Classified as Murder

by Miranda James

  “Azalea must have cooked this.” Sean put his fork down.

  “Oh, so you think your old man can’t cook like this?” I pretended to be offended.

  Sean chuckled. “You’re a decent cook, Dad, but you’ve never made a roast like this.” He forked another bite of meat into his mouth and chewed. “Mmmmm.”

  “I can’t argue with that. Azalea is a wonderful cook.” I grinned. “So wonderful, in fact, I’m starting to suffer from done-lap disease.”

  Sean looked alarmed, and I hastened to explain. “Done-lap, as in my stomach’s done lapped over my belt.”

  He responded to that bit of antique Southern humor with a roll of the eyes. He ate a bit more. Then he set his fork aside and cleared his throat.

  “I’m not going back to Houston, Dad. Can I stay here with you?”

  THREE

  I stared at Sean, too surprised to answer.

  The moment stretched too long, and Sean focused on his empty plate. “If you don’t want me here, I’ll find somewhere else to go.” Abruptly he stood.

  “Sean, sit down.”

  The sharp tone in my voice surprised both of us, I think, but Sean did as I asked. He regarded me, his uncertainty obvious.

  “Why on earth would you think you’re not welcome?” I tried to rein in my sudden anger. “Of course you can stay here.”

  I felt a paw on my leg. Diesel stared up at me and warbled. I rubbed his head to let him know everything was okay.

  “Sorry, Dad.” Sean looked down at his plate again.

  “How long is your vacation? You certainly look like you need one, all the weight you’ve lost.” I was going to get him to talk to me if I had to drag every syllable out of him.

  Suddenly Sean glared at me. “Permanent.”

  “What do you mean? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Permanent vacation. As in I quit my job,” Sean said in a tone of exaggerated patience. He folded his arms across his chest and watched me.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised, I guess. I should have figured it out because of his odd behavior in showing up unannounced on a Friday afternoon.

  “Why did you quit your job?” I tried to keep my tone matter-of-fact, nonconfrontational.

  He uncrossed his arms and leaned down to pat Dante’s head. “Because I couldn’t stand it any longer.”

  Whenever Sean didn’t want to tell me the truth about something, he wouldn’t look at me.

  “What couldn’t you stand?” If I were patient enough with him, perhaps I might get to the truth.

  “The hours, for one thing.” He glanced up at me. “I had no life outside work.”

  “When you first started with the firm, you seemed to thrive on the workload.”

  Sean bridled at that, perhaps sensing criticism. “I’m not afraid of hard work. I gave them 110 percent every day, seven days a week.”

  “It was an observation, not a criticism. I wouldn’t have lasted six months. Much less made it through law school. I have no doubt you worked very hard, and they were lucky you were so dedicated.” I put as much warmth into the words as I could.

  “I sure as hell did work hard.” Sean relaxed a bit, slumped back in his chair.

  “That’s an incredible amount of stress for anyone.”

  Sean looked at me then. “Yeah, it was pretty bad. At first I didn’t mind. It kept me from thinking about, well, you know.”

  I knew all too well. His mother died the summer after his first year of law school in Austin. When he started his second year, I hardly ever saw him. Then my aunt died and left me this house. Laura moved to Los Angeles, and I decided to come back to Athena.

  Leaving Sean on his own in Texas.

  Funny, I had never thought about it like that before now. The realization stunned me.

  I suppose I was too wrapped up in my own misery after Jackie’s death to understand the impact of giving up the only home my children had known.

  Was this the root of my difficult relationship with Sean the past four years?

  What could I say now to him that could possibly make up for what I had done?

  Before I could say anything, Dante startled us both by barking. He bounced up and down by Sean’s chair.

  “Sorry; that means he wants to go out.” Sean stood. “If I don’t take him now, he might wee on the floor.” He picked up the dog.

  “It’s okay. I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind.” I pushed back my own chair. Diesel muttered in protest.

