Classified as Murder (17 page)

I was disappointed, but all I said was, “Sure. I guess I’ll start going through those instructions and copy of the inventory Alexandra Pendergrast left with me.”

“See you later, then.” Sean headed out of the kitchen, a very excited poodle running along with him.

Diesel stayed with me, and I rewarded him with a couple of bites of pizza. We didn’t have it often, and the bits of cheese and meat were a treat for him. I decided to wait to read the file until my hands were completely free of pizza grease.

I managed three of the four pieces of pizza Sean had left and then closed the box. I had a feeling the last piece would be gone before long.

Upstairs, hands washed, pajamas on, I climbed into bed with the file. Diesel jumped up beside me and settled down for a nap.

By the time I finished skimming the list of the collection, I felt like I’d strained my eye muscles from the many times my eyes must have turned into saucers. James Delacorte had amassed an amazing collection, not only of early American printed books, but also of fine examples of the earliest European printers. I couldn’t wait to get back to the collection and locate some of the gems. For a rare book cataloger, the Delacorte collection was the equivalent of heaven.

The list of instructions was brief. The main thing Mr. Delacorte wanted was to ensure that the collection remained intact. He was quite insistent on a thorough inventory. I wondered when he had drawn up these instructions.

He already thought some items were missing. Perhaps he feared the thief would loot the collection after his death. There were definitely many items that could fetch significant sums at auction. The first editions of Faulkner’s works, many of them signed and in apparently fine condition, would command an eye-popping sum on their own.

A family member who tried to steal any of the books had to be pretty stupid, however. The theft would be detected right away. Surely none of the Delacorte heirs was that desperate, or that dumb. I would know better after hearing the terms of the will tomorrow morning, I figured.

After I completed the inventory, my next task was to prepare it for the move to its new home. I grinned with pleasure when I read that the collection was to go to the Athena College library. There were provisions for a significant sum of money to be given as well, for the upkeep and cataloging of the books. I would be working on this collection for years to come.

I regretted deeply, however, the manner in which the collection was coming to my care. But all too often death was the event that triggered such magnificent gifts.

Around nine the phone rang. I checked the caller ID before I answered it. I recognized the number. Someone from the sheriff’s department was calling. My stomach grumbled. All that pizza felt like lead now.

Kanesha Berry spoke into my ear, her voice as brisk and businesslike as ever.

“Good evening, Mr. Harris. I apologize for troubling you this late, but I’d like to come by and talk to you if you’re available.”

“Sure. Come on over.” Was I in for another round of questions over my actions earlier today?

“Thank you. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

I changed back into my clothes and slipped on my shoes; then Diesel and I headed downstairs. Sean was still on the porch, hunched over his laptop with a cigar smoldering in an ashtray beside him. I let him know Kanesha was on the way because I figured he’d be annoyed if I talked to her without him.

The more I thought about, the more I was touched that my son was so determined to protect me.

By the time the doorbell rang, Sean, Dante, and Diesel were all settled in the living room, along with the tea tray I’d hastily prepared. I admitted Kanesha, who had come alone, I was interested to note. She brought with her a briefcase.

“You remember my son, Sean,” I said as we entered the living room. “And Diesel and Dante.”

Kanesha greeted Sean politely even as she eyed the animals with some forbearance, or so it appeared. Dante came dancing up to her, and after a moment she bent to hold her fingers out for him to sniff. He licked her hand, and she patted his head a bit awkwardly.

Diesel merely observed the antics from his position on the sofa. He remained a bit wary of Kanesha, though from what I could tell he didn’t actively dislike or fear her.

After everyone was seated, I offered Kanesha a cup of tea, and she accepted. That meant, I figured, this wasn’t an interrogation on the record.

Dante jumped on the sofa to sit next to Diesel, ensconced next to me. Sean started to make him get down, but I told him it was okay. He shook his head but didn’t argue. It was fine with me if Dante wanted to get on the furniture. Any family member should be able to use it, and these animals were members of the family.

But it was time to get the conversation moving. “There’s something I think you should know, Ms. Berry,” I said as she took her first sip of tea. “Q. C. Pendergrast and his daughter Alexandra came to see me this evening.”

Kanesha’s eyes narrowed at the news. “In connection with Mr. Delacorte’s death?” She held the cup and saucer with such care I knew she was tense.

“Yes. Mr. Delacorte named me as one of the two executors of his will, along with Mr. Pendergrast himself.” I smiled in self-deprecation. “I had no idea, naturally, he had done that.”

Sean, in the chair across from me, appeared to be signaling me with his eyes. What was he trying to tell me?

“I didn’t think you knew James Delacorte very well.” Kanesha set her tea on the coffee table. Her eyes bored into mine.

“I didn’t. He was only an acquaintance, really.” I shrugged. “According to Mr. Pendergrast, Mr. Delacorte named me an executor because of my experience as a rare book cataloger. And he wanted me to inventory the collection.”

Again Sean was doing his best to convey a message. I frowned at him, and Kanesha’s gaze flicked to him and then back to me.

“Are you supposed to appraise the collection?” Kanesha folded her arms across her chest as she regarded me.

“No, just do the inventory.” Should I tell her now that the collection was to be given to the college? I decided I’d better.

She didn’t say anything for a moment. “That works out pretty well for you, doesn’t it?”

Sean bristled at her words. “What do you mean by that?”

Kanesha glanced at him but then focused her gaze on me. “You get a very valuable collection in your keeping, isn’t that right?”

The way she said it sounded like I was going to start pilfering the collection myself, the minute I had it under my control.

