Classified as Murder

by Miranda James

  As large as the library, this room also had bay windows in both outside walls, and the furniture no doubt represented a fortune in antiques. There were so many beautiful objects in the room that I couldn’t take many of them in as I followed Mr. Delacorte toward the fireplace. Two large sofas were placed at right angles to the fireplace, facing each other. A heavily carved, elongated table—was it rosewood?—separated them. Chairs were placed behind the sofas, and a small settee completed the rectangle, oriented to the fireplace, about three feet from the two sofas.

  The desultory chatter I heard when we first entered petered out by the time Mr. Delacorte stood in front of the fireplace and faced his family. I stopped with Diesel about three feet away and waited for my host to introduce us.

  While I waited, I glanced around at the people in the room. The first person I examined was Eloise Morris. She sat between the sofas with her voluminous skirts spread about her. No chair was visible, so she had to have a stool of some sort beneath her.

  The man on a sofa about three feet to her right had to be her husband, Hubert. Roughly my age, he wore an outmoded suit of fabric shiny from age and wear. His slickedback, shoulder-length dark hair flipped up at the ends in a fashion that reminded me of Marlo Thomas in her That Girl days. His face was nondescript, one easily overlooked in a crowd or even in a small group.

  An elderly woman, obviously Hubert’s mother, Daphne, sat at one end of the other sofa and rubbed at her forehead with one hand while the other clutched at her throat. Her rusty black dress had seen better days, and her heavily lined face looked remarkably like that of her brother.

  The final two family members, the great-niece and -nephew, had claimed chairs behind Hubert Morris. They both appeared about forty, perhaps a trifle younger. The great-niece, Cynthia Delacorte, could have posed for an illustration of an ice queen. Blonde, dressed in a cool shade of blue, she appeared completely detached from everyone and everything around her.

  Her cousin, Stewart Delacorte, also blond, made an effective counterpoint. His eyes sparkled, his body language indicated total engagement as he eyed me and Diesel with curiosity, and his hands played restlessly with a small item I couldn’t identify. He was evidently shorter than Cynthia. Their chairs were identical but her head topped his by at least three inches.

  “We have a guest for tea this afternoon. Actually two guests,” Mr. Delacorte said with a brief smile. “This is Mr. Charles Harris. He’s a librarian at Athena College, and he also works at the public library, where he has often been of great help to me.”

  “I thought you looked familiar.” Stewart Delacorte nodded. “I must have seen you on campus. I’m an associate professor in the chemistry department.”

  Before I could respond, James Delacorte continued. “That is my late brother Arthur’s grandson, Stewart. And next to him is my brother Thomas’s granddaughter, Cynthia.”

  Cynthia inclined her head in regal fashion, but her eyes indicated her complete lack of interest in me and Diesel.

  Mr. Delacorte went on with his introductions. “Eloise you’ve met. My nephew, Hubert, her husband, and my sister, Daphne, Hubert’s mother.”

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” I said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’d like to introduce my friend here.” I rubbed Diesel’s head. “This is Diesel. He’s a Maine coon, and he’s almost three years old.”

  Daphne Morris left off rubbing her forehead and stared at Diesel in obvious fascination. “That’s a cat?” Her voice was not much above a whisper.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Maine coons are pretty large. Diesel is actually larger than average for the breed.”

  Eloise spoke then, rustling her skirts about her. “I really do think China tea is superior to Indian. I can’t abide Darjeeling, but I do adore Lapsang souchong.”

  “Shut up, Eloise. No one cares what kind of tea you like.” Hubert’s voice, high and thin, startled me with its vicious tone.

  Daphne practically moaned her words as she resumed rubbing her forehead. “Hubert, darling, please. My head aches so terribly today. Don’t make it worse.”

  Stewart’s deep voice rumbled as he shot a glance of pure vitriol at Hubert. “Dearest Aunt, don’t pay any attention to silly Hubert. You know he yells at poor Eloise just to annoy us all.”

  “What about that nineteen-year-old I saw you with the other night?” Hubert twisted in his seat to glare at Stewart. “It’s far worse than silly—it’s disgusting. Do his parents know he’s carrying on with a man twice his age? You make me sick.”

