Excerpts from Chapter 1

   The door to my office was pushed partially open, and a mop of unruly brown hair atop a pair of inquisitive gray eyes appeared.
   I said, ‘’Can I help you?’’
   Leaving the door open behind him, the boy took a few tentative steps toward my desk and said, ‘’I’m looking for the detective.’’
   ‘’That would be me,’’ I stated.
   ‘’Oh.’’
   I was clearly not the person he had expected to find, and for a moment it looked like he was going to turn around and leave, but he changed his mind and announced, ‘’I want to hire you. How much do you charge?’’
   ‘’That depends on what is involved.’’ Then I said, ‘’Please close the door and have a seat.’’
   As he seated himself across the desk from me in the client chair, I extended my hand saying, ‘’I’m R. A. Huber, and what’s your name?’’
   ‘’Scott Lamont,’’ he replied.
   ‘’How old are you, Scott?’’
   ‘’Thirteen.’’
   ‘’Do your parents know that you are here?’’
   ‘’My parents are dead.’’
   ‘’Oh, I’m very sorry,’’ I commented.
   ‘’I think they were murdered, and I want you to find out who killed them.’’
   I thought, leave it to a child to come straight to the point!
   Aloud, I said, ‘’With whom do you live?’’
   He answered, ‘’I live with Keith and Suzanne Prescott. Suzanne is my aunt and guardian.’’
   Looking at his backpack, I asked, ‘’I take it you came here straight from school?’’
   ‘’Yeah, I took the bus.’’
   ‘’How did you learn of my detective agency?’’
    ‘’I found you in the Pasadena yellow pages under ‘Investigators.’ ‘’
   During the entire time we had been talking, the boy had kept his eyes on my chessboard with the set-up chessmen at the far end of the desk.    He suddenly burst out, ‘’Can we play a game?’’
   ‘’Maybe later. I first want to hear your story.’’ And I added, ‘’When did your parents pass away?’’
   He replied, ‘’Four years ago.’’
   Surprised, I said, ‘’Oh, that long ago. So you were nine at the time.’’
   ‘’Yes.’’
   ‘’How did they die?’’
   ‘’My father’s plane crashed. I believed it was an accident, but now I think it was murder.’’
   He took a piece of paper from his backpack and handed it to me. I studied it at length. It looked like a draft of a letter, which apparently had not been finished. It was obviously a rough draft, words having been crossed out and sentences started over. It was dated March 1, four years earlier, and it read:
  ‘’Dearest Shelby,
   As you know, I don’t take my cell phone or laptop with me to Tahoe and I don’t want to use the house phone to call you. By the time you get this letter, I’ll be in L.A. I’m flying down tomorrow morning. I found out (This was crossed out) Something extremely disturbing has come to my attention, and I have to cut my stay up here short. Things have happened (This was crossed out) I need to investigate the matter further and get proof. It might make a difference in our relationship. I’ll explain when I see you in person, my love.’’

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