The Murder of an Angel Page 2

  Another girl sputtered at Hugo, “You psycho. You can’t hit girls!”

  Hugo said, “What girl? All I see is a pathetic bitch who asked for what I gave her. Actually, she demanded it.”

  A whistle blew sharply, and we all turned to see a florid man with flyaway hair and a small mouth that was pinched around a whistle. His little black eyes were like bullets behind his glasses.

  He shouted, “Everyone freeze!”

  Friend, all this happened within the first ten minutes of my return to All Saints Academy.

  Our former headmaster, Mr. Thibodaux, had been a tough disciplinarian, but very caring. It seems that he had left during my absence from All Saints, and his replacement was barring our path to the school.

  He introduced himself haughtily. “I’m Dr. Felix Oppenheimer. Who are you?”

  “That’s Tandoori Angel,” said one of C.P.’s posse before I could respond.

  “Hugo’s sister? I should have guessed.”

  C.P. was on her feet by then, her eyes watering with either pain or humiliation, but she was standing—which meant that Hugo had held back with his punch. Thank God. He could have killed her.

  “Are you all right?” the headmaster asked C.P.

  “He hit me,” she said, pointing to Hugo, “really hard. Christ, I might not be able to have babies because of him.”

  “Claudia, skip the blasphemy and go see the nurse,” said the headmaster. “You two,” he said, pointing at Hugo and me. “Stay right here. Everyone else, go inside—now.”

  He got on his phone and made a couple of phone calls with his back to us. Then he waited on the sidewalk until Leo reappeared with the car.

  Our driver was still applying the brakes when Dr. Oppenheimer delivered both a threat and the biggest insult of all.

  “Hugo, the next time you use physical violence, I’ll call the police. Effective tomorrow, you will write a letter of apology to Ms. Portman and you will read it out loud in assembly or you will not be allowed to attend All Saints this term. I’ve been in touch with your guardian.

  “Tandoori, because of this ruckus, you’ve missed your deadline for admission. I’m sorry for you. But you didn’t plan appropriately. Right now, both of you must leave.”

  Hugo sputtered. He was about to launch a retort, but I put my hand on his shoulder and told Dr. Oppenheimer we were both sorry for our behavior.

  Hugo wriggled under my hand, but he didn’t say a word.

  When my brother and I were in the car, the registrar, Mrs. Benardete, bent to the car window and said to me, “You can fill out the registration form online, Tandy. I’ll work on the headmaster, but you must send me the paperwork today.”

  I nodded, then sank so low into the backseat that I was practically lying down. Hugo threw his arms around me and started crying. Despite his strength, he was still just a little kid, and I was the only mom he had. I patted his back and said, “It’s okay. Don’t cry.” But I was scared for him.

  I hadn’t started this fight with C.P. I hadn’t started any of the fights with C.P. But if there had been any question in my mind before, there was none now.

  This was war.

  The car was silent, a swift projectile, impervious to outside forces, and Leo was taking us “home” to a place that didn’t feel like it yet.

  Let me explain.

  After my mother’s hedge fund went bust, she was sued into the next century. She owed fifty million dollars to creditors, which was more than we had or could borrow.

  The bankruptcy of Leading Hedge forced the sale of our incredible co-op in the legendary Dakota apartment building. But days before we were to be turned out on the street, Uncle Jacob took me and my brothers to Paris.

  This voyage and our time in Paris was a lifeline of the most magnificent kind. Our uncle, whom we had only known for a short time, had pulled some very old strings, and we learned that we were heirs to a large inheritance. Our benefactor was Hilda Angel, our father’s glamorous mother, who had died before any of her grandchildren had been born.

  But she had planned for us.

  Gram Hilda’s bequests had conditions and a team of stuffy legal advisors attached. But for the present, her estate paid each of us a generous monthly allowance and bought us a new home in the San Remo Apartments.

  The San Remo is a grande dame of an apartment building that was built in 1930. Like the Dakota, the building takes up an entire block on Central Park West. One of the San Remo’s unique features is that above the eighteenth floor, the building is topped by two ten-story towers.

