Confessions: The Private School Murders (5 page)

A few minutes later, Jacob paged us on the intercom, and we assembled in the living room: Harry and I taking up most of the red leather sofa, Hugo in the Pork Chair—a pink chair with hooves for feet that he loved—and Jacob perched above us on a kitchen stool he’d brought in for the meeting.

I wondered what Jacob thought of Maud’s décor. She had favored huge pieces of artwork and had designed our place so that it looked like a hyperrealism exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art. It was all bold colors, life-sized statues, Pop Art canvases, and crazy kitschy furniture. We loved it. But then, it was all we knew. Somehow Jacob seemed like a guy who’d prefer a more minimalist style.

“First, I’ve e-mailed you the court order making me
your legal guardian,” he said, looking directly at me. “And second, there is this.”

He slipped a hand into the inside breast pocket of his khaki jacket and removed a four-by-six photo. He held it along the edges with both hands so we could see the faded color portrait of a woman in her fifties. Her hair was upswept. She wore a blouse with a deep neckline and a necklace of baroque blue pearls the size of melon balls.

I recognized her, of course. She was my father’s mother, elegant and beautiful, a tough-love matriarch who had died before the Angel kids were born. But we still referred to her familiarly as Gram Hilda. A framed note and envelope from Gram Hilda hung on the wall of the staircase that led up to my parents’ master suite. The note was handwritten, stamped by a notary, and was a companion to Gram Hilda’s will. The letter was short and not too sweet.

“I am leaving Malcolm and Maud $100, because I feel that is all that they deserve.”

Our parents had told us that Gram Hilda was very rich but didn’t approve of their marriage for reasons they never explained. Even though she’d died just before their wedding, Gram Hilda’s disapproval had been the inspiration to better themselves financially, and they had done it—without her help.

But wait a minute.

“Why do you have a picture of Gram Hilda?” Hugo asked, voicing my thoughts.

“Hilda expected that your parents would have children one day. She gave this photo to your father, who gave it to your uncle Peter, and he asked me to give it to you.”

He turned the photo over, and I saw that a few lines had been written on the back in blue ink. Jacob read the inscription aloud.

“ ‘To my grandchildren. Hold yourselves to high standards. Do not disappoint yourselves or me. Hilda Angel.’ ”

“Yep. That was definitely Dad’s mother,” Harry said bitterly. I’m sure he noticed that she’d left out an important word before her signature:
love
. Or how about
best wishes
? We would even have appreciated a
sincerely
.

“And now,” said Jacob, slipping the picture onto the table in front of us, “on to the real point of this meeting.”

6

Jacob stood,
took off his khaki jacket, and hung it over the high back of his stool.

“There will be house rules. Not too many, but they all must be obeyed.”

Rules from a military commando. Would they include mandatory morning push-ups?

“Number one, you
must
keep your phones on and charged at all times,” Jacob said. “Number two, if I call, you must answer. Number three, there will be no lying whatsoever. Even if it’s a joke, anyone caught deviating from the truth will be punished.” He paused and looked at us, hard. “Please don’t test me.”

Who the hell did this guy think he was?

“We don’t lie,” I told him.

“Well, Hugo does sometimes
embellish
,” Harry said.

Hugo and I both shot him looks of betrayal. Harry turned up his palms.

“Here’s why the rules are necessary,” Jacob said, ignoring our aside. “I intend to protect you until you reach your majority. That’s my job. And I can’t do it if I’m misinformed. Understood?”

Silence.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Hugo leaned forward eagerly in the Pork Chair, looking up at Jacob. “Arm wrestle with me.”

Jacob’s eyes danced, waiting for a punch line. No one moved. “You’re not kidding?”

“You just said not to kid,” Hugo said. “Let’s do it. Right here, right now.”

To my surprise, Jacob smiled indulgently, got down on the Rothko-patterned carpet, and stretched out on his stomach facing Hugo, who assumed a similar, opposing position. They clasped right hands. Harry and I exchanged looks of mild amusement.

Stranger things have happened in the Angel household.

“Three, two, one, wrestle!” Hugo shouted.

Bam!
Hugo’s hand hit the floor, the whole thing over in five seconds. Hugo cursed under his breath. Jacob got up, smoothed the front of his shirt, and sat down on his stool. Hugo rubbed his elbow with stubborn respect in his eyes.

