Confessions of a Murder Suspect

30

Nate Crosby’s sandy hair was combed from back to front, and he wore a yellow cardigan and dark gray slacks.

“Tandy, I was just about to call you, but I didn’t want to intrude. Please come in. I’ve been feeling awful about what happened, and wondering if I could help in any small way. Where are your brothers? Will you be taking some time off from school?”

I murmured that I hadn’t really thought about it yet, but would discuss it with my siblings later. I thanked him for his kindness and followed him into the heart of the living room, a clean and monkish space that hardly looked lived in. A large flat-screen television was mounted over the fireplace; I looked up to see a network newscaster talking about my parents, a picture of Malcolm and Maud floating next to his head.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Mr. Crosby said. He picked up the remote and switched off the set. I sat down across from him in a slatted wooden chair.

“What can I do to help you, Tandy? You and your brothers can count on me for anything.”

I told him that my uncle Peter had moved in temporarily and that Matthew was taking care of Hugo, but that I had some questions.

“Did you notice anything unusual, Mr. Crosby? I thought that with your cinematic eye, you may have noticed something that no one else would have seen.”

Crosby started to smile, then held it back in a way that made him look seriously constipated. “I’ve been thinking along the same lines, Tandy. After the police left, I scrutinized my memories for anything out of the ordinary, anything your parents may have said to me, or anything that struck me as remarkable.”

“And did something come to you?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” He gave me a kind but patronizing look. “What was remarkable was how much they loved all of you. They considered all of you so precious—and even more so after your sister died.”

Listening to Nate Crosby’s drivel was almost as bad as enduring potshots from Morris Sampson. And frankly, both of them had a motive for killing my parents.

With the Angels dead, Morris Sampson could write another book about them—and probably not get sued. Unless I sued that nasty little man…

Which begged the question: Were the Angel children next on the killer’s hit list?

Nate Crosby could make his documentary, and with us out of the way, he could tell our family’s story any way he wanted.

My eyes must have glazed over as I considered these possibilities. I came back to myself at the sound of Nate Crosby saying my name.

“Tandy, when may I call on your family?”

“We’ll see you at the funeral,” I said, and without adding a thank-you or a good-bye, I got up and left Crosby’s apartment.

There was a meeting scheduled in our apartment, and I was already late.