asked, as if she had read Caro’s thoughts.
“Yes, of course,” Caro answered. And so it begins. What will they do when they learn that Margo is coming, too?
Leon and Vicki exchanged glances, which did not go unnoticed by Caro.
“Would you like to see the rest of the house?” she offered, hoping her internal radar was over-reacting. I do so want this to be a fun and relaxing weekend for everyone, even my crazy cousin, Preston.
***
Gerald and Kitty arrived next, wearing matching mink coats. Tiny snowflakes dotted their collars, as if they were shooting a scene for an old trendy magazine. These days it was rare to see a mink coat in public, and even rarer to see one on a man. Seemingly oblivious to this shift in reaction to public opinion, Gerald and Kitty glowed with ostentatiousness.
“Hey, Ger,” John E. boomed, engaging Gerald with a three-part handshake. “Welcome to my humble getaway.”
It had been at least four years since the Campbells and the Kelleys had been together in person, certainly not since Preston had edged Gerald out of becoming the president’s choice for secretary of the treasury.
“Wuhoo,” Gerald whistled, as he looked around at the décor, “ain’t it grand to be rich?”
Both men laughed. It was liberating, John E. thought, not to have to be self-conscious about their mutual wealth and good fortune.
“Happy birthday, John E.,” Kitty said, as she threw her arms around his neck. “Did you realize it’s Friday the thirteenth?”
“No worries,” John E. replied, seemingly for the umpteenth time. “Just lucky to have friends helping me celebrate this big one.” He took both coats, struggling to make room for them in the entry-hall closet.
***
The smoothness of Lena’s voice and Blue’s trumpet was overpowered by the pitches and rhythms of female and male voices. The whole group had not been together since...perhaps since John E.’s sixtieth birthday bash five years ago. Has it really been that long? thought Caro. The ladies certainly look no older. Even Vicki has maintained her young appearance, despite the tragedy she and Leon have endured. If only Preston and his first wife Laura hadn’t come
up with that sailboat birthday party for their son Peter.
“How is Lexie?” Caro asked, referring to the Kelleys’ thirty-nine year old daughter.”
Kitty replied, glancing at Vicki. “Doing well. She lives in Boston, teaches at the Helen Keller School for the Blind now.”
Caro realized too late that it might be painful for Vicki to hear about anyone’s grown children. “Come on, ladies. Let’s have some hors d’oeuvres and drinks.”
***
Vicki turned away, tears forming in her eyes. She still couldn’t hear about Lexie without thinking of precious, smart, considerate Tony, her baby, who had been killed at Peter Phillips’ sixteenth birthday party years before. I detest you, Preston Phillips. I hope you rot in hell for what you did to my kid.
Fortunately, there was a powder room on the way to the family room. “I’ll just duck in here for a minute,” Vicki said, her voice shaky.
Inside the small, but well-appointed room, she examined her reflection in the mirror, pleased that her inner turmoil was not revealed. She patted her brown pageboy and ran her finger under each eye, making sure no mascara smudges betrayed her strong feelings.
“You can handle this,” she said to her reflection. “You are surrounded by friends, and besides, there’s a good stiff drink with your name on it in the next room.”
***
At precisely that instant in the circular driveway, Preston Phillips emerged from his pristine Lamborghini, ignoring the pop in his right knee, and strode around to help Nicole from the passenger side.
“I’m really nervous about meeting your friends, Preston. I’ll bet they won’t like me very much,” Nicole whined. She flipped her straight blonde hair behind her right shoulder as she patted her collar, diamond necklace, and Gucci purse strap into their proper places.
“They’ll probably be jealous of your youth and good looks, baby, but don’t worry. They are all too refined to show their feelings. They’ve been holding them back for so long, their feelings are probably mummified. Just be yourself, and you’ll do fine.” Besides, the guys will probably lust over you so much, you’ll be the hit of the party. “Truth be told, I’m not too thrilled about this weekend, myself. These old farts wouldn’t know a good time if one slapped them in the face. If it weren’t for Caro’s being my closest cousin, I wouldn’t be here at all.”
“Promise me one thing, Preston?” Nicole grabbed her husband’s arm. “Promise me you won’t leave me alone with those barracudas?”
“Wish I could make that promise, but if I know Caro and John E., there will be certain activities that’ll keep us separated at times. Just try to avoid the fangs and claws, and if you don’t feel like talking, look pretty and stay quiet.”
Nicole unlatched from her husband’s arm and bit her lip. Preston pushed her toward the front door. Conversation time was over.
***
As Preston and Nicole entered the house, the friendly chatter around the fireplace stopped abruptly, as if an invisible conductor had signaled for silence. Simultaneously, the Thelonius Monk piece on the stereo entered a quieter movement.
Marshall sat up straighter as he recognized the voice of his childhood neighbor and former best friend. His normally affable features took on a coldness, his gray eyes fixed on his highball glass, his mouth a thin, wide line.
He watched, as seemingly oblivious to the indoor change of climate, Caro rushed over to embrace Preston and meet his new wife. “Come on in, Preston. And you must be Nicole,” she said in her most welcoming voice. “We’re so glad you could come. Everyone’s visiting in the family room, so take off your coats and come on in.
