Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  “The detective is going to ask us a lot of questions about the party, about our friends, about Preston. I wanted to get advice about what we should and should not say to him.”

  “But we don’t have anything to hide. Maybe Preston’s poisoning was accidental and had nothing at all to do with the party. And if not...if not, then whoever did poison him needs to be found out and brought to justice.”

  “Caro, did you ever stop to think that Detective Parrott might suspect you and me?”

  “Of course not. That’s completely ridiculous.” Caro twitched and shifted her posture in the Thunderbird’s bucket seat. “I like Detective Parrott. He seems very straightforward and honest.”

  “His job is to investigate a homicide, Caro. Harry says we shouldn’t talk with him without having a criminal defense lawyer present.”

  “Do we have a criminal lawyer?”

  “Of course not. We’ve never needed one before now. Harry is going to get us one.”

  Caro picked at a fleck of dust on the sleeve of her pink angora topcoat. “Well, is he going to be present in the next hour, when we are meeting with Detective Parrott?”

  “No, these things don’t happen that fast. We’ll just have to tell Detective Parrott to come back another time.”

  Caro pulled down her visor to shield her eyes from the powerful mid-day sun. “Don’t you think that’s rude? We shouldn’t have made this appointment with Parrott if we weren’t going to talk with him. Besides, if we tell him we want a lawyer present, won’t that make him suspect us even more?”

  John E. tapped the steering wheel with his thumbs. He didn’t like to be disagreeable, but her penchant for proper manners could end up getting them or their friends into big trouble. “Listen, Caro. This isn’t some television show, where things all come out right in the end. Police interviews have a way of trapping innocent people into saying the wrong things sometimes. I’m worried this will get nasty, if not for us, then for some of our friends. I just want to do what I can to minimize the damage.”

  “Well, what do you suggest?” Caro asked, annoyance curling around the individual syllables of her words.

  “Invite him in, offer him coffee. When he starts asking questions, defer to me. I’ll know when to cut him off.”

  “Okay. But promise me you’ll be gentlemanly. I couldn’t stand it if word got out that we were arrogant or uncivilized. I wasn’t brought up that way.”

  ***

  As Parrott started his engine and eased down the long, winding road from Sleepy Hollow, he marveled at the fact that the Bakers had spoken to him without an attorney present. Most of these rich people had their lawyers on speed dial for occasions like this. They must feel they are peripheral to the case. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been so confident. In fact, he hadn’t found anything in their comments that would indicate anything at all suspicious. They were friends with the Campbells, but merely acquaintances with everyone else. They were there for the dinners, but didn’t spend the night. With all of their money, they couldn’t be interested in Phillips’ wealth, and even if they were, they weren’t connected to him in any way that would give them a reason to inherit. No aquariums, either. No, the only thing at all suspicious is Mrs. Baker’s career. It wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility for a crime writer to plan and execute a murder, just to be able to write about it.

  Now, as he approached the Campbells’ farm, he hoped this couple would be as easy to interview. Somehow he doubted it. He mentally reviewed his list of questions. His plan was to address as many as possible to Mrs. Campbell. His first impression of her had been so positive. He just wasn’t sure about the Mr.

  ***

  “Won’t you have a seat, Detective?” Caro asked in her most gracious voice, ushering him toward the upholstered seating arrangement in front of the fireplace in the family room.

  John E. was tending the fire, using the bellows to pump air into the incipient flames.

  “Thanks,” Parrott said, as he took a seat in the spot where Nicole had been reclining the last time he had been there. “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice, especially at holiday time.” I suppose the Campbells have let their servants off for Christmas week, too.

  Except for the three of them, the house seemed deadly quiet.

  He rubbed his hands together for warmth, then, thinking the gesture might be misinterpreted as over-eagerness, he stopped and rested his hands in his lap.

  “May I bring you some coffee?”

  “That sounds good, sure.” Parrott could hardly believe his luck. No lawyer and coffee. It seemed like this would go as smooth as glass.

