Confessions of a Murder Suspect (17 page)

My mother had secrets;
Samantha obviously had secrets; and so did I. Now I think I’m ready to tell you a really big one.

Uncle Peter must have come back on the scene, because he and Matty were shouting at each other just outside my room. So I turned on some music and took out my pillbox.

The pillbox, which once belonged to Gram Hilda, is made of ebony and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. I opened the box and saw that I’d forgotten to take my pills the night before.

It was the first time I’d
ever
forgotten my medication.
Ever.

I was horrified—probably because my parents would’ve been so angry with me. I could’ve even gotten a Big Chop for this. The same was true for my brothers, and for Katherine, when she was alive.

You never miss your meds.

I shook out the day’s dose of candy-colored pills and held them in the palm of my hand: two green pills, one pink one, three white caplets, one multicolored round pill, two tiny black ones, and a yellow gelcap.

These were Malcolm’s special super-vitamins, which he’d brought home from the factory for us ever since we were kids. I’d looked for them in the
Physicians’ Desk Reference
and in the Angel Pharma catalog, but I’d never found matches for them. I had always suspected that our pills were Malcolm’s off-label special blend.

“They’re why you children never get sick,” he’d say if we asked. And since we were the only kids we knew of who pretty much never got sick, there was no reason not to believe him.

But I hadn’t taken my pills the night before—had missed just one dose—and then I had fainted, had an emotional breakdown, sobbed, and felt out of control. In short, I’d acted in a way that was just not like me.

I felt… like a lot of other teenage girls must feel.

Could this be… normal?

I wasn’t sure what to make of it yet. But an idea was forming. It was not an entirely new idea, but it had never before seemed so powerful. And scary.

Why were the Angel kids so special, so different from other people and from one another?

Were my laser focus and concentration, Matthew’s speed and agility, Hugo’s strength, and Harry’s artistic talent enhanced by this daily handful of pills? Had our father found some way to help us become more perfect, as good as we could possibly be, maybe even a little… supernatural?

If so,
what would happen if we stopped taking the pills?

I’d already started to see myself break down emotionally. Were my focus and concentration and analytical skills next?

I dropped the handful of pills onto my bed and ran straight to Harry’s room.

He was wearing headphones and had started a painting that was both garish and strangely familiar. The colors were swirled all around, but I could have sworn I recognized our father’s face in the deep green, purple, and black shapes with striking white zigzags Harry was throwing onto the canvas.

I lifted one of his earpieces and said, “Harry—the pills. What are they for? Do you know?”

He shrugged. “You’re the detective. I’m just an art dweeb.”

“I think we should stop taking them.”

“You do? But why?”

“Until we know what they are, I definitely think we should stop.”

“What will happen?”

“I don’t know for sure. But listen, Harry—we need to find out.”

“But what if they’re… necessary, or something? I’ve never
not
taken my pills. Malcolm and Maud would give us Big Chops for it.”

“Malcolm and Maud are gone,” I said, probably more harshly than I should have, because Harry’s eyes began to water. “I just think we need to try this,” I went on in a more soothing tone. “Don’t you want to know what they’re for… and why we are the way we are? I’m sure it’s all connected somehow.”

Harry looked at my doubtfully. Even in death our parents were still controlling him through their rules. “Okay,” he finally said, smiling through his tears. “I’ll stop being a druggie if you do.”

“Good,” I said, patting his hand and leaving him to his painting. We were one step closer to figuring everything out.

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.”

38

“You can’t take Tandy!”
Hugo shouted, jumping up in front of me, alongside Matthew. Harry got up slowly, too, and stood on Matthew’s other side. Meanwhile, I was busy imagining myself standing in a snowbank, kind of like a snow girl—another Keyesian technique. I relaxed my scowl.

When I felt cool and sweet, I asked, “And how, exactly, have I obstructed governmental administration?”

Caputo said, “I thought you knew everything, Tiddlywinks.”

Hayes stepped in and paraphrased from the NYPD playbook. “Obstruction is when a person intentionally obstructs, impairs, or perverts the administration of law,
or prevents or attempts to prevent a public servant from performing an official function by means of intimidation, physical force, or interference.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Yes, I know
what
it is. If you had listened to my question, you’d know I asked you
how
I obstructed you in the least.”

Caputo said, “In your case, Tiger Lily, you neglected to mention that your parents had a dinner guest on the night of the murders. And we’re going to combine that deliberate omission with your refusal to cooperate with our investigation. Ditto for you, Harrington—”

“Harrison!”

“You also omitted the dinner from your statement. And as for you, Mr. NFL Rock Star, you have been intimidating and interfering since you arrived the night of the murders.”

Matty scoffed. “You call what I did ‘intimidation’? Please give me a chance to show you what
I
call intimidation.” I swear I saw his muscles bulge under his shirt.

Caputo and Matty stared at each other, black marbles against blue ice, until Hugo interrupted the face-off.

“You’ve got nothing on me, Potato,” Hugo said, “so hands off. I’m warning you.”

“You’re a material witness,” said Caputo. “Don’t worry, Shrimp Toast. Child Protective Services will confine you
with little terrors your own age.” He continued, “Miss Peck, you’re a material witness and a person of interest. That’s officialese for
suspect
. Maybe when you have a chance to talk to us privately, you’ll have some fresh thoughts that will actually help us with our investigation.

“Anyone too dumb to be afraid, I’m making you a promise: We’re going to nail whoever killed Malcolm and Maud Angel, however many of you were involved—and you can count on that.”

While Hugo jeered, I called Phil a second time. Again, I got his voice mail. I immediately redialed the phone, my eyes wide open with shock, as unblinking as the eyes of our pygmy sharks.

Phil still didn’t answer.

Hugo had been running in circles around the cops, but suddenly he stopped, climbed up on the coffee table, pulled down his drawers, and mooned them. Then he farted.