“Moving on,” Jacob said. “You will each have fifty dollars a week for cab fares and lunches. You will have breakfast and dinner at home, where we will take turns preparing meals. So fifty dollars is more than you need—”

Harry sat straight up in his seat. “You must be joking. Have you ever lived in Manhattan, Jake? New York City is not cheap.”

“Effective now, we’re on an austere budget, Harry,” Jacob replied. “Get used to it. You’ll get your allowance every Monday morning, and it’s your job to make it last. And finally, for now, I want you home every night by seven for dinner, in bed every night by twelve.”

“What does any of this have to do with Gram Hilda?” Harry asked, glancing down at the picture.

“When it’s time to tell you, I will do so,” Jacob said. “No further questions? Good. Discussion closed. Feel free to see me if any questions do arise.”

Our new guardian walked down the hall to Katherine’s former bedroom, went inside, and closed the door behind him.

Harry, Hugo, and I shared a silent, impressed, maybe even hopeful look. All in all, Jacob Perlman had been polite and clear. Rules, we could follow. Someone who treated us with respect and dignity, we could handle.

Uncle Pig might have just done us the biggest favor ever.

7

“I get it. The rules, I mean,”
Harry said finally. “He needs to keep tabs on us. That’s his job. But I have one question.”

“What?” I prompted.

“What’s in it for him?”

“He gets to live in the Dakota?” I shrugged. “Plus Peter’s paying him, of course.”

Harry said, “He’s going to be here until we’re eighteen. That’s a two-year job, right? But we’ll probably be evicted for nonpayment in a couple of weeks. So when we’re living in a refrigerator box under a bridge, what’s Jake’s plan for that?”

Hugo piped up. “Don’t worry, bro. I’m going to write Matthew’s biography. We’ll get a big advance for the
book, and then big bucks for the movie rights. I’m going to be Matty’s agent, too, so I’m taking a cut for that. In a couple of weeks we’ll be rolling in it.” He kicked back with his feet on the table, his arms crooked behind him. Underneath his shifting weight, the Pork Chair squealed.

“You can’t even spell,” I pointed out.

“That’s what editors are for,” Hugo replied, grinning hugely.

“Does Matty know about all this?” I asked him.

“I’m working it out with Philippe,” Hugo said, referring to our attorney, Philippe Montaigne. “I’m drafting a chapter outline right now.”

“When you’re not working on the website?” I asked, arching my eyebrows.

Hugo sat forward, his feet slamming heavily into the floor. “Man. I got a lot to do. I’ll be in my room.”

“First ten-year-old literary agent slash ghostwriter slash Internet-based freedom fighter in the history of the world,” I said to the empty Pork Chair. “But I almost think he can pull it off.”

“Of course he can,” Harry said. “He’s Hugo.”

I smiled as loud guitar music shook the photos on the walls of the hallway. Hugo at work.

“I’ve got a composition due tomorrow,” Harry said, rising from the sofa. “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” I said, glancing across the room toward the windows that overlooked the park. “What could possibly be bothering me?”

A tiny line appeared in the center of Harry’s forehead. “May I make a suggestion?”

I stood up as well. “All ears.”

“Let Caputo be the cop,” he said. “He’s got a precinct and a forensics lab behind him. You’re just going to get in his way.”

“Do you even realize that if it wasn’t for me the truth behind Malcolm’s and Maud’s deaths might still be a mystery?” I asked him.

“Memo to Tandy,” Harry said, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Adele was not a relative, and she was killed with an actual gun. Murderers? They tend to not like the people who come after them. So I
suggest
you stay out of it, sis.”

“You’re probably right,” I said with a sigh.

He eyed me shrewdly. “But it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Not really,” I replied.

He shook his head and we parted ways. Him to his room and me to mine. I changed into a pair of my mom’s silk pajamas—yellow with red poppies—and got into my king-sized bed, perfect for the restless thrasher I was. I plumped the pillows, stared out at the canopy of leaves
across the street, and listened to the variously pitched sounds of traffic.

I thought about Adele, how she would never see another tree or hear traffic or kiss a boy or anything else. Right now she was on a slab in a cooler at the medical examiner’s office waiting for the forensic pathologist to slit her open from clavicle to navel. My empty stomach turned.

What would Adele have done with her life?

Who would she have become?

Why did she have to die?

CONFESSION