  As Caro went into the kitchen to get the coffee, John E. put away the fireplace tools and drew the screen to a close. He used the hearth to off-load weight as he rose from a squatting position and turned to the detective, grinning sheepishly. “It’s not as easy as it used to be,” he said, “You’ll see. One day you can stand and sit and walk and run, no problem, and the next day, you need a little help moving the ol’ body.”

  Parrott thought to muster a polite reply, but anything he could think of might sound flattering, condescending, or downright insulting, so he merely nodded. He had never been very good at chit-chat, and they had so little in common.

  Caro re-entered the room, carrying a small tray with mugs of steaming coffee. The aromas of the burning pine and the rich Colombian brew mingled to create an illusion of coziness, like that of friends enjoying a holiday afternoon together.

  A gold-rimmed plate of Madeleine cookies added to the party-like atmosphere, and if it hadn’t been for the grim occasion of his visit, Parrott might have been seduced into enjoying the Campbells’ hospitality.

  “Did you have a nice Christmas?” Caro asked the detective, as she handed him a mug.

  “Yes, ma’am. And I hope you did, too. Despite the circumstances. I’m sorry for your loss.” He took a sip of the black coffee. It was just the way he liked it, strong and just on the underside of scorching. “Mmm...it’s good.”

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  Parrott watched as John E. dressed his coffee with sugar and cream then stirred it with the same deliberation as he’d shown when nurturing the fire. He wondered if Campbell did everything with such precision.

  Though he hated to spoil the pleasantness, Parrott was here to do a job, and it was not in his nature to drag these things out. “Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, I appreciate your cooperation. I assure you the West Brandywine Police Department is here for you at this difficult time, and we promise to do our best to get to the bottom of what happened to Mr. Phillips.”

  Caro’s lips closed into a curve that only resembled a smile. The pain of Preston’s death, sometimes lulled into a dull ache, sharpened inside of her and stabbed at her with renewed vigor.

  John E. gripped the handle of his mug more tightly, preparing himself for what he knew would be, at the least, uncomfortable.

  Parrott noticed these small tells. He knew that questioning these two would be difficult, but he had to start somewhere, and the Campbells were central to the whole investigation. They were the hub that connected all of the spokes to the wheel. As if to bolster his resolve, he lifted a cookie from the plate and popped it into his mouth. He thought he might never have tasted anything so soft and delicately sweet. Vanilla. “Delicious,” he murmured, as he swallowed and washed it down with another swig of coffee. He placed his mug down on the napkin on the tray, wondering if it was polite to do so.

  “I understand the party you had the weekend of the thirteenth through the fifteenth was for your birthday, Mr. Campbell. Is that right?” He wanted to start off with a simple yes or no question.

  John E. answered, “Yes, it was.”

  “And did you send written invitations to this birthday party?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “Can you tell me when the invitations were mailed?”

  Caro looked at John E., wondering when he might stop the questioning. These first questions s
eemed innocent enough. Hearing nothing, she answered, “They were postmarked on November thirteenth, one month prior to the date of the party.”

  Parrott thought about whether one month was enough time for someone to plan a murder like this one. He supposed one day would be long enough if someone was motivated and clever enough. He picked up his coffee mug again and leaned forward. “I understand the main event of the weekend was a dinner party on Saturday night. Is that right?”

  John E. answered, “That’s right.”

  “And the guests stayed here in this house over the weekend?”

  John E. nodded. “The Bakers stayed at their own place, but everyone else stayed here.”

  “Can you tell me which houseguests stayed in which rooms?” Parrott asked as he pictured the walk he and Officer Barton had made up to the victim’s fourth floor bedroom.

  “Sure,” John E. replied. “In fact, I’ll draw you a diagram.” He went to the office for a piece of copy paper, a pen, and a clipboard.

