Classified as Murder (2 page)

A gray tabby with dark markings, Diesel still had his winter coat. The thick ruff of fur around his neck, a distinguishing characteristic of Maine coons, made his head look even larger. Short tufts of hair sprouted from his ears, and the visible M over his eyes marked him indelibly as one of the breed. At the rate he was still growing, he might yet hit the forty-pound mark—unusual even for a Maine coon.

A patron claimed my attention then, and I spent about ten minutes showing her how to access and use one of the databases she needed for her genealogical research. Helping people find the door, so to speak, to the vast world of information available online these days is one of the more rewarding aspects of being a librarian.

Leaving the patron happily at a computer clicking through page after page of the U.S. Census for 1820, I moved back to the reference desk. Diesel sat patiently at her feet while Lizzie helped Mrs. Abernathy, an energetic octogenarian who visited the library every day of the week to check out three books. She brought them back the next day and checked out three more. She explained to me once the advantage of being “an old widow-woman.” She no longer had to listen to some old fool nagging at her to “turn off the light and put the dang book away.”

The late Mr. Abernathy, I gathered, had not been a reader.

I chatted with Mrs. Abernathy and Lizzie briefly. Ten minutes after Mrs. Abernathy bustled out, another of my favorite patrons entered. He paused in front of the reference desk and offered me a brief smile.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Harris,” James Delacorte said. “How are you this fine afternoon?” His voice, with its rich Mississippi cadences, had a slight rasp.

Roughly the same age as the widow Abernathy, as far as I could tell, Mr. Delacorte was an old-school gentleman. He always dressed impeccably in a dark suit last fashionable during World War II. He must own a whole closet full of them, all the same style and color. They bore some signs of age but were well cared for, not worn and shabby, as one might expect. They gave off a faint aura of smoke from expensive cigars—perhaps the explanation for his voice.

“I’m doing fine, Mr. Delacorte.” I smiled. “And how are you?”

“Tolerable” was his inevitable reply. Never more, never less. He was personable, but reserved. I sensed a barrier between us when I talked with him. He was never rude or unappreciative, but he impressed me as a man who guarded his privacy and kept the world at a distance.

Ever since I first encountered him in the library, I never saw him use one of the computers, not even to search the online catalog. He was certainly literate, but he evinced no interest in the Internet or anything else to do with computers. The library staff looked things up for him and directed him to the print materials he needed. They all knew his habits.

He might be a Luddite where computers were concerned, but the range of his interests never ceased to astonish me. One month it was the economy of Latin America; the next it was the revolutions of 1848 in Europe. Last autumn he read whatever he could find on the fall of Constantinople to the Turks in 1453, and after that he delved into the poetry of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and their contemporaries. What would it be today?

“How can I help you? Would you like me to look something up on the computer for you?”

“Yes, thank you.” He regarded me with a faint smile. “Today I would like to find materials on the life of Louisa May Alcott and her family.”

“Let me see what we have.” I started searching the online catalog, building a list of books he could consult. The process took a few minutes, but he waited, ever patient. When I handed him a couple of pages of citations, he examined them carefully for at least a minute.

“You have been truly helpful, Mr. Harris.” He inclined his head, an old-fashioned gesture, but one I found charming. “The thirst for knowledge can lead one down so many interesting byways. I’ve traveled many of them over the years. You might say this library has been my travel agent.”

“That’s a delightful way to put it, Mr. Delacorte.” I smiled. “I started on my own travels as a boy in the old library.”

“As did I.” Mr. Delacorte frowned. “A shame, don’t you think, that the library outgrew its old home?”

“Yes, sir, but a bigger library is a benefit overall.”

“Assuredly.” He nodded. “To everything there is a season, after all. And the seasons pass, all too quickly—even without human intervention.”

I didn’t know how to respond. For a moment I had the feeling he had forgotten I was there. His eyes appeared fixed on some distant prospect as he gazed over my shoulder.

He blinked at me, as if he suddenly recalled my presence. “Pardon an old man’s woolgathering, please.” A faint, self-deprecating smile flitted across his face.

I nodded, with a gentle smile in return, and waited.

Mr. Delacorte glanced around, perhaps to see whether anyone was close enough to overhear our conversation. “I understand that you work for the college library. You are in charge of the rare book collection.”

“Yes, sir. I work there three days a week.” This was the first time I could recall his ever making any kind of personal inquiry of me.

“Very good,” he said. “I would like to call on you there, if I might, to discuss something. I would prefer to do it in a more private setting.” Again, he surveyed the area, but no one was close enough to overhear. Lizzie had stepped away from the desk for a moment, and Diesel was gone, too.

“I’d be delighted,” I said. “Normally I’d be there next week, but it’s spring break. I’m afraid I won’t be in the office until the week after. Would you like to meet then?”

Mr. Delacorte frowned. “It is a matter of some urgency to me, but I suppose a week’s delay won’t matter.”

I felt that I was somehow letting him down. He did seem, for the first time in my acquaintance with him, uneasy about something. “How about tomorrow morning?” I said. “Say nine o’clock?”

“That is most kind of you,” Mr. Delacorte replied. “If you are sure I would not be imposing on you.”

“Not at all,” I said. Meeting with Mr. Delacorte would certainly be more interesting than weeding the front yard—my previous plan for tomorrow morning. “I’ll meet you at the front door of the building at nine.”

“Very good. I appreciate this deeply, Mr. Harris.” Mr. Delacorte nodded, offered a brief smile, then turned and headed for the stacks to track down his choices. He carried the battered leather dispatch case I never saw him without.

