Classified as Murder

by Miranda James

  The amused contempt in her tone surprised me.

  “No,” I said. “It’s not your mother-in-law. It’s your husband’s uncle. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he has died.”

  Eloise’s mouth flew open—in presumed shock—and she began to tremble.

  I stepped forward, afraid that she might faint, but she closed her mouth and took a deep breath. I stopped and waited, but she seemed in control of herself once again. The trembling stopped.

  “Poor dear Uncle James. He was so kind to me.”

  I barely heard the words, her voice was so faint. She muttered something else, and the one word I made out was cookies. That made absolutely no sense.

  “I’m really sorry for your loss,” I said, not sure what else to say. Or what to do, frankly. Should I offer to escort her to another part of the house?

  She peered at me and then down at Diesel. “Have we met recently?” she said. “You seem familiar somehow. Your cat, too.”

  “We were here on Saturday for tea with you and your family,” I said. When she was lucid like this, did she remember what happened when she wasn’t?

  She frowned. “If you say so.”

  A knock at the front door startled all of us, Diesel included. Eloise stared at the door as if willing it to open. I supposed she was so used to having a butler perform the task she was confused about what to do.

  I opened the door to find two policemen on the verandah. I glanced beyond them to spot an Athena Police Department patrol car parked in the drive behind the ambulance.

  “Somebody called 911, reported a death.” The older of the two men spoke. The nameplate over his badge proclaimed him as William Hankins.

  “I did, Officer. I’m Charlie Harris.” I stood aside and motioned for them to enter. “I’ll show you where, um, the body is. The EMTs are in there now.”

  Hankins nodded, but his companion, Roscoe Grimes, stared at Diesel. “What is that?”

  “He’s a cat,” I said as I closed the door behind the two officers. How many times had I answered this question? “A Maine coon. They’re pretty big.”

  “I’ll say.” Officer Grimes shook his head. “Dang thing looks like a bobcat or something.”

  Hankins scowled at the younger man. “Keep your mind on the job. We’re not here to talk about cats.”

  Grimes nodded, his face blank.

  I looked around, and Eloise Morris was nowhere in sight. She had disappeared while I was opening the door to the police.

  “If you’ll come with me, officers, I’ll show you to the library,” I said, heading in that direction. “I found Mr. Delacorte there.” Diesel kept close to me, and I had to be careful not to stumble over him.

  “James Delacorte?” Hankins asked, his voice sharp.

  “Yes.” I stopped a few feet away from the open library doors. “In there.” I had no desire to go any closer at the moment. I wondered if Truesdale was still inside. I hadn’t noticed him come back to the front hall after he showed the emergency personnel to the library. I hovered uncertainly.

  Hankins was brusque. “Thanks. If you’ll go wait in the hall, Mr. Harris, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Certainly,” I said, relieved. “Come on, Diesel.” The cat and I walked back to the front of the hall. Suddenly the house seemed oppressive. I could feel the weight of two centuries press down on me, and I had to step outside for a moment to shake it off.

  I opened the door, and Diesel and I walked out onto the front porch. For the first time I realized the rain had ended, and the skies had cleared. I breathed in the cool air, and I felt a little of my tension ease. Diesel seemed calmer out here, too. He sat down and gazed up at me, almost as if he expected an explanation.

  I wished I could give him one. I had a terrible feeling that James Delacorte’s death would turn out to be complicated, not merely death from a heart attack.

  Movement out on the street caught my eye. A car from the sheriff’s department turned into the driveway, and I watched as it moved swiftly toward the house. The driver stopped behind the city patrol car.

  As I watched, I saw a head with black hair arranged in a tight bun emerge from the passenger side.

  I knew that hairstyle and the woman to whom it belonged.

  My stomach twisted into a knot.

  Finding me here would make her about as happy as a cat being forced to swallow a pill.

  A very bad day was about to get worse.

