Classified as Murder

by Miranda James

  Dressed in ragged athletic shorts and a tattered jersey, Sean stood at the stove, his back to me. Dante and Diesel sat on the floor nearby, watching him with avid interest.

  “Hi, Sean,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” he replied without turning around. “Thought I’d take care of lunch and give you at least one meal off duty. It’s nothing fancy, but I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  The aroma was enticing. I approached the stove to see what he was cooking. There were four chicken breasts, already grilled, simmering in a large skillet with diced tomatoes, onions, and broccoli. Sean added pinches of salt and pepper while I watched, stirred it all thoroughly, then put a lid on the skillet.

  “This needs about twenty minutes,” he said as he turned away from the stove. “It’s a pretty complete meal in itself, but I think there’s still plenty of salad in the fridge if you want something to go with it.”

  “No, what you’ve made looks fine,” I said. “And it smells great. I had no idea you cooked like this, though. I thought you ate out most of the time.”

  Sean rubbed a hand across his bristly chin. “Yeah, well, I got tired of restaurants. Too danged expensive. So I learned some of the basics.” He brushed past me. “Think I’ll go have a quick shower and a shave. Just stir it a couple of times, will you? I’ll be back in twenty.” The dog scampered after him.

  “Sure.” I frowned at his retreating back, a bit deflated by his coolness.

  I tried not to let it affect my mood too much. I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of my chair, loosened my tie, and rolled up my sleeves. Diesel watched me for a moment before padding off to the utility room. I was at the stove stirring when Sean returned, as he’d said he would, in twenty minutes. Dante bounced alongside him, his head turned to look up at Sean.

  Freshly showered and shaved, in jeans and dress shirt, Sean was far more presentable than he had been earlier. Now that I had a chance to examine him more closely, I thought he appeared to have slept well. His face had lost more of the signs of strain I saw yesterday.

  He stood beside me and examined the contents of the skillet. “It’s ready if you are. I sure am.” I noticed the clean smell of soap emanating from him, along with the faint aroma of cigar coming from his shirt.

  “Your clothes smell like cigar,” I said before I thought about it.

  Sean stiffened and pulled away. “Are you going to keep ragging on me about that? I’ll go sit out in the backyard naked when I smoke, and that way my clothes at least won’t stink.”

  “Take it easy,” I said. “It wasn’t a complaint, and I didn’t say you stink.” It had been a complaint, I realized, but I also knew I had to watch my words more carefully as long as Sean remained prickly.

  “Really?” Sean quirked an eyebrow at me, a gesture I had come to loathe during his teenage years.

  “Really. I just noticed it, that’s all. It reminds me of my grandfather, my dad’s dad. He died when you were only three, so you probably wouldn’t remember him. He smoked cigars too, right up until the day he died, at eighty-four.”

  “Huh.” Sean flashed a brief smile. “Guess it runs in the family, then.”

  “It skipped a couple of generations,” I said wryly. “Now, how about you get out the plates—or should we use bowls? I’ll dish up this concoction of yours.” I set the lid aside and retrieved a ladle from the drawer.

  “Dante, sit.” Sean spoke sternly to the dog, still hovering anxiously near his feet. He went to the cabinet and pulled out plates. “I’ve got some garlic bread in the oven. I’ll get it out when you’re done there.”

  Dante sat. Diesel approached him and sniffed at him before assuming his regal cat pose next to the dog. They watched intently as I ladled the chicken and vegetables onto our plates. Sean set the table with silverware and napkins, plated the bread, and then pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge for himself. I had iced tea.

  The food was tasty, and I complimented Sean on his efforts. “You’ll have to share your recipe with Azalea. She collects them.”

  Up went the eyebrow again. “Uh-huh. Like Azalea’s really going to be interested in something I cooked.” He forked more chicken into his mouth.

  Was he regressing to adolescence simply because he was under my roof again? I didn’t appreciate his flippant attitude.

  “Watch your tone, young man,” I said, trying to keep my own sounding more jovial than peremptory, though I don’t think I was entirely successful.