  “It’s your house.” Sean strode ahead, and the cat and I followed him to the back porch.

  I let Diesel go out with the poodle, and Sean and I stood on the porch, gazing into the dimly lit backyard. The animals disappeared into the shadows cast by my azalea bushes. The air was cool and fragrant, with a hint of the Confederate jasmine that grew along the fence.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” I reached out and gave Sean’s right shoulder a squeeze.

  “Thanks, Dad.” He breathed deeply with evident pleasure. “I’d forgotten how quiet it is here. In Houston you can hear traffic noise no matter what time it is.”

  “It’s a good place to relax and regroup.” I paused a moment. I wanted to get our conversation back on track, but I felt reluctant at the moment to tackle the deeper issue. “Any ideas yet what you might want to do?”

  “Other than sleep for a week or two?” Sean paused. “Maybe then I can get my head together and figure something out.”

  “However long it takes.”

  “It might take longer than you think.” Sean moved away from me and sat in the chair he’d occupied this afternoon.

  “That doesn’t matter.” I scanned the yard for the cat and the dog. As I watched, they darted out of the shadows, Diesel in pursuit of the poodle.

  “I’ll be happy to pay rent. I’ve got a fair amount of money saved up. I didn’t have much time to spend it on anything.” Sean sounded bitter.

  “Your money’s no good here. I’m just glad you came.” Was my tone too hearty?

  “Okay, thanks.” Sean leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “I’ll keep out of your way. Probably catch up on my sleep.”

  He was making it very clear that he didn’t want to talk to me. I felt too tired all of a sudden to persist. Maybe he would be more talkative in the morning.

  Dante barked and scratched on the screen door, and I went to let him and Diesel in. The poodle made a beeline for Sean and jumped up into the chair beside him. Sean reached down and stroked the dog’s head until Dante settled down.

  Diesel chirped and butted his head against my leg. “I guess Diesel and I will go clean up the kitchen. Then up to bed. See you in the morning.”

  “Okay. Good night.” Sean still hadn’t opened his eyes.

  “Good night.” I stood there for a moment, watching my son, feeling like I did when his mother and I used to tuck him in at bedtime. Diesel butted my leg again, recalling me to the present. I headed for the kitchen with my cat.

  The kitchen cleanup didn’t take long, and soon Diesel and I were upstairs in bed. I read for a while but finally put the book aside and turned out the light.

  Sleep did not come easily. Sean occupied my thoughts, and I berated myself for not understanding sooner how my moving back to Athena affected our relationship. I took it as a positive sign that he came to me after quitting his job, but I also felt sure there was more to the story than his cracking under the strain.

  The next morning I awoke with a slight headache, an unwelcome leftover from my restless night. There was no sign of Diesel when I eased out of bed and headed to the bathroom for some aspirin.

  Down in the kitchen, padding about in my pajamas and robe, I found signs that Sean had been up during the night. There were a couple of dirty dishes in the sink and one cabinet door was slightly ajar.

  The coffeepot was half full and still warm. I poured myself a cup and then retrieved the paper from the front yard.

  By the time I finished my first cup and was contemplating b
reakfast, I realized I still hadn’t seen Diesel. Highly unusual, because most of the time he stayed somewhere near me—except, of course, when he had to visit his litter box.

  A bit uneasy, I checked the back porch right away. To my relief I found Diesel asleep on the floor beside the sofa, where Sean and Dante were asleep, too.

  Diesel woke when I called his name softly. He yawned and stretched before coming to me at the door. He slipped inside. I stood there a moment, watching my son, who looked younger and less careworn in slumber. Dante woke up and yawned, sniffed a couple of times, then lay back down and snuggled closer to Sean.

  I closed the door gently and went back to the kitchen.

  After a quick breakfast, I trotted upstairs to bathe and dress. I had about thirty-five minutes before I was to meet Mr. Delacorte at nine in my office at the college. Luckily for me, my commute to work consisted of three blocks and less than ten minutes’ walk.

