“No, I do not want to leave a message,” she insisted. “Officer Parrott gave me this number and told me to call him if I need anything, and I need something, now.”
“I’m sorry. Detective Parrott is in the field at the moment.”
“Tell him Mrs. Preston Phillips needs to talk to him ASAP.” She stirred her hazelnut coffee with a vengeance, spilling some onto the tray.
“Mrs. Phillips, I am not in immediate contact with Detective Parrott. I will have to relay your message.”
“Okay. Have him call me on my cell phone.” Nicole slammed the phone down. I’ll bet Preston never had to go through all this hassle to get people on the phone. Just his name opened doors. Why not for me?
Thirty-six minutes and several phone calls later, Nicole’s desk phone uttered its brring. The caller ID showed West Brandywine Police. Nicole grabbed the receiver with equal parts of eagerness and dread. “Nicole speaking, may I help you?”
Parrott’s baritone voice momentarily soothed her ruffled feathers. “Parrott returning your call. I understand you needed me urgently.”
“Uh, yes, Detective. Thanks for getting back with me.” I sound so pitiful. Preston would tell me to get that subservient tone out of my voice. She sat up straighter and cleared her throat. “Ahem. I’ve been receiving phone calls from people in high places who want to know what the funeral arrangements for Mr. Phillips are. Are you any closer to releasing the body?”
“Let me see, Mrs. Phillips. May I put you on hold?”
“Of course.” Nicole tapped her newly manicured nails on her desk, annoyed to have to wait. For some reason, the tune to Adele’s “Someone Like You” was running through her mind.
***
Parrott, whose case load consisted of Preston Phillips’ unexplained death and several other matters, was just as eager as, if not more than the Widow Phillips, to hear from the coroner. The longer it took, the colder the case would become, if there was a case at all.
He hated to pester her, but his intuition had been working overtime, and he wanted to be ready to jump in with both feet if death was not from natural causes. It wasn’t every day that he had a murder to investigate, least of all, one with such a prominent victim.
He rubbed his dry hands in anticipation.
With Nicole holding on line one, Parrott punched line two and speed-dialed Maria Rodriguez, Coroner for Chester County. He didn’t expect to get through, especially at this early hour, when Maria would likely be up to her elbows in body fluids. He was pleasantly surprised, then, when she answered the phone with a cheerful, “Coroner’s Office, Rodriguez speaking.”
“Maria, Oliver Parrott here, Brandywine PD.”
“Hey, Parrott. I’ll bet you’re calling about Preston Phillips.”
“Yes, indeed. Any word on when his body will be ready to go?”
“I just sat down at my desk to call you. We can release the body now. Toxicology won’t be back for a few more days at best, though.”
“Anything I need to know from the autopsy?”
“Just the usual. Patient stopped breathing. Organs in good shape, no obvious bruises or puncture marks.”
“Do you have an estimated time of death?”
“Somewhere between four and seven a.m. I can’t be more specific. The heated room slowed the cooling of his body temperature somewhat.”
“I’ve got the widow on the other line. Everyone’s impatient to arrange the funeral. Patient was high up on the political food chain, so lots of media attention.” The detective rubbed his hands over his cheeks as he thought. “Any chance you could put a super rush on toxicology? I have a feeling we’re going to get hit with a sucker punch.”
Maria shrugged. “I’ve already put a rush on it, but I’ll call and remind them it’s a high profile case. No problem.”
“Thanks. You’re the best.” Parrott rubbed the sides of his freshly barbered head before returning to line one.
“Hello, Mrs. Phillips?”
“Yes?”
“Sorry to keep you waiting so long. I’ve just spoken with Maria Rodriguez, the Chester County Coroner.”
“And?” Nicole realized she was holding her breath, the aftertaste of hazelnut coffee rising in her throat.
“You can proceed with funeral arrangements now. Mr. Phillips’ remains will be released for burial tomorrow morning.”
Nicole felt a surge of energy, either from the prospect of progress or the caffeine in her system. “So does that mean there’s a report? Do you know what caused Preston’s death?”
“You can discuss the autopsy results when you call to arrange for the body transport. It will only be a preliminary report, since the toxicology studies haven’t come back yet.” Parrott’s well-trained ear listened for an auditory tell, any unusual intake of breath or vocalized pause that might reveal the widow’s frame of mind.
Hearing none, he proceeded, “Mrs. Phillips, have you selected a site for the funeral yet?”
Nicole wondered why he was asking. Surely the police wouldn’t be interested in attending Preston’s funeral. “I can tell you that Andrett Funeral Home on Second Avenue is who I am working with. I need a very large space, most likely Trinity Episcopal Church on Wall Street. I know President and Mrs. Dalton are coming, and probably some people from the current administration, too.” Nicole fiddled with her gold filigree letter opener.
“Well, Officer Barton and I would like to extend our deepest sympathies to you and your family.”
“That’s very kind of you, Detective.”
***
Caro read to John E. from the Wall Street Journal, “‘Funeral services for Preston Phillips, Wall Street financier and former secretary of the treasury, will be held at Trinity--Visitation, Friday at two p.m. Service at three. Interment will be private.’”
