Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  “I’m pulling some together right now. It’s all new to me, too.” Maria whistled softly, as if in amazement at what she was reading. “By the way, we might want to take another look at the body now that we have this report. You want to file to exhume?”

  “I hate to tell you this, but the body’s been cremated. I saw the urn in some of the media shots.”

  “Well, that makes me wonder about the person who ordered the cremation,” Maria said, “but then again, I’m just the coroner.”

  “I’d like to see what you have on palytoxin. How about if I come over by lunchtime? I don’t think I’ll be very hungry after I’ve digested this news you’ve given me. And I’ve got to inform Chief Schrik right away.”

  “No problem, Detective. See you in a few hours.”

  “Oh, one more thing. Can you sit on this information till I get there? Assuming you are going to rule homicide, this is going to leak like the Johnstown Dam. I need to involve my boss before it gets past your desk.”

  “No problem. My lips are sealed.”

  Parrott thought for a moment before punching line one. He wanted to plan his next steps very carefully, now that he apparently had a murder investigation on his hands.

  ***

  Francine Rafferty was enjoying a Marlboro in the hospital parking lot when she saw West Brandywine Police Department on the caller ID of her sister’s cell phone. Should she answer it or let it go to voicemail? At the last second, she decided to put out her cigarette and push the green receiver. “Hullo,” she said, with a voice that sounded like a rake scraping rocks.

  “Mrs. Phillips?” the smooth baritone voice asked.

  “No, I’m her sistah,” Francine replied. She shouldn’t have taken the call, after all. I’m not any good at pretending, and Nicky’s so far out of my league now. “Who’s cawlin’?”

  “Detective Parrott with the West Brandywine Police Department. Is Mrs. Phillips available?”

  “Naw, she’s havin’ h’surgery.”

  “Oh,” Parrott replied, “her ankle.”

  “Any message?” The gravelly voice sounded so unlike that of the young widow.

  “Just tell her I called, and...” Parrott let his voice trail off, just to see whether the sister would fill in the gap.

  “And?”

  “And I’ll call back sometime tomorrow.” What I have to say to your sister can’t be left in a message, he thought. In fact, it can’t be said over the telephone at all.

  ***

  The West Brandywine Police Department occupied a quaint stone-sided building with a bright red roof and lots of windows. Parrott gazed out at the frozen landscape from his second floor office, his feet glued to the floor. He had just this one last moment of peace and quiet before his whole world turned upside down.

  Homicides in the township of Brandywine were as rare as soup kitchens. In fact, the last one had been three years ago, and that, eventually, had been found to be a wrongful death, two kids playing with a gun. This sleepy little town has probably never seen a case the likes of this one, public figures, weird poison. It’s going to be a heater, and the chief is going to shit a brick. Parrott took a steadying breath, the kind he’d learned to take before pulling the trigger of a firearm. He couldn’t afford a misstep from here on out.

  He could have sworn the path to the chief’s office was layered with quicksand. “Chief, got a minute?”

  “Sure, Parrott. Have a seat.” Chief Paul Schrik was leaning backward in his red leather chair, his belt buckle reflecting the overhead light, and an uncurled paper clip hanging from his mouth like an unsmoked cigar. Parrott knew Schrik had just quit smoking a few months ago. The office still had the trace aroma of nicotine, probably in the walls and curtains.

  Parrott closed the door before seating himself in the red plaid conference chair. “Chief, this death at Bucolia, Preston Phillips. ME called just now with toxicologies. The guy was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned? You’ve got to be kidding me.” Schrik jolted to attention; the paper clip fell from his lips to the floor. “What kind of poison?”

  “Something called palytoxin, P-A-L-Y. Mimics heart attack, so the perp probably thought he’d get away with it.”

  “Holy shit, Parrott. This is going to be a heater. Guy is connected all the way up to the White House, for God’s sake. Is Rodriguez ruling it homicide?”

  “Not yet, but probably soon. I asked her to keep a lid on it. I’m meeting with her in the next two hours. Thought you might want to come.”