  We were closing in on Seventy-Fifth Street when Hugo sat up and said, “See that, Tandy? Our apartment, way up on the sixteenth and seventeenth floors, just under the north tower—guess how long it takes for an orange juice balloon to hit the sidewalk from way up there.”

  “Hugo!”

  “Kidding. Just kidding.”

  A few minutes later, Leo cruised up to the curb and braked the car outside the stupendous building.

  I drifted through the doorman-flanked entrance behind Hugo, passed the elegant common rooms, and stepped into an elevator. After a long upward whoosh, the doors opened inside the only apartment on the sixteenth floor—a duplex, and it was ours.

  Uncle Jacob was standing in the foyer, waiting. The look on his face showed a colorful range of feelings: relief, dismay, and pure cold anger.

  “Oppenheimer called,” he said. “How could all this happen before the bell? I’m getting flashbacks to all the other beyond unpleasant phone calls I’ve had to field because of you children.”

  I said under my breath, “We’ll always have Paris.”

  “What was that, Tandy?”

  I never got a chance to answer.

  Uncle Jacob, my father’s oldest brother, is a former Israeli commando. He may be old—approaching fifty—but he’s a proven killer. And he’d sacrificed his good life in Israel to be our guardian.

  He had saved my life several times in the first three months that he lived with us—one of the many ways he’d shown that he loved us.

  But Uncle Jake was no pushover. Hugo was about to run past him, but Jacob put out his arm and stopped him cold.

  “Hugo. What is this crap?” he asked as I floated past them, taking in the sights of our childhood, wide-eyed with appreciation for the artifacts we were able to salvage and trying to move beyond their argument.

  Hanging in the foyer was the UFO chandelier from my childhood. Wired to the doorbell, it was a silver saucer-shaped disc with lights that blinked in time to the theme song from the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind, which it played when the bell rang.

  Beyond the foyer was an unbelievably spacious living room with a marble fireplace, casement windows on three sides, and a terrace with a panoramic view of Central Park.

  Inside the living room was the eccentric collection of hyperrealistic objets d’art my mother had loved to collect: Robert, the lifelike sculpture of a man drinking beer while watching TV in a recliner; Pegasus, a winged, white-lacquered piano that was Harry’s own instrument, on which he practiced and played; and Mercurio, a merman hanging by his tail from the second-floor ceiling within the coil of the spiral staircase. Even the lipstick-red leather sofa and the Pork Chair, which had pig’s feet and snorted when sat upon, were here.

  I teared up for the second time today.

  I knew that our attorney, Philippe Montaigne, had bought back these items when we came into our inheritance, but I hadn’t seen them in so long, it was as if old deceased relatives had come back from the dead.

  As I gawked, Jacob was having strong words with Hugo.

  “Do you understand that you could be charged with assault, Hugo?”

  “A misdemeanor,” said Hugo. “Plus, I’m a minor.”

  Jacob went on. “If you’ve hurt C.P., you could be tried in juvenile court. Her parents have vast resources, and you, Hugo, are part of a family with what are called deep pockets. I hope I don’t need to explain again that you could lose your i
nheritance.”

  Uncle Jake was referring to Gram Hilda’s main condition for our inheritance, that we would lose it all if we “disgraced the family name.”

  “C.P. was verbally abusing Tandy,” Hugo shot back.

  Jacob said, “Violence is the last resort of cowards.”

  Hugo looked up at him, mouth opened. “But you’re a soldier!”

  The corners of Jacob’s mouth turned up for a second. “Good job standing up for your sister,” he said. “But no more violence, agreed?” Our uncle stretched out his hand.

  Hugo grinned and shook hands with Jacob.

  Which, when Hugo was involved, was not a promise of anything.

  Jacob put his arm around my shoulders and walked with me into the living room. He was looking at my face, but his sleeves were rolled up and I was looking at his scarred forearms, a permanent reminder of the black night when he carried me out of Gram Hilda’s burning house. My uncle Hero.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Never better,” I chirped.

  It was our private joke, and he laughed. It was a good laugh, hearty and masculine. I loved him. On the other hand—and there was always another hand—six months ago, I’d never heard of him. It was our loathsome uncle Peter who had introduced my sibs and me to Jacob and turned over our guardianship to him.

