Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Detective, but I didn’t know you were coming back.” The dig at Parrott’s lack of manners was subtle but did not go unnoticed.

  “I apologize for not calling first. My day requires me to be in New York, and I have some follow-up questions for you.”

  “Just let me--Elena,” Margo said to the housekeeper, “could you give us some privacy, please?”

  “Surely,” Elena replied. “I’ll be back in the laundry room if you need me.”

  “I see Elena gave you some coffee. Would you like a refill?”

  “No, ma’am. One’s my limit, thank you. Let me get down to business.” He fiddled with his iPad to stall for time. “You do remember that I read you your Miranda rights at Bucolia and reminded you of them yesterday?”

  “Yes, yes. I didn’t kill Preston, so I’m sure I don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, I’ve done some investigating since we met yesterday, and I have a few more questions. We also have some evidence taken from the bedroom occupied by Mr. Phillips.” Parrott gave Margo a penetrating look.

  “Ask. Let’s get this over with.” She massaged the pressure points on her forehead.

  “Yesterday, you told me that Nicole Phillips attempted to go to her husband on the fourth floor after three a.m. on the night in question, correct?”

  “Yes.” Margo appeared to relax a little.

  “And you convinced her to go back downstairs and wait until the next day to see Mr. Phillips.”

  “Yes, I helped her go back down the stairs and get resettled on the sofa, as well.”

  “Why did you intervene?”

  “Well, I would think that would be obvious. I had just had sex with her husband. I wasn’t sure how much she knew about our relationship, and I didn’t want to expose Preston to her scrutiny. Besides, I have more respect for Caro and John E. than to have risked having a brouhaha in their home at three a.m.”

  Parrott nodded. “You also told me Mr. Phillips had indicated to you that he had told his wife he wanted a divorce.”

  “Yes, it was a condition for our sleeping together.” Margo began rubbing the fabric of her sweater between thumb and forefinger, just as she had the day before.

  “Did it seem to you that Mrs. Phillips had been told such a thing when you saw her on her way upstairs?”

  “I don’t know. I know I wouldn’t be climbing three flights of stairs with a broken ankle to see a scoundrel who had just broken up with me, but maybe the younger generation is different. Maybe she was going to plead with him to change his mind.”

  “How did it make you feel to think that Mr. Phillips might not have told her, that he slept with you under false pretenses?” Parrott was pushing some hot buttons, but he pressed on.

  “Okay, I admit it. I was furious. The whole weekend had been a roller coaster with my feelings for Preston going up, down, up, down, and at that moment I just wanted to get off.”

  Parrott noticed tears forming in Margo’s eyes, but he had to go forward. “So you went back into Phillips’ bedroom to confront him.”

  Margo’s eyes opened wide with something that might have been fear. She gasped. “How did you know that?”

  “It fits with the facts of the case. What I need to know from you is how you found Mr. Phillips when you went back to his room.”

  “How did I find him? I found him asleep. He didn’t hear me open the door or enter the room, didn’t wake up at all.” Her voice had taken on a shrill quality.

  “Did you go over to the bed? Could you tell if he was still alive at that time?”

  “He was still alive. He was snoring. Mad as I was, I stood there and watched him sleep. He looked as innocent as a baby.”

  “So what did you do next?”

  “I just stood there for what seemed like a long time, watching. He was smiling in his sleep, as if he were dreaming about something happy.”

  “And then you went into the bathroom?”

  “How did--yes, yes, I did. I had to go to the bathroom, and I didn’t want to go back downstairs yet. Maybe I was hoping the flush would wake Preston up, and we could have it out.”

  “Why didn’t you just wake him up if you wanted to have it out with him?”

  “Okay, to be totally honest, I did try to wake him up. I stood over him and spoke as loudly as I could without shouting and waking up the whole house, but he didn’t budge. I shook him and shook him, but he just kept that silly smile on his face and rolled over. I know he’d had a lot to drink that night, and maybe he took some pills that interacted with the alcohol. He just wouldn’t wake up.”

  “While you were in the bathroom, you noticed the Metamucil container there.” Parrott gambled, though his voice sounded as if it were an established fact. “Your fingerprint was left on the label.”