  “We can’t handle this case here. Too much publicity and pressure for our little department. I’m going to pass it off to the state police like a hot potato, maybe even the feds.” Schrik stood and began pacing. “Shit. And tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Just the right time to kick off the bloodthirsty public’s curiosity.” He smacked his fist into his other palm. “Go to Rodriguez without me. Ask her to give me a chance to break the news to the feds before she files her reports.”

  Parrott remained quiet. He knew from past experience that this was the chief’s way of thinking out loud, and, in this case, there would be no easy answers.

  ***

  Parrott showed up at the medical examiner’s office at the stroke of noon, eager to find out as much as possible about palytoxin.

  Even if the chief kicked the case upstairs, the local department would have to be involved. He knew once word got out that Preston Phillips had been poisoned, all semblance of peace at West Brandywine would fly out the window.

  He found Maria in her spartan office space. A manila folder lay open on her desk, her indigo-framed glasses laid across the stack of papers, her chin cupped in the palm of her hand. She looked up as Parrott rapped with two knuckles on the door frame. “C’mon in,” she said, “Prepare to be amazed and bewildered.” She pushed a half-eaten granola bar out of the way, next to a cold cup of lemon zest tea.

  “That good, eh?” Parrott asked. “I guess we’ll have our hands full.”

  “Well, your job might be easier if you can find out which suspects have access to fish tanks.”

  “Fish tanks?” Parrott parroted. “How do you figure that?”

  Maria donned her glasses and held up the journal article. “Palytoxin is, and I quote, ‘One of the deadliest poisons known to man.’” She continued, “It is produced by certain zoanthid species...coral reefs...readily available in the aquarium trade.”

  Parrott eased himself into the chair at the side of Maria’s desk and leaned over to see what she was reading. The page was full of diagrams of what looked like molecules.

  “Palytoxin targets the sodium-potassium pump proteins in cells and effectively shuts down the ion gradient essential for cell function. Symptoms are angina-like chest pains, breathing difficulties, unstable blood pressure. Just like a sudden heart attack.”

  “How does it get from the fish tank to the victim?”

  “In a few reported cases the poisoning occurred from inhaling microscopic bits during tank-cleaning.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Parrott exclaimed. “Anybody with access to an aquarium could harvest this stuff, and no one would ever be able to trace it.”

  “That’s the thing. Whoever used palytoxin to kill Preston Phillips must have thought the crime would never come to light. Heart attack symptoms, no blood, no vomit, just the total shut-down of the body’s cells. A clean and neat way to get rid of someone.”

  How fitting for the rich, Parrott thought. You wouldn’t even have to get your hands dirty. “How was it administered?”

  “Hard to tell. Could be dermal contact, could be ingested or inhaled. There have been only a few documented cases of palytoxin poisoning. The only sure thing we know is this is really nasty stuff. It’s readily available in the home aquarium trade, and its potency is so lethal that a tiny amount can kill a healthy human being in less than two hours.” Maria pushed away from her desk and stood. “Because this is such a rare finding, I’ve got special paperwork to do, notify authorities. We’ve both got our wo
rk cut out for us.”

  “Chief wants to be the one to control information. He’s thinking about involving the state police. He asked if you can give him some time before you file your reports.”

  “How much time?”

  “We need to notify the widow, who’s in surgery right now. Time to get the ducks in a row. Say twenty-four hours? And he asked you to put the lid on the people at the state lab, too. The potential for leaks here is very high.”

  “Okay, Parrott. Tell Chief Schrik I’ll talk to the guys at Harrisburg. Nobody wants to be responsible for screwing up this case. I do need to notify the Bureau of Labs in Exton, the CDC in Atlanta, NIH, and others, though.”

  “Are there any tissue samples left? I’m just thinking ahead that the FBI may want to do their own tests.”

  “Now you’re thinking like a medical examiner, Parrott. I’ll check and let you know.”

