Classified as Murder

by Miranda James

  With gentle care I pulled the volume from the shelf and held it so that I could open it. I read the title, Tabulae Anatomicae, by Bartolomeo Eustachi, published in Rome in 1728. Nearly three hundred years old. I marveled that it was still intact in what might have been its original binding.

  I set the book down on a nearby work table and went back to the ledger. I skimmed through the next twenty-five or thirty entries, but I didn’t find this book among them. My head began to ache a little at that point, because the enormity of this task hit even harder.

  I would have to set aside each volume incorrectly placed on the shelf, search out the volume that did belong in that spot, and then move on. Place after place after place, through the inventory. Would there be enough room on the table?

  One thought did encourage me, however. Perhaps the idiot who did this hadn’t had time enough to do extensive swapping. Or else got tired of it and quit.

  I consulted the ledger and read Mr. Delacorte’s description of the set of Pride and Prejudice. His volumes had been rebound at some point in dark brown sprinkled calf, with green leather labels on the spines. Those should be easy enough to spot. Setting the ledger aside, I began to scan the shelves.

  As I searched, I noted many titles that I wanted to examine, but I steeled myself against the impulse to stop what I was doing. I worked my way through six ranges of shelves, into the items from the second ledger of the inventory, before I found the Austen set.

  At least the idiot had not separated the volumes. They nestled together between two novels by obscure antebellum Southern writers. I removed the three books and carried them to the proper shelf. I restored the second and third volumes to their place, but I couldn’t resist opening the first volume.

  A faint, musty hint of age tickled my nostrils as I turned to the somewhat browned and foxed title page and stared down at it. First published about two centuries ago, this book remained relevant, delighting generation after generation of readers. With great care I turned to the first page of the novel and whispered to myself that famous opening line: “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

  I had never stolen anything in my life, but I had the overwhelming urge to sneak those three volumes into my satchel and carry them home with me. Only another bibliophile could understand that impulse. I would never yield to it, of course, but, oh, how I longed to. I closed the book and held it for a moment before putting it where it belonged.

  I picked up the ledger and turned to the third entry, a four-volume set of George Eliot’s Middlemarch, first published in book form in 1871 and 1872. I couldn’t help sighing. This was another favorite of mine, from a long-ago class in English literature at Athena College with the inimitable Dr. Maria Butler. I don’t think I ever worked harder in a class in my entire scholastic career, and I enjoyed every minute.

  Stop woolgathering, I told myself. Focus.

  I glanced up at the shelf, relieved to see Middlemarch present and accounted for. This time I wasn’t going to expose myself to temptation. I left the book where it was.

  On to item number four.

  Absorbed in my task, I worked for more than two hours without a break, except for an occasional absentminded scratch of Diesel’s head or back with my elbow. I couldn’t get cat hair on the cotton gloves.

  Diesel was on his best behavior, though I did notice him approach Mr. Delacorte once. That didn’t seem to bother my employer, so I left them to it.

  There was one brief interruption. After I had been working about an hour, the butler entered the room bearing a tray, which he placed on the desk in front of Mr. Delacorte.

  “Your mid-morning tea, Mr. James,” he said.

  “Thank you, Nigel.” Mr. Delacorte laid his papers aside as the butler poured a cup of tea.

  I resumed work, anxious to make as much progress as possible this morning.

  The butler spoke again, his voice pitched so low I could barely make out the words. “About the matter we discussed earlier, Mr. James.”

  Mr. Delacorte spoke at normal volume when he replied. “I gave you my answer already, Nigel. Not another penny. You’ll have to sort it out for yourself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I heard Truesdale leave the room. I kept my back to Mr. Delacorte. I couldn’t help but hear the previous exchange, but I would try to pretend I hadn’t.

  Mr. Delacorte called out to me. “How about some tea, Charlie? Why don’t you take a break for a few minutes?”

