Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  ***

  Caro, as fate would have it, was on the phone with Chief Schrik when Kitty’s call beeped into call waiting. Schrik was attempting to follow up with her on the source of the seafood used in the bouillabaisse and the halibut cheeks served in the Saturday night dinner. Palytoxin had been known to appear in tainted seafood. He doubted this was how the victim had been poisoned, since he seemed to be the only person affected, and everyone there had eaten the fish. Still, it was good to be thorough.

  “Can you hold on a minute, Chief?” Caro asked. “I’m getting an important call.” Caro could see that the call was only from Kitty, but she was eager to jump on any excuse to get away. Since John E. had warned her not to talk to the police, she was skittish about saying the wrong thing. She was supposed to refer him to the attorney immediately, but that seemed rude, and contrary to the way she had been raised. Of course, her mother probably never dreamed she would be in the position of being a suspect in a murder.

  ***

  Schrik took a pretend-drag of his paper clip cigarette as he waited for Caro to come back to the phone. He had a few more questions to ask about the items consumed at the party, and he hoped she wouldn’t cut him off and refer him to her attorney. Of all the people involved in the case, he found Mrs. Campbell the least suspicious. Despite the slight tremor in her voice that betrayed nervousness, she was polite and kind. His thoughts were interrupted when she patched back in with a click.

  “Chief, would you please contact our attorney, David Louis of Anderson, Glasser, and Louis? That was Kitty Kelley on the other line. Gerald has had a stroke and is at Mount Sinai Hospital. I need to get into the city to be there with Kitty while Gerald is in surgery.”

  ***

  Parrott stopped at Corner Café and Bakery after slugging his way through rush hour traffic and parking in the hospital lot. He ordered a build-your-own sandwich and two large peanut butter cookies. “Give me a half dozen more cookies, different kinds,” he said, as an afterthought.

  It couldn’t hurt to take a bag of goodies into the hospital with him. In his experience, people under stress appreciated gifts of food.

  The cookies might make up for what might be considered the rudeness of his appearance there while the Kelleys were in crisis. He knew why Schrik wanted him there, but he hated barging in on people when they were at their worst.

  He chewed and swallowed on the run, barely tasting the advertised whole wheat goodness and freshness of his combination lunch and dinner. What would he find when he got there, what would he say, and what might he be able to learn? Truthfully, the Kelleys had not been high on his list of people to interview. He would have gotten around to them eventually, but so far he hadn’t learned anything that would serve as a motive for either of them. He had been more concerned about Nicole Phillips, the Winthrops, the Spillers, and Margo Rinaldi. But fate had a way of throwing curve balls into investigations, and he might as well swing at this one. Besides, he doubted either of the Kelleys would even think about having an attorney with them at the hospital.

  The woman at the information desk directed him to the eighth floor, where neurosurgery and its waiting room were located. As he stepped off the elevator he could see Kitty Kelley in her bitter orange outfit, her legs crossed, one pumping rhythmically. Blobs of mascara encircled her eyes, making her otherwise attractive face ghoulish. The blank stare on her face gave the impression that she was sitting there in body only.

  Parrott approached tentatively, bending down to make eye contact. “Mrs. Kelley,” he said in his most soothing voice.

  Kitty startled, her arms flying upward like a baby’s. “Yes?” She tried to remember where she had seen this young black man’s face before. Oh, yes, at Caro’s. The policeman. What on earth is he doing here?

  “Mrs. Kelley, I brought you some cookies from the Corner Bakery.” He handed her the crisp white bag of cookies. “I’d be happy to get you some coffee, too, if you’d like.”

  Kitty accepted the cookies in an automatic response, much like that of a robot programmed to take what was given. “Thank you,” she said. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Mrs. Campbell was talking to my boss when you called her. She told him about Mr. Kelley’s stroke. I’m very sorry.” He let his words sink in. “I was already in the city, so I decided to stop by and see how things are going, see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “Very nice of you,” Kitty responded, though she couldn’t imagine how he or anyone else, for that matter, could help. “They’re working on Gerald now, trying to open his artery. Luckily, we got here pretty quickly. This procedure has to be done within four hours in order to work.” She dug into the bag, pulled out a chocolate chip cookie, and took a bite.