  THIRTEEN

  The woman with that severe bun was Kanesha Berry, the only African American female chief deputy in Mississippi. She was also the daughter of my housekeeper, Azalea, and Kanesha wasn’t happy that her mama worked as a domestic. Azalea won’t put up with any sass from her daughter about her job, though. Kanesha chooses instead to focus her displeasure on me, as if I and I alone am responsible for her mother’s choice of employment.

  Throughout the events of this past fall, when I was part of a murder investigation Kanesha conducted, I aggravated her more often than not in my attempts to assist. If she had known last fall that her mother put me up to it, she would have locked me up for sure. Concerned that her daughter should make a success of her first homicide investigation, Azalea urged me to use my inside knowledge of the victim and suspects to do a little nosing around on the side. I did poke around, and I discovered important information that Kanesha might not have found.

  By the time that case ended, I thought we had managed at least a fragile rapprochement. Finding me in a house with another dead body, however, might shatter the small amount of goodwill I’d managed to win from her.

  Kanesha and her fellow officer—I recognized Deputy Bates from our brief acquaintance in the fall—proceeded up the walk and up the steps onto the front porch. Kanesha stopped short the moment she spotted me. Bates, a step or two behind, almost bumped into her.

  Her eyes narrowed, and I could almost read her mind. And I didn’t think her mother would appreciate the unladylike language going through her daughter’s head at the sight of me and my cat.

  “Mr. Harris. What an interesting . . . surprise to see you here.” Kanesha clipped her words like a barber shaving new military recruits.

  I couldn’t think of any response to that.

  She eyed Diesel. The cat eyed her back and uttered two quick chirps. “You really do take that cat everywhere, don’t you?”

  I didn’t think she really expected an answer to that, and I moved quickly to open the door for her and Bates. Diesel slipped through ahead of us.

  Inside, I pointed the way down the hall to the library. Officer Hankins was walking toward us, but he stopped short when he saw Kanesha and Bates.

  “Morning, ma’am,” he said, his face blank, his posture stiff.

  Kanesha brushed past him. “Come with me, please,” she said.

  Hankins trailed after her and Bates. Diesel and I remained near the front door. I wasn’t sure what to do. Hang around here in the hall, or find somewhere to perch and wait until someone wanted to speak to me?

  I decided to stay put for the moment. I spotted a wooden bench against the wall a few feet away, and that seemed as good a spot as any. I sat down, and Diesel hopped up beside me. The bench was polished wood on top, and unyielding to the behind, but at least it was out of the way.

  What I really wanted to do was go home. Maybe there I would be better able to keep the vision of the corpse out of my head. I shuddered.

  Hoping to erase the image of Mr. Delacorte’s face, I turned my thoughts to Sean. What was he doing? If he knew what was good for him, he’d better be home by three, when Azalea left. I doubted she would go off and leave Dante alone in the house, and if Sean weren’t back when she was ready to go, she’d probably put Dante out in the backyard.

  That was Sean’s problem, not mine, I reminded myself. He was a grown man, and he didn’t need his father minding his business for him. I hoped we would be able to get along for whatever length of time Sean lived with me. I didn’t want our relationship to become any more strai
ned that it already was.

  My thoughts inevitably returned to Mr. Delacorte.

  Why would someone want to harm that old man?

  And why was I assuming so quickly that a member of his family had killed him?

  He probably had a heart attack. He almost had one on Saturday, and that could have been a precursor for today.

  But something about how his face looked—especially the swollen, protruding tongue—bothered me. I didn’t think a person who had suffered a heart attack would have a swollen tongue. Something else caused that, I was sure. But what?

  Diesel scrunched up against me, and I realized I had neglected him, I was so wrapped up in my thoughts. I gave him the attention he needed. He soon calmed under my ministrations and nestled against my leg, his head in my lap.

  I looked up to see Truesdale a few feet away, heading in our direction. I moved Diesel’s head gently from my lap and stood.

