Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  “Yes, ma’am,” Parrott replied. “It’s about Mr. Phillips’ death, of course.” Parrott was on full alert, realizing that three of the fourteen suspects were in his presence, about to be told that the death had been ruled a homicide. “I’ve brought you the autopsy report from the ME’s office. I know you have a lot on your plate right now, with your surgery and all, but I need to interview you again. In fact--” He turned toward the chaise lounge, where Andrea and Caro were sitting. “--I need to interview you again, as well.”

  “Interview me again? For what? I’ve already told you everything I know. Is there something you’re not telling me about Preston’s death?” Despite her desire to appear in control of herself, Nicole found her voice sounding like a violin, playing a melancholy vibrato.

  “Mrs. Phillips, when you read the toxicology report, you will learn that your husband did not die a natural death. He was poisoned.”

  Chapter 29

  Back at the West Brandywine Police Station, Parrott sat in Chief Schrik’s office, while the chief paced, looking at, but not seeing, the snowy vista outside the window. Preston Phillips’ laptop computer sat in his lap.

  “...she appeared to be shocked. All three women did. When I said the word ‘homicide,’ Mrs. Phillips flinched then cried out, ‘Omigod.’ The other ladies went to the bed where she was sitting. Mrs. Campbell put her arm around Mrs. Phillips, and Mrs. Baker took her hand. It was a picture of grief and sympathy. The only thing is--”

  “What?” Schrik interrupted, biting down on his paper clip with the sharp final T sound.

  “It seemed artificial. As if the ladies were following stage directions in a play. But the most interesting part was the huge fish tank in the study. Plenty of coral, too. I could see it from the front door. This lady really interests me. Married to the guy for just six months, she probably inherits big-time. She’s got means, motive, and opportunity.”

  “Yeah, but what about that metal contraption on her foot? Didn’t you tell me she was sleeping on the first floor, while the vic was on the fourth floor the night of the homicide?”

  “Yes. At first, I thought that would alibi her out, but now I’m not so sure. What if she poisoned him before he went upstairs, at dinner or afterward? And she’s young and fit. Maybe she managed to scoot herself up the stairs, anyway.”

  “Newlyweds, eh? May-December marriage?” Schrik made another turn around his desk and back toward the window. “Why would she want him dead so soon after the wedding?”

  “I’m not sure, but I have a theory. Phillips was a known playboy. What if she married him for his dough and then felt insecure about holding onto him? Maybe she suspected he was losing interest in her, looking for someone else? She could have decided to get rid of him before he got rid of her and left her with nothing.”

  “Well, you’ve got a lot of holes to fill, Parrott. Do you think this gal’s sophisticated enough to know about, much less handle, such a deadly poison? How did she administer it to him with a broken ankle holding her back? How much does she inherit, anyway? This guy’s a billionaire. I don’t see him going into a marriage with a young chick without a pre-nup.” The chief punctuated this last word by pounding his hand on his desk. He then sat in his chair and swiveled side-to-side, deep in thought. “We just don’t have the manpower to investigate this case on our own, Parrott. You’re a good man, but the people who were at the Campbells’ farm that weekend are very smart, very rich, very influential people.” He raised his voice. “Phillips was so connected. My phone’s been ringing off the hook with ‘inquiries’ from people in high places. I just don’t like it.” He stood again and returned to fashioning a pattern of footsteps in the carpet. “And we’re contending with the calendar, too. Nobody wants to answer questions from police this time of the year. Offices are closed. It’s a mess.”

  “Well, anyway, I brought you this,” Parrott said, placing the victim’s laptop on the chief’s desk. The technology expert would open it up like a juicy watermelon then offer slices of information for the investigation. That was, if there were any. Parrott picked up a snow scene paperweight from the chief’s desk and turned it over, watching the artificial flakes drift onto the plastic ground. He felt a chill.