  Parrott sat next to Kitty on the cool vinyl sofa, but he turned his body to see her face clearly. He maintained a sympathetic expression on his face, but he didn’t disrupt her thoughts with questions.

  Somehow she found his presence comforting, though she hardly believed he was there as a friend. “Detective, have you ever loved someone whose life was in danger?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Parrott replied. “My fiancée is in the navy in Afghanistan. I think about her all the time.”

  “Then you know,” Kitty said, “how hard it is to even think straight. I’ve been sitting here wondering about things, and all I can come up with is questions. No answers.”

  “I understand. Sometimes I just have to box up my feelings about her and put them aside, so I can go about my everyday life. But the box is never far from me--no farther than my left front pocket.” He tapped the spot on his chest where his heart was beating.

  After a long minute, Kitty asked, “How’s the investigation into the Phillips death going?”

  “It’s coming along. I was planning to interview you and Mr. Kelley later this week.”

  “I don’t know what Gerald or I could possibly tell you that could help you.”

  “Oh, everyone who was at Mr. Campbell’s party is a valuable resource to us. The things you observed that weekend. Sometimes it’s the tiniest detail that will crack a case.”

  “Like what, for instance?”

  “Are you sure you feel like talking about it?” Parrott leaned forward.

  “Yes, it’s okay. It’s hard to wait out here by myself, anyway. Caro and my daughter Lexie will be here later, but right now you are all the company I have, and it’ll help me get my mind off of my problems.”

  “Well, can you tell me a little about your relationship with Mr. Phillips?”

  “I’ve known Preston since I was seventeen years old. I met him when I was a freshman in college. He was driving a shiny blue Corvette convertible past the University Center, and he offered me a ride. I shouldn’t have gotten in the car with a stranger, but he just seemed so clean-cut and friendly. I didn’t see any harm in it. I went to a fraternity party or two with him, nothing serious. I was the one who introduced him to Margo, and that was history.”

  “So you’ve been friends for all these years? How about Mr. Kelley?”

  “Gerald didn’t go to school with us, so he didn’t meet Preston until after we were married. They weren’t close friends.”

  “Yet they were both in the same field, finance. Is that right?”

  “Yes, we all have that in common.” Kitty raised her chin as she said this. Despite the circumstances, Kitty felt proud to be part of the elite group, the money people.

  “I understand you were sitting next to Mr. Phillips during the Saturday night dinner party. Is that right?”

  “Yes, Caro split up the couples, so I was seated next to Preston and not Gerald.” Kitty felt a pang of something like guilt as she said this.

  “Did Mr. Phillips seem unusually talkative or quiet? Did he complain of feeling ill?”

  “No, Preston was his usual sparkling self. He could be quite charming when he wanted to, and that night he was reminiscing, telling stories from the good old days, when we were in college, frater
nity pranks and such. He seemed happy.”

  “Did he seem worried about his wife’s injury?”

  Kitty thought before answering. The truth was, Preston had pretty much ignored Nicole, who seemed so miserable at the end of the table with John E. If anything, he was making goo-goo eyes at Margo throughout the evening. She said, “Not overly worried. I guess he figured Nicole was young and strong, and she would heal.”

  “How well do you know Mrs. Phillips?”

  “You mean the new Mrs. Phillips?” Kitty asked. “That was the first time we had met her, at John E.’s birthday party.”

  “Yes. Well, what did you think of her? Of their marriage? Having known Mr. Phillips for so many years?”

  “She’s okay. It’s too bad she got thrown from the horse and broke her ankle. I think she was in a lot of pain.”

  “How did she fit in with the group?”

