Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  “We have Miles Stewart stock, don’t we?” Vicki asked. “I think we bought it when Gerald became CEO.”

  “Yes, we do,” Leon said, resisting the impulse to pat his wife’s hand in what she would likely frown on as patronizing. “But not so much that we need to fret about it right now.”

  “But my private room. It must cost a fortune.”

  “Shhh,” Leon said under his breath as the waiter approached with their breakfast. “I’ve got it all taken care of. You just get well.”

  ***

  Julia and Marshall lingered over bagels and coffee in their Kirby Pond home before Marshall departed for his last day of work for the week. It was five a.m., but they were used to rising early, a routine made easier now that both had been diagnosed with sleep apnea and gone on CPAP machines at night. Most wives wouldn’t get up so early to see their husbands off to work, but Julia wasn’t that way.

  He was a lucky man to have such a woman. Julia had stood with him through the rollercoaster ride of the past year, hospitalization and all. She never complained.

  “More juice?” Julia leaned over Marshall ready to pour from a crystal pitcher. The clean smell of his aftershave drew her in for a quick nuzzle of his neck.

  Marshall reached up to press his wife’s face against his own, smiling at her show of affection. They weren’t completely free of the constraints of the Winthrop trust yet, but now they would have more financial autonomy.

  “I can’t stop thinking about poor Gerald,” Marshall said, as he took his last bite of bagel. He reflected on the call from John E. the previous night to tell them the news.

  “Me, either,” she replied. “I keep thinking about the weekend at the Campbells’. I never dreamed John E.’s birthday would be such a turning point. First Preston, and now Gerald.”

  “Well, let’s hope Gerald doesn’t end up like Preston. Supposedly they got him to the hospital in time.” Marshall rose from the table, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin.

  “I’m going to sit with Kitty at the hospital today,” Julia said. “Is there anything you need me to do in the city while I’m there?”

  “Nothing I can think of,” Marshall mumbled, as he packed his leather satchel with reading material for the long ride into work.

  His chauffeur was waiting in the warmed limousine on the circular driveway. Marshall donned his Burberry and cashmere scarf then bent to kiss Julia on the lips after she put the breakfast dishes in the sink.

  He tapped his coat pocket to make sure he had a fresh supply of cigars on hand.

  “Oh, one more thing,” he said on his way out the door. “If you hear from the West Brandywine Police today, don’t say anything about anything.”

  ***

  Libby sat on the bed in her guest room, watching Margo pack the last of her things in her Louis Vuitton suitcases. “I hate to see you leave, sis.”

  “I appreciate that,” Margo said, as she zipped up the rolling carry-on bag. “But you and Les have been more than hospitable, and it’s time to give you back your privacy before the baby comes. Not that I know about these things first-hand, of course.”

  Libby ignored her sister’s reference to her childlessness. She knew it was not of Margo’s own choosing, and she guessed it was enough of a rub to see her younger sister’s expanding belly. “Are you sure you’ll be okay at the condo at the AKA?”

  Margo laughed, a light tinkling sound. “The AKA? They’ll wait on me hand and foot. Besides, I won’t be there long. After the holidays, I’ll find a permanent apartment. And maybe I’ll go back to Tuscany for a while.”

  “I just feel so bad about everything--” Libby said.

  “You feel bad? Why?”

  “I should never have taken you to the birthday party. I should have declined the invitation.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Margo replied. “How did you know it would turn out the way it did?”

  “But I knew that seeing Preston again would be difficult for you. I feel like I opened Pandora’s box, and now I can’t put all of the troubles back in.” Her hands motioned opening a box then trying frantically to close it.

  “Listen, Libby. In a way, I’m glad I got the chance to see Preston again one more time. If I hadn’t gone to the party, I wouldn’t have ever known...” Margo’s voice drifted off into the air. She thought of Preston’s saying, ‘Why did Prince Charles want Camilla when he had Diana?’ “Anyway, nothing was your fault, little sister.”