  “One more question: wouldn’t it be dangerous for the perp to mess with palytoxin to get it to the victim? I mean, how could he be sure that he wouldn’t kill himself?”

  “That’s a very good question, and one I’ve been thinking about myself. Whoever killed Preston Phillips was taking a very big chance. So whoever it was must have really wanted him dead.”

  Chapter 28

  Monday afternoon John E. and Caro entered their apartment in Rittenhouse Square after having spent the weekend of the funeral in New York with Preston’s family. By noon they had deposited each of the family members in the appropriate locations. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and Preston’s funeral had diverted attention from the usual holiday plans. Caro removed her leather gloves and stuffed them in the pockets of her lynx coat.

  Standing in the foyer, she glimpsed the crisp ivory, green, and gold decorations dangling from the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. “It’s good to be home, even though I’m not in the mood for Christmas this year.”

  John E. held the collar of her coat as she slid her arms out. “Maybe we should cancel our plans with my cousins. They’ll understand. We could drive out to Bucolia and just spend a quiet Christmas there.” He hung both coats in the closet.

  Caro shuddered at the thought. “No, not Bucolia. The memories of the party are just too fresh.”

  “Well, what would you like to do?”

  “I’d like to turn back time. I just can’t believe my cousin is gone. Or that he died in our house.” Caro didn’t know which was worse. Sadness and guilt churned inside of her, creating a whirlpool of negativity.

  “You know, it could have happened anywhere, Caro.” John E. hated to see his wife so torn up.

  Caro walked into the kitchen and sat down on a padded barstool. She ran her fingers along the cool granite counter at the base of the tropical fish tank. “Yes, but it didn’t. It happened in our home. I know it’s not rational, but I just can’t forgive myself. I keep replaying the weekend in my head, trying for a different ending.”

  John E. pulled out the adjacent barstool and placed his left flank on its square seat. “Hey, I wish it were that easy.” Then he remembered what today was and asked, “Isn’t Nicole’s surgery today?”

  “Yes, this morning, in fact.”

  “Well, maybe that’s one thing we can do for Preston. We can check in on Nicole and see if we can do something to help her.”

  Caro leaned over to give her husband a peck on the cheek. “Good idea. You are so practical.”

  ***

  Andrea hesitated for a moment before calling Caro. She knew Caro was taking Preston’s death hard, and she didn’t want to say or do anything to make it worse. On the other hand, with its being almost Christmas, all of Caro’s other friends were probably busy with festivities. If she recalled correctly, Nicole’s surgery was scheduled for today. Maybe Caro and I can go visit her together.

  She picked up the telephone and dialed Caro’s cell phone number.

  The ringtone, the theme from “Downton Abbey,” came to Caro’s ears from the interior of her handbag, left in the foyer. She sauntered toward the sound, reaching her handbag just in time. Caller ID showed it was Andrea. Somehow Caro felt a slight lifting of the heavy thoughts weighing her down.

  “Andrea.”

  “Hi, Caro. Just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you.”

  “Thanks. It’s been rough. I’m mostly worried about my mother, and Aunt Penny, of course.”

  “I’m sure it’s been a huge shock for everyone. What are you and John E. going to do for Christmas?”

  “We were just talking about it. We just aren’t in the Christmas spirit this year.”

  “You are welcome to join us at the farm. We’re just having a small group this year, very low-key.”

  “Thanks, but I think we’re going to stay in the city.”

  Andrea had expected this response, but at least she’d offered. She shifted to another topic. “Caro, wasn’t Nicole’s surgery scheduled for today?”

  “Yes, this morning.”

  “How’d you like to go into New York together tomorrow to visit her, take her some get-well gifts? With all of the Christmas festivities everywhere else, I’ll bet she’s going to feel very alone.” And I would give anything to spend some time with the grieving widow. In addition to cheering her up, I bet I’ll be able to get a read on how she’s bearing up. And who knows? Maybe she’ll have the autopsy results by now.

  “Funny you should suggest that, Andrea. John E. just mentioned that visiting Nicole is one thing that we could do for Preston. I think I’d like to do that.”

