Confessions of a Murder Suspect

19

I have to admit that by that point I had already become obsessed with solving my parents’ murders. I should also confess that I’m a bit obsessive-compulsive anyway.

I took a self-guided tour of the downstairs rooms just to make sure that no stone had been left unturned, that no obvious forced entry had been missed. I thoroughly checked the family rooms: living room, hallways, library, and kitchen. I double-checked the laundry room and the back door and the elevator. I saw no nicks or breaks in the door frames, no scratches on the locks. I saw nothing out of place. Disappointing.

Everywhere I looked, I saw Angel family perfection.

I took to the stairs and noticed right away that I was finding it a little difficult to breathe. This was my parents’ suffocating world, after all. But I was having an uncharacteristically emotional reaction to it.

Halfway up, I passed Mercurio, the larger-than-life sculpture of a merman hanging from his tail by a chain and a hook screwed into the ceiling. “Blood” was dripping down his chest, and there was a look of pure anguish on his face. Fitting.

Mercurio was another of Hugo’s Grande Gongo “prizes,” and another parental indulgence with a message: Life is serious. You win or you lose, and winning is a lot better.

My father had told us about the actual, real-life Grande Gongo, a cutting-edge container ship docked in Korea and flying the Italian flag. He’d said that the Grande Gongo was an “an intrepid craft on a mission—with no boundaries.” And that was how he thought of his children.

Certificates of excellence had been hung on the stairwell wall, alongside mottos that my father had found important enough to frame. The one he never let us forget was written by a poet and priest who had died almost four centuries ago:

ONE FATHER IS MORE THAN A HUNDRED SCHOOLMASTERS.—GEORGE HERBERT

There was another framed item that I rarely passed without stopping to read it again. It was an envelope and letter from Hilda Angel—my father’s mother—who died just before Malcolm and Maud were married.

Apparently, Gram Hilda had not approved of the marriage.

She had scrawled on the back of the envelope, “Do not open until my will has been read.”

After the reading of her will, the letter was opened. It was in my grandmother’s handwriting, and it was signed and notarized. Even the notary’s signature had been notarized. It read:

“I am leaving Malcolm and Maud $100, because I feel that is all that they deserve.”

Rather than feeling insulted, my parents had used Hilda’s disapproval to fuel their financial aspirations. They had made millions and millions since Gram Hilda had disinherited them. Her letter was a Big Chop that was also a stupendous motivator.

I climbed to the top of the staircase, put my hand on the newel, and stepped into the second-floor hallway. My parents’ killer had stood where I was standing now.

I shivered.

What had he been thinking as he primed himself for the kill?