  “Yes. It was strange. The guys had been talking at dinner about fraternity pranks they had committed with Metamucil. It occurred to me that I could get even with Preston by pulling the same prank on him. It was childish, I know, but I thought it would be a way to let him know that I knew he hadn’t told Nicole, and ultimately it would be harmless.”

  “So what did you do next?”

  “I mixed some Metamucil with water in the drinking cup next to the sink. That’s all. I just mixed it and left it there, and then I went back to my room and went to sleep.

  “How did you measure the Metamucil? Was there a measuring spoon?”

  Margo’s eyes narrowed, as if she were reading between the lines of Parrott’s questions. “I--I don’t think so. I think I just poured a small amount of Metamucil into the water and rolled it around in the glass to dissolve it.” She moved her hand in circles, as if holding an imaginary brandy snifter.

  “Did you wash your hands after mixing the Metamucil with the water?”

  Now, Margo stood and paced around the room. “Washed my hands? I’m sure I did. I always wash my hands thoroughly before leaving the restroom. It’s a lifelong habit.”

  “A lucky one for you, as it turns out. So you washed your hands and left the Metamucil mixture for Mr. Phillips to drink, hoping it would loosen his bowels, as a prank.”

  Margo sat again. “Yes, I did. As I say, it wasn’t the most mature way to handle my anger, but as it turned out, Preston probably never even drank it.”

  “Unfortunately, you are wrong about that, Ms. Rinaldi. Mr. Phillips must have awakened after you left. Perhaps the alcohol had left his mouth very dry. He drank the mixture you prepared and went back to bed. But it wasn’t Metamucil in the container. It was a deadly poison called palytoxin. It was your actions, Ms. Rinaldi, that killed Preston Phillips.”

  “Killed him? I didn’t kill Preston. I loved him.” Margo began shrieking and gasping. Elena came running into the room, and Parrott instructed her to call for the paramedics. Margo was hyperventilating and moaning, “No--o--o, n--o--o,” as her color changed from cream to paper.

  Afraid she would lose consciousness and hit the ceramic floor, Parrott moved her into the living room, where he placed her on the sofa with an ice pack behind her neck.

  ***

  Margo was taken to Mount Sinai Hospital, the same place where Gerald had been taken after his stroke. Parrott followed the ambulance, and Libby was there to meet it when it pulled into the driveway. While in the emergency room, Margo refused to cooperate. Her agitation and incoherent outbursts led to restraints and an interview with a psychiatrist. When her hysteria included the expression of suicidal ideation, she was given a heavy dose of Lorazepam. Parrott left while Libby was making arrangements to have her transported to the Haven of Westchester, a private facility in White Plains. She would be placed in a close-observation unit, stripped of everything but a hospital gown, with an attendant, who would become her shadow for the foreseeable future.

  On the way back to the station, Parrott called Schrik and brought him up-to-date. An hour and a half later, Parrott pulled into his parking space. He was well within the twenty-four h
our limit, but that didn’t seem to matter much anymore. When Schrik, standing at the window on the second floor, saw him, he went downstairs to greet the detective at the front door. Parrott opened the door to his boss’s applause.

  “Thanks, Chief,” Parrott said, modestly. “Let’s go sit down. We have a lot to talk about.”

  ***

  Schrik handed a stack of messages across the desk to Parrott. “So the Widow checked out,” he said, referring to Barton’s reports about Bartosh, Nicole’s lack of computer skills, and her phone records. She was playing straight with you, after all.”

  “This was some case, Chief. I’m sorry I can’t give you an arrest and conviction, after all this work, but--”

  “I know, it was an accidental death, at best. Rinaldi had no idea she was killing her boyfriend. She just thought she was playing a prank on him. What’s so strange is just about everyone there had a motive to kill Phillips. At one point, I even thought it might be a conspiracy.”

  “Don’t forget Phillips’ own role in setting the whole thing up. He went to a lot of trouble to bring that palytoxin in the Metamucil container. Ironic that the one who ended up dying was him.”

  “Yeah. I’m convinced he intended to kill Winthrop. That was the one person who presented the biggest threat to him with that messy lawsuit,” Parrott said.

  “Why do you think he didn’t go through with it?”

