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Authors: James Patterson
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thing matters now.
“I’m going to find out who killed them,” I said to my sleepy twin.
Harry laughed. “I was wondering when you’d decide you were the most qualified person to solve the crime. And that you could do it without a forensics lab.”
“There were detectives before there were crime labs, you know.”
“Fair point.”
“Furthermore, I believe that Maud and Malcolm were poisoned.”
“In your opinion.”
“In my opinion,” I said. “Based on my research.”
Harry sighed and looked at me with his big, searching eyes. “You know, Tandy,” he began. Then he stopped.
“What?”
“Even though you were the last one to get the Big Chop, I don’t think you could have killed Malcolm and Maud. And I don’t think you have to prove it
wasn’t
you by solving the murder.”
Did no one in this family understand me? I wasn’t trying to prove my innocence. I was trying to bring whoever committed this crime to justice,
even if it turned out to be me
.
“The chop wasn’t so bad,” I said. “You just concentrate on the good times, like your Grande Gongos, and get through it.”
I immediately regretted my words.
Harry had never been awarded the Grande Gongo. The rest of us had won it at least once—even Hugo, who was six years younger than Harry and I. He’d won it three times already. Hugo had also gotten one of the biggest chops in the history of the family, but that was another story.
As I was thinking about Hugo, he came into Harry’s room and did a flying leap onto the bed, almost bouncing us out of it.
“You’ve got to get dressed, Harrison Weepyface.”
Harry groaned and turned over, pulling his pillow over his head.
“He’s got to get dressed,” Hugo said to me. “He’s going to be late.”
I went to the closet and took Harry’s tuxedo out of the dry cleaner’s plastic. Then I half coaxed, half badgered him out of his bed and into the shower.
I left Harry in Hugo’s care and called Samantha and Matthew on the intercom. Then I called Virgil, our driver and sometime bodyguard. He was fifty, and he was huge. Almost as big as Matthew. He wore a diamond in his ear.He was a poet who wrote raps in his spare time. Virgil was also very kind to all of us kids.
“I’m very sorry about the terrible news, Tandy. I’m very, very sorry,” he said when he saw me. He was a big bear of a man who didn’t think twice about offering me a hug in the face of this tragedy. I accepted it awkwardly. Not because I didn’t appreciate Virgil’s gesture, but because hugs were a rather strange and rare phenomenon in our house.
“I’ll bring the car around in about five minutes,” he said.
Only moments later, I was wearing a black dress and heels, and Harry had been transformed from a waif in baggy clothes to the smartly dressed boy prodigy that we knew him to be.
My three brothers and Samantha rode down in the elevator with me. I held Harry’s hand. He could have canceled, but even he knew that he would feel better once he poured himself into his work and was applauded for it.
It was a big day for Harry. He was playing a piano concerto at Lincoln Center.
23
Avery Fisher Hall was packed
with music aficionados—more than
two thousand
of them. Harry was one of Mischa Dubrowsky’s advanced students and was playing two pieces that day. He was the headliner, performing after six other gifted young pianists.
The hall is nothing like what you’d expect from seeing concert halls in the movies. There’s no red velvet or chandeliers; instead, it’s a magnificently simple place, the walls and ceiling paneled in light wood, to showcase the performance and the performer.
My brother Harry, my twin. Even after seeing him play in such magnificent spaces so many times, I still got excited for his moments in the spotlight.
There was an excited whisper in the hall as Maestro Dubrowsky came onto the stage in his tux, with his long mane and mutton chops. I got chills as he introduced my brother and
“I’m going to find out who killed them,” I said to my sleepy twin.
Harry laughed. “I was wondering when you’d decide you were the most qualified person to solve the crime. And that you could do it without a forensics lab.”
“There were detectives before there were crime labs, you know.”
“Fair point.”
“Furthermore, I believe that Maud and Malcolm were poisoned.”
“In your opinion.”
“In my opinion,” I said. “Based on my research.”
Harry sighed and looked at me with his big, searching eyes. “You know, Tandy,” he began. Then he stopped.
“What?”
“Even though you were the last one to get the Big Chop, I don’t think you could have killed Malcolm and Maud. And I don’t think you have to prove it
wasn’t
you by solving the murder.”
Did no one in this family understand me? I wasn’t trying to prove my innocence. I was trying to bring whoever committed this crime to justice,
even if it turned out to be me
.
“The chop wasn’t so bad,” I said. “You just concentrate on the good times, like your Grande Gongos, and get through it.”
I immediately regretted my words.
Harry had never been awarded the Grande Gongo. The rest of us had won it at least once—even Hugo, who was six years younger than Harry and I. He’d won it three times already. Hugo had also gotten one of the biggest chops in the history of the family, but that was another story.
As I was thinking about Hugo, he came into Harry’s room and did a flying leap onto the bed, almost bouncing us out of it.
“You’ve got to get dressed, Harrison Weepyface.”
Harry groaned and turned over, pulling his pillow over his head.
“He’s got to get dressed,” Hugo said to me. “He’s going to be late.”
I went to the closet and took Harry’s tuxedo out of the dry cleaner’s plastic. Then I half coaxed, half badgered him out of his bed and into the shower.
I left Harry in Hugo’s care and called Samantha and Matthew on the intercom. Then I called Virgil, our driver and sometime bodyguard. He was fifty, and he was huge. Almost as big as Matthew. He wore a diamond in his ear.He was a poet who wrote raps in his spare time. Virgil was also very kind to all of us kids.
“I’m very sorry about the terrible news, Tandy. I’m very, very sorry,” he said when he saw me. He was a big bear of a man who didn’t think twice about offering me a hug in the face of this tragedy. I accepted it awkwardly. Not because I didn’t appreciate Virgil’s gesture, but because hugs were a rather strange and rare phenomenon in our house.
“I’ll bring the car around in about five minutes,” he said.
Only moments later, I was wearing a black dress and heels, and Harry had been transformed from a waif in baggy clothes to the smartly dressed boy prodigy that we knew him to be.
My three brothers and Samantha rode down in the elevator with me. I held Harry’s hand. He could have canceled, but even he knew that he would feel better once he poured himself into his work and was applauded for it.
It was a big day for Harry. He was playing a piano concerto at Lincoln Center.
23
Avery Fisher Hall was packed
with music aficionados—more than
two thousand
of them. Harry was one of Mischa Dubrowsky’s advanced students and was playing two pieces that day. He was the headliner, performing after six other gifted young pianists.
The hall is nothing like what you’d expect from seeing concert halls in the movies. There’s no red velvet or chandeliers; instead, it’s a magnificently simple place, the walls and ceiling paneled in light wood, to showcase the performance and the performer.
My brother Harry, my twin. Even after seeing him play in such magnificent spaces so many times, I still got excited for his moments in the spotlight.
There was an excited whisper in the hall as Maestro Dubrowsky came onto the stage in his tux, with his long mane and mutton chops. I got chills as he introduced my brother and
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