  Both Diesel and I shrank back from the unpleasant scene unfolding before us. Diesel got behind me, and I was ready to bolt from the room. These people had no boundaries, talking about things like this in front of a stranger.

  Eloise started singing, Stewart yelled something back at Hubert, and Daphne moaned even louder.

  I gazed on in horrified fascination until I heard a strangled gasp from Mr. Delacorte.

  His face was red, and he struggled to breathe. He clutched at his chest, and I was afraid he was having a heart attack.

  SEVEN

  I moved to assist Mr. Delacorte, but Cynthia pushed me out of the way. I stumbled backward and grabbed the mantel for support. She was a nurse, I remembered, from Helen Louise’s conversation about the family. I was relieved to have a professional intercede.

  Cynthia reached inside Mr. Delacorte’s jacket pocket and withdrew a small bottle. She quickly opened it and shook out a tiny pill into her palm. She thrust it into his mouth under his tongue and stood back as she replaced the cap.

  He labored for breath for a moment, but gradually he relaxed, and his face resumed a more normal color. Cynthia took his arm and led him to the sofa occupied by Hubert. Mr. Delacorte nodded up at her, and she stepped back.

  “Thank you, Cynthia,” he said, his voice not quite steady.

  Truesdale appeared then—had one of the family summoned him?—and offered his employer a glass of water. Mr. Delacorte smiled briefly before he sipped at the water. Truesdale watched, his concern obvious. Cynthia resumed her seat near Stewart.

  I felt rather awkward through all this, and poor Diesel remained behind my legs. I found a chair near Daphne’s sofa and sat. Diesel put both front paws on my legs, and I rubbed his head and murmured softly to reassure him.

  No one else spoke, and from my vantage point I watched the various family members in turn as they kept their eyes glued to Mr. Delacorte. Did any of them feel remorse for having induced his attack? At least, I assumed their behavior brought it on.

  Diesel sat on the floor beside me, and I kept one hand on his back.

  Finally Daphne broke the silence, her voice hesitant. “James, dear, are you all right?”

  I hoped no one ever gave me a look like the one James Delacorte cast at his sister. She shrank back on the sofa and dropped her gaze.

  I had to glance away for a moment because the raw emotion between the siblings made me uncomfortable.

  When Mr. Delacorte spoke again, his voice was stronger and tinged with acid. “I’m as well as could be expected, Daphne, after the shameful behavior exhibited by my family in front of my guest. You all owe Mr. Harris an apology for such an appalling display.”

  I wanted to crawl under the sofa at that moment. Hubert regarded me balefully, as if the incident were my fault. Stewart stared at something in his hands. Daphne didn’t turn my way, and Eloise appeared lost in her own world. Cynthia appraised me coolly, and it was all I could do not to turn and run from the room. I abhorred confrontations like this, and I was having serious second thoughts about assisting Mr. Delacorte with his inventory. This family might be more than I could take on a regular basis.

  No apology appeared to be forthcoming, and frankly I was grateful. I’d just as soon forget the whole incident.

  “May I get you something else, sir?” Truesdale continued to hover by his employer’s side.

  “Tea,” was Mr. Delacorte’s response. “Mr. Harris, would you like some tea?”

>   For a moment I was tongue-tied. Then I managed to say, “Yes, thank you. Cream, two sugars.”

  The silence continued as Truesdale prepared our tea. I thanked him in a low voice, and he acknowledged my thanks with the barest nod. He returned to stand behind the sofa near Mr. Delacorte.

  My host sipped at his tea, his face a polite mask. After a moment, he spoke. “I invited Mr. Harris and Diesel here this afternoon so everyone could get acquainted. I have hired Mr. Harris, because of his expertise with rare books and cataloging, to assist me with my collection. It’s been far too long since I’ve gone through it and done an inventory, and I decided I might as well have the assistance of an expert.”

  They all stared at me, making me extremely uncomfortable. I glanced at each of them in turn, wondering if I might spot some hint of unease in their faces or their posture to identify the thief.