  While he was gone, Parrott turned to Caro and asked, “Can you tell me what was served at the Saturday night dinner party?”

  Caro glanced at the spot where John E. had been sitting before answering, “If you wait just a moment, I can get the menu,” she offered. “I still have a few copies left.” She rose and went into the kitchen where she opened the desk drawer. There, on top of the receipts from the party, was the gold-embossed menu on sheer scalloped paper.

  She returned to the family room and handed the menu to the detective. “You can keep it, if you’d like.”

  John E. returned to the family room, sat down, and began drawing a rough sketch of the second, third, and fourth floors of the house then labeling the bedrooms with the names of who had slept in each. “I’m sure you’re considering who might have had the least conspicuous access to Preston’s fourth floor suite.”

  Without responding, Parrott put down the menu and took another Madeleine, while John E. completed his task. Parrott’s mind was accelerating beyond the maximum speed limit. He mentally rehearsed at least a dozen more questions.

  “Here you go,” John E. said, handing the page to the detective. “You can see that Preston’s was the only occupied bedroom on the fourth floor. He and Nicole were both there on Friday night, but after her accident on Saturday, Preston stayed there alone.”

  Not quite alone, Parrott thought, remembering the stained sheets and the lime green thread in the chair. “I appreciate this,” he stated. He picked up the fancy menu and put it on top of the room diagram in his hand. He ran his eyes over the curlicued words on the menu. Lots of unfamiliar terms, lots of booze. One item at the end of the menu caught his eye. “Truffles a la Vicki?” he asked. “Is that dish named after Vicki Spiller, the party guest?”

  John E. set his coffee mug down with a firm clunk onto the tray, and he stood up, his arms crossed in front of his midsection. “Detective Parrott, I hope you understand, but my wife and I have been advised not to answer any questions of a personal nature without having an attorney present. Since you’ve mentioned one of our party guests, I think we should halt this meeting. It’s not that we don’t wish to be cooperative. We do. It’s just that this whole thing has come as a shock to us, and we don’t want to say or do the wrong thing.”

  Parrott stood and mimicked Campbell’s body language, confrontation without ugly words. “I assure you, Mr. Campbell, there is no wrong thing, as long as you tell the truth. You and Mrs. Campbell have knowledge and perspectives that are important to solving this case.”

  “Yes, we know that. But just the same, I’m afraid we will have to reschedule this interview so we can have an attorney present.”

  “Okay,” Parrott conceded, dropping his arms to his side. He removed a card from the plastic case in his pocket and handed it to Campbell. “We’ll meet at the station, then. Call me and let me know when. The sooner we can get statements from you both, the better chance we have of solving the case. Do keep that in mind.” He started walking toward the entry hall, where Caro had hung his coat.

  Caro rushed ahead of him, bright red spots dotting her cheeks. “Let me get your coat.”

  Parrott made eye contact with her, and he knew she was uncomfortable with the way her husband had ended this meeting. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Campbell,” he said. “My promise still holds. We will get to the bottom of this incident.” He donned his coat and turned to open the door. Then he remembered his manners. “And thank you very much for the coffee and cookies.”

  Chapter 31

  Marshall Winthrop slumped in the buttery leather executive chair in his newly redecorated office at Thirty-Three Liberty Street in New York. He had a splitting migraine and had already taken 100 milligrams of Imitrex. He had skipped lunch, too nauseated to entertain the thought of food, and too preoccupied to converse with his colleagues from the Fed. Even watching the vivid tropical fish in his tank, normally so soothing, today made him want to smash the glass. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up with a stroke over all of this. Wouldn’t that be ironic?

  What was troubling him was Preston’s death. Well, not precisely his death. His death, after all, was something Marshall had often fantasized about over the years, to be honest. The Winthrop estate trust, thanks to Preston’s clever manipulation to become its trustee, had been written in such a way that upon Preston’s death, the assets would be distributed by the successor trustee, Metropolitan Bank and Trust, to the beneficiary, namely Marshall, free of trust. That meant, at long last, Marshall would gain control of several hundred million dollars, and Preston’s hands would no longer be in the pot, so to speak.