I glared at her. “I will be its custodian, yes, for as long as I work at the college. But it will belong to the college, not to me.”

Kanesha shrugged. “That’s all I meant.”

Sean and I exchanged looks. She had deliberately provoked me, and we all knew it.

“I take it, then, you’re willing to finish the inventory?” Kanesha relaxed enough to let her arms down into her lap.

“I am. Sean’s going with me as my assistant.” I sipped some tea. “Mr. Pendergrast also asked me to be present tomorrow morning when he reads the will to Mr. Delacorte’s heirs. Then he wants me to continue with the job as soon as possible. When will I be able to get into the library again?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, possibly. This is an unusual situation.” Kanesha paused. “You’ll be in the house for quite some time, then. That’s not such a bad idea.”

“What do you mean?” Sean spoke rather sharply, and Dante sat up and barked. Sean shushed him, and the poodle put his head down between his front legs.

“I mean I think it will be helpful to the investigation to have someone inside the house. A person who isn’t an official investigator.” Kanesha directed her words to Sean, but she glanced quickly at me as if to gauge my reaction.

This was certainly a switch. She hadn’t been all that happy last fall when I was in the middle of another murder investigation. We had finally managed to get along, but it wasn’t easy.

And now here she was, practically asking me to snoop on her behalf.

I put my thoughts into words, rather more tactfully than I might have. “You want me to be alert to anything that might have a bearing on the investigation, right?”

“Yes, exactly. I know from past experience”—and here she flashed me a brief smile—“that you’re observant, and frankly I could use all the help I can get on this investigation. I can’t get much sense out of any of them. I’ve never seen a family like that.”

I shook my head at Sean, because I could see he was ready to protest. “Thank you for the compliment. I will pass along anything I think is pertinent, naturally.”

“I really don’t like the idea of my father putting himself in harm’s way by becoming a part of your investigation.” Sean radiated disapproval.

“I understand your concern,” Kanesha said, “but as long as your father confines his assistance to
observation
, he should be in no danger.”

“I agree,” I said, noting her emphasis on one word. “Sean, you’ll be there with me, and I promise I won’t do anything foolish. Just observe.”

Sean didn’t appear convinced, but he didn’t protest again.

I turned back to Kanesha. “Was this what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Partly.” Kanesha picked up her briefcase. “There’s something I’d like you to take a look at.” She opened the case and delved inside. “We found this on Mr. Delacorte’s desk.”

“Where exactly was it?” I had been too rattled to pay attention to anything other than his body.

“Under his right hand.” Kanesha pulled out a file folder encased in plastic, closed the briefcase, and set it on the floor. “I believe it has something to do with his collection.” She handed the folder, still inside the plastic, over to me.

I accepted it gingerly and examined it. The only thing I noticed was the word
Tamerlane
printed neatly on the label tab.

It was very light in my hands. “Is there anything inside the folder?” I handed it back to her.

“No, it’s empty, but I suspect it might have contained something.” She paused for a moment. “There was a letter from an antiquarian bookseller in London, dated July of last year. It was underneath this. The letter advised Mr. Delacorte that a copy of
Tamerlane
was coming up for sale at a private auction in November and invited him to participate.”

“What is
Tamerlane
?” Sean asked. “It sounds familiar.”

“Edgar Allan Poe’s self-published book of poetry.” I shook my head in amazement. “It’s incredibly rare. About fifty copies were printed, and only ten or twelve are known to exist. It’s worth a small fortune.”

“Was it listed in the inventory that Alexandra Pendergrast gave you?” Sean asked, his interest obvious.

“No, it wasn’t. Perhaps he didn’t participate in the auction, or if he did, he didn’t win.” I shrugged. “Or the list needs to be updated.”

“I believe he did win.” Kanesha spoke with quiet confidence. “There was a second letter from the bookseller under the first, thanking Mr. Delacorte for his patronage and for allowing him to represent Delacorte ‘in a most satisfactory and successful transaction.’ That’s a direct quote from the letter.”

“Sounds like he did win the auction after all.” Sean leaned back in his chair. “I wonder how much it set him back.”

“That’s an interesting question,” Kanesha said. “But a more important question is, where is it?”

“And you think it was in that folder?” Sean didn’t bother to hide his disbelief. “Why would it be in a folder anyway?”

“I’ll answer that for you in a moment,” I told him with a frown. Kanesha had already bristled at his tone, and I didn’t want him to antagonize her any further. “May I see the folder again?” I held my hand out to Kanesha.

Kanesha passed the folder back to me. I held it close and examined it through the plastic as well as I could. I handed it back to her.

“It’s an archival folder, made from acid-free paper,” I said. “It’s exactly the kind of folder I would use to hold something old and valuable to protect it.”

“How big is this thing anyway?” Sean prodded. “You can’t tell me someone would stick a book in a thing like that.”

“No, you wouldn’t. There are specially made boxes for books, if one needs to be protected like that.” Before I could continue and answer Sean’s original question, Kanesha spoke up with one of her own. “When was
Tamerlane
published?”

“I’m pretty sure it was in 1827. Poe was only eighteen at the time.” I paused while I dredged up what details I could remember. “It’s an epic poem, not really a book—about forty pages, the size of a pamphlet. Something that would fit in an archival folder like that one.” I remembered a bit more. “There are nine other poems besides ‘Tamerlane.’ ”

“You’re really up on your Poe.” Kanesha sounded impressed, albeit a bit grudgingly. “But I guess that’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to know, right?”