Marshall stared out the window at the gray landscape. The wind had kicked up, and the flurries had become full-fledged flakes. He tried to compose himself, but as Preston entered the room, all Marshall could think was that Preston looked like a coral snake, full of eye-appeal, but deadly.
I can hardly bear to be in the same room with him.
Preston smiled, showing dimples and the new veneers he had spent time and money acquiring. He greeted everyone as if there hadn’t been a shred of animosity, jealousy, greed or tragedy in their shared past. “Hi, Everyone. This is my wife, Nicole. I’ve told her all about you, and she’s been looking forward to meeting my old friends.”
If you told her the truth, Marshall said silently, she wouldn’t even have dared to come. Boy, she looks like a cheerleader. If she only knew what that old bastard is really like, she’d dump him, for sure.
A caterer entered with a tray of hot canapés, as the bartender took more drink orders. Preston settled into a chair by the window, framed by the now thickly falling snow. Nicole perched on the chair’s arm, her shiny blonde hair swinging behind her cashmere-clad shoulder.
Preston looked around at the group. “So, how’s everybody doing? Are we still all in the one-percent club?”
How obnoxious, Marshall thought. Especially after you convinced my parents to let you tie up their money while I was in Viet Nam. If I hadn’t gone into business with John E., I’d still be treading water financially, thanks to you. “Preston, must you start every conversation with a reference to money? People like you are the ones who give one-percenters a bad name.”
“Okay, Marshall.” Preston switched topics. “How’s your golf game?”
“Still holding onto my single-digit handicap. Played Pebble Beach in October. Sudden death playoff on the eighteenth hole,” Marshall replied.
“Sudden death?” Preston repeated. “That’s one phrase I just hate to think about.”
***
“Are all the guests here?” Vicki asked, as she plucked another brie bag from the tray of hors d’oeuvres. The smooth texture of the warm cheese and light crust in her mouth comforted her. It wasn’t easy to sit in the same room with Preston Phillips. If she hadn’t had that phone call from Julia, she might have declined the invitation.
“Actually, no,” Caroline replied, twisting her linen cocktail napkin in her lap. “Stan and Andrea Baker will be coming from their farm for dinner.” She paused, as if considering not answering further, then took a breath and spoke quickly. “John’s protégé Les Bloom and his wife Libby are coming, and Libby is bringing her sister--”
“Margo? Margo Martin is coming here?” Vicki gasped. Her eyes involuntarily slid toward Preston, wondering whether he had heard this news. She was rewarded by the slightest flinch in Preston’s handsome face.
“I thought Margo lived in Italy,” Kitty Kelley piped up, her plumped lips turning up at the corners.
***
Nicole leaned closer to Preston, adjusting her sweater to reveal a glimpse of her diamond-studded navel, and whispered, “Who is Margo?”
Kitty leaned forward, as if to eavesdrop on Preston’s answer to the question.
“An old college friend of Caro’s, someone I dated years ago.” Preston picked at an invisible speck on his sweater.
Oh, no, not another one, thought Nicole. It’s already obvious that Kitty Kelley is hanging on his every word. Is there no end to the list of women who covet my husband?
***
Caro diverted the flow of conversation. “I can’t imagine what is taking them so long to get here unless it’s the snow. And the osso bucco is almost ready. I know--why don’t we all go up to our rooms and freshen up a bit before dinner?”
“Good idea,” John E. agreed, standing to stretch his long legs.
Relieved to have changed the subject from the impending arrival of Margo, Caro reviewed the assigned sleeping arrangements aloud: “The Winthrops and Spillers will occupy two bedrooms on the second floor, where our bedroom is. The Blooms, Margo, and the Kelleys will stay on the third floor, and the newlyweds, Preston and Nicole, will be on the fourth floor. The Bakers, of course, will stay at their own farm.” Briefly, Caro envied them.
As the group gingerly climbed the stairs, Caro pointed out the various rooms. Though the farmhouse was newly constructed, the building materials and features were antiques, r
epurposed to give the grandeur of old money. The effect was a modern house with the charm and luster of an old country manor.
Kitty nudged Gerald as they turned a corner in the stairway. “Look at that brass horse door stop. It adds a perfect touch to the décor.”
Gerald grunted, trying to suppress the fact that he was short of breath from climbing so many stairs. “Glad we’re not on the fourth floor,” he replied.
***
“Knock, knock, we’re here,” came a voice from the entry hall.
“Anybody home?” Les Bloom looked about as he stamped his feet on the welcome mat and brushed snow from his Burberry.
The remaining five guests entered, unbidden, glad for the warmth and blended aromas of meat, garlic, and wine that greeted them just before the butler appeared from the kitchen to take their coats.
John and Caro rushed down the stairs in tandem. “I was just starting to worry about you,” Caro said to Libby. She turned to Margo, her eyes taking in Margo’s thick auburn hair and smooth complexion. She gave her a big hug. “Margo, you look marvelous.”
“You, too, Caro. You never change.”
The Bakers waited at the rear of the ladies’ reunion, having just seen John E. and Caroline the previous weekend.
“The roads are really slick out there,” Les said. “My car was skidding all over.”
“So we saw these kids on our way over,” Stan said, pointing to Les and his crew. “We motioned for them to leave their car at our place and ride over with us in the van. I don’t think anyone will be getting in or out of here without some serious snow plowing for the next few hours.”
Murder in the One Percent Page 3