  For the past forty years, Preston had been paid a handsome fee to manage the money, which was bad enough in and of itself. But there was more. Marshall had been gathering evidence for over a year now that proved Preston had systematically looted the trust. Properly invested for forty years, that money would have been well over a billion by now. He had been preparing to go to the authorities within the next few weeks. Knowing a scandal would ensue--after all, it was the former secretary of the treasury he would take down--Marshall had been focused, discreet, and organized. In the week before John E.’s party, Marshall had been suspicious that Preston knew what he was up to. He had worried about Preston’s ability to thwart his plans. Now there was no need for any of it. The money would shortly be all his. Instead of being overjoyed, Marshall was shaken. It was like climbing to the peak of a mountain, only to find that the air up there was noxious.

  Preston’s death solved one problem for Marshall, true enough, but it created several others. Now he would have to decide whether to bring his suspicions to the successor trustee, Metropolitan Bank and Trust, so inquiries could be made into past accountings before distributing the assets. Would it be prudent to do so, now that Preston was dead? Marshall rubbed his painful right temple. Julia had heard from Caro that Preston had been poisoned. The fact that Marshall would benefit financially from Preston’s death would give the police reason to suspect him. It would only be a matter of time before they would be on his doorstep. And what am I going to do about that?

  ***

  Kitty Kelley also had a headache. She could not stop thinking about Preston, how much they had laughed together at dinner, how handsome and charming he had been. It was inconceivable that all of the brilliance and energy that had been Preston Phillips for sixty-seven years could possibly be contained in an urn and put away, never to be enjoyed again. It would have been bad enough if Preston had been ill, suffering, or met his end through a dreadful accident, but Caro said he had been poisoned--poisoned--and that single word wrapped itself around Kitty’s mind in a virtual pressure bandage.

  She poured herself a cup of strong black tea, its acrid smell and taste distracting her from the pain. “Ah, caffeine, do your thing,” she murmured aloud. If Preston had been murdered, she thought, almost any one of the party guests might have done it. The only ones who didn’t have a reason to dislike him were the Campbells, the Bakers, and Gerald
and me.

  Just as she mentally excluded herself and Gerald from her list of possible suspects, Kitty remembered the angry and jealous comments Gerald had made about Preston that weekend. Gerald had always been envious of Preston, even before Preston had been named secretary of the treasury, when Gerald had so wanted the job. And he had been jealous of Preston’s attention to me.

  With a jolt, Kitty remembered Gerald’s comment to Preston when he thought Preston was flirting with her, “Listen, you. Don’t get any ideas about my wife. You won’t live to see the light of day if you mess with her.”

  Could it be possible? Could Gerald have killed Preston? Kitty didn’t think so, but everyone had heard him say those threatening words to Preston just hours before he was killed. Would someone repeat them to the police? A sour taste rose in Kitty’s throat at the thought that Preston’s demise could, quite possibly, not only touch, but also overturn the very comfortable life she had built for herself.

  Kitty had half a mind to go to the police and tell them about all of the back stories, the grievances that everyone, especially the Winthrops, the Spillers, and Margo and her sister Libby, had against Preston. If she didn’t tell them, how would they ever find out? It wasn’t natural for people of their wealth and stature in the community to discuss such things, and she was certain that everyone would huddle together to protect themselves and their friends from exposure. It wasn’t right.

  ***

  Leon was worried about Vicki. He was used to her hangovers and nights of fitful restlessness, but ever since the weekend at Bucolia, she had seemed withdrawn in a way that he hadn’t seen since Tony’s death twenty-five years ago. She had closed herself up in the bedroom, pulling the darkening shades to keep out sunlight, unplugging the telephone to keep out noise. “Headaches,” she cried. “I can’t stand these headaches.”