Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  As they approached the kitchen, he heard Nicole saying, “Have to hang up now. Detective’s here. Bye.” As he walked into the sunny kitchen with adjoining breakfast room, he saw Nicole, dropping her iPhone onto the table.

  “Mrs. Phillips,” Parrott said. As he took her hand in his, he marveled at how strong it seemed, despite its petite size.

  “Would you like to sit down?” She indicated the salmon leather chair opposite hers. Between them on the table was a bowl of fruit and a plate of cheese and biscuits. “Can I offer you something to eat?”

  Parrott’s stomach grumbled at the smell of the ripe brie. He hadn’t eaten since five a.m., but he declined. He wanted to keep focused. Food could wait.

  His eyes took in Nicole’s appearance and demeanor. She looked good, considering she was recovering from trauma, both physical and emotional. She seemed vibrant and fit in her low-cut tank top and velvet loungewear that matched her eyes. He wondered whether her ankle or her heart would heal first. Either way, she’d have enough money to ease the pain.

  “How is the investigation going?” Nicole asked, her tone inscrutable.

  “We’re moving forward, bit-by-bit,” Parrott replied, removing the mini iPad from his jacket pocket. He opened it and glanced at the notes on questions he wanted to ask her, most just single words on each line. “Thanks for seeing me today.”

  “Well, it’s not like I have something better to do,” Nicole answered. “I’m pretty much grounded for the next coupla weeks at least. I asked my doctor when I could go back to the health club. I can’t stand not exercising.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not for another six weeks. Six weeks,” she moaned. “I don’t know how I’ll be able to stand it. I may have to get a personal trainer to come to the house.” She shifted in her chair to get more comfortable then shrugged.

  She was perfectly made up, and she had done something drastic to thin her eyebrows since he was last there. It seemed she wouldn’t have to wait six weeks for spa services. “I’m sure it’s very hard on you,” he managed to say with a note of sincerity in his deep voice. He was hoping to gain this woman’s trust, though he was skeptical about it.

  “Yes, it’s been hard, but life goes on. Well, except for Preston’s life, of course.” Nicole took a tiny bite of cheese and rolled it around in her mouth. “I’ve boxed up the things Chief Schrik asked for. I hate turning loose of Preston’s things, though. Will I get them back once this is all over?”

  “Sure you will. I appreciate your cooperation. I wonder if I might ask you a few more questions.”

  “Go ahead. But first, I have a question for you. Am I a suspect?”

  Skilled in reading people’s facial expressions, Parrott controlled his own. “At this point in the investigation, everyone who was at the Campbells’ place the weekend Mr. Phillips was killed is a suspect.”

  “So, you’re saying, yes. Well, I didn’t do it. I loved my husband.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Parrott paused. Rushing into his questions might spoil the tenuous balance between concern for the suspect and concern for the investigation. “Ready for the questions?” When she nodded, he went on. “Had Mr. Phillips complained to you about any health ailments recently, either before or during the weekend at the Campbells’?”

  “No, but Preston wasn’t a complainer. I know he had a bad knee. He took some of my oxycodone that Saturday. Preston was a very private person, even moody. I learned not to ask too many questions.”

  Parrott wondered if the moodiness also applied to his widow. “This next question is rather delicate, Mrs. Phillips, but I have to ask. Were you and Mr. Phillips intimate during the weekend at the Campbells’?”

  Nicole’s thin eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “Why, yes, Detective. What does that have--”

  “It’s a routine question, Mrs. Phillips. Can you recall how many times you were intimate?”

  “Well, Friday night, for sure, maybe twice. I broke my ankle Saturday morning, so after that, I slept downstairs, and we didn’t have any privacy.”

  “Was it usual for you to have relations every day, or twice a day?”

  “Yes, it was. Remember, we were still newlyweds.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Phillips. But Mr. Phillips was not, exactly--”

  “--young. And you wonder if he could keep up with me in the bedroom. Well, he had help from the little blue pill, and he did just fine.”

  “So the fact that you broke your ankle meant that you were not having relations for thirty-six hours before his death. How were you two getting along during those hours?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, were you and Mr. Phillips intimate in other ways during that time? Was he attentive to you, did you spend time together, what did you talk about?”