  “Thank you, but I’m fine. I’ll just push on ahead if you don’t mind. This is so fascinating. You have some amazing items in your collection.” I was babbling, but I felt awkward, having overheard what should have been a private conversation.

  “Very well,” Mr. Delacorte said. “If you should change your mind, I will have Nigel bring fresh tea, or anything else you’d care to drink.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a quick smile. I focused on the job and was soon absorbed in it.

  I stopped when Mr. Delacorte tapped me on the shoulder and announced that it was time for lunch. Startled, I almost dropped the ledger on his feet.

  “You’ve made good progress, Charlie,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re halfway through the first range.”

  “Thank goodness whoever did this didn’t switch that many volumes thus far,” I said. I pointed to the books arranged on the work table nearby. “Those are the ones I found placed incorrectly, and so far I haven’t found their proper spots. I hope I don’t have a third of your collection off the shelves before I can start replacing some of these.”

  “I’m pleased you’re coping with this so well,” Mr. Delacorte said with a weak smile. “Watching you at work has exhausted me, I must admit.”

  He did look a little gray around the mouth. I hoped he was only a bit tired, and not on the verge of another heart episode.

  “Why don’t you go on to lunch? Diesel and I will run home to eat, if you don’t mind.”

  Mr. Delacorte frowned. “You’re welcome to lunch here, Charlie. There’s no need to go all the way home.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” I said. “But my housekeeper has already prepared lunch, and I’d like to spend a little time with my son. He came home for a visit a few days ago.”

  “Certainly, then,” Mr. Delacorte said. “Of course you must have lunch with your son.”

  “I’ll be back by one,” I said. “I live only about ten minutes from here.” I laid the ledger aside. “I’ll leave my satchel, and Diesel and I will be on our way.”

  “Good, I’ll see you then,” Mr. Delacorte replied.

  Diesel jumped off the chair and followed me, chirping all the way. He knew we were headed home. Behind us, I heard Mr. Delacorte lock the door.

  When we reached home, Azalea informed me that Sean had already eaten. “He had somewhere he was in a hurry to be getting to,” she said. “And he asked me to look after that little raggedy dog of his.” She threw a pointed glance at Dante, who lay disconsolate under the chair Sean usually occupied. Diesel went over to him and sat nearby, watching him. Dante’s tail began to thump against the floor.

  “I’m sorry he lumbered you with the dog, Azalea,” I said. “He didn’t say anything to me this morning about any appointments. Did he say when he’d be back?” I went to the kitchen sink to wash my hands.

  She frowned “No sirree, he sure didn’t. But I told him I’d be leaving here around three, and he’d better be back by then. All he said was, ‘Yes, ma’am.’” She frowned.

  “I’ll talk to him and tell him you have better things to do than watch his dog for him.” I shook my head.

  “I don’t mind ever’ once in a while,” Azalea said. “Just don’t want him making no habit of it.” She pointed to the table. “Now you set yourself down there and eat your lunch’fore it gets any colder.” She picked up a dust cloth and can of furniture polish. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

 
I suppressed a grin. Azalea liked to talk tough, but underneath that stern exterior lay an inner core of warmth and concern for the well-being of those in her charge.

  I made quick work of the roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, and cornbread. Azalea thought a man had to have three full meals a day in order to keep up his strength, and I did enjoy her cooking. On the days she wasn’t here, however, I ate more sparingly to make up for meals like this.

  By the time Diesel and I reached the Delacorte mansion, a gentle rain had begun to fall. I parked closer to the front of the house this time. Diesel wasn’t fond of walking on wet ground, so I scooped him up and hunched over to protect him from the rain as best I could. Trying to hold an umbrella and a large cat at the same time wouldn’t work, so I dashed for the front door and the protection of the verandah.

  Truesdale had the door open before I could set Diesel down to do it myself. “Good afternoon, sir.” He stared out into the front yard. “We shall have a wet afternoon, I believe.”

  “At least it’s not storming.” I wiped my feet on the mat before I stepped inside. Truesdale closed the door behind us as I put the cat down.