  Libby shivered from her sister’s words. “I hope you’re not blaming yourself for anything. Whoever killed Preston, I’m sure it had nothing to do with you.” She picked up a pillow and rearranged it on the bed. “And now with Gerald in the hospital, it seems like there’s a cloud over us all.”

  “Well, at least Gerald is being treated, and hopefully will recover. And no one appears to have poisoned him.” Margo bit her lip, and tears welled up in her emerald eyes.

  How awful when the man you’ve loved dies from poisoning right under the same roof. Not for the first time, Libby wondered how much Margo knew, how much any of them knew. She could never ask those questions, although she was sure the time was coming when the police would be asking those questions, and more.

  Chapter 36

  Andrea had gone for an early morning ride on Mustafa and now was sitting cross-legged in her executive chair, across from the toasty fireplace, reviewing the notes she had made about Preston and Nicole, Marshall, Leon, and Gerald. The internet makes it so easy these days, she thought, as she recalled the rigors of information-gathering when she was writing her first crime books.

  She ran her fingers through her short curls, lifting them to allow air underneath. Her organic pomegranate tea let off comforting waves of steam and a delicate aroma. If it hadn’t been for the subject matter of her notes, she would have felt cozy.

  She felt a bit like a snoop, investigating Caro’s family and friends, people she held more than a passing acquaintance with. On the other hand, this was what she did--delve into crimes, filling her mind and pages with details that, put together in certain configurations, might lead to solutions, and ultimately to good books. No one had asked her to spend hours searching through various websites, and no one had to know what she was doing, at least not yet.

  The unopened New York Times was sitting next to her iPad. Her Mac was opened to a Financial Times article about Marshall Winthrop’s views on inflation.

  She had read countless articles such as these, learning very little that she didn’t already know, but she believed in meticulous research, and that meant reading and interpreting facts and quotes, so the subjects felt real to her. She smiled at the contrast between Marshall’s everyday speech from the weekend at Bucolia and the esoteric quotes attributed to him in these articles.

  Undoubtedly, Marshall was a financial wizard, nominated by the president and unanimously approved by congress for his position at the Fed, one of the country’s heavy-hitting leaders in the field of economics. Yet her one outstanding memory of his presence at Caro’s table was that he seemed hypersensitive to anything that Preston had said or done. Andrea had noticed a small tic, a barely perceptible twitch of Marshall’s right eye whenever Preston spoke or laughed, even if the acts had nothing to do with Marshall.

  This had piqued Andrea’s curiosity, so she searched for “Marshall Winthrop and Preston Phillips.” She took notes about a long-standing personal and financial relationship between the two, leading up to some recent information in a gossip column about a rift the size of the Atlantic Ocean. Fortunately, the columnist, Hedy Steininger, was a personal friend, so Andrea decided to lean on her for the deets.

  Brrrrrring. The phone rang only once before Hedy picked up. “Andrea, how terrible about Gerald Kelley!”

  “What about Gerald Kelley?” Andrea asked, a chill starting at the base of her spine and moving upward.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Hedy said, her words rushing out faster than Niagara Falls. “He had a major stroke yesterday. He’s at Mou
nt Sinai. Don’t you know him through Caro Campbell?”

  Andrea gripped her mug of tea, her thoughts returning to John E.’s ill-fated birthday weekend. “Yes,” she replied. “What is his condition, or do you know?”

  “Serious, but stable, according to my sources. The city is in shock. Man of his stature, it affects the stock market, the news, even politics.” Hedy’s voice bore the tone of someone who was trying to curb her enthusiasm for gossip in the face of someone else’s tragedy. “Anyway, if that’s not why you called me, what is?”

  “Maybe I just called to say hi,” Andrea responded, teasing.

  “Yeah, and maybe the Tooth Fairy will abdicate in favor of the Easter bunny. Seriously, what’s up?”

  “Actually, I wondered whether you knew anything about the bad blood between Marshall Winthrop and Preston Phillips.”

