Confessions of a Murder Suspect

32

After Dr. Keyes left, we felt a little more comfortable just being… sad. Crying. Hugging. And in the case of Matty, who rejoined us after Dr. Keyes’s departure, raging.

Leave it to Uncle Peter to break up the pity party.

He came down the stairs and paused dramatically on the landing so that he was standing ten feet above us. Apparently, he’d been nosing around in my father’s private records.

With his flannel and fleece and flyaway hair and bare feet, he looked almost warm and fuzzy, and yet I knew he was about as fuzzy as a T. rex.

“I have an important announcement,” Uncle Peter said, as though he were the king of New York and not just the head (in name only) of our household. “Matty, I’ve been going over the private records that your father kept in a special vault at the office. I’ll be turning everything over to the police shortly. Unfortunately, I’ve discovered some rather grave news. The records I found are different from the company’s official records.”

Everyone stared at him blankly.

“Let me be clear about this: Your father cooked the books.”

Matty’s face was unreadable. But I could sure read Uncle Peter. There was something bad in the forecast, and he was about to slit the clouds open and let it pour.

“But you already know about the bookkeeping irregularity, don’t you, Matthew?”

Matty answered in a deep, low voice, almost a growl. “I don’t know what my father’s bookkeeping has to do with me. As far as I know, the only thing my father cooked was food.”

“Well, I’ll spell it out for you, nephew. A sizable chunk of money—$1.7 million, to be exact—somehow slipped off the table, and your father covered it up. However, there’s a copy of a statement from a bank in the Channel Islands, where there is an account containing that precise amount—and your name is on it. And that little bit of grand larceny is why your father’s bookkeeping is your business.”

“Peter, you’re an idiot. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Matthew said.

“I can read a bank statement. Did your father lend you the money for your gambling habit and then want it back? Did you kill him so that you wouldn’t have to repay the debt?”

Gambling habit? I wasn’t sure what to make of that. I knew Matthew enjoyed a game of poker with his buddies every now and then. Was it something more than that? Something I needed to be concerned about? Because, dear friend, gambling has played an unfortunate role in the Angel family history. But that’s another story, for another time.

Matthew’s smile was flat and, frankly, scary. His sunglasses covered his eyes and I, for one, was glad. Matty said, “You’re accusing me of killing my father?”

“I hate to say it, but maybe I’ve overestimated you, Matty. I wonder what the police will think of that money as a motive for murder.” Uncle Peter had his cell phone out. He punched in some numbers and then spoke into the mouthpiece: “Sergeant Capricorn Caputo, please. All right. Tell him that Peter Angel called, and that it’s very important.”

I clasped my hands together so hard that my fingers went numb. I was kind of dumbstruck. My head was starting to spin.

Hugo jumped to his feet and screamed at our uncle, “You can’t call the police on Matty! He’s your family. That’s just wrong.”

Was it wrong?

Why had my father given Matty $1.7 million? Since my big brother had started spending nights with his glamorous girlfriend, I realized, I really didn’t know him like I used to.

Could Matty be a killer? I felt like I had been asking myself questions about him more than anyone else since our parents’ murders, and it was getting easier and easier to answer them.