  “It all seems such a blur to me, to be truthful. I was in a lot of pain and discomfort, taking meds, sleeping a lot. And we were surrounded by those people. As I said before, we didn’t really have any privacy.”

  “Did you notice Mr. Phillips’ interactions with any of the other people at the party?”

  Nicole flinched at the memory of Preston’s eyes on Margo, his leaving the table when Margo did on Friday night. She was determined to blot out the memory of their last conversation--when Preston said he didn’t think their marriage was going to work out. That, she would never tell anyone.

  “All of those people are just bullshitters.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “They all have a lot of money and power, and they love to hear themselves talk. The guys, I mean. The women, well, Preston called them barracudas, told me they were probably jealous of me.” She flipped her shiny blonde hair behind her shoulder. “If you ask me, those women were jealous that Preston was mine. He was by far the best-looking guy there, and who knows what their history with him was a thousand years ago. Probably he slept with all of them.”

  Parrott changed the subject. “Mrs. Phillips, were you aware that Mr. Phillips was the trustee of the Winthrop Estate?”

  “Marshall Winthrop’s money, you mean? I know Preston gets mail addressed to the trust, and there’s a file on it in the desk drawer. In fact, I saw it as I was packing up the items Chief Schrik requested.”

  “Would you mind if I took a look at that file?”

  “Not at all.” Nicole lowered her right leg to the floor and lifted herself from the chair without bearing weight on her ankle. It was a fluid motion, reminiscent of a dancer’s gracefulness. She propped her knee on the cushion of her mechanized scooter and moved it into place. “I probably won’t need this device much longer,” she said, perhaps as much to herself as to Parrott. “This way to Preston’s study.”

  Parrott walked a few feet behind the widow, admiring the view, despite himself. He was delighted that the questioning had led to an opportunity to enter the study without directly asking. As they passed, he noted the fire in the living room was past its prime. What a waste of a good fire.

  Nicole paused momentarily before entering the study. “It feels strange to go into this room, even now. It was Preston’s sanctuary. I almost never bothered him here.”

  Parrott was arrested by the spacious size and vivid colors of the aquarium, even more impressive up close. The movement within was at once frenetic and graceful, a microcosm for life in this neighborhood of New York. The fish and corals were the focal point of the otherwise colorless room. “Beautiful aquarium you have here,” he commented. “Does it require a lot of work?”

  Nicole looked at the big tank, as if seeing it through Parrott’s eyes. “I really don’t know. Preston took care of it himself. Fed the fish, cleaned it. It was one of his few hobbies, collecting fish. I suppose Rosa’s been doing it since--” She moved toward the massive roll-top desk in the corner of the room. She switched on the pharmacy lamp and sat down in the comfortable padded chair. Large file drawers had been fashioned from the stacks of drawers on each side of the chair opening. Nicole flipped throu
gh the files in the right-hand drawer until she came to the Ws. “Here it is, ‘Winthrop Trust.’”

  The Redweld file was thick and heavy, a big envelope with lots of manila files inside. Parrott could see the neatly printed titles on some of the tabs: Correspondence, Paid Bills, Unpaid Bills, Tax Information. Nicole thunked it onto the desk. Parrott looked over her shoulder at the contents.

  “May I?” he asked, as he started to lift the unpaid bill file out of its alphabetical position.

  He adjusted the lamp to improve the light and flipped through the short stack of bills. Wow, he thought, as his eyes trailed the bottom lines with amounts due. Airplanes, home maintenance, artwork--every one of them was more than Parrott earned in a year. He dropped the file back into its place and picked up the paid bill file. The top one was from a hospital stay at Mount Sinai Hospital for Marshall Winthrop. The itemized charges filled up the entire first page with several pages behind it. “Mrs. Phillips, I’d like to take this file with me and copy it. I need some time to study the contents.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s of no use to me. Do we need to ask the Winthrops, though?”

