Classified as Murder (7 page)

I glanced down at Diesel now and then, and each time I caught him looking up at me. I think he sensed my mood and was keeping an eye on me. He chirped at me, and I rubbed the top of his head to reassure him.

Dante seemed oblivious to it all. He kept finding interesting scents, and Sean had to urge him along.

By the time we reached home, I was ready for some time on my own. Sean took the cake box into the kitchen, and I waited for him to come back. When he did, I asked if he had any plans for the afternoon.

“Not really,” Sean said. “I thought maybe I could use the computer, check e-mail.” Dante danced around his feet.

“Sure, whenever you like,” I said. “But I had a wireless network installed right after the holidays.” I gave him the password. “You can even sit out in the backyard and use it.”

“That’s cool. I have my laptop with me. I’ll test it out.” He jogged past me on the stairs. Dante ran on ahead.

“I’ll be back by six, I’m sure,” I called out to him as he reached the head of the stairs. If he heard me, he gave no sign.

I plodded the rest of the way upstairs. Diesel had disappeared, probably to use the litter box and have a snack of his crunchies before joining me upstairs. I wanted to relax for a while before I had to get ready for afternoon tea with the Delacortes.

At three forty-five Diesel and I were in the car on the way to the Delacorte mansion. The Delacortes lived in the oldest part of Athena, where the town’s first families built their homes during the cotton boom of the early nineteenth century. Many of the same families still owned the houses, though most of them were not nearly as wealthy as they had been two centuries ago.

When we turned onto the street where the mansion was located, I felt a sense of déjà vu. It took me a moment, but then I remembered having come here a couple of times on field trips in school when we were studying the antebellum period and the Civil War. The old Honeycutt mansion on the corner often hosted tour groups. The family had held on to much of the furniture from the early period, along with portraits and other family memorabilia. My high school history teacher, Mrs. Pittman, a descendant of the family, loved bringing her classes to visit the place.

The Delacorte mansion, set far back from the street, was easily one of the largest on the block. It was a massive building in the Greek Revival style so popular in the South before the Civil War. There had surely been additions over the years, however, because most of the other mansions on the street were only about half the size of it. The additions harmonized with the original architecture, however, and the result was a stunning achievement.

I pulled into the driveway, flanked by a row of oak trees on either side. The drive wound through the grounds until it separated into two. One branch continued around the back of the house, and the other looped in the front. I followed that branch and parked the car a few feet past the walk leading up to the front porch.

Diesel and I exited the car and headed up the walk toward the imposing double front doors. We mounted the five steps up onto the verandah. I lifted the knocker and banged it a couple of times.

Moments later the doors swung open to reveal a tall, gaunt man who looked to be in his late sixties, dressed in a dark suit. “Good afternoon.” He stood aside to let us enter, frowning as he gazed down at Diesel. “You must be Mr. Charles Harris. And companion.” He shut the doors behind us. “Mr. Delacorte is expecting you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “This is Diesel.” As if on cue, my cat meowed. The butler did not appear amused.

I paused in the entrance to stare at my surroundings in awe. At any moment Scarlett O’Hara could come sweeping out of one of the rooms saying “Fiddle-dee-dee” or “Tomorrow is another day.”

I blinked as I glanced at the grand marble staircase ahead. Surely I
was
seeing things—or there really was a woman in a hoop skirt and crinolines gliding down the stairs.

I watched in silence as the woman, surrounded by a bellshaped mass of green cloth, negotiated the stairs. With every step I feared she would tilt forward and tumble, but she managed to stay upright, holding the skirts and the hoop up enough to make it safely down.

She appeared not to have noticed the butler, the cat, or me until she reached