Confessions of a Murder Suspect

28

Despite the obvious excuse I could have used to avoid Mr. Sampson—that I was traveling back up to my apartment instead of down to the lobby—I stepped into the elevator and said hello. I knew I couldn’t miss an opportunity to interview another one of our neighbors, no matter how distasteful I found him.

Sampson looked good for a man of forty, and I would have expected nothing less than an impeccable presentation from a twenty-four-karat-gold narcissist who got paid sums of money for telling lies in the most pedestrian prose imaginable.

He said, “Hello, Tandy,” and jabbed at the button for the ground floor.

I hate Morris Sampson because he is a somewhat famous mystery writer who wrote a roman à clef, a novel that is obviously based on true events and real people. The villain in his book was a character called Maeve Engle, and, like my mother, she was a hedge-fund manager. The “fictitious” Maeve Engle was arrogant, cruel, greedy, and unethical, and she was murdered for it.

After Sampson’s book came out Maud sued his publisher, and in order to settle the suit and quiet the bad publicity, the publisher had the books removed from the shelves and then put it out of print.

But the damage had been done.

People who had never questioned my mother’s honesty suddenly did. It was probable, in fact, that the only reason Maud was being sued was because of the cloud Morris Sampson had hung over her head.

My mother became even more distant than she had been before—more removed from the world, and more removed from us.

Not long after the book scandal, I’d gone to Sampson’s apartment and we’d exchanged quite a few angry words. It had been a nasty fight. I told Sampson that he was not only a very bad person, but a bad writer, too. That his books couldn’t compare to the works of Ruth Rendell or James Ellroy, and that he wasn’t even fit to tie Elmore Leonard’s shoes.

He knew I was right, and I knew that I’d hurt him.

But for this encounter I had to show him a different side of myself. I thought hard and put on a sad expression, the face people would expect to see on a girl whose parents had been killed just thirty-six hours before.

“Can you spare me a few minutes, Mr. Sampson?” I said as the elevator settled with a thump on the ground floor.

Sampson gave me a fleeting look, then stepped out of the elevator, holding open the doors as he said, “I don’t have time for your games, Tandoori. Are you really sad that your parents are gone? Really?”

“That surprises you?”

“Surprised that you have feelings? Ha! Well, your parents were perfectly acceptable people, I suppose, and yet, I don’t think the Residents’ Committee will be honoring them with a plaque in the courtyard.”

“Nice use of sarcasm, Mr. Sampson. A-plus.”

“I dislike you, Tandy, but good luck,” Sampson spat. “And give my best to your siblings—especially Harrison. He’s the nice one.”

Sampson turned away and let the doors go. Before they closed, I found myself shouting, “You’re a fleabite, Sampson! An infected fleabite!”

I heard him laugh; then I was alone in the elevator car.

I’d lost my temper. And that meant Morris Sampson had won.

Sampson was despicable, and he hated us, too, but hate alone didn’t create poison in bedside water tumblers. If he had killed my parents, I couldn’t imagine how he could have pulled it off.

If he had done it, it was the crime of the century. Morris Sampson wasn’t smart enough for that. To be honest, he wasn’t as smart as any of us Angels.

Not even close.