Confessions of a Murder Suspect

47

Could you ever spy on your own family the way I spied on mine? Could you, if you thought somebody in your house was a murderer? Don’t be too sure about how you’d react to things you haven’t actually experienced. You might be a little surprised by what you’re capable of.

I was closing down Hugo’s computer when the intercom screeched and Harry’s voice filled all nine thousand square feet of our apartment.

“Calling Tandy. Calling Tandy. Are you home? Meet me in the kitchen, stat.”

Harry sounded borderline hysterical. I am not kidding.

The kitchen was like a mile from Hugo’s room, but I ran, slid into the kitchen on socked feet, and found Harry staring at the small under-cabinet television set.

“Look at this,” he said, hitting the rewind button on our DVR.

“Well, hello to you, too, Harry. Glad you made it out of jail. I’m just fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Of course you’re fine, Tandy. You’re always fine,” he replied. He paused, then said, “I’m glad you’re home. Now look!”

It was a breaking news report by someone called Laurie Kim, a young, ambitious TV reporter sitting eagerly behind the anchor desk. Behind her perky face was a full-screen video of Matthew making a touchdown on the Giants’ home field.

“What’s this about?” I asked.

“Watch,” Harry whispered.

The reporter was saying, “Tamara Gee, the actress best known for her starring role in The Good Girls and for her love relationship with football star Matthew Angel…”

Laurie Kim continued her celebrity-reporter-style blather as the screen behind her cut to footage of the stands, where Tamara Gee cheered as players carried Matthew off the field on their shoulders.

“… But you can’t always judge a relationship by its appearance. Earlier today, I had an exclusive interview with Ms. Gee in the apartment she shares with her ‘Matty.’ ”

The producers cut to another video clip, this one of Tamara Gee speaking with Ms. Kim in a perfectly decorated living room with plump pillows in tropical colors.

Tamara’s beautiful face was positively aglow when she said, “I don’t want to deny it any longer. I am pregnant with my first child, and he is an Angel. The baby’s father is Malcolm Angel, the man I loved—the man who was just murdered.” Her face contorted in what I immediately identified as well-rehearsed grief.

A photo of my father appeared in the corner of the screen as Ms. Kim asked, “Just to be sure we all understand, you’re saying that Matthew Angel is not the baby’s father?”

“That’s right. Malcolm Angel was my lover, and he is my baby’s father. Sadly, my child will never know his daddy.”

My hands flew to my head as I screamed, “Hold it! This is complete crap. I don’t even understand it. She’s saying Malcolm fathered her child. That he cheated on Maud? With her? That’s a lie. It can’t be true.”

“I don’t believe it,” Harry said, his voice faint. His face looked positively ashen.

“She’s a liar, and we need to call Philippe right now,” I said.

“Why would she lie?” Harry asked me.

If she was lying, it was a crime against my father. Defamation. If she was telling the truth, and my father had cheated on my mother with Tamara Gee, it was a crime against our family, and a double crime against poor Matty.

“I can think of about a hundred million reasons, but only one that matters,” I said. “Money. That’s usually the reason for almost everything adults do, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but… I can’t… quite… absorb… all this.…” Harry was starting to go white again. “I’ve got to call Matty.…”

He started to pull out his phone, but I stopped him, suddenly remembering my visit with Mrs. Hauser two days earlier.

“Harry, listen to this. Mrs. Hauser heard Malcolm and Maud fighting the day they died. Malcolm was saying he wanted to make some ‘new financial arrangements.’ And Maud was really mad.”

“New financial arrangements? Like… for a certain incoming member of the family? You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Harry.

If Tamara and Malcolm really were involved—and the very thought of it nearly made me gag—Matthew had an undeniable motive to commit murder. It would be called a crime of passion.

To be perfectly honest, I find that phrase a little incomprehensible. I mean, I get it—but I don’t really get it.