I wondered what he wanted to talk to me about. Something to do with rare books, no doubt. Perhaps he wanted to make a donation to the college, either money or books. I knew very little about the man, but I would have to wait until tomorrow morning to satisfy my curiosity.

Lizzie and Diesel were back. Lizzie resumed her seat on the stool, and Diesel came over to sit by mine. I reached down and rubbed his head and was rewarded with a couple of chirps.

By now it was a few minutes after two, and the person scheduled to take over for me was late as usual. Anita Milhaus—if you took her word for it—was a gifted, dedicated reference librarian who could find the answer to any question posed to her.

The problem was getting her to sit at the desk and actually answer questions when patrons approached her. Only the bravest of them dared to. Her acerbic manner was bad enough, but Anita’s obvious contempt for anything she considered a stupid question was notorious.

After my first encounter with her several years ago, I immediately approached the head librarian, Ann Manscoe, to lodge a complaint. In my years as a library manager, I never allowed an employee to behave as Anita did. Mrs. Manscoe agreed with me but explained, with a weary tone in her voice, that Anita’s family contributed a significant amount of money every year to various civic causes. Any attempts to fire her would mean a withdrawal of much-needed monies by the Milhaus clan.

So the library was stuck with Anita. That dismayed me, but I understood. In a small town like Athena, there were few options—other than pushing Anita in front of a big truck.

To my surprise, Anita walked out of the stacks just then. She was usually in the staff lounge napping when she was supposed to be at the desk. She came around the counter and frowned the moment she spotted Diesel.

She had at least given up complaining about his presence, since my time at the reference desk meant she could goof off even more.

She didn’t speak, nor did I, as we traded places. She plopped down on the stool and leaned on the counter. She held up her right wrist and wiggled the diamond bracelet it sported. The diamonds flashed as they caught the light, and Anita stared at the bracelet with evident pleasure.

“That’s beautiful,” I said. “Is it new?”

“Yes, it is. My gentleman friend gave it to me.” Anita bestowed on me what was probably meant to be a coy glance but looked more like a constipated bovine attempting to relieve herself.

“How nice,” I said as she continued to gaze with rapture at her bracelet. As I turned to leave, she spoke.

“Here, you left something in the printer.”

I turned back to see her brandishing a sheet of paper. I took it from her and glanced down at it. It was the last page of the citations on the Alcotts. “It’s for Mr. Delacorte. I didn’t realize there was another page.” I looked up at her. “Thanks. I’ll go give it to him.”

Anita flapped her hand in the direction of the stacks. “The old fart’s back there at his usual table. Honestly, the man has more money than the Rockefellers. Why he keeps coming here when he could afford to buy whatever book he wants is beyond me.”

“It must be for the friendly atmosphere and dedicated customer service,” I deadpanned.

Behind me Lizzie guffawed. Anita shot me a look of pure loathing. I just smiled.

“Time for us to be heading home,” I said. “Come on, boy. See you later, Lizzie.”

Lizzie responded in kind, and Diesel and I headed for the area where Mr. Delacorte was working. He wasn’t at the table, but I spotted his dispatch case and left the final page of citations on top of it. On the way to the staff lounge we passed by Anita, dawdling at the water fountain instead of sitting at the desk. Once we passed her, Diesel warbled at me, and I nodded at him. “I know, boy; she’s one strange lady. Thank goodness we only have to see her once or twice a week.” I sighed. “And may the good Lord reward Mrs. Manscoe and the rest of the staff who have to deal with her on a daily basis.”

Diesel watched as I gathered my jacket and lunch bag from my locker. My volunteer shift ended at two, and I was ready to head home. It was Friday afternoon, and the forecast promised spectacular spring weather the next few days. I anticipated a relaxing weekend working in the yard and reading—all with the assistance of Diesel, of course.

On the way to the car, I remembered my appointment with James Delacorte tomorrow morning. I was looking forward to talking to him and finding out what he wanted.

A few minutes later, with Diesel in the car beside me, I approached my house.

A dusty late-model car with Texas plates occupied a spot on the street in front of the house.

I knew that car. It belonged to my son, Sean.

He hadn’t told me he was coming to visit. He’d been here only once—this past Christmas—since I moved back to Athena. Showing up out of the blue like this was unlike him. He had always been methodical and well organized, doing nothing without planning ahead.

My spirits sank. This couldn’t be good news.

After I pulled the car into the garage and shut off the ignition, I sat for a moment, speculating on Sean’s sudden appearance. When he spent the Christmas holidays with me and his sister, Laura, he had little to say to me. When I asked him anything about his job or his life in Houston, he brushed me off.

Clearly something was wrong, or he wouldn’t have turned up unannounced. Sean, like his late mother, invariably stuck to his prearranged schedule. Laura, younger by two years, was like me, flexible and easygoing. As an actress making her way in Hollywood, Laura had to adapt quickly to the uncertain nature of her profession.

Diesel head-butted my right arm a couple of times. That brought me out of my reverie.

“I know, boy; time to go in.” I needed to see my son and to assure myself he was okay.

I opened the door, and Diesel crawled across me and hopped to the garage floor. By the time I gathered my things and locked the car, he had the door to the kitchen open. He learned this trick recently, and I suspected my boarder, Justin Wardlaw, taught him.

I dropped my things on the kitchen table, and Diesel disappeared into the utility room to visit his litter box.

I left the kitchen and walked to the foot of the stairs.

“Sean, where are you?” I waited a moment and called again.

The house was still. Justin left this morning on a camping trip with his father and some other family members. The coming week was spring break at nearby Athena College, where Justin was a freshman. I had the week off too, as I’d mentioned to Mr. Delacorte, from the college library where I worked part-time as a rare book cataloger.