  “The rest of the day is all about you,” Jacob said. “After that, it’s back to swimming with the sharks.”

  “Fantastic,” I said. “I can swim with the best of them.”

  “Quite true,” he said. “Take a look at your room while Hugo and I go out for groceries. Here’s your elevator key.” He pulled it from the pocket of his khakis. “But stay here. Get to know your new phone. Change your passwords. Read a book. There are sandwich ingredients in the fridge.”

  I hugged my uncle, and when he said, “That way,” I headed to the spiral staircase. We’d had just such a staircase in our old apartment. I whispered hey to Mercurio as I passed him, and when I got to the landing, I saw four open doors. Jacob’s bedroom, Hugo’s, Harry’s, and the fourth was painted my color, firmament blue. That room was mine.

  I clapped my hands over my mouth, walked through the doorway, and just stood there, taking in the open sky through the windows, the four-poster bed, the desk with a laptop in the center, and the bookshelves all around, holding my books and my specimens of branched coral.

  On a dress form in the corner was my mother’s jacket, the one Madonna had worn in the movie Desperately Seeking Susan. It was a metallic greenish color with embroidery on the back, showing a pyramid with an eye on top, like the artwork on a dollar bill. I loved that jacket. It reminded me of the rarely seen, fun-loving parts of my mom’s personality.

  I went to the desk and opened my laptop. The software said, “Hi, Tandy.”

  Without even thinking, I opened my in-box, which was stuffed with hundreds of e-mails. I’m not going to lie to you, friend. I skimmed the list, my heart beating hard in my throat, looking for a message from James.

  Partially relieved, but freshly disappointed, I found nothing that would jar my heart or wrack me with waves of pain and fury. I deleted huge blocks of out-of-date newsletters, sales pitches, and spam. And when I was done, I changed my password and installed the new encryption program Jacob had left for me.

  After that, I uploaded Harry’s music playlist and checked out my new iPhone and iPad.

  When I heard the UFO toot its announcement that someone was at the door, I ran downstairs to greet my family. After some happy screams and dancing around on the beautiful parquet floors, dinner preparation commenced.

  Harry and I had some quiet time as we figured out how to make crepes without a crepe pan.

  He said to me, “You feeling okay?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Have you had a chance to process, uh, everything that’s happened?”

  “Everything? Sure, but I wouldn’t say I’m cured.”

  An hour later, my older brother, Matty, arrived with his dreads tied back with a cord, his laser-blue eyes sparkling, and wearing his own New York Giants jersey under his jacket.

  He held out a huge bunch of paper-wrapped roses. “Happy birthday, little sister,” he said.

  “It’s not my birthday.”

  “Well, yeah, it is.”

  Crap. I’d forgotten my birthday. And Harry’s!

  “I told you I could surprise her,” Matty said to Uncle Jake. He tossed the roses down, picked me up, and twirled me around like I was five.

  I laughed and beat his shoulders with little-girl fists. Finally, he put me back on my feet.

  “Well, in my own defense,” I said, resetting my hairband and smoothing my hair, “I haven’t as much as seen a calendar in months. Or a clock, for that matter.”

  Everyone laughed at me, and Hugo said, “Welcome back to Planet Real Life, Tandy.”

  While I was being twirled and danced around and Harry came out of his room, Hugo had brought in a wooden crate marked SPECIAL DELIVERY, which he opened with a pry bar. Inside were wigs and masks, and we all grabbed for something outrageous. I’d always wanted to see what I looked like as a blonde—and from what I could see in the mirror over the sofa, I didn’t look at all bad! And Jacob looked hilarious with a ponytail.

  Over a very unusual dinner that included our favorite dishes from restaurants all over the city—tandoori prawns from the Indian restaurant on Columbus for me, smoked hot dogs from Hugo’s favorite deli, and Szechuan alligator tail from Shun Lee West for Harry—we reminisced about other birthdays and I told tales about the real psych ward on the top floors of Waterside.

