Confessions of a Murder Suspect

37

The doorbell rang at 7:26 the next morning, and this time I was ready for them. I wore jeans and a soft black cashmere turtleneck. I had brushed my hair, and I’d had coffee.

I opened the door and said to Caputo and Hayes, “What a surprise.”

Caputo stepped around me and into the foyer. I flipped the light switch and the UFO blazed overhead and played the musical signature from Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

Hayes looked up at the light fixture and smiled. I was actually starting to like him a little. Not too much, though.

“Your parents must have been hilarious,” he said.

I said, “Is this a social call? Or should I phone our lawyer?”

I didn’t like the way-too-smug look on Caputo’s face. Actually, I never liked his looks. At all.

“You should round up your brothers and your nanny,” said Caputo. He didn’t say please.

“Samantha is not our nanny.”

“Whatever she is, just get her, Tinker Bell. We’ll wait.”

I called Philippe Montaigne. My call went to voice mail, so I left a message. Then I went down the hall to the bedroom wing. Since my uncle had issued a stern “do not disturb” order, I complied. My pleasure.

When my three brothers, Samantha, and I had assembled around the shark table, Caputo said directly to me, “We found fingerprints on the poison bottle, Tippytoes. Your prints.”

My stomach dropped at the accusation, and my face felt hot. I wasn’t sure my mouth would work properly. I had that disconcerting feeling of being out of control again.

None of my brothers said a word. Harry looked like he was about to cry again, and Hugo and Matthew just stared. Thanks for the support, bros. Really appreciate it.

Samantha looked shocked, too, but quickly opened her mouth to (I hoped) proclaim my innocence. I held up a hand and forced myself to speak instead.

“Are you seriously claiming that my prints are on the poison bottle? That’s completely ridiculous.”

“They’re your prints, missy. Let’s hear how they got on that bottle.”

“If I actually had poisoned my parents, I would never make a dumb mistake like leaving my prints on the murder weapon. Trust me on that, dicks. No offense. That’s slang for detective, isn’t it?” This was something I never would have said forty-eight hours earlier. I wasn’t sure I recognized myself anymore.

They just stared at me as I looked from one to the other of them. Then I got it.

“You don’t have any fingerprints, do you?” I said. “That was a lie. You were trying to trap me because you have nothing. Having no evidence in the murders of a prominent couple like our parents is probably pretty embarrassing. Could hurt your careers.”

Caputo said, “You’re cute when you’re mad, Tilly—”

“Tandoori!” I yelled at the same time that Matthew stood up, all 215 pounds of him. His arms were crossed over his chest and he stepped in front of me. As he did so, Samantha came to sit next to me on the couch.

“Anything else you want to falsely accuse my sister of, dicks?” Matthew said menacingly as he loomed over them.

“Not so fast, Mr. Heisman. We’re not finished here,” Caputo said, standing up as well. “Tan-doori Angel,” he said, drawing out my name. “You are under arrest for obstructing governmental administration in the second degree. You’re coming with us.”