“It’s going to be a circus,” John E. said, as he scraped the bottom of his bowl of steel cut oatmeal.
“I spoke with Nicole yesterday, and she’s received calls from the White House, former presidents, and news anchors. She was even approached by a publisher to write a book about her life with Preston.” Caro looked at her husband over her readers. “Can you imagine that?”
“It would have to be a very short book, I would think.” He chuckled and took a swig of coffee. “Maybe we should go into New York tomorrow morning, spend the day and night with the family. We could stay at the Peninsula for a couple of nights. What do you think?”
“That’s a marvelous idea. Let’s see if Mother and Aunt Penny want to stay with us. If we can get the Peninsula Suite, it would be ideal.”
John E. gazed lovingly at his wife. This was the first time since Sunday that she had sounded enthused about anything.
“But, of course, there isn’t anything ideal about Preston’s funeral.” Caro crumpled her napkin in her lap and looked downward, her eyes filling with tears. “How could I forget, even for a minute?”
“I know, Caro. I feel terrible, too.” John E. recalled the remarks about his birthday having been on Friday the thirteenth. “I guess this birthday was a bad luck birthday, after all.”
Chapter 26
The Friday morning of the funeral dawned with a brilliance of oranges and blues that made Nicole think of the Tropics, rather than the brittle urban landscape that it was. A cold front had clenched the city in its fierce grip, making the grim prospect of a funeral even more uncomfortable.
Eager to provide the perfect funeral for Preston, Nicole had arranged the location at Trinity Episcopal Church. The elegant medieval building stood at the head of Wall Street, its graveyard housing the remains of Alexander Hamilton, the first secretary of the treasury. Preston would have loved that.
Outside, the media surrounded the church, running film as people streamed into the entrances, trying to get in from the cold and away from publicity.
There were strict orders not to film the funeral itself, but reporters, bundled in layers of outerwear, had been on assignment since early in the morning, hungry for de
tails that would make for good copy. Preston Phillips had long been a favorite of the media. He was one of the few one percenters who had relished being photographed and quoted.
Like Nicole, they wanted to give Preston a media send-off that would do him justice. The catalogue of family members and those coming to pay their respects was extensive. Andrett’s had set up velvet ropes and multiple memorial books, so that visitors could move through the lines as efficiently as possible. The entire front of the sanctuary, from pews to apse, was filled with a profusion of floral arrangements, perfuming the chilly air with delicate sweetness.
One of Nicole’s sisters had come in from Albany to assist her with the logistics. Nicole felt conflicted over this. On the one hand, Francine was both capable and trustworthy, qualities desperately needed right now. On the other hand, Francine’s simple earthiness was no match for the genteel society types that would be gathered around. I might have been able to bridge the class gap, Nicole thought, but Francine--no way. I’m half-tempted to pass her off as a servant.
“When we get to the church, I’ll just make myself scarce, Nicky,” Francine said, as if she had read her sister’s mind.
“Don’t be silly,” Nicole said, ashamed of herself for being ashamed of her own background.
***
Andrea and Stan stepped out of a silver Tesla limo, having come into the city from their home in Greenwich. Not one to dress ostentatiously, Andrea wore fine wool pants and a charmeuse blouse, both black. Her black and gray hounds-tooth vest and black cashmere coat completed the outfit. She held onto Stan’s suede-clad arm as she entered the church, her posture erect and her demeanor appropriately somber.
Inside, her brain was a pinball machine, tossing questions about at odd angles and varied speeds. She couldn’t help feeling Preston’s life had been cut short, not by sudden illness, but by nefarious means. And if it were true, then someone at Caro’s party was responsible. But who?
For the first time, Andrea regretted not having stayed at Bucolia with the rest of the group. The times she was at her own place, and away with Nicole, were times she might have developed a clearer picture of the dynamics.
As it was, there was suspicion enough to put her on high alert at the funeral. In her experience, murder was a possibility in every young person’s death, and at sixty-seven, Preston qualified.
And if it was a murder, Andrea was itching to write about it.
***
Les, Libby, and Margo were sitting in the plush leather space of a chauffeur-driven limousine as they approached the elegant old church. Margo appreciated the fact that her sister and brother-in-law did not try to engage her in conversation or even chatter away in their own dialogue today. Her mind was occupied with thoughts of Preston, memories of things he had said or done, both good and bad. As much as she had tried to dispel the images of his dimpled grin, his trim physique, his pursuit and abandonment of her throughout the years, she seemed to be fixated on nothing else. One minute I feel profoundly sad, and the next minute I feel relieved. No more will I be under the spell of Preston Phillips. But if that’s true, then why am I thinking of him every waking moment, even now?
***
The Spillers and the Winthrops stood together in one of the two slow-moving lines leading to the mourners. Julia and Vicki had arranged for them to go together. “I can’t believe we had to go through metal detectors to get in,” Julia remarked to Marshall, talking over her shoulder.
“I’m sure it’s Secret Service protocol. Remember, it’s likely President Dalton will be here, if not the current president.”
