Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

He ate a bowl of oatmeal with raisins, followed by a cup of scalding coffee, and fed Horace. Dressing in Dockers, a button-down shirt, and a navy sports jacket, he threw a solid burgundy tie around his neck, intending to complete the outfit after his long drive to New York. He glanced at Tonya’s picture. “Miss you, baby. Finally, I feel this case is about to crack open. Wish you were here.”

  Horace called, “Oh, dear,” as Parrott hugged the picture to his chest.

  ***

  No servant ushered Parrott into Margo’s condo at the AKA. No lawyers stood there with proffers, either. Just a sixty-something auburn-haired woman who looked like an ex-model, but whose under-eye circles and hand-wringing mannerisms gave her a worried appearance. The lime green of her outfit did little to enhance her pale complexion, either. Parrott took in these details in a single glance, before realizing with a start, Lime green! The thread on the chair in the fourth floor bedroom.

  “May I take your coat and hat, Detective?” Margo asked in a voice flavored by her years in Italy. “I’ve given my housekeeper the day off. No one needs to know my business with you.”

  Parrott doffed his outerwear and stamped his feet on the thick, cream-colored rug. He transferred the coat and hat to Margo, who set them on a tawny velvet bench. A serious-faced gentleman gazed at him from an oil painting hung over a mantle, as if to warn him off.

  It was not lost on him that this was the granddaughter of the late, great Sterling Martin, founder of Sterling Martin Financial. Had there been mists and whooshing sounds, the atmosphere could not have been more surreal. But then the whole case had been.

  “Let’s sit here,” Margo said, pointing toward the parallel love seats in the glass-walled living room. The view of sunny Manhattan with its spiky buildings and dots of moving traffic below was impressive.

  Margo sat, but remained on the edge of the love seat, as if she might bolt at any moment.

  Perched across from her, Parrott wondered why she was so nervous. Maybe she’d left more than a lime green thread in that room on the fourth floor. “Mrs. Rinaldi,” he began.

  “You can call me Margo. Mrs. Rinaldi seems no longer accurate, now that I am divorced, and I haven’t been Ms. Martin in a very long time. I guess I will have to rename myself.”

  “Okay, Margo,” Parrott started again, uncomfortable with the informality, but wanting to help the witness relax. “You know I’m investigating the Phillips murder, and as a guest at Bucolia that weekend, you are on my interview list.”

  At the mention of the name Phillips, Margo’s eyes grew wet. Parrott ’d have to proceed gingerly. An emotional witness could flood the case with irrelevant and misleading evidence, or, even worse, de-rail it completely. “These are routine interviews, you understand,” he said, his baritone voice as soothing as warm butterscotch.

  Margo nodded. She looked as though she didn’t trust herself to speak.

  “And do you remember I read you your rights at Bucolia the day of Mr. Phillips’ death?”

  “Yes. Right to remain silent, right to an attorney. I remember.”

  “And you waive those rights to speak with me today?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I’m not a suspect, am I?”

  “At this point, everyone is a person of interest, Mrs.--Margo.” Parrott went on, “Could you explain to me your relationship with the Campbells?”

  “Certainly. Caro and I were pledge sisters, Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority. We both majored in English, roomed together senior year. We’ve been close all these years, even when I lived in Italy. And John E.? He and Caro started dating freshman year, so he’s been a part of the mix forever.”

  “So it was logical that you would be invited to Mr. Campbell’s birthday party.”

  “Yes. Well, I didn’t actually receive my invitation until late. My decision to move back to New York was a sudden one. I was staying with my sister, Libby, who received an invitation in the mail. When she told Caro I was here, Caro invited me to come, as well.”

  “Did you know Mr. Phillips was going to be in attendance at the party?” Parrott watched for more tears, but this time all he saw was a flinch.

  “I assumed he would, and I almost declined to attend. I really didn’t care to see him again.” Margo pinched a piece of silk between thumb and forefinger and began to rub the fabric.

  “You were once engaged to him, I understand.”

  “Yes, a horrible time in my life. Better forgotten.” More rubbing of fabric.