  “Well, she’s quite a bit younger, as you probably know. She was at a disadvantage, since we all know each other quite well, and she was the newcomer. Then she had the accident, and she was all doped up after that. She was Preston’s wife. That was all.”

  “What did you think about their marriage?”

  “Oh, she was his fourth wife, you know, and younger than his son Peter, so we figured he married her for sex, and she married him for money.” She took another bite of cookie.

  Parrott made no comment. Instead, he went on, “Let me shift gears for a minute. Do you recall any of the women wearing lime green during the weekend?”

  “Lime green?” Kitty had a marvelous memory for detail when it came to clothes and furnishings, and especially for color. She thought of all of the outfits she had seen the guests wearing, but she could not recall any of them being lime green. “I don’t think so, Detective. Lime green is more of a spring color. I’m sure I would have remembered it if anyone had worn that color in the winter.”

  Parrott wished Gerald Kelley were available to answer some questions. He thought Mr. Kelley might have a more objective view of the victim, since he wasn’t one of the Princeton crowd, and it was time to hear some things from a man’s perspective. “Was there any time when Mr. Kelley interacted with Mr. Phillips during the weekend, either in your presence or outside of your presence?”

  “Y--Yes,” Kitty said. “We all had different conversations with one another, and the men went horseback riding on Saturday morning--well, Andrea and Nicole went, too--and the men smoked cigars late Saturday night. Who knows what they talked about?”

  “Well, I hope Mr. Kelley recovers soon.”

  ***

  The elevator just outside of the place where they were seated pinged, and the doors opened to let out a gaggle of young men and women carrying notebooks and photographic paraphernalia.

  “Oh, no, reporters,” Kitty cried.

  “Are you Mrs. Gerald Kelley?” the first of them asked.

  Before she could answer, they formed a tight circle around Kitty and Parrott, and a bright light blinded her.

  “Is it true Mr. Kelley has had a stroke?”

  “Have you had any word about his condition?”

  “Can you verify Mr. Kelley’s age and position at Miles Stewart?”

  The questions kept coming, as if the frenzy were about asking questions, instead of receiving information.

  The door at the opposite side of the room opened, and a man in scrubs with a mask hanging by a string from his neck entered the waiting room. “Mrs. Kelley?”

  “Yes?” Kitty asked, jumping up from the sofa and pushing through the crowd to rush across the room, leaving Parrott to deal with the press. “Is Gerald okay?”

  The surgeon surveyed the group of rubberneckers and pulled Kitty into the private room adjacent to where they were crowding. “Mr. Kelley is in recovery now. The procedure went well, and we were able to open up his artery. We are hoping he will recover the use of the right side of his body by tomorrow morning. And, of course, we hope he will regain his ability to speak.”

  “How long will he be in the hospital?”

  “We’ll know more after tomorrow morning. We got to him fairly quickly after he was stricken, so that’s in his favor. He will most likely need to go to rehab for a while. A lot will depend on the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Can I see him?” Kitty asked. Her voice sounded strangely distant, as if coming from deep within a well.

  The doctor looked through the blinds at the place where Kitty had been surrounded by the press. The swarm of people appeared to be increasing with each elevator stop on the floor. He looked back at her and said in his gentlest voice. “You may go in to see him, but I want to prepare you not to expect too much this soon. Your husband has suffered a major stroke. He’ll be able to hear you, but he won’t be able to talk. This will be frustrating for you, and also for him.”

  The young doctor’s kind voice pierced the bubble of shock that had insulated Kitty from the full reality of her husband’s condition. A sob escaped from her lips, and she began to shake uncontrollably. “Oh, Gerald,” she cried.

  Chapter 35

  The next morning was Vicki’s first at The Caron Foundation, an alcoholic rehab facility. Leon joined her for breakfast. Family involvement was an important facet of the Caron recovery method, and Leon intended to be there for Vicki every step of the way. Wearing a soft plaid skirt and pastel angora sweater over a raw silk pleated blouse, Vicki was already seated at the glass-topped table for two when he leaned in for a kiss on the cheek and plunged himself into the seat opposite her, a folded newspaper under his arm.