  Mr. Delacorte, dressed as impeccably as ever, stood on the front steps of the antebellum mansion that was home to the library’s administrative offices, a portion of the rare book collection and archives, and my office. I checked my watch surreptitiously, afraid I had misjudged the time, but it was five minutes to nine.

  “Good morning, Mr. Delacorte,” I said as Diesel and I approached him. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Harris. No need to apologize. I am early, after all.” He gazed down at Diesel, wearing a harness with a leash attached. “I do believe this is the first time I have ever seen anyone walk a cat on a leash. He is certainly a beautiful animal.”

  Diesel chirped as if to say thank you for the compliment, and Mr. Delacorte smiled briefly in return.

  “Thank you. He goes just about everywhere with me.” I unlocked the front door and stepped inside with the cat. I gestured for Mr. Delacorte to come in, and I locked the door behind.

  “The building is usually not open on the weekends,” I said as I headed for the stairs. “My office is on the second floor. There is an elevator, if you prefer.” I hesitated to mention it, because Mr. Delacorte looked fit enough, but you never knew.

  “The stairs are fine.” Mr. Delacorte walked up them in step with me, while Diesel, free of his leash, scampered ahead of us.

  Inside the office Diesel climbed into the bed in the window behind my desk where he spent much of his time while I worked. Mr. Delacorte stood in the center of the room and looked around for a minute or two.

  I waited patiently until he finished, then invited him to take the chair beside my desk. When he was seated, I said, “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Delacorte?”

  “You are knowledgeable about rare books, are you not?” His sharp eyes bored into mine, and for a moment I had the feeling I was about to be cross-examined.

  “Yes, to a degree,” I said. “I’ve been cataloging the collection here for nearly three years, and I’ve developed a certain amount of expertise during that time. I don’t have an exhaustive knowledge of rare books in general, however.”

  “Your level of expertise is sufficient,” Mr. Delacorte said in a tone that brooked no argument. “And you are a librarian, and a librarian, above all others, should know how to find information he needs.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, suppressing a smile. It was a rare pleasure to deal with someone with an obvious respect for my profession.

  “You are perhaps not aware that I have an extensive book collection, with many rare and unusual volumes. I have spent many years in this endeavor and have found it most rewarding.” He nodded as if to emphasize his point.

  “It must be quite a collection,” I said. “I had not heard about it, though.”

  “I would like for you to see it,” Mr. Delacorte said. “It’s a pleasure to show my collection to someone who can appreciate it.” He paused. “I would also like to hire you to assist me with doing an inventory of it.”

  “I’m definitely interested,” I said. “But how soon do you want it done? I have my work here, of course, and the volunteer work I do for the public library. That doesn’t leave me with much spare time, except on weekends.”

  “I would like to have it done as soon as possible.” Mr. Delacorte frowned. “You see, I believe some items are missing, and I want to put a stop to the pilfering.”

  FOUR

  “You don’t know for sure that anything is missing from your collection?” I found Mr. Delacorte’s phrasing odd. Either things were missing or they weren’t.

  “There are more than seven thousand items in the collection.” Mr. Delacorte’s voice was tart. “And I am not a young man, with a young man’s memory. I have been collecting for over fifty years now, and my memories of what I actually purchased decades ago are imprecise. I do have an extensive handwritten inventory, but there is no index.”

  “I can certainly understand that,” I said in a placatory tone.

  Mr. Delacorte continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Not only that, the collection is not as well organized as it should be, I must admit. Nor do I have the energy nowadays to go through the entire collection to determine whether something is missing.” He paused to frown at me. “That is why I seek the help of a professional.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “And I’ll be happy to assist you in any way I can.” My week of relaxation during spring break was about to disappear. “I have the coming week off, and I will do as much work during the week as I can.”

  “That is very good of you,” Mr. Delacorte said, with a brief smile of approval. “I will pay you three hundred dollars an hour. I trust you find that sufficient?”