  “Uh-oh, you must be playing sleuth again, princess. I must admit that the late Mr. Phillips’ untimely death makes for interesting drama, and all of the world is dying to know what happened to him. Actually, I do know a little bit about the feuding. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  “I don’t have anything to trade yet, Hedy. Just a hunch that it might be important information. If you help me out now, I’ll get back to you later if it turns out I’m right.” She dug her toe into the plush chocolate-colored carpet, hoping this promise would be enough bait to catch a shark. She could hear the clicks of Hedy’s computer keyboard.

  “Okay. You’ve never disappointed me before, so here goes. Pretty Boy Preston was apparently controlling Marshall’s parents’ estate for the past several decades, much to the chagrin of Marshall, who certainly was competent to take care of his own money, since he--oh, that’s editorializing--anyway, the word through the grapevine is that Preston had abused his power, taken large fees for himself, made some bad investments. Who knows why he’d want Marshall’s money when he had plenty of his own, but you never know. Anyway, supposedly, Marshall had hired attorneys and begun proceedings to break the trust and have Preston charged with malfeasance. And then Preston died. So, I guess we may never know whether Pretty Boy was dipping into the Winthrop well or not. A pity from my point of view.”

  Andrea sipped her tea and petted her Siamese cat, Hermione, who had leapt onto the desk. “Interesting rumor,” she murmured, releasing her leg from under her and tapping some keys of her own. “Do you know the name of Marshall’s attorney?”

  “Nope. Not for sure, but it’s probably someone from that Ballenger firm. I’ve seen the Winthrops and the Ballengers together at many affairs lately.”

  “Thanks, Hedy. You’re an angel.”

  “Don’t forget me when you start writing. One pen washes the other in this business.”

  Andrea pushed the red button to end the call. As usual, after talking to Hedy, she felt compelled to wash her hands with antibacterial soap. The shock of Gerald’s stroke was still making background noise in her head.

  I’ve got to call Caro, she thought. She re-fired her iPhone and thrust her feet into the fuzzy green slippers beneath the desk. She began pacing back and forth in front of the fire, for the moment forgetting about Marshall Winthrop, and remembering what she had uncovered about “Gerald Kelley” and “Preston Phillips.” She wondered if Preston’s death had brought about Gerald’s stroke.

  After four rings, Andrea was rewarded with the sound of Caro’s voice. Breathless, she sounded as if she had run to answer the phone. “Andrea? Hi.”

  “Caro, I just heard about Gerald. Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I was going to. Actually, the phone’s been ringing constantly, and I’m trying to get dressed. I’m in Philly today, and I’m going in to New York to be with Kitty at the hospital.”

  “Want some company?” Andrea offered, wondering how fast she could get ready and drive the fifty minutes to Rittenhouse Square. “I feel just terrible for Kitty, and I don’t have anything planned for today that I can’t cancel.”

  “How soon can you get here?” Caro asked. “My driver is supposed to be here in an hour.”

  “I’m on my way,” Andrea said, dashing to her bedroom to get dressed. The thought that landed in her frontal lobe was that today’s research would not be the kind done on the internet.

  ***

  Parrott had left the hospital and driven the three and a half hours home, most of it plagued by slanting snow and wind. He had plenty of time to think about the case as he drove. Normally he listened to WCBS, particularly to the news, weather, and traffic, but last night he had snapped off the radio and luxuriated in the rich silence and solitude.

  He needed to compile his notes, not the written ones, but the ones floating around in his head after meeting with the Bakers, the Campbells, Nicole Phillips, Penelope Phillips, and now Kitty Kelley.

  He knew the chief was under constant pressure from the media, not to mention former President Dalton and other big-wigs. The interviews with the Winthrops, Spillers, Blooms, and Margo Rinaldi would be set up in the coming days, but right now he wanted to review the information and impressions he had been collecting. Forming some opinions would guide him in developing questions for the others.

  Okay, what do I have here? He considered the cast of characters and the relationships that had been described to him. The love angle, of course, involved Nicole and possibly Margo, although Preston seemed to have been popular with the ladies in general, and even with Kitty Kelley going back to the college days. Could any of the three be characterized as a woman scorned? Angry enough to kill someone she had loved? And who had the victim had sex with several times in that fourth floor room? Who might have been wearing a lime green garment, leaving a thread behind on the upholstered chair?