  “I contacted the FBI and the state police,” the chief continued. “Feebies say they don’t have jurisdiction. If Phillips were still in office as secretary of the treasury, it would be different. State police offered the support of their labs. I’d give my right nut to be able to get more samples from the victim’s body, but, ‘No. The body’s been cremated.’ We can’t seem to catch a break.”

  He pulled the paper clip from his mouth and pointed it at Parrott.

  Parrott knew better than to interject his thoughts when Schrik was on a tear, and this might be the worst one yet. The louder Schrik’s voice became, the more Parrott wrapped himself in imaginary insulation. Yes, this was a tough case, and yes, there would be a lot of pressure to solve it quickly, but he had ideas, and ideas led to questions, and questions led to answers. He was up for the challenge, despite his boss’s pessimism. At twenty-six years old, Parrott was experienced enough to know how to proceed and energetic enough to embrace the challenge. He was glad the feds didn’t want to touch this case. Like the cheetah, he was crouching behind the brush, waiting to leap into action. He could just imagine his cockatiel chirping, “Oh, dear.”

  ***

  Christmas morning Parrott spent researching palytoxin. Maria had given him a folder full of information, along with the autopsy and toxicology reports. He spread them out over the maple breakfast room table and studied them, a pot of chicory coffee beside him on the counter. Every so often he glanced at the framed picture of his fiancée, in full dress Navy uniform. It felt wrong to be apart on Christmas. While she was fighting her battles, he would fight his own.

  When he finished making notes from the reports, he roused his computer from sleep mode and took it on an internet adventure. There wasn’t a lot of information about palytoxin yet, just some horror stories of how people accidentally poisoned themselves, cleaning their fish tanks, and some scientific explanations of what palytoxin does to the cells of the body. What if one of the suspects had been looking for a discreet way to get rid of Preston Phillips, and read one of these articles?

  After hopping around the table as Parrott worked, the bird had fallen asleep, using Maria’s folder as a pillow. The quiet served as a counterpoint to his roiling thoughts. At two he showered, shaved, and dressed in neat khakis and a plaid shirt. He organized his notes and straightened up the kitchen before leaving for a family gathering in Cain. I’ll spend a few hours doing Christmas, and then I’ll get back in the saddle.

  ***

  Early the next morning, Parrott presented Chief Schrik with a list of investigative tasks. It included the usual bank, credit card, phone records, daily planner information that would build a picture of what Preston Phillips had been doing in the days and weeks before his death. It also included questions about Phillips’ will, marriage, pre-nuptial agreement, and property. The most unusual items on the list had to do with the guests at John E. Campbell’s birthday party, who they were, what they did, where they lived, how they connected to Phillips, and, most importantly, whether they owned or had access to aquariums.

  Schrik sighed as he read over the list. He flicked his paper clip as though dropping an ash from a cigarette. “Okay, Parrott. We’ll get the grunt work done. You interview the party people. Oh, and one more thing. These party people, the ones who are suspects, be sure to Mirandize them before you interview them. Even if it tips them off, you need to dot your Is and cross your Ts, or what they say may not be admissible in court. And for heaven’s sake, keep in touch. I’ll be the one getting all of the phone calls from ex-presidents and government officials.”

  ***

  Parrott had hoped to start off with a return visit to Bucolia first thing, but Caro and John E. were still in Philadelphia and wouldn’t be at the farm until later that afternoon.
He decided to pay a visit to Andrea Baker at noon, and then swing over to interview the Campbells.

  A break in the weather made the fifteen-minute drive to the Bakers’ farm, Sleepy Hollow, a pleasant experience with blue skies and melting snow. Parrott cracked his car window, so he could feel a slice of fresh air, and he hummed a tune as he reviewed the questions he had for the crime writer. She’s a sharp one. I’m sure she picked up some vibes throughout the weekend. I just hope she’s willing to share what she knows. For all I know, she could be protecting the details for a book she’s writing.

  It took another five minutes to drive from the front gates of Sleepy Hollow, follow the curvy lane, and pull up in front of the massive taupe brick home.

