Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  Just as he developed this plan, his cell phone rang.

  “Maria? You must have ESP. I was just thinking about coming over to see you, if you’re going to be there awhile longer.”

  “Yeah, I’m still here. The new year is off to a hectic start. It’s taken me longer than expected to find the answer to your question. Frozen palytoxin is still lethal. Tested in the kitchens of yours truly under controlled conditions.” When she didn’t hear the expected laughter, she continued, “Just kidding. State lab did the testing. Hope it helps.”

  “Perfect. Thanks for your help, as always.”

  “Always here to serve.”

  “Okay if I come by? I’ve got some other things to run past you.”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you eaten? I can pick up some sandwiches en route.”

  “Best offer I’ve had all day.”

  ***

  On the way to the Chester County Coroner’s Office, Parrott stopped at Capriotti’s for two of their famous sandwiches. The urgency of his mission was directly proportional to the heaviness of his right foot on the accelerator. Luckily the to-go line at the highly regarded restaurant was short and the service swift.

  It was also convenient that his Skype-visit with Tonya had been postponed for some reason, usually on Sunday or Monday night at eight (and six-thirty the next morning in Kabul). He needed to give his full attention to this case for the next twenty-four hours. He wasn’t about to let it go.

  As he entered Maria’s office, the aroma oozing from the warm foil-wrapped sandwiches caused the deputy coroner to inhale with a moan of pleasure. “Mmm, Parrott. Your presence and your presents both hit the spot tonight.” She removed her gloves and washed her hands with a gritty antibacterial soap then led Parrott out of the autopsy room and into her small office. “Mind if we eat first, talk second?”

  Parrott set two places at Maria’s desk, using paper towels and napkins. The steamy pastrami, Swiss cheese, Russian dressing, and coleslaw sandwiches and cold bottles of water seemed like a royal feast. After a ceremonial touching of the water bottles, the two diners gave their energy to chewing and swallowing.

  Maria spoke first. “Delicious. I’d forgotten how much I love Capriotti’s.”

  “Let me do the dishes,” Parrott teased, crumpling up the paper remains and tossing them in the wastebasket.

  “Okay,” Maria said, putting the plastic cap back on her water bottle. “I’m not hungry anymore.” Her expression turned serious. “How’s the Phillips case going?”

  “I wish I could say ‘well,’ but it’s anything but. Too much political pressure and the characters are difficult--rich, well-connected, crafty. I’ve got some solid theories, but no hard evidence, and the chief is giving me one day to solve before turning it over to the state.” Parrott tapped his heel on the floor with nervous energy.

  Maria touched his forearm with sympathy. “Tell me how I can help.”

  “Okay. The Metamucil container was filled with palytoxin, the substance that killed Phillips.”

  Maria nodded.

  “And whoever brought it and used it, left it there to be discovered after Phillips’ death.”

  Another nod.

  “The container had multiple fingerprints, whole and partial, so it was handled by several people.”

  “Yes, I believe we were able to identify fingerprints of Mr. Phillips, Mrs. Phillips, and the housekeeper, as well as other unknowns.”

  “Well, my theory is that Phillips manufactured the palytoxin himself and brought it in the Metamucil container in order to poison someone else.”

  “And ended up taking it himself? Are you saying it was a suicide?” Maria’s voice rose an octave.

  “Not necessarily. Someone might have taken advantage of its being there and used it to poison Phillips.”

  “But that would require the other person to know what was in the container.”

  “Maybe or maybe not.” Parrott used a blank sheet of computer paper to draw a diagram of the bathroom counter as he remembered it from the day of the murder. “I wish we’d been more thorough in gathering evidence from the bathroom that first day. At the time we didn’t know it was a murder, and we were tiptoeing around the fancy farmhouse.” His picture included the sink, the open Dopp kit, the bottles of pills, the victim’s toothbrush and toothpaste, and a water glass, about a quarter full of clear liquid. “I’d give anything to have that water glass.”