  “Mr. James is in the library,” the butler said.

  “Thank you. We know the way.” I smiled. There was no need for him to show me to the library every time I entered the house.

  Truesdale inclined his head. “Of course.” He turned and walked away.

  The library doors were closed. I hesitated a moment, and I wondered whether I should knock. Diesel sat and stared up at me. He warbled. I knocked on the door and then opened it.

  “We’re back, Mr. Delacorte,” I said.

  Diesel preceded me into the room.

  I almost stumbled over the cat because he stopped about two inches inside the library. He made the rumbling sound I heard when he was frightened.

  A quick glance toward the desk revealed the source of Diesel’s fear. I probably gasped myself.

  James Delacorte sat behind the desk, as I had seen him earlier in the day, but with two startling differences.

  His swollen tongue protruded from his mouth, and angry red splotches covered his face.

  He sure looked dead.

  TWELVE

  I steeled myself to approach the desk and verify that Mr. Delacorte was indeed dead. The utter stillness of the body spooked me, and I had a sudden flashback from last fall, when I discovered another dead body.

  I shook off that memory and stepped closer to the desk. Diesel, still muttering in a low-pitched rumble, remained where he was.

  Mr. Delacorte’s right arm lay across the top of the desk, while his left hung down by the side of the chair. His torso reclined against the chair’s back. I suppressed a shudder of revulsion and felt for a pulse in the right wrist. The skin was cool to the touch.

  The sound of my own harsh breaths filled my head and blocked out everything else except the touch of my fingertips on the dead skin. Even though there was no pulse, I continued to feel for one.

  After a minute I let go and retreated to the door. Diesel scooted into the hall. I looked back one last time, perhaps to reassure myself that the dead body was really there and not a dream. I noted the time on my watch: 1:03 P.M.

  My legs wobbled as I inched toward the front of the mansion. First I had to find a phone; then I would inform Truesdale. As I neared the stairway, I remembered the cell phone in my pocket, and with an unsteady hand, I pulled it out and called 911.

  I answered the operator’s questions, feeling sick to my stomach. She wanted me to attempt CPR, but I insisted that Mr. Delacorte was beyond any help I could give him.

  Diesel sat at my feet, quiet now, but trembling. I squatted and hugged him to me with my free hand in an attempt to reassure us both. He had never seen a dead human body, and the experience had clearly upset him. He knew the moment we stepped into the library that something was wrong. With cats having such a keen olfactory sense, I supposed the smell of death had both alarmed and confused the poor kitty. He rubbed his head against my chin and muttered softly. After a moment I released Diesel and stood, still listening to the operator and responding when necessary.

  I had to find Truesdale and inform him of his employer’s death. I prayed that I wouldn’t encounter a family member because I had no idea how any of them would react. I wasn’t prepared to deal with histrionics right now.

  Cell phone still stuck to my ear, I hurried down the hall on the other side of the stairs. Ahead lay a door that led, I hoped, into the kitchen, where I might find the butler. Diesel stuck to my side.

  The hallway continued beyond the door, but at the end I saw light and heard ordinary sounds—a low hum of conversation and the clink of china. When I neared the open door, I could distinguish two voices. Both sounded male. As I stepped into the kitchen, I saw Truesdale handing a small wad of cash to a heavyset man dressed in rumpled work clothes.

  “. . . rest of it in a few more days,” the butler said.

  “You better,” the other man replied. “Ain’t gonna wait much longer.” He stuffed the money in his pants.

  Telling the 911 operator to hold on a moment, I called out the butler’s name, and both men shifted position and looked my way.

  Truesdale turned back to the other man and said, “That will be all for now. You may return to your duties.”

  The other man mumbled a response and then disappeared out the back door.

  “The gardener,” Truesdale said as he approached me. “What can I do for you, Mr. Harris?”

  My face must have revealed my distress as I struggled for the proper words.