  “That’s more than generous,” I said, slightly bemused. The money wasn’t really an issue. I would have done the job for far less, but I knew I would offend him if I tried to dicker with him.

  But there was one condition I had to impose, and it could be a problem.

  Almost as if he were reading my thoughts, the potential deal-breaker touched the back of my right shoulder with a paw and gave a little warble.

  “How do you feel about cats, Mr. Delacorte?” I smiled as Diesel warbled again.

  The seeming non sequitur appeared not to faze him. “I am rather fond of them, as a matter of fact. My own dear little friend passed away several months ago at the age of nineteen.”

  “You have my sympathies,” I said. “They do add a lot to one’s life, don’t they?” After he nodded, I went on, “The reason I ask is that I’m accustomed to taking Diesel with me almost everywhere. He is very well behaved.”

  Mr. Delacorte practically beamed. “I’d be delighted for you to bring such a fine fellow with you. He is very welcome in my home.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Then we have a deal. Would you like me to start on Monday morning?”

  “Yes. How about nine o’clock?”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “One more thing, before I forget, though. Do you have any idea who might be pilfering from your collection?”

  “There are several possibilities,” Mr. Delacorte said. “Sadly, I fear they are all members of my family.” He paused as an idea seemed to strike him. “Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to meet them all before you start the job on Monday. Are you available this afternoon at four?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “Then I’ll expect you for tea. It’s an afternoon custom in my home, a legacy of the years I lived in England several decades ago. And do bring Diesel with you.” He rose and extended his right hand.

  I stood to shake his hand. “We’ll see you this afternoon at four. Now, let me just put on Diesel’s leash, and we’ll go downstairs to let you out of the building.”

  A couple of minutes later, the front door locked behind us, Diesel and I bade good-bye to Mr. Delacorte. I waited until he was in his car and driving away before I turned to head for home. The morning was pleasant, not too cool, not too warm, and the walk home was most enjoyable.

  Sean’s car was gone, I noticed when we approached our block. I hoped he hadn’t c
hanged his mind about staying with me. Surely he wouldn’t have gone back to Texas.

  By the time we reached the front walk, I could hear barking coming from inside the house. Feeling oddly reassured by Dante’s racket, I opened the front door, being careful not to let the excited poodle out. Dante moved out of reach when Diesel batted at him. I managed to squeeze in and shut the door, only to discover shreds of newspaper all over the hall and on the first three steps of the staircase. Dante had done what all bored, unhappy dogs do when they’re left alone. I felt sorry for the poor little guy, but I was going to leave this mess for Sean to clean up.

  After removing Diesel’s harness, I checked the water and dry food supply in the utility room. Then I went upstairs to change into more casual weekend clothes.

  By the time Diesel and I returned downstairs about twenty minutes later, Sean was back and in the kitchen, putting some bottles of beer in the refrigerator. Dante’s mess was gone, and the poodle lay on the floor a few feet away from Sean, his head down on his front paws. Diesel padded over to the dog and sat down beside him.

  “Sorry about the newspaper, Dad,” Sean said as he shut the door of the fridge. “I scolded Dante for making such a mess. I don’t know how he got hold of the newspaper unless he jumped on the table somehow.”

  I pointed to one of the chairs around the table, pushed back several inches. “He probably hopped up into the chair and then onto the table. But there’s no real harm done. He simply wasn’t happy about being left alone.”

  “I know,” Sean said. “But I can’t take him everywhere I go. That’s just nuts.”

  Two seconds later, he realized what he’d said. He started to apologize, but I waved it away. “Again, no harm done. You aren’t the first person to think I’m eccentric because Diesel goes almost everywhere with me.” I grinned. “Every Southern family worth anything has at least one eccentric among its ranks. And I’m it for the Harris clan.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind when Laura and I arrange for the competency hearings,” he said, totally deadpan.