  Truesdale’s face was still ashen, but from what I could tell, he seemed to have his emotions under control.

  “Mr. Harris, I must apologize that you have been left out in the hallway like this.” Truesdale paused in front of me. “Deputy Berry has asked me to find a suitable place for you to wait. She will be with you soon.”

  “No need to apologize,” I said. I didn’t point out that he had far more serious matters than my comfort to address.

  “Please, if you will come this way.” Truesdale gestured to a door a few feet from the bench. He strode forward.

  Diesel followed as I entered a smaller version of the formal drawing room on the other side of the hall. This parlor was as ornately furnished as the larger room, but perhaps because of its size it had a more intimate and welcoming feel.

  Truesdale turned on a couple of lamps while I chose a place to sit.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable,” the butler said. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

  I was about to offer a polite refusal, but after a swift glance at his face, I decided that he would probably feel better if he could perform at least some small service.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I would love some water, if you don’t mind.” I hesitated. “And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, perhaps a bowl of water for Diesel?”

  Truesdale nodded. “Certainly, sir. I’ll return soon.” He exited the room and shut the door gently.

  I chose a sofa upholstered in rose-colored fabric, and when Diesel wanted to jump up beside me, I told him “No.” A wooden bench was one thing, but an antique sofa with fabric of undetermined age was not a good idea for feline feet.

  The cat muttered at me, but he settled contentedly enough on the floor.

  Truesdale returned in less than five minutes. He bore a tray replete with two carafes of water, a glass, and a stainless steel bowl. He served both me and my cat with silent efficiency, and I thanked him for both of us.

  Truesdale gave a small bow. “If you require anything further, sir, please ring the bell.” He pointed to a brass fixture on the wall by the fireplace. In the middle of the fixture was a large button.

  “Thank you. I will,” I said. The butler nodded and left the room.

  Diesel and I were both thirsty, and the water was cold and refreshing.

  Our thirst quenched, we sat in silence for perhaps ten minutes before the door opened again.

  Kanesha Berry walked in. “Mr. Harris. Good. I have some questions for you.” She glanced around the room for a moment, then settled on a chair opposite me.

  Diesel warbled at her.

  Kanesha glanced down at him. “It’s almost like he’s trying to talk, isn’t it?”

  “He is talking, in his own way.”

  Kanesha wasted no time on further preliminaries. “Seems pretty strange to me, here you are, finding another dead body.”

  Something in her tone irritated me. Did she think I liked finding corpses?

  “I don’t seek them out, Deputy Berry; I can assure you of that. I happened to be the one who found poor Mr. Delacorte. It might just as easily have been his butler or a family member.”

  Diesel picked up on my irritation. He began a muted warbling.

  Kanesha ignored the cat. “How well did you know Mr. Delacorte?”

  I patted Diesel on the head to quiet him. “Not well. He came into the public library fairly often on the three Friday’s a month I’m there. He usually asked for help using the online catalog. He didn’t seem to care for computers, and he was always so pleasant that I never minded looking things up for him.”

  I felt like I was babbling, and I stopped. Kanesha had a way of staring at a person that was unnerving. It was an effective technique, at least with me.

  “You met him at the public library, but that doesn’t explain why you’re in his house. Why are you here?”

  “Mr. Delacorte hired me to assist him with an inventory of his rare book collection,” I said.

  “Because you work with rare books at the college library, I suppose.” Kanesha frowned and leaned back in her chair.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “When did you start the job?”

  “This morning, at nine.”

  “And have you been in the house since then?” Kanesha asked.

  “Diesel and I went home for lunch around twelve. We returned a few minutes before one. After Truesdale admitted us, I went straight to the library. That’s when I found Mr. Delacorte.”