  Parrott felt as though he had been transported to the English countryside as he gazed up at the antique structure. He was standing next to his car, shielding his eyes from the bright sun, when Andrea’s cheerful voice brought him back to reality.

  “Welcome, Detective. I hope my directions were clear.” Andrea was dressed in her riding clothes, slim-leg pants, blouse, checked vest, and velvet blazer, with a cashmere scarf tied around her neck. She shook Parrott’s hand with the firmness of someone who felt comfortable with her place in the world. “Come on in.”

  Parrott crossed the threshold into what could only be described as a palatial manor house. The high ceilings and stone walls belonged to another century. He recalled that the money came from her family, not his. A bright fire was gobbling the wood in the fireplace in the center of the living room, where three rust-colored chenille sofas and a coffee table created an inviting space.

  Andrea held out her arms. “May I take your coat?”

  Parrott wiped his boots on the Oriental rug at the door. He looked around, amazed Andrea had met him at the front door, and not a servant in sight. He shed his coat and handed it over.

  “Paula’s got the week off to be with family over Christmas,” Andrea explained, as if she had read his mind. She lifted a monogrammed wooden hanger from the entry hall closet and dressed it with the detective’s wool-lined trench coat. She filed it in the closet between a shearling and a full-length man’s leather coat. “My husband is still out riding, but he’ll join us within the next few minutes. Why don’t we sit down?” Andrea pointed to the seating arrangement.

  Parrott sat at the end of the center sofa. Andrea took a seat on the adjacent one. An end table served as a buffer between the two people, between their different worlds. Parrott removed a mini-iPad from his jacket pocket. Pleasantries completed, he was ready to begin with his prepared questions.

  Parrott positioned himself sideways, so he could observe facial expressions and body language better. He hated these perpendicular seating arrangements. “I hope you don’t mind answering a few questions. As a crime writer, I’m sure you have an excellent memory for details, and I’d appreciate your help in this homicide.”

  “Glad to help. After all, Caro is one of my closest friends, and Preston was her cousin. I’m as anxious as you to see this matter resolved successfully.”

  “Well, then, what was your relationship to Mr. Phillips, beyond being friends with his cousin?”

  “Oh, I knew Preston for several years, of course, because of Caro and John E., but my husband and I were not part of the crowd that grew up and went to college together. Stan was John E.’s graduate business professor and mentor at Princeton, and that’s how we met the Campbells originally. We didn’t become close friends until they moved out here a few years ago.”

  “Can you give me a recap of all of the activities and events that occurred this weekend at the Campbells’ farm?”

  “Sure, but Stan and I weren’t staying at Bucolia, so you might want to get that list from someone who was.” Andrea untied the scarf around her neck and began playing with the ends.

  Parrott leaned forward and raised an eyebrow, indicating he wanted her to answer the question.

  “Well, we all gathered Friday night for drinks and dinner. Friday the thirteenth. That was John E.’s actual birthday. Saturday morning the men and Nicole and I went horseback riding. That’s when Nicole was thrown from her horse and broke her ankle.”

  “What were the rest of the guests doing while you were riding?” Parrott asked.

  “Shopping and having lunch, I think. Libby is pregnant and didn’t want to ride.”

  “Go on,” Parrott said.

  “Saturday afternoon Nicole was at Brandywine Hospital. I went there with her in the ambulance. Once Preston got to the hospital, I called for a ride and came back home. Stan and I went back to Bucolia around seven. We had an elaborate evening of food and drink that lasted well past midnight.”

  “What was the seating arrangement at dinner?” Parrott asked.

  Andrea was not surprised by any of the questions thus far, including this one. “Boy-girl-boy-girl. We did not sit with our spouses.”

  Parrott’s right eyebrow lifted.

  “That’s not unusual in our circle, Detective. Party hostesses often mix up couples in order to spark livelier conversation. Anyway, Nicole couldn’t sit at the table for long. She was in a lot of pain.”