  “Relax, Dad,” Sean said. “I just think it’s funny that an amazing cook like Azalea would be interested in a recipe this simple.” He waved his empty fork over his plate.

  Had my remark about sharing the recipe been the slightest bit patronizing? That might in part explain Sean’s reaction.

  Perhaps it was time to change the subject. “I had an interesting time yesterday at tea with the Delacorte family.”

  “How crazy are they?” Sean smirked. “Your friend Helen Louise seemed to think they’re pretty odd.”

  “Helen Louise was right,” I said. “Mr. Delacorte is basically a charming, cultured man. But that family.” I shook my head as I remembered the antics of yesterday afternoon.

  “Here’s an example for you. Eloise Morris, the wife of Mr. Delacorte’s nephew, Hubert, was coming down the hall stairs when I arrived. She was wearing a dress with a hoop-skirt straight out of Gone with the Wind.” I laughed. “And when she saw Diesel and me, she made a remark about there not being rats or mice in the house.”

  Sean laughed. For a moment he looked like a boy again. He said, “That’s more than odd. It’s eccentric with a capital E. What about the rest of them?”

  “The worst thing about the rest of them was their horrendous backbiting and bickering. And in front of a stranger. It was downright off-putting.” I made a moue of distaste.

  “You wouldn’t like that,” Sean said.

  “I didn’t,” I said. “It was appallingly bad manners, for one thing. It made me start thinking about whether I really want to go back there tomorrow.”

  “Why not?” Sean seemed disgruntled, and I couldn’t figure out why. He went on, “What does it matter? You’re going to be working in his library, aren’t you? You probably won’t see them, unless you eat lunch with them. You can get out of having tea with them again.”

  “I suppose so.” It was clear I wasn’t going to get any sympathy from my son. Not that I really needed any, I realized, now feeling faintly ridiculous. I was being needlessly skittish over dealing with the Delacorte family.

  I was about to express this to Sean when I was startled by loud music. The strains of Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” rent the air.

  “Sorry,” Sean muttered. He stood and pulled a cell phone from his trouser pocket. He glanced at it and muttered again, a word I preferred not to acknowledge. “Excuse me.” He strode out into the hall.

  Dante ran after him. The poor dog wouldn’t let Sean out of his sight.

  I got up to refill my tea glass, and I could hear Sean talking. He hadn’t gone far into the hall. I couldn’t help but hear his end of the conversation as I poured the tea.

  “Stop calling me. I don’t owe you anything, I don’t care what you say.”

  NINE

  I finished pouring the tea and went back to my place at the table. From here I could no longer hear anything coming from the hallway.

  I had no business listening to my son’s private phone conversations anyway, I told myself.

  Sean reappeared then, and it was obvious he was annoyed.

  “You look upset,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Stupid phone call from someone I used to work with.” He sat down. “Dante, stop hopping around. Sit.”

  The dog sat, chastened by the rough tone. Beside me, Diesel chirped a couple of times, and I scratched his head.

  I figured any questions about Sean’s former coworker would not be welcome, and I decided not to risk the rebuff.

  Sean regarded his f
ood with what looked like distaste, as if he had suddenly lost his appetite. He stood, picked up his plate, and took it to the garbage can under the sink. He scraped the food off and stuck the plate in the sink.

  “I’ll clean up later,” he said. He strode around the table and snapped his fingers. “Come on, Dante, want to go outside?”

  The dog stood and wagged his tail. Diesel perked up too—he knew what outside meant.

  “Diesel wants to come, if that’s okay with you,” I said.

  “Sure,” Sean said. “Think I’ll relax on the back porch a while, have a cigar, let the boys play in the yard.”

  “Fine.” I watched as he left the room, the “boys” right on his heels.

  The rest of the day was quiet. I caught up on my e-mail and finished the book I’d been reading. Diesel wandered into my bedroom mid-afternoon and leapt on the bed, where he remained until dinnertime, having a good old snooze. I joined him for a while.