  “If there were traces of palytoxin in it, it would have been dangerous for anyone to handle. If anyone touched it and touched his mouth, we would have had another death on our hands.”

  Parrott liked the way Maria said, “We.” It was one of the reasons he enjoyed working with her. “Maria, let’s go over the toxicity of palytoxin again. How quickly does it take effect, and what does it do to the person ingesting it?”

  “Okay, but remember, this is a fairly new toxin, so information about it is scarce. What makes it a so-called ‘designer’ poison is that it is naturally occurring, and it doesn’t cause the typical symptoms that other poisons do, like lividity or bleeding. It essentially acts quickly to bring about cell death. The victim doesn’t suffer much, and it leaves almost no traces.”

  “If it leaves no traces, how did you discover it?”

  “Almost by accident. I had just read an article in a medical journal about some people who died cleaning their fish tanks. One guy boiled the water and inhaled the poison in gas form. Another guy ingested it after handling the toxin. Our victim appeared to have been poisoned, but there were no traces of poison in his system. So I took skin samples from his lips, gums and inside his mouth. Bingo--palytoxin. Maybe the killer read the same article that I did.”

  “So Phillips pretty much died in his sleep.”

  “Right. He may have awakened and had the sense that something was wrong, difficulty breathing or moving, but by the time that occurred, it was too late to call for help or do anything about it. And don’t forget, he had taken lots of drugs and alcohol prior to going to sleep.”

  “Can you help me narrow down the time of death? I have a witness who last saw him around three a.m. and said he was fine.”

  “And the body was found just after noon. I would say he might have been poisoned between three-thirty and six-thirty, and his organs shut down approximately one to two hours afterward.”

  “Could you testify to that?”

  “Sure.” Maria shook her head as if trying to loosen a sticky problem. “Can I ask you a question, though?” Without waiting for permission, she went on. “If Phillips brought the palytoxin in the Metamucil container and knew it was there, wouldn’t he have been careful not to take the poison, himself? I’m just not picturing how it got from the container into his system.”

  “That, my dear Ms. Rodriguez, is exactly the answer I am seeking.” He looked at his watch. “And I only have about twenty hours to find it.”

  Chapter 53

  By the time Parrott left the coroner’s office, it was almost eight. He checked for messages and was surprised to find one from Caro. “Did you hear about Gerald? It’s just awful.” Her voice caught, and she took a few seconds before going on. “First Preston and now Gerald. It made me wonder if you’ve made progress on the case. I’m still so torn up about Preston’s death. Maybe it would help me heal if I knew that you had found the killer. Anyway, please call me if you have a chance.”

  Delighted at his good fortune, Parrott returned the call. After the preliminaries, he said, “If you’re at Bucolia, I wonder if I might come over for a short while this evening.”

  “Tonight?” He guessed Caro was not expecting a police visit at such short notice or at such an hour. “Well, I suppose it would be okay. Do you have news for us?”

  Considering how much he would be able to share with the victim’s cousin at this point, he said, “The case is progressing. We may have some news in the very near future, but mostly I wanted to revisit the fourth floor suite where Mr. Phillips was staying.”r />
  ***

  The long, winding approach to the farmhouse made Parrott think of the twists and turns of the case. He had come such a long way since the quick cremation and funeral, the early interviews and learning that just about everyone had a motive to kill Phillips, checking out the cigars and truffles, the widow’s eager boyfriend, the victim’s mother, and all those fish tanks. There was a certain symmetry in returning to the scene of the crime in these last hours. Parrott knew in his heart this was the best use of his time.

  John E. opened the door and ushered Parrott inside, where a pine-scented fire lit up the family room with warmth and fragrance. Caro was needlepointing, sitting on the sofa where Nicole had slept after breaking her ankle. When Parrott came in, she put down the fabric to shake his hand. The large house seemed otherwise empty and quiet, especially in comparison to the first time Parrott was there.