  “No, the trust has provided for a successor trustee, and I will make sure that entity knows we have custody of it.” Parrott clasped the file under his arm, eager to get a better look at the types of things Marshall Winthrop spent money on, as well as what had taken him to the hospital three months ago. “Now I have another question. Do you still have the toiletries and medications Mr. Phillips took with him to the Campbells’?” He hoped against hope that Nicole’s surgery and impairment had kept her from cleaning out her husband’s personal belongings.

  “Yes, I do. I haven’t had time to go through them, for obvious reasons.”

  “Officer Barton and I examined them earlier, but I just want to verify something.”

  “Okay, Detective. Follow me.” Nicole led Parrott into the “his” section of the “his and hers” dressing rooms. The long marble vanity was gleaming, the cabinetry polished to a high gloss, as well. Nicole opened several of the many drawers next to the sink. The first contained sections for razor, toothpaste, dental floss, and hairbrush. Everything was perfectly placed in its proper section, as if the person they belonged to had arranged them as recently as this morning. The second drawer was a deep one. It contained prescription and over-the-counter medications, standing upright.

  Parrott slipped a pair of plastic gloves on. “May I handle these?”

  Nicole nodded.

  He recognized the prescriptions he had seen in the bathroom at the Campbells’--Celebrex, Voltaren, Viagra, Restasis eye drops, Metamucil--in keeping with an older guy who had arthritis and a young wife. He looked at the labels of some of the other bottles. Acetaminophen, Aleve, nothing that unusual. “Are these the same bottles that were in Mr. Phillips’ Dopp kit that weekend?”

  “Yes, I believe so. I brought it back, and Rosa unpacked it.”

  “I’d like to take them with me, as well.”

  “Okay. Preston won’t be needing them anymore, and neither will I.”

  “I appreciate your being so cooperative, Mrs. Phillips.”

  “Sure.” This time it came out sounding like, “Shoo-ah.” The woman still had occasional traces of her not-so-wealthy past in her accent. Parrott couldn’t criticize. His own past had been not-so-wealthy, and his speech patterns had also been cultivated to fit in with the people and places where he worked.

  “Anything else?” Nicole asked, a bit of weariness creeping into her voice.

  “No, let’s go back to the breakfast room, and I’ll gather up the items and leave.”

  As they walked back past the living room, whose glass wall overlooked Central Park, Parrott realized the day was drawing to a close. He would be stuck in horrible traffic, tired and hungry, but he felt satisfied that he had made some progress. He looked forward to a full night of homework.

  Just as he was placing the Redweld file and the handful of medicines into the box on the kitchen counter, a triple buzzing sound issued from his pants pocket. Parrott pulled his cell phone out and saw Chief Schrik’s name on the caller ID. He swiped the green dot. “Yes?”

  “Parrott, are you still at the victim’s house?” Schrik’s voice boomed.

  “Affirmative, Sir.”

  “Well, you don’t need to come back quite yet. Go to Mount Sinai Hospital while you’re still in the city. It’s at East Ninety-Eighth between Madison and Fifth Avenue.”

  Parrott’s stomach grumbled, but he did not. He wanted to ask questions, but he was keenly aware that the lovely Mrs. Phillips was listening. “What’s there?”

  “Gerald Kelley is there. He’s had a stroke.”

  Chapter 34

  Kitty Kelley had been worried about her husband ever since John E.’s birthday weekend and Preston’s death. Of course, it had been unpleasant and shocking to all of them, but Gerald, it seemed, had suffered a personality change. Kitty had tried to tease out of him what was causing him to be so withdrawn, taciturn, even morose.

  “It’s nothing. I’m just pre-occupied with things at work.”

  Kitty knew better. Gerald’s position at the top of Miles Stewart had its ups and downs in the past, but she had always been able to navigate a life raft through the rough waters and save Gerald from drowning. This time, though, she wasn’t sure. Last night she had employed her ultimate tool in the form of her sexiest lingerie, and even that had failed to get a rise out of him.

  I don’t get it, Kitty mused. Why would Preston’s death affect Gerald so deeply? They weren’t even friends. In fact, they were more like rivals. Kitty knew Gerald had been angry and frustrated when Preston was appointed secretary of the treasury. Gerald had worked hard to develop the expertise and skills, intellectually and politically, to hold that position. Even the journalists had seemed surprised when, at the last moment, President Dalton had named Preston instead. But that was five years ago, and for goodness’s sake, Preston was dead.