  “Oh, I’ve thought that through. I think he planned to wait until Sunday morning, when everyone was downstairs having brunch. He would have stayed upstairs, so he could sneak into Winthrop’s room and coat his CPAP machine with palytoxin. Sunday night, when Winthrop was back at home, he would have inhaled the poison in his sleep and died. By that time, Phillips would be far away, and he would have dumped the palytoxin. It was an ingenious plan, actually.”

  “Well,” Schrik said, rolling the paper clip around in his mouth, “I’ll be taking the evidence to the district attorney and recommending we wrap this up as an accidental death.”

  Parrott nodded. “How does Dalton feel about that?”

  “I offered to bring murder charges, but he knew it would come out at trial that Phillips had brought the poison with mal-intent. Dalton said, ‘Let it go.’” Schrik took out his paper clip and laid it on his desk. “Man, these one-percenters are really something, aren’t they? I guess they think they’re invulnerable. They’re just used to having things go their way all of the time.”

  “You could say that, but if you think about it, they aren’t the happiest bunch. Phillips and Kelley are dead, Vicki Spiller is in a rehab hospital, and Margo Rinaldi might never recover from her nervous breakdown. The Winthrops will always feel cheated by Phillips, no matter how much other money they have, and the Blooms will have major worries over Margo. The Campbells will probably never find peace at Bucolia after this, either.”

  “You left out the Bakers,” Schrik said.

  “Yeah, thank goodness for Andrea. It was her comment about Phillips’ wanting to kill Winthrop that turned my thinking around.”

  “And the wealthy Widow Phillips.”

  “Aside from her broken ankle and physical and mental scars from poor choices in men, I guess she’ll be the only one who comes out ahead in all this.”

  Parrott rubbed his eyes, suddenly realizing how depleted he felt. “After this case, I think I need a vacation.”

  “Hmm, hmm,” came a sound from behind Parrott.

  When he turned to see Tonya standing in the doorway, wearing her uniform and holding a bottle of champagne, his mouth opened in shock.

  “A vacation? How about a honeymoon, Detective?”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am deeply indebted to the following people who assisted with authenticating information for this novel: Scott Richard and Edward Richard; Drs. Howard Rubin, Kerri Halfant, and Andy Kahn; Chief of Police, Henry Porretto; the staff at West Brandywine Township Hall; Curtiss Brown; Mike Hoover; and my writers’ critique group: Irene Amiet, Susan Baker, Shannon Caldwell, Michael Hennen, Gary Hoffman, Dan McKeithan, and Richard Peake. If the story rings true, it is to their credit. If not, the fault is mine.

  Thanks also to editors, Joyce H., Faith C., and Lauri Wellington; cover artists, Rebecca Evans and Jack Jackson; author photographer, Jennifer Reynolds; and publicist, Caitlin Hamilton Marketing. Their expertise and professionalism, along with their belief in the value of this book, provide its wings.

  Most of all, thanks to you, Readers. You are the ones who have made this dream come true.

  ~ Saralyn Richard

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Award-winning mystery and children’s books author, Saralyn Richard, has been a teacher who wrote on the side. Now she is a writer who teaches on the side. Some of her poems and essays have won awards and contests from the time she was in high school. Her children’s picture book, Naughty Nana, has reached thousands of children in five countries. Murder in the One Percent pulls back the curtain on the privileged and powerful. Set on a gentleman’s farm in Pennsylvania and in the tony areas of New York, the book shows what happens when someone comes to a party with murder in his heart and poison in his pocket.

  A member of Mystery Writers of America and International Thriller Writers, Richard has completed a stand-alone mystery, Murder at Lincoln High, and is working on another Oliver Parrott mystery. Her website is www.saralynrichard.com.

  GENRE: MYSTERY-DETECTIVE/COZY MYSTERY

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, businesses, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. The publisher does not have any control over or assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.

  MURDER IN THE ONE PERCENT

  Copyright © 2018 by Saralyn Richard

  Cover Design by Rebecca Evans

  All cover art copyright © 2018

  All Rights Reserved

  eBOOK ISBN: 978-1-626947-70-2

  First Publication: FEBRUARY 17, 2018

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