  “So why did you attend a party where you felt sure you’d see him?”

  Margo stopped the fabric-rubbing and sat up straighter. “I decided that forty years ago was ancient history. Why shouldn’t I be there for my dear friend’s birthday? Besides, I was curious about Preston. Had he aged? Had he changed?”

  “And had he changed?” Parrott asked, hoping to keep her talking.

  “In some ways, yes, and some ways no. He was older, of course, and wore his success in his face, his manner. But he still had that air of superiority that rubbed people the wrong way. I used to think of it as super-confidence, and I envied him for it.”

  “So, during the weekend of the party, were you able to reconnect with Mr. Phillips?”

  Margo flinched again, and her hand returned to the seam of her pants leg. “What do you mean, ‘reconnect’?”

  “You know--talk, catch up--whatever old friends do when they meet up again.”

  A pained expression fluttered across Margo’s attractive features. She looked upward, as if for divine inspiration, before responding. “Look, I’m sure others have told you. Preston glommed onto me Friday night and didn’t let up until--until he turned up dead on Sunday. I didn’t kill him, though.”

  “What do you mean ‘glommed onto you’?”

  “You know, chased me, followed me around, engaged me in conversation.”

  “How did Mrs. Phillips feel about that, do you think?”

  “Nicole? I don’t think she was happy. I wouldn’t have been in her place. I was in her place once, you know, well, almost.”

  “You and Mr. Phillips were engaged.”

  “Yes, and he left me the day of our wedding. To marry one of my best friends. Very painful.”

  “So apparently Mr. Phillips was a womanizer.”

  “That, Detective, is an understatement.” Margo’s laugh sounded like a dry cough. She stood up and asked, “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee or tea?”

  “I hate to put you out,” Parrott replied.

  “Not a problem. I’m going to make some for myself anyway. What do you prefer?”

  “Coffee. Black. Mind if I come with you?”

  Margo walked into the kitchenette, the swishing of the lime green silk not lost on Parrott.

  As Margo brewed the single cup of coffee and another of tea for herself, Parrott gathered his thoughts. This interview was turning out to be more interesting than he’d expected, and he didn’t want to pass up any opportunities for information.

  “Here you are,” Margo said. “One coffee, black.” She uttered another dry cough laugh, as if embarrassed to say the word “black” to someone who was.

  “Let’s sit here, shall we?” Margo said, pointing to the breakfast room furniture.

  Parrott gazed at the glass sculpture hanging over the table. It cast gemstone-colored light in every direction, serving as both light source and art.

  “That’s a Chihuly. Do you like it?”

  “Beautiful,” he mumbled, though he thought it rather extravagant for the space, and it probably cost a fortune.

  “I suppose you have more questions,” she said, stirring her tea with a constant rhythmic motion.

  “Yes. Let’s get back to the party weekend. You say Mr. Phillips glommed onto you. What, specifically, does that mean? Did he say or do anything inappropriate?”

  “Inappropriate for Preston, or inappropriate for the rest of the world? Preston had his own moral code, and it was not atypical of him to act impulsively. Like many rich and powerful men, he f
elt the rules didn’t apply to him.”

  “Rules?”

  “Rules, like how to behave when you are at a party with your new wife, and your old fiancée shows up.”

  “How did he behave, then?”

  “Like an overgrown teenager. Showing off. Flirting.” Her voice carried a trace of disdain, but also of something pleasant, as if she were simultaneously repelled and attracted by the victim’s attentions toward her.

  “How did that make you feel?” Parrott asked.

  Margo thought for a long moment before responding. When she finally spoke, the words came out with the speed of thick syrup. “I guess, conflicted. As much as I’d convinced myself I hated his guts, I was flattered by his attention, particularly when he had a beautiful twenty-something wife hanging on his every word. And there is something about one’s first true love that...that never dies. Oh.”

  “What did you think about his relationship with his wife?” Parrott asked, hoping to divert her attention from death.