  Truesdale’s tone sharpened. “What is wrong?”

  “It’s Mr. Delacorte,” I said. I hated the bluntness of what I had to say, but there was no way to cushion the blow. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  The butler stared at me. “No, he can’t be. I saw him not half an hour ago, and he was fine.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I’ve called 911.” I brandished my cell phone.

  Truesdale brushed past me at a run, and I turned to follow him. Instinct told me I had to stop him before he interfered with the body.

  I ran, and Diesel kept pace with me.

  I caught up with the butler right inside the library door. I held out a hand to detain him.

  Truesdale tried to shake me off. “Let go of me this instant. Mr. James needs me.” His face reddened.

  “There’s nothing you can do for him now.” I held on to his arm.

  “How can you know that? You’re not a doctor.” Truesdale shook even harder in an attempt to loosen my grip.

  “No, but he has no pulse, and he’s not breathing,” I said. “I’m sorry, but he’s dead. I did check him.”

  Truesdale stared at the body of his employer, and all at once the fight left him. He stood beside me, trembling. His words came out in a strangled whisper. “My God, what have they done? What have they done?”

  Did he think a member of the family killed James Delacorte?

  Then I admitted to myself that the same thought lurked in my brain. I hadn’t acknowledged it until now. At first I thought Mr. Delacorte had a heart attack, and although that might turn out to be the case, I couldn’t get rid of the niggling doubt that his death was not natural. Did the victim of a heart attack have a swollen, protruding tongue and blotches on the skin?

  If the death wasn’t natural, a member of his strange family was probably responsible.

  The butler moved forward slowly, and I went with him, alert for any attempt to rearrange the body or disturb anything. He stopped in front of the desk and with a shaky hand reached out to touch Mr. Delacorte on the hand. Truesdale jerked back and moved away from the desk. His face held an expression of such utter grief that I had to look away.

  “Come with me,” I said after a moment. “The paramedics will be here any minute. We need to let them in.” Guiltily I remembered the 911 operator and stuck the cell phone back to my ear. “I’m still here,” I told her.r />
  Truesdale accompanied me without protest, and I saw tears stream down his face. He made no attempt to wipe them away. I reflected that one person, at least, would mourn James Delacorte.

  We paused near the front door. Diesel once again took refuge behind my legs. I squatted by him and rubbed his back while I looked up at Truesdale. He pulled a handkerchief from inside his jacket and dabbed at his eyes. The tears flowed unabated.

  “What did you mean when you said ‘What have they done’?” I hated to intrude further upon his grief, but I felt compelled to ask.

  At first he didn’t appear to have heard me, but after a deep sigh he replied, “Pay no attention to me. I have no idea what I said, or why.” He turned away, and I dropped the matter.

  He knew very well what he said, and why. He wouldn’t confide in me—that much was obvious.

  I heard the sirens then, and Truesdale stared at the door as if mesmerized. His shoulders squared, he opened the door.

  I moved Diesel a few feet back so he would be out of the way of the crew from the ambulance pulling up in the driveway. I stayed with him. Four men in uniform, laden with equipment, entered moments later, and Truesdale led them down the hall. I informed the 911 operator the paramedics had arrived and ended the call.

  The sound of shoes against marble warned me that someone was coming down the stairs. I glanced up to see Eloise Morris, dressed in contemporary jeans, blouse, and flat-heeled shoes, pause about two-thirds of the way down. She regarded me in silence, then spoke as she resumed her descent.

  “I thought I heard a siren and then a truck or something pull into the driveway.” Today her voice was stronger, more assured, than it had been on Saturday. “Has something happened?”

  “Yes, there’s an ambulance crew here.” I hesitated a moment. If I told her James Delacorte was dead, would she become the Eloise of the tea party, rather than this apparently lucid woman?

  She halted three feet away from me and assessed me with a clear gaze. “Don’t tell me. Daphne has finally had a real ‘spell,’ and they’ll cart her off to the hospital.”