  Gerald had been reluctant to go to Bucolia to begin with.

  He went for my sake. And I wasn’t very sensitive to his discomfort, either. Perhaps I should have gone horseback riding with him, instead of out to lunch with the girls. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so flirty with Preston at dinner.

  Trying not to brood, Kitty put on her newest outfit, a burnt orange Oscar de la Renta skirt, blouse, and sweater, and went into the city to take Mr. Melancholy out to lunch at McCormick and Schmick’s. She was going to shower him with attention until he returned to his comfortable, normal self. Maybe she would propose a spur-of-the-moment weekend trip to Boston to visit Lexie. Surely Daddy’s little girl would be a tonic.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Gerald asked, as they made themselves comfortable at his usual table.

  “I just thought you might need a break from your routine,” Kitty said, smiling. “And I needed to spend some quality time with the man in my life.”

  A doubtful expression passed over Gerald’s face, but he didn’t probe. Instead, he inhaled the aromas of garlic and fine herbs, and the wavy lines across his forehead seemed to fade. Kitty was glad she had brought him here.

  The waiter delivered their usual drinks, wine and Grey Goose vodka, neat, along with a basket of warm, fresh rolls. Gerald pinched off a sizeable piece, buttered it, and popped it into his mouth with a sigh of pleasure.

  Kitty lifted her glass of Chardonnay. “Here’s to us.”

  Looking embarrassed that he had started eating before Kitty’s toast, Gerald mirrored the gesture and clinked his highball glass with his wife’s wineglass. “To us.” He downed the contents in one smooth swallow.

  Kitty frowned, worries about Gerald’s state of mind renewed, but rather than spoil the mood by questioning him, she kept quiet.

  Gerald had ordered his favorite, the dry rubbed Black Angus ribeye steak, center cut, topped with lump crabmeat and butter, while Kitty ordered the chilled shrimp cocktail appetizer as her entrée. When their meals arrived, Gerald dug int
o his juicy and aromatic steak and crab.

  Kitty picked up her cocktail fork and addressed the first of her four jumbo shrimp when she noticed Gerald’s mouth drooping on the right side. In the next few seconds, her whole life flipped. “Gerald! What’s the matter?”

  Gerald dropped his fork onto the china plate. The clatter drew the attention of people at adjacent tables, including their waiter, who turned around and stared. Gerald was drooling. He held a napkin to his mouth with his left hand, but he slumped over onto the table, his right cheek barely missing the au jus gravy boat and saucer.

  “Help him,” Kitty shouted to the waiter. “Call nine-one-one.”

  ***

  An hour later, Kitty was sitting in the surgical waiting room at Mount Sinai. Someone told her a team of doctors was performing an intravenous recombinant thrombolysis on Gerald’s artery infarction. New vocabulary words were the least of Kitty’s distressful problems. She called Lexie, who promised to come in from Boston as soon as she could hire a plane, but she held off calling Gerald’s mother, who, she knew, would freak out and somehow make it to be all Kitty’s fault.

  Why was this happening? Why Gerald, and why now? Kitty’s ruminations of the last few weeks returned to rumble around in her brain. Was Gerald under so much stress at work? Was Preston’s death weighing on him, and if so why? Or was it the high cholesterol meal he was eating, along with the fact he was probably thirty pounds overweight?

  Strokes were something that happened to old people, not people like us in the sixty-is-the-new-forty generation. What if the effects of the stroke didn’t reverse themselves? Gerald was such a control freak. Kitty didn’t want to think of how he would cope if he were incapacitated. Or what if he died? All of the homes and cars and clothes and jewelry in the world couldn’t make up for his absence. The fact that what was happening in the surgical room at this very moment was critical to her future made her want to scream. She realized she had been clenching her teeth so tightly that both jaws ached. She needed someone to talk to, if only to push away the “what if” thoughts echoing in her head. She grabbed her cell phone and pushed the number for Caro at the farm. She knew Caro would understand.