  “Well, obviously, it must not have been much of a relationship if he was flirting with me so soon after their wedding.” Margo appeared to realize how she sounded, because she quickly said, “I’m sorry. That was catty of me.” She took a sip of tea.

  “Did you spend any time alone with Mr. Phillips during the weekend?” Mentally, Parrott crossed his fingers.

  “You know you are asking a loaded question, Detective.”

  “Yes, I know, but an important one.”

  “Well, the answer is yes.”

  “I appreciate your honesty. And, of course, I need details.”

  “And if I refuse to provide them?”

  “You will be subpoenaed. This is a murder investigation.”

  “And I am not the killer. But I would rather not have to testify publicly, if I can avoid it. I’m really a very shy person.”

  “Look, I can’t promise you that you won’t have to testify eventually, but right now I’m just conducting interviews with each of the party guests. What you have to tell me may or may not turn out to be important in the overall scheme of things. But it sounds like you did have some feelings for Mr. Phillips. If I’m right, you must want his murderer to be discovered and justice to be done.” Parrott was rolling the dice, but he hoped it would unlock something inside Margo’s brain and then her mouth.

  Margo stood up and began pacing. Parrott could almost hear the alarm bells in her mind. He gave her time. After about three minutes, she returned to sit down next to him.

  “Okay, Detective. On Friday night during dinner, I left the table to use the bathroom. When I came out, Preston was waiting for me. He told me he had made a big mistake not marrying me, that he had suffered for it all of those years. He pinned me against the wall and kissed me.”

  “How did you react to that?”

  “I was stunned by the unexpectedness of it. I broke away from him and returned to the table. I think I said something like, ‘Good. I’m glad you suffered, too.’ That dredged up a lot of feelings for me, and I was upset. I vowed to myself that I would ignore him the rest of the weekend.”

  “But you didn’t--”

  “No. Saturday, after Nicole broke her ankle and came back from the hospital, she was on the sofa in the den, which left Preston free to chase after me. He persuaded me to come to his room on the fourth floor, just to talk.”

  “Can you remember what you were wearing when you went to his room?”

  Margo looked at Parrott sideways. She stood up and moved back to her original seat, where Parrott could see her facial expressions much better. “Why, I--I was wearing the same outfit I have on now.”

  Parrott nodded as the clue of the thread clicked into place in his brain. “Go on.”

  “All we did was talk, though Preston wanted more. I was trying to play it cool. I knew better than to trust him, and I kept pushing him away. Still, there was a certain vindication in having the upper hand with him. He had hurt me so, and I hated him for it. But then I saw another side of him, a vulnerable side. He flashed those dimples at me, and I felt myself being dragged in as if a merciless undertow had me in its grip.”

  Parrott lowered his voice to say, “I am sorry, but I have to ask--”

  “Did I sleep with him? No, not then. I reminded him that he was a married man and had no business propositioning me that way.”

  “But he didn’t give up?”

  “No, he told me he wanted to make things right with me, to marry me. He promised he would tell Nicole that night, so we could be together.”

  Parrott thought of his conversations with Nicole. She had never indicated Preston was about to divorce her. But why would she? That would be tantamount to painting a big “M” on her own face. He held his breath as he asked, “Did he tell Nicole he wanted a divorce?”

  “I’m not sure. He led me to believe he had. It was a whirlwind twenty-four hours. I’ve gone over it again and again, but I’m not sure.”

  “Were you and Mr. Phillips intimate, then?”

  Before Parrott could utter the last syllable, Margo burst into wailing sobs and hid her face in her hands. The sobs seemed to emanate from a place in her core and were so loud, he wondered if the chandelier would crack.

  Parrott remained silent, allowing the emotional outburst to play itself out. The irony of this woman’s grief as compared to that of the widow nibbled at his consciousness. After a while, the wails transitioned into hiccups, and Margo regained a measure of composure. Her expression, however, remained tormented.

  Finally, she spoke, though her voice was a hoarse whisper. “I still loved him, Heaven help me! I still loved him, and I slept with him that night. After the dinner, after everyone went to bed for the evening, I went to his room, and we made love.”