  After dinner, we went back to the living room. Matty dragged Robert over to join us, saying, “No TV for a few minutes, okay, bro?”

  Hugo took possession of the Pork Chair, and Harry and I sat on the floor and opened jokey presents: latex claws, big yellow teeth, and hot chili candy. Jacob brought in a chocolate cheesecake and set it down on the coffee table, and Harry and I blew out the seventeen candles together.

  But the frosting on top was when my brilliant, talented, musical twin went to his Pegasus piano. He pushed up his sleeves, wiggled his fingers dramatically, and then sang a “Happy Birthday” song in a voice that reminded me of Willie Nelson.

  Well, we’re havin’ a happy birthday.

  Happy birthday to me and you.

  I believe it’s our seventeenth birthday.

  You know it’s come at last, you do.

  And when you’re havin’ a happy birthday,

  there ain’t no time for feelin’ blue.

  We laughed, we applauded, and Matty popped the cork on a lovely Dom Pérignon. I’ve never had a birthday half as good. Ever.

  It was a beyond-fabulous evening in the Angel household.

  I knew I had to cherish it because history had taught me that life could turn completely upside down in the time it took to say “Man, it’s really good to be home.”

  Our school bell is a real bell—and it was tolling.

  The kids hanging out on the front steps, the knots of girls gathered in the little courtyard between the school and the apartment house next door, and the bunch of boys sitting on the stairs to the rectory, all got to their feet and streamed into All Saints Academy. Thanks to Mrs. Benardete, I joined them.

  Footsteps echoed between the stone walls, backpacks thudded to the floor, and chatter bounced around the twelve rows of pews in the nave. I went to the front row, taking my seat on the aisle behind the railing on the right. A second later, I noticed that my dearest enemy, C.P., was sitting across the aisle, with a few kids between us on my left.

  Feeling a wave of revulsion at the sight of her, I looked straight ahead and thought about Hugo.

  In just a few minutes, my little brother would have to make his public apology to C.P. for punching her. I had told Hugo I would sit directly in his line of vision, and that anytime he looked at me, I would be smiling and giving him a thumbs-up.

  He’d said, “If I were you,
Tandy, I’d sit in the back so you can make a fast escape.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was joking.

  Dr. Oppenheimer came up the right-hand aisle and stood in front of the pulpit, his gaze settling on me for an instant before moving away. He cleared his throat and said, “All right now, everyone. Settle down. This morning, we will hear from Mr. Hugo Angel. He has something he wishes to say.”

  Heads swiveled to watch Hugo come up the center aisle. He usually wears his hair in a long, rusty mop of curls. But for today, Harry had trimmed Hugo’s hair and combed it back.

  Hugo had also put aside his daily uniform of jeans and a Giants T-shirt and instead wore a white dress shirt and a pair of blue slacks.

  He looked adorably mature.

  As he passed my seat on the aisle, I tried to read his expression, but he was giving nothing away. He climbed the steps and took the pulpit, but given his four-foot-ten-inch height, he didn’t exactly tower over it. Still, he had presence.

  Oppenheimer said, “Please give Hugo your attention.”

  Blood rushed to my face. I was anxious for my little brother. Would he embarrass himself? It didn’t matter. I would love him no matter what.

  Hugo said, “Good morning, God and Dr. Oppenheimer and Claudia and everyone.

  “I have something to say. I know it’s not right to get physical when all that’s happening is name-calling. So, Claudia, I apologize for hitting you yesterday. That was wrong. I lost my temper, and I won’t do it again.

  “But what you did was also wrong. You attacked my sister without provocation. Through no fault of her own, Tandy has been through the seven circles of hell. Our parents recently died, our brother was accused of murder, and it was Tandy who found out the truth and saved us from a lifetime in prison. And, C.P., as her best friend, you know what Tandy has suffered more than anyone. But as a friend who then betrayed my sister in the cruelest way possible, know that one of her circles of hell is entirely inhabited by you. Just when you should have been the most supportive, you did everything you could to make Tandy suffer even more. Judging by your behavior yesterday, you’re continuing your sick little games even now. For that, you deserve every ounce of her pain, times ten. And I hope you get it.