  ***

  The next afternoon, Nicole was propped up in her bed in her Dakota unit, dressed in a peacock blue velvet warm-up suit, its right leg sliced open at the seam to accommodate the thick cast from her toes to her hip. Still taking hydrocodone, she had the lethargic appearance of Cinderella long after the ball. She was cautious, however, not to let her guard down in front of Andrea and Caro. She would never let Preston’s family or friends see the Old Nicole. She had worked too hard to polish her act, her speech, her demeanor, her wardrobe. Now she would be wealthy in her own right, and she would never go backward. She had sent Francine out with a list of Christmas gifts to buy for the servants, a task that would occupy her for hours on this last afternoon before Christmas.

  Caro and Andrea sipped their lattes as they made small talk with each other and with Nicole, whose droopy eyelids betrayed her lack of interest.

  “Have you spoken with Aunt Penny since the funeral?” Caro asked Nicole.

  “She called to see how I was feeling this morning.” Nicole suppressed a yawn. “Very thoughtful.”

  “How long will you have to be in the cast?” Andrea asked.

  “Three weeks, and then I’ll start physical therapy. I just want all of this to be over with.”

  The house phone chimed its security tone. “I wonder who that could be,” Nicole said aloud.

  Sounds of the maid answering the phone drifted up the stairs. A moment later Rosa appeared at the doorway. “Mrs. Phillips. It’s a Detective Parrott here to see you, ma’am.”

  Caro and Andrea exchanged glances. Andrea felt a chill. In her experience, this could only be bad news.

  “Perhaps we should leave,” Caro offered.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m sure Parrott will be glad to see you both again, and I don’t want you to leave yet.” Nicole told Rosa to allow security to admit the detective.

  ***

  Rosa opened the door to the spacious foyer, and Oliver Parrott stepped inside. While she placed his coat and hat in the closet, he took the opportunity to look around the Phillips apartment. What caught his immediate attention were the high ceilings, the spectacular view of Central Park, and the media room to the left of the entry hall. Paneled in dark walnut with parquet flooring, the room was decorated in leather and suede. Framed pictures of Phillips with President Dalton and other mucky-mucks. Obviously Phillips’ retreat, no feminine touches. In fact, the only vividness in the room came from the back corner, where a large aquariu
m lit up the room with tiny moving splashes of color. He wasn’t certain from this distance, but it looked like there were plenty of coral reefs in there.

  Before he could look into other rooms, Rosa summoned him to climb the staircase to the second floor. “This way, Detective. Mrs. Phillips will see you upstairs.” He followed the crisp uniform up the staircase, still mulling over the fish tank.

  Before he entered Nicole’s bedroom, Parrott considered asking Rosa to remain in the room. In his experience, police business was best conducted in public areas of homes, and he didn’t want to take the chance of being alone in the bedroom with the victim’s wife, even if she was just out of surgery. As he approached the room, however, he heard soft feminine voices.

  “Hello, Detective,” Caroline Campbell said, rising from the chaise lounge and extending her hand.

  Parrott shook her hand then Andrea’s and moved toward Nicole’s bedside, where he shook hands with her, as well.

  “Please be seated,” Nicole said, emulating Bette Davis in one of those Turner Classic movies. As tired as she was, she knew she had to be on her guard. The Brandywine detective wouldn’t be coming to her home for something frivolous. She pointed to the Queen Anne chair next to the bed.

  “I’d prefer to stand, if you don’t mind,” he said, moving in front of the chair, where he could observe all three ladies. Looking down on people in situations like this one gave him a visual, if not strategic, advantage. “Mrs. Phillips,” he began, “I am here on police business. Would you like for me to speak with you privately?”

  Nicole liked the polite way the detective was treating her. His smooth voice and his confident demeanor impressed her. Still, she was wary and thought it best if Caro and Andrea remained. “It’s okay. Mrs. Campbell is family, and Mrs. Baker has been a great help to me with my ankle. You can talk in front of them.”