  Downstairs again early that evening I found another note on the fridge. Sean had gone out, taking Dante with him. He would see to his own dinner later.

  That disappointed me, but I had to recognize the fact that Sean needed time on his own to work through his problems. He had sought refuge with me, and I had to remember that. Surely at some point—before too long, I hoped—he’d be ready to confide in me.

  Diesel and I had a quiet evening, spent mostly in my bedroom. Diesel napped some more, and I read. I heard Sean come in around eight. My door was open, but he didn’t stop by as I’d hoped he might.

  The next morning, by the time Diesel and I made it downstairs around seven, Azalea Berry, my housekeeper, was already in the kitchen and busy at the stove. In her late fifties, Azalea worked for my aunt Dottie for twenty years. When Aunt Dottie left me her house, she also in a sense bequeathed me Azalea. The day I moved in, Azalea was here to greet me. She informed me that Aunt Dottie wanted her to keep house for me, and as far as Azalea was concerned, that was that. I really had no say in the matter, and, truth be told, I found having a housekeeper much more congenial than I would have predicted.

  Particularly on Monday mornings, when a stack of three pancakes and several pieces of bacon waited at my place at the table, along with a steaming cup of coffee. The newspaper lay beside my plate.

  “Good morning, Azalea. How are you?” While I sat down to start my breakfast, Diesel disappeared in the direction of the utility room.

  Azalea spoke without turning her attention away from the stove. “Tolerable, Mr. Charlie, tolerable. And yourself?”

  “I’m doing fine,” I said. “With food like this, the day has to be good.” I sipped at my coffee.

  “A man should have a solid breakfast to start off his day.” Azalea piled three pancakes on a plate, added some bacon, and set the plate on the table across from me. “That son of yours better get down here before this food gets cold.”

  “How did you know . . .” My voice trailed off as I realized the answer. “His car, of course.”

  Azalea didn’t bother to reply as she turned back to the stove.

  “He might not be down for breakfast. He’s been sleeping a lot. I think he was working way too much, and he’s come to visit for a rest. Oh, and he’s brought a little dog with him, a poodle named Dante.” I was rambling a bit, but Azalea tended to have that effect on me.

  “Still don’t mean he shouldn’t eat regular,” she said. “And that dog better not be making no messes on my clean floors. Else he be learning to live outside.”

  I suppressed a smile, even though Azalea still had her back to me. I was convinced she had eyes in the back of her head, like my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Tenney, who never missed a thing going on in her classroom.

  “Dante seems to be house-trained,” I said. “Sean is good about letting him out in the backyard to do his business.”

  Diesel reappeared under the table, near my feet. He stayed out of Azalea’s way. He was also hoping for a bite of pancake or bacon, but Azalea wouldn’t be too happy if she caught me slipping her food to the cat.

  “Good morning, everyone. I knew you were here, Miss Azalea, because something sure smells good, and I’m starving.” Sean walked into the kitchen while Dante scampered about until he spotted Diesel under the table. The dog barked joyfully and advanced to greet his playmate. Diesel regarded the poodle for a moment before placing a paw on Dante’s head. The dog laid down, and Diesel licked one of his ears.

  Sean pulled out a chair and sat. Though he hadn’t shaved this morning, he looked neat enough in jeans and last night’s button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up below the elbows.

  Azalea watched the animals for a moment. She shook her head. “Don’t look like much of a dog to me.”

  Sean laughed. “He’s not so bad. I promise he won’t make any messes.”

  “He better not,” Azalea said. “You best be eating that breakfast before it gets any colder.” She frowned at Sean as she examined his face. “You be looking like you need a good breakfast. Your face is too thin, but I can take care of that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sean smiled at Azalea, and I could see her expression soften. “I love pancakes for breakfast better than anything. Three will be plenty, though.” He attacked his plate, cutting up the pancakes and drowning them in syrup. Azalea watched him for a moment and then, apparently satisfied, headed in the direction of the laundry room.

  Sean forked pancake into his mouth, and he chewed with evident satisfaction. He swallowed. “These are the best pancakes I’ve ever had. At least since the time I had them at Christmas.” He ate more.