  Parrott resisted the impulse to pat her on the hand, to show sympathy for her anguish. He reminded himself that she had just risen on the suspect list, despite her protestations to the contrary, and it wouldn’t do to touch one of the suspects.

  Instead, he asked, “What time was it when you left Mr. Phillips’ room that night?”

  Between hiccups, Margo replied, “Around three.”

  “And he was alive?”

  “Very much so. He was alive and happy.” Fresh sobs threatened to rush forth, but Margo took deep breaths.

  “And there was no sign that he was feeling ill?”

  “No, nothing. I was probably the most shocked of everyone the next day when he was found unresponsive.”

  “There was no indication that Mr. Phillips left his room on the fourth floor between three a.m. and noon the next day?”

  “None. I had the room next to the hallway on the third floor, so I think I would have heard him if he had.”

  Silence blanketed the room for many seconds, as Parrott thought of other questions. His suspicions roamed from one face to another in a bizarre mental line-up. Was Nicole the murderer, after all, having suspected that Preston had set his sights on divorce and marriage to Margo? Was Margo telling the truth that she didn’t kill Preston in those wee hours of the morning? Or were the Winthrops somehow still in the mix, possibly having administered the poison via cigar, and it didn’t kick in until after the Phillips-Rinaldi rendezvous? And then there were the truffles and Gerald Kelley’s reaction to the word, “palytoxin.”

  “What if Phillips had told his wife he wanted a divorce? That may have given her the idea to kill him,” Parrott thought aloud, watching Margo’s face as he spoke. “The only thing is, Nicole’s ankle. She was too incapacitated to go up the stairs to the fourth floor that night.”

  Margo cleared her throat. The time had come to tell what only she knew. “Uh, Detective. I may have some important information for you about that.”

  “Okay,” he replied with caution, “let’s hear it.”

  “Nicole was not too incapacitated. In fact, around three-thirty a.m., I heard her on the stairs and confronted her on the third floor on her way up to see Preston.”

  Chapter 51

&n
bsp; As he was leaving Margo’s place, his mind churning with details about the case, Parrott felt the vibration of his cell phone. Rushing to pull it from his pants pocket before losing the call, he fumbled, but not before he saw who was calling, Schrik.

  “Chief,” he answered, a bit out of breath.

  “Gerald Kelley just died. I just heard it on MSNBC.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Parrott muttered, shifting the cell phone to his other ear, so he could grab his car keys from his right pocket. He thought of Kitty and her needlepoint, the long hospital vigil, now over.

  “Thought you’d want to know in case it comes up in your interviews. How’d the Rinaldi interview go?”

  “Much more productive than I expected. I’m going to pop in on the Widow Phillips while I’m here. De-brief in a few hours.”

  “Okay, Parrott, but, remember, the clock is ticking. I wouldn’t be surprised if I got another call from Dalton today, what with all this publicity about Kelley in the news. People might connect the dots.”

  “I’m going as fast as I can, Chief. And for the first time, I believe I’m making progress.”

  “Good to hear.”

  ***

  On second thought, Parrott returned the car keys to his pocket, deciding to walk the mile and a half from the AKA to Nicole’s. He needed the exercise, and moving the car on the Upper West Side was such a hassle. Besides, he had always been a kinesthetic learner, thinking best when moving. The day was cold and crisp. Tiny particles of snow dust hovered in the air, gracing the scene with floating glitter. The routine sounds and smells of traffic provided wallpaper for Parrott’s short journey, both the physical and the mental.

  There were two areas of interest he wanted to explore with Nicole. Was she aware of her husband’s flirtation and affair with Margo? He would need to tread delicately over this path if he wanted honest answers to the multiple questions associated with that. The second area had to do with Preston’s own motivations. Was he worried about the lawsuit Winthrop was about to file? Enough to do something drastic? Ever since Andrea’s offhand remark, synapses had been firing in Parrott’s brain. Today he intended to find out once and for all. And he hoped Billy Bartosh was nowhere around to muddle things up, either.