  “What did you do then?” Kanesha shifted in the chair. “Tell me every detail you can remember.” I drew a deep breath to steady myself. “I paused in the doorway. Diesel was acting skittish about going into the room, almost as if he knew Mr. Delacorte was dead. Then I saw Mr. Delacorte, and I realized something was wrong.” Though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I described how the body looked to me.

  “Go on,” Kanesha said when I paused.

  “I checked for a pulse,” I said. “But there wasn’t one, and he wasn’t breathing. Diesel and I left the room, and I glanced at my watch. It was 1:03 then. On the way to the front of the house, in search of a phone, I remembered I had my cell phone and called 911. Then I went to find the kitchen, because I thought that’s where I might find Truesdale.”

  “And did you find him there?”

  “Yes, he was talking to a man, the gardener I think he said, and giving him some money. The man left, and I told Truesdale Mr. Delacorte was dead. Truesdale rushed out of the room, and I went after him. I knew he’d want to see for himself, and I didn’t want him to disturb the body.”

  “Did you enter the library again?” Kanesha glared at me.

  “Yes. I caught up with Truesdale at the door, and I had to restrain him from rushing in. He was clearly upset and thought he might be able to help his employer. But I told him it was no use.” I paused, remembering the butler’s distress. “He did go close enough to touch Mr. Delacorte’s hand, briefly, but after that I persuaded him to come with me to the front door. I knew the paramedics—and probably the police—would be arriving any minute.”

  “That’s clear enough.” Kanesha nodded. “Now, let’s back up. You said Mr. Delacorte hired you to do an inventory of his book collection. Any particular reason he decided to do that?”

  “He thought someone was stealing from his collection.” I hesitated. “He suspected a member of his family was responsible.”

  Kanesha’s eyes narrowed. “Did he say which member of the family he thought was stealing from him?”

  “He didn’t,” I said. “Although he apparently thought that neither his sister, Daphne Morris, nor her daughter-in-law, Eloise, was capable of theft.”

  “Were books missing from the collection?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. At the risk of irritating her, I decided I’d better explain how the collection was arranged and how the alleged thief had screwed up the order of the books.

  She listened patiently and caught on very quickly to the significance of what I was telling her.

  “I managed to get through only part of the
first range of shelves before lunchtime,” I concluded. “And in that first section, at least, I didn’t discover anything missing. There are many more shelves and books to inventory, though.”

  “And the only way to figure out whether any books are missing is to complete the inventory.” Kanesha shook her head. “Then I guess it will have to be completed.”

  “Are you saying there’s something suspicious about Mr. Delacorte’s death? That he didn’t simply have a heart attack?” That was the conclusion I drew from her statement, but whether she would confirm it, I had no idea.

  Kanesha stared at me for a moment before she answered. “I’ll say this much. Unless he poisoned himself for some reason, it’s murder.”

  FOURTEEN

  Poisoned? “That’s horrible.” I shuddered and tried not to visualize the corpse again.

  “We can’t rule out suicide or accidental death yet.” Kanesha spoke in an official manner, but her expression betrayed her skepticism. She thought James Delacorte was murdered, I was sure.

  “I can’t imagine he would commit suicide.” I shook my head. “If he wanted to kill himself, I don’t think he would have been so intent on having that inventory done.”

  “Maybe,” Kanesha said. “I can’t afford to rule anything out, at least until we have more information. What I told you about poison goes no further than this room, understood?”

  That baleful gaze of hers—I wanted to squirm like a schoolboy who’s been caught shooting spitballs.

  “Of course.” By telling me this, was she also letting me know I was not a suspect?

  No, I decided; she was too professional not to keep me on the list. She also knew her mother would have a few choice things to say if she gave me a hard time.

  A knock sounded at the door. Kanesha turned toward it and called out, “Come in.”

  Officer Grimes, the younger of the two city cops, opened the door and took one step inside.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, for interrupting.” Grimes glanced at me before he focused on Kanesha. “Some guy outside, says he’s a lawyer. Insists on talking to Mr. Harris here.”