  “Would you like to sit down? Have something to drink?” Caro offered.

  “No, ma’am, as I told you over the phone, I’d like to see the upstairs. And if you could accompany me, I’d appreciate it.” He looked at John E. to make sure he understood he was included.

  “Okay, let’s go up,” John E. replied. He led the way to the staircase and started climbing. At the second floor hallway, he paused. “This is where our bedroom is.”

  “Also where the Spillers and Winthrops stayed, if I remember correctly,” Parrott said.

  Looking impressed, John E. asked, “Is there anything you want to see on this floor?”

  “Just to confirm, the Winthrops had the bedroom closest to the staircase, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Caro said. “They were the closest to the staircase.”

  The threesome continued up the stairs to the third floor. “This is where the Kelleys, the Blooms, and Ms. Rinaldi stayed,” Parrott stated, “with Ms. Rinaldi in the outside bedroom.” He looked around, imagining how simple it was for Margo to sneak up the stairs to the fourth floor without anyone noticing.

  Passing by the antiques and expensive-looking oil paintings on the landing, Parrott said, “Let’s go on.” The stairs to the fourth floor were narrower, and the area smaller and less ornate. The room to the bedroom suite was closed, as if to block off what had happened there.

  “Here you go,” John E. said, as he turned and pushed the porcelain doorknob and turned on the light. The bedroom had been straightened and cleaned, the scent of furniture polish still in the air. Parrott walked about the small room, imagining the exchanges between the victim and Margo that had happened there. He wondered whether it was possible for someone to enter the room after Phillips had gone to sleep without waking him.

  The Campbells were standing at the doorway in silence, watching as Parrott moved around the room.

  “Mrs. Campbell, would you mind going outside of the room and closing the door then opening the door as quietly as possible?”

  Caro did as requested. The turning of the knob, the movement of the door, and the release of the doorknob--all went smoothly and soundlessly.

  “Has the door been oiled since December fifteenth?” Parrott asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Caro replied. “But if it was, it would have been part of routine maintenance. All of the doors are kept in good working order. That’s one of the chores for the help in a home like this.”

  John E. broke in. “So that establishes that someone could have sneaked in and poisoned Preston without waking him. But we already knew that.”

  Parrott ignored the comment and moved into the attached bathroom. The tile and appliances were gleaming, and the countertop accessories were arranged in perfect order. “Is this the same drinking glass that was here the night of the murder?” Parrott asked, although he doubted there would be a duplicate of the glass that matched the gold and black harlequin-decorated wastebasket and toothbrush holder.

  “Yes. It’s been washed, of course,” Caro replied. She took in a quick breath and bit her lip.

  Parrott examined the shiny knobs and pulls, wondering if it would be beneficial to dust them for prints at this late date. They looked as if they’d been scrubbed and polished, and, anyway, there probably wouldn’t be time, given Schrik’s tight deadline.

  “Okay, folks. I think I’ve seen enough here. There’s just one more thing I’d like you to help me with.” Parrott led the way out of the bedroom into the hallway and started down the stairs.

  “What is it?” John E. asked.

  When he landed on the third floor, Parrott turned to face the Campbells. “I’d like for you to go down to the second floor, wait until I call to you, and then come back up the stairs to the third floor.”

  John E. and Caro looked at each other, and then John E. nodded. “Okay.”

  They started down the stairs, and Parrott went into the bedroom that had been occupied by Margo. He closed the door, noting how quietly the hinges and the latch operated. He seated himself on the bed and shouted, “Okay, come on up.”

  Immediately, he could hear the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. There was no doubt Margo would have heard Nicole as she climbed the stairs with her ankle in that metal contraption, and especially if she hadn’t gone to sleep yet. Also, Margo may have heard anyone else who came up the stairs to go to the fourth floor, so the Winthrops or Spillers would have had a bigger risk. He jumped up, smoothed out the comforter of the bed, then opened the door to meet the Campbells outside the door.

