We rounded a corner and the Cushman family came into sight. Holding firmly onto his table tennis racket’s case, Joshua Cushman sat next to a woman I recognized as his mother. He wore the same mustard-colored cardigan over a white shirt and tie. A bespectacled, balding man in a suit and tie sat on Mrs. Cushman’s other side.
The woman jumped up as soon as she spotted us. She straightened her powder blue suit, then strode forward to meet us.
“You are the two private detectives who were at our house yesterday. Is it your doing that we are called at night to appear with our son at a police station? What is it you want with Joshua? Is it about the Gold boy’s murder?”
“It is,” said Grandfather.
The bespectacled man rose but more slowly. “I am Harold Cushman, Joshua’s father. I saw you on the