Vicki gazed ahead at the crowd beginning to fill every seat, every pew. There were five rows on each side of the center aisle roped off, presumably for family and dignitaries. The lines reminded Vicki of the ones at the airport, where a certain etiquette was required in taking your turn to check bags.
Nicole, her ankle still in the protective metal circle, was sitting, instead of standing, in the front pew near the coffin. There was a strange woman sitting behind her, apparently tending to her needs as she greeted the vast numbers of people, most of whom were strangers. Of course, Vicki recognized Penelope Phillips, Preston’s mother, standing next to Nicole and looking quite dignified and composed, despite her age and grief. Next in line was Frances Phillips Worthington, Preston’s sister. Wearing a classic Chanel suit with stylish gold buttons, and holding a lace handkerchief in her hand, Frances concentrated her attention on her mother, even as she shook hands with each person in line. At the end of the receiving line stood Peter, Preston’s only child. Tall and handsome like his father, he welcomed people warmly, thanking them for coming to pay tribute to his famous father.
Vicki bristled when her eyes fell on Peter. She hadn’t seen him since the ill-fated sixteenth birthday party, when Tony was killed. Her throat thickened, her breath constricted, and she felt briny tears filling her eyes. You’re so grown up. My Tony never had the chance to grow up like you.
Leon, always attuned to Vicki’s demeanor, heard her gasp, and he focused his gaze in the direction of hers. Oh, no. Shaking hands with Peter Phillips may be more than either one of us can stand. He put his arm around Vicki’s waist and whispered into her ear, “Maybe we should get out of the line and take a seat.”
Vicki nodded, unable to speak. She tapped Julia on the forearm and motioned toward the seats.
Julia nodded, and she tapped Marshall, indicating for him to follow their friends. The four of them maneuvered their way out of the receiving line and into the tenth row of seats, where they made themselves as comfortable as possible to await the beginning of the ceremony.
It was only then that Marshall startled, turning to Julia with an amazed voice. “Look, Julia,” he said sotto voce, “look at what’s sitting on the coffin behind Frances.”
“Oh, my Lord,” Julia replied. “Is that an urn?”
“Yes,” Marshall said. “Apparently Preston has been cremated.”
***
Gerald and Kitty, in their matching fur coats, were among the last to make it through the line and take their seats near the back of the church. “Amazing how many people are here,” Gerald whispered through tight lips. “Don’t think I’d have this many at my funeral.”
Kitty started to chide her husband for his continued jealousy of Preston, but her attention was caught by a formal procession of dignitaries entering from a door at the apse. “Look,” she said. “There’s the guy who won the Nobel for Economics...is his name Rubin? And that’s the President of Princeton, isn’t it?”
***
At the last moment before the Secret Service cleared the way for the top-clearance attendees to enter, and unbeknownst to Nicole, Preston’s three ex-wives slipped into the row behind her.
Then the dignitaries began filling the five rows across from Nicole from the back, leaving the front row empty. Within minutes all but the front row of the church was packed with people. A hush traveled through the church as people noticed who was walking toward the empty row, first the secretary of the treasury, Andrew Kahn; then former President Dalton and his First Lady; and finally current Vice-President, Jason Ryan.
Nicole glanced with satisfaction at the number of people who had come to honor her husband. She felt special pride that even the vice-president came, especially since the current administration was of the opposite political party.
She leaned over to her mother-in-law to say, “Preston would be really glad to see so many people here.”
Penny Phillips clasped her daughter-in-law’s arm in a rare gesture of affection. “You know what they always say, ‘It’s a shame that the best party of your life is on the one day you can’t attend.’”
Chapter 27
Monday morning, December twenty-third, Nicole Phillips was wheeled into surgery to repair her ankle, her sister Francine left in the waiting room with Nicole’s cell phone. Nicole’s parting words as the gurney moved away were, “Well, Preston, wherever you are, life goes on.”
At
the West Brandywine Police Station, life was going on, as well. Parrott had immersed himself in the media coverage of the Phillips funeral. With his usual methodical precision, he had read and re-read the stories, played and re-played the clips.
The funeral was the closest thing to a state funeral as one could get without being a state funeral. All those dignitaries, hundreds of people.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was fishy. He rubbed his head as if to elicit the answer to his most worrisome question: If this guy was so darned important, why didn’t anyone seem that upset that he was gone?
Eager to move forward either to clear the matter or open the case, Parrott called Maria Rodriguez’ office. “Any news on toxicology for Phillips yet?”
“Just came in by fax. I think you may want to sit down before I tell you.”
“Sounds ominous.” Unconsciously, Parrott rubbed his palms together, his nerves taut.
“Just a very unusual bit of information from toxicology, Detective. Your guy had a good bit of rare poison in his system--it’s called palytoxin. Never encountered it before.”
“Polytoxin?”
“P-A-L-Y, not P-O-L-Y. It’s really sophisticated. Symptoms mimic a heart attack, respiratory failure, so it can easily go undetected. Whoever administered it must have figured to get away with it. You’re going to have a very interesting case on your hands, Detective.”
Parrott shook his head, unsure whether his worst fears or his best hopes were coming true. “Maria, where can I get information on palytoxin?”
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