  I’d have to be careful. If Azalea was determined to fatten Sean up, I might find myself adding a few pounds as well. I already had to battle the bulge, because there was nothing low calorie about Azalea’s food. Not that I was complaining, mind you, but I did exercise more now than I did before I moved back to Athena.

  Sean glanced down at the floor beside him. “No, Dante, you can’t have any of this. Azalea would wring both our necks.” The dog sat, the epitome of patience and optimism, while Sean resumed eating.

  I checked, and Diesel lay stretched out near my feet. As long as both pets stayed out of Azalea’s way, everyone would be happy.

  “Are you going to ask Azalea about the Delacortes?” Sean asked. “Your friend said she used to work for them. Maybe you can find out how nutty they really are.”

  “How nutty who be?” Azalea came back into the kitchen to hear the last of Sean’s remark.

  “The Delacortes,” Sean said before I could respond. “Somebody told us you used to work for them.”

  Azalea nodded. “About twenty-five years ago. Didn’t stay there long, though. Old Miz Delacorte, Mister James’s and Miss Daphne’s mama, she was pretty near impossible to work for. Always sore about something. She didn’t care who she lit into when she was mad, and that was most of the time.”

  “No wonder you didn’t work there long,” Sean said.

  “How come you want to know about them?” Azalea asked.

  “James Delacorte has asked for my help doing an inventory of his book collection. I went there for tea yesterday afternoon and met his family.” I paused as I tried to think of a diplomatic way to express my feelings. “They behaved pretty oddly.”

  Azalea shook her head. “You best be watching your back while you over there, Mr. Charlie. They is some kind of strange folks. Ain’t none of ’em worth the time of day, except maybe that butler fellow of Mr. Delacorte’s. He sure do work hard, and if you need something, you talk to him.”

  “Yes, I met him yesterday,” I said. “He seems like a very competent man. But not from around here, of course.”

  “He be some kind of Englishman Mr. Delacorte brought home with him years ago, once he decided to stop running around them foreign countries and come back to Athena where he was raised. I heard he used to be an actor over in England. He could sure be fancy when he wanted to.” Azalea picked up the coffeepot and brought it over to the table to refill our cups.
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  “Since I’m going to be working in the library with Mr. Delacorte, I hope I won’t see much of the family while I’m there.”

  “That’ll be good,” Azalea said as she returned the coffeepot to its berth. “But I ’spect you gone be hearing from’em anyway. They gone be nosing around what you doing; you better count on that. Anything to do with money, they be real interested in, and I hear tell them books of Mr. Delacorte’s be worth a lot of money.”

  “They certainly are,” I said. I hesitated for a moment, but curiosity won out over discretion. “Tell me, is Eloise Morris really crazy? Or is it some kind of act she puts on?”

  Azalea folded her arms across her chest and regarded me for a moment. “She was a little bitty thing back then, always looked like you could knock her down by just waving at her. She married that no-account Hubert when she was seventeen, a couple of years before I worked for ol’ Miz Delacorte.” Her expression softened. “She was real sweet to me, and I never could figure out why she married into that family.”

  “But was she eccentric back then?” On occasion Azalea meandered around the point, and I figured a little prodding wouldn’t hurt.

  Azalea grimaced. “I heard tell her mama had to be locked in her room for years because she’d strip off all her clothes and go walking around the plantation as naked as the day the Good Lord brought her into the world. And I reckon poor Miss Eloise done took after her poor mama.”

  “That would explain it, then,” I said, feeling sorry for Eloise Morris.

  “My friend Lorraine be the cook there now,” Azalea said. “She tells me things sometimes. Mr. Delacorte pays her real good; otherwise, she wouldn’t still be working there.”

  “Mr. Delacorte seems like a very nice man,” I said. “It’s a pity his family is so strange.”

  “He be one acorn that didn’t fall too far from the tree, Mr. Charlie,” Azalea said, her expression enigmatic. “Don’t you go trusting him too much.”