  “Thank you for conducting those little experiments with me,” Parrott said. “I think we can go downstairs now.”

  On the way down, Parrott wondered whether the Winthrops had heard Nicole on the stairs. Maybe the white noise of the CPAP machines covered for her, or maybe they were sleeping soundly by the time she ventured up. Anyway, I think I know what my next step is going to be.

  Parrott shook hands with John E. and Caro and thanked them again for their assistance. They ushered him out into the dark, cold night and closed the door silently behind him.

  Then John E. turned to Caro and said, “I’m very afraid for Margo.”

  Caro replied, “Me, too.”

  ***

  By the time he returned home from Bucolia, Parrott was feeling exhausted. It had been a full day, and the time pressure was giving him a headache. The sandwich that had tasted so good hours ago had left him thirsty. He opened the refrigerator and contemplated opening a Heineken, but decided he needed to keep his head clear for a few more hours at least. He grabbed a two-liter of Mountain Dew instead. The fizz he heard when opening it reminded him of champagne. He’d have to get some real champagne tomorrow night to celebrate solving the case.

  Drinking from the plastic bottle, he walked over to Tonya’s picture. He wondered why she had had to cancel their Skype date. “I miss you so much, my love,” he crooned to her smiling face. Wish you were here to help me deal with these crazy people.” He imagined her standing behind him, arms wrapped around his waist, head resting on his back. “Only thirteen more weeks till you’ll be here for good,” he whispered. He could almost feel the warmth soaking into his skin and comforting him, encouraging him.

  Parrott opened Horace’s cage and carried the little guy to the kitchen table, where his notes, charts, drawings, a fresh pen, and a legal pad awaited. Today’s visits with Margo, Nicole, Maria, and the Campbells had given him what he needed to figure out who’d killed Preston Phillips. What he did now was to reconstruct the killing, putting all of the information he had into a neat concept map. Before he went to bed, he had a good idea of how he would prove it, too.

  ***

  The next morning Parrott leaped out of bed, energized by adrenalin. He had dreamed of Tonya, holding a trophy just out of his reach. He was running toward her, the wind blasting against the sides of his face. He was within ten feet of his goal, but he knew he couldn’t slow down yet. Then the alarm woke him. It was show time.

  The first leg of his day’s journey was to call Schrik. Depending on the outcome of his trip to New York, he would
need Schrik to manage the necessary paperwork entailed in closing a Pennsylvania case in New York. This could become quite complicated, especially when dealing with the potential arrest of a prominent citizen. Nevertheless, Schrik was delighted with Parrott’s hypothesis and plan. “Good work, Parrott, and good luck. I’ll be ready to jump into action as soon as you call.”

  The sun blazed through the windshield as Parrott drove his usual path into New York. His plan was to drop in on Margo without calling first. She had been so distressed the last time he was there, and he knew this visit wouldn’t be easy either.

  It was almost nine-thirty when he arrived at the AKA, and the desk clerk called to announce him. This time Margo had a personal assistant there, a polite young woman, wearing a starched uniform with “Elena” embroidered on the shirt pocket, and beckoning him inside with a finger to her lips. “Ms. Rinaldi is not feeling well this morning. She asks that we not make noise.” She led him into the kitchenette. He sat under the Chihuly chandelier, where a kaleidoscope of colorful patterns danced on the table. “I’ll just take Ms. Rinaldi her coffee, and she’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  Parrott nodded. He needed her to be awake when he met with her. The smell of strong coffee assailed his nose. Maybe he could get some, too.

  Another twenty minutes and a robust cup of coffee later, Parrott watched Margo make her grand entrance into the room, as if she were a runway model. She was dressed in a rust-colored cashmere sweater and tan pants. Except for the obvious purple half-moons beneath her eyes, she had the face of an angel. Not for the first time, Parrott marveled at Phillips’ taste for beautiful women.