  The room smelled sweet, like vanilla French toast and maple syrup. Waiters dressed in starched uniforms carried polished silver serving pieces on linen-lined trays. The scene was reminiscent of a breakfast room in a fine hotel, except for the hushed atmosphere.

  No voices from the dozen other diners at the scattered tables could be heard above Brahms’s “Tranquil Yearning,” obviously meant to soothe.

  Vicki looked tired already. Day one of a week-long detox had kept her awake most of the night, thinking about what had brought her here and what lay ahead.

  Her highlighted pageboy hairdo, carefully applied makeup, and candy apple red fingernails could not disguise the stress. It showed in the dullness of her hazel-flecked eyes and in the firm set of her lips.

  “Good morning,” Leon fairly chirped with false cheer. “How was the first night, my angel?”

  “Oh, Lee,” Vicki moaned. “I am so sorry for what I’ve done.”

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Vicki.” Self-recriminations were a necessary first step for alcoholics, he knew, but he hated witnessing them. Even though he’d been through this before, Leon felt his gut seize. Sometimes, it felt as if his entire life had been jammed into a beaker and subjected to unthinkable degrees of heat.

  Vicki’s hands moved from silverware to napkin to tablecloth and back again. It was as if she wanted to run away, but only her fingers had the strength to make the journey. In an almost-whisper, she said, “I’ve brought us both to ruin. Physical. Financial. Moral. Ruin.”

  “Vicki, you’ll get past this. You know you will. It will be okay.”

  “How much is this costing us?” Vicki raised her voice, waving her hands about, as if to include the room, its furniture and furnishings, the food.

  Leon was stung by his wife’s reference to their recent financial setbacks. It was true they had made some decisions to cut back on spending, but not when it came to this. “We can afford it. Not to worry.” Leon removed the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his fine wool jacket, and used it to clean his wire-rimmed glasses.

  “It’s so hard...so hard to live with myself, knowing that...”

  “Knowing what?” He was familiar with the torments of a person in detox, but Vicki seemed to be beating herself up about something, in particular, this time. If only she would bring it out.

  But as surely as if she had changed channels on the television set, Vicki’s mood shifted and so di
d the topic. “Are you eating breakfast?” She pointed to her open menu. “They’ve got poached eggs and homemade sausage, just the way you like them.”

  A waiter with gloved hands appeared at their table, offering Leon a second menu, as if they were in the swankiest venue in New York.

  Leon ordered for both of them, as usual, and then he opened the morning’s Journal. A headline grabbed his eyes and held them. “Oh, no...”

  “What’s the matter?” Vicki asked, her fingers teasing her collar and the tiny pleats in her blouse.

  “It’s G--Gerald K-Kelley. He’s had a massive stroke.”

  Vicki dropped her hands to the table, pressing hard, as if to use them to keep herself from falling over. Her mouth formed an O.

  Leon read from the paper. “‘Wall Street Journal, Friday, December twenty-seventh. NEW YORK. Gerald Kelley, sixty-seven, CEO of Miles Stewart, suffered a stroke yesterday. Mr. Kelley is being treated at Mount Sinai Hospital. A statement released by the hospital characterizes Mr. Kelley’s condition as serious, but stable. News of Mr. Kelley’s condition sparked concern over its effect on the stock market, but thus far, the only stock expected to be affected is that of Miles Stewart itself, which opened at--’”

  “Poor Kitty,” Vicki murmured.

  “Poor Gerald,” Leon said. “He seemed fine just two weeks ago.”

  “Yes, we all seemed fine two weeks ago,” Vicki said.

  Leon regretted bringing the newspaper. He made a mental note not to do so again during the next twenty-seven days. Vicki didn’t need any worries from the outside world to distract her from getting well. Her inner demons seemed to be more than enough for her to handle.