  “Who sat on either side of Mr. Phillips?”

  “Let me see,” Andrea fiddled with her scarf, trying to remember. “I think it was Kitty Kelley on one side. She and Preston seemed to be talking and laughing a lot throughout the evening. I’m not sure about the other side, unless it was Caro. Oh, yes, that was it. Preston was at the corner of the table, and Caro was at the end. I’m sure that was the only place Caro could seat Preston.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Parrott asked, eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly.

  “Well, Preston was not exactly Mr. Popularity. There was bad blood between him and some of the other guests, and he had the kind of abrasive personality that just rubbed people the wrong way, especially men.”

  “Can you elaborate? Who, exactly, didn’t get along with Mr. Phillips, and why?”

  Andrea re-tied her scarf then untied it again. She knew her answer would be of importance to establishing a motive to poison Preston. In truth, she didn’t know all the back stories, at least not in detail, but she would tell the detective what she knew.

  In her experience, cooperating with police officers made for the kinds of relationships that led to juicy details for fascinating books. “You’ll have to ask Caro for particulars, but I think just about everyone there had some reason to dislike Preston. And it showed. There was a lot of verbal sniping going on from the moment the party started on Friday night. Oh, and heavy flirting, too.”

  “Oh? Who was flirting?”

  “Preston was flirting with Margo Rinaldi. He left the dinner table when she did on Friday night, and everyone noticed.”

  “I imagine that didn’t go over too well with Mrs. Phillips,” Parrott murmured.

  “I’m sure not.” Andrea muttered, “I’m starting to feel like the town gossip. I hate talking about people this way, but, of course, a murder investigation requires us to open up.”

  At that moment the whoosh of a door opening and a blast of cool air interrupted the conversation. Stan Baker, slim and attractive in riding breeches and leather boots, strode over to his wife’s side, putting his arm around her shoulders. He reached out to shake Parrott’s hand. “Hello, Detective. I hope your conversation with my wife has been helpful.”

  “Very helpful,” Parrott replied. “And now I’d like to ask a few questions of you, sir.”

  Stan perched on the edge of the sofa next to his wife. “Go ahead.”

  Parrott asked some routine questions about how Stan was connected to the Campbells and to Preston Phillips. Had he noticed anyone expressing ill will toward Mr. Phillips during the weekend?

  Stan’s answers were short and unremarkable.

  Parrott made eye contact with Stan before verbalizing his next question. “Mr. Baker, do you or your wife have, on any of your properties, an aquarium?”

  Stan’s expression was, in Parrott’s opi
nion, one of genuine surprise. A quick glance at Andrea showed a similar expression. The couple looked at each other as if they weren’t sure they had heard the question correctly.

  “An aquarium?” they said simultaneously. “Why, no. We collect horses, not fish.”

  Chapter 30

  The Campbells drove in silence to their Pennsylvania farm, lost in thought. Caro dreaded returning to the farm. She felt it was a bad luck place since her cousin had died there. Now they were going to have to submit to questioning by Detective Parrott, a nice enough guy, but still. It would be very intrusive and painful.

  John E.’s thoughts were slightly different. The farm was his indulgence, his favorite place on earth. Usually, the drive from Philadelphia to Bucolia was a delightful anticipation of peaceful and joyful days and nights away from the city and its pressures. Today John E. worried about his wife. Would she ever recover from the trauma of her cousin’s death? The poison that killed Preston may have also killed the Campbells’ pleasure in their country home. Moreover, his friends--this meeting with the police detective would certainly churn up details about his friends’ lives, their relationships, their privacy. I hate it that my birthday party was the catalyst for what will surely become a dirty and ugly chapter in all of our lives.

  John E. rolled up the car windows that had been cracked to provide fresh air, so that he could be heard. “Caro?”

  “What?” Caro broke from her thoughts about playing board games with Preston as a child and never being able to beat him.

  “I contacted Harry Southfield about this meeting with the detective.”

  “Our attorney? But why?”