  The money angle applied mostly to Nicole, who benefited financially from Preston’s death. However, the Winthrops certainly benefited, as well, since they gained control over the estate of Marshall’s parents. No one in this group needed food stamps, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be greedy for more wealth. The pre-nup made it clear that being divorced from Preston Phillips would not be as lucrative as being married at the end of his life. This guy had already had three divorces, so he’d been financially armored before he married Wife Number Four. The question was, would this marriage have been his last if he hadn’t been killed? And just how bad was the squeeze Preston was putting on the Winthrops? Several hundred million dollars would pass from trust into Marshall Winthrop’s hands as a result of Phillips’ death. Parrott glanced at the stars through the windshield and tried to fathom that much money.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of his cell phone. He punched the answer button without taking his eyes from the road. “Parrott here.”

  “Parrott. Schrik. Where are you?”

  “Not quite halfway back. It’s snowing pretty hard, and traffic’s slow, too.”

  “How’d your meeting with Mrs. Kelley go?”

  “Informative, despite the circumstances. Looks like the husband’s stroke was pretty bad. He won’t be talking any time soon.” The windshield wipers kept rhythm to Parrott’s words, as if he were singing a mournful tune.

  “We’re working late here. Think you can come in for an hour before you head home? I know you’ve been working hard all day, and that drive is a bitch.”

  Something was up. Schrik rarely worked into the night. When he did, there was always a good reason. Hope flickered in his gut. “I’ll come straight there, Chief. What’s cooking?”

  “I don’t want to discuss it over the phone, but we’ve got a something from Nick.”

  Named after St. Nick, who brings gifts to children for Christmas, Nick is the code name for the police department’s computer expert. It must be Phillips’ computer. “Okay, Chief. See you in another hour and a half.” Parrott disconnected from the call, again without taking his eyes from the road. He couldn’t let his weariness take over. He had to stay sharp, apparently for several more hours, at least.

  He turned on the radio, hoping to get
a weather report, but what he got was a truncated story about how Miles Stewart stock was expected to react to the news of its CEO’s stroke. He snapped the radio off again. Back to my mental notes. Schrik will want a status report, and I need to be prepared. Now where was I?

  Parrott remembered Mrs. Phillips’ words, ‘What are the reasons people kill other people? Envy, greed, a desire for revenge?’ The desire for revenge was the most complex. I just don’t know enough yet, he thought, hitting the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. I know the Spillers held a grudge against Phillips, something about the tragic death of their son. Margo Rinaldi most likely resented him for ditching her at the altar, too. His thoughts circled back to the woman scorned, and again he felt irritated by the way the details of this case kept shifting. He thought of being at the beach when the ebbing tide would leave the soles of his feet on unsteady ground.

  What about professional reasons? These guys were all in the money business, all wildly successful. Were they caught up in power struggles and competitions that may have boiled over into rage? Phillips was secretary of the treasury. Can’t get much higher than that. Were Messieurs Campbell, Kelley, Winthrop, Spiller, Bloom, or Baker envious of Phillips’ success? Enough to commit murder?

  Parrott chortled out loud at the situation he was depicting in his mind. It seems like everyone and his aunt is a suspect. At this rate, I’ll be working on this murder till next Christmas.

  Finally, Parrott considered opportunity. Who had access to zoanthids and their deadly by-product, palytoxin? Certainly, Nicole Phillips did. Who had access to Phillips’ fourth-floor bedroom suite at Bucolia? Again Nicole Phillips, but was she the only one? Somehow Parrott doubted that. How might Phillips have ingested the poison? Through food, drink, pills, smoking? He thought again about the toxicology report, the pretty scalloped paper of the menu the Campbells had given him. Who knew about palytoxin? Who might have slipped it into Phillips’ hands or mouth or lungs, causing his cells to decompose and die?