  No such luck. If one of them was stealing from the collection, I didn’t spot any clues. Other than Eloise, still adrift in her own little world, they all had excellent poker faces.

  Suddenly I realized the silence had stretched a tad too long. Mr. Delacorte was regarding me expectantly.

  “I’m looking forward to working with the collection,” I said, my voice a shade too hearty. “I know it’s going to be very interesting.” I paused. What else could I say? “Oh, and I’ll be bringing Diesel with me. He won’t bother anyone, I can promise you that. He’s accustomed to going places with me, and I’m really used to having him around all the time.”

  Okay, time to stop babbling, I told myself sternly.

  “Diesel is quite welcome here,” Mr. Delacorte said. His tone brooked no opposition. “I really do miss having a cat about the place.”

  “I believe I’d like tuna salad for lunch,” Eloise announced. She rose from her perch and swept away toward the door.

  Hubert scowled, then spoke in a low voice to his uncle. “She belongs in Whitfield, Uncle James. She gets loonier all the time. Surely you can see that?”

  Such personal comments made me want to squirm. The Mississippi State Hospital, a psychiatric facility, was located at Whitfield, not far from the state capitol, Jackson.

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Delacorte snapped. “Eloise is simply eccentric. She’s perfectly fine right here. I will not discuss this again, Hubert.”

  Hubert looked over at me. “What do you think? You think she’s just eccentric? Or is she a lunatic?”

  Stewart saved me from having to answer. “Of course she’s a lunatic, Hubert. Why else would she have married you?” He laughed.

  “Stewart, you shouldn’t say such things.” Daphne sighed heavily. “You know how it upsets me.”

  “Sorry, Aunt Daphne,” Stewart replied, his words laced with mockery. “I do hope you’re not about to have one of your spells. Shall I get the smelling salts? Or perhaps a bucket of water?”

  “Stop it this instant, all of you.” Mr. Delacorte was getting red in the face again. He sounded short of breath.

  Were they deliberately trying to provoke him into a heart attack? I was afraid they might succeed, at this rate. Truesdale remained stoically near his employer. I hoped he wouldn’t need another nitroglycerine pill.

  “Sorry, Uncle,” Stewart murmured, not appearing at all contrite.

  Hubert threw his uncle a poisonous glance while his mother languished on the sofa. Was she having one of her spells? No one but me seemed to be paying any attention to her.

  Diesel nudged my leg with his paw. I glanced down at him, and he stared at me. He was sensitive to atmosphere, and he was clearly uneasy. All this sniping was unsettling to both of us. I rubbed his back some more, trying to reassure him.

  I was trying to think of a graceful way to extract both of us from this unpleasant mess, but short of standing up and announcing we were leaving, I was stumped.

  Surprisingly, it was Cynthia Delacorte who poured much-needed balm on the troubled waters. “I’m sure your work must be very interesting, Mr. Harris. Does the college have a large rare book collection?”

  I was so grateful I beamed at her. “Yes, there’s a collection of early American imprints, plus many signed first editions of works by Southern writers, particularly Mississippi natives. We also have the papers of a number of distinguished graduates of the college. Oh, and there’s a small collection of antebellum and Civil War diaries.”

  “Like Mary Boykin Chesnut’s?” Mr. Delacorte perked up.

  “Very similar, yes, but of course not nearly as well known.” I smiled. “Since I’ve been in charge of the collection, I’ve assisted a couple of graduate students in the history department working on diaries for their dissertations. Neither of them has been published, however.”

  After that I fielded a few more questions about the archive and its contents, from Mr. Delacorte and Cynthia. Neither Hubert nor Daphne appeared the least interested in the subject. Daphne alternately smoothed the skirt of her dress and rubbed her temples, while Hubert sipped at his tea and sulked. Stewart appeared to be playing with his cell phone, but at least he wasn’t rude enough to be talking on it.

  While I chatted, I kept an eye on the mantel clock. As the minutes limped by, I wondered how soon I could extract myself and my cat from the situation without appearing rude. Though I was not worried about offending most of the people in the room, I didn’t want to return Mr. Delacorte’s hospitality with anything other than correct behavior. Several generations of my Southern grandmothers would spin in their graves if I were needlessly rude to my host, no matter the circumstances.

  At the thirty-minute mark I decided that the dictates of genteel behavior had been properly served and set my empty teacup on the tray. With the first pause in the conversation, I turned to Mr. Delacorte and said, “Thank you for inviting me to join you this afternoon. I mustn’t impose on your hospitality any longer, though.” I stood, and Diesel brushed against my legs. “Diesel and I look forward to seeing you on Monday.”

  Mr. Delacorte came slowly to his feet. Though his voice was strong, he seemed rather tired. He extended his hand, and I shook it. “I’ll see you at nine, Charlie.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll see you then.” I nodded at the other members of the family, and Truesdale glided forward to escort me to the front door.

  The family remained quiet while we exited the room, but once Truesdale closed the doors behind us, I could hear a male voice raised in anger. Perhaps Mr. Delacorte was giving his family a more private dressing-down for their appalling behavior in front of a stranger.

  As Diesel and I left, I had a decision to make. Should I return on Monday or keep my distance from this unpleasant and decidedly odd family?

  EIGHT

  In the peaceful confines of my own kitchen, I finally relaxed. Even Diesel looked happier as he loped off toward the utility room. I sat down at the table to collect my thoughts and figure out what to do about dinner.

  With surprise, I saw on the wall clock that it was only a quarter past five. Tea with the Delacortes hadn’t lasted half a century after all.

  I got up to examine the contents of the refrigerator, and I found a note stuck to the door with a cat magnet.

  Sean’s message was brief. He was still exhausted from the drive and was upstairs sleeping. He would take care of his own dinner whenever he woke up.

  I placed the note on the table, frowning as I did so. Sean probably was tired from the trip, and I suspected he hadn’t been sleeping very well or very much in the weeks before he left Houston. But it could also be a tactic to delay any questions about his decision to quit his job and come to Mississippi.

  I wished he felt comfortable confiding in me. The restraint between us disturbed me. What could I do to reestablish the close relationship we once enjoyed?

  I thought about it off and on during dinner, with Diesel for company. The cat stuck close to me while I ate—partly in hopes of scoring some of my fried chicken, I knew, but also to comfort me. I was grateful—as always—for Diesel’s companionship. People who don’t have pet
s don’t understand the kind of bond we pet lovers have with our animals.

  Sean failed to make an appearance before I went to bed, around nine. I was surprised Diesel hadn’t at some point gone looking for Sean and Dante, because he was usually a very sociable cat. Tonight he didn’t leave me. He was stretched out on his side of the bed, sound asleep.

  I turned off the light and tried to emulate my cat, but I had trouble taming my thoughts enough to allow sleep to claim me. A half-hour’s reading soothed me, and I dropped off.

  The next morning I discovered that Sean had been in the kitchen early. The coffeepot was half full, and the Sunday paper lay on the table. His car was still parked outside on the street, but there was no sign of him anywhere downstairs, including the back porch.

  Diesel and I breakfasted on our own while I read the paper. When I went upstairs to dress for church, I glanced down the hall toward Sean’s room, wanting to talk to him. His door was shut, however, and I didn’t want to wake him up if he were asleep again. Maybe he’d be up and about by the time I came home.

  I put a note for Sean on the fridge to explain where I was going and when I would return. Diesel eyed me hopefully in the hallway as I headed for the front door, but church was the one place I didn’t take him. I rubbed his head and told him I’d be back soon, and he warbled in reply. I think he knew perfectly well that I was going without him, but he couldn’t resist testing me.

  Thanks to spring break, attendance at the nondenominational service in the college chapel was light. The chaplain focused his sermon on patience, a lesson I sorely needed, at least where Sean was concerned. I listened attentively, and by the time the service ended, I felt more at peace with the situation at home.

  My mellow mood carried me home in more buoyant fashion, and the spectacular spring weather only enhanced it all. As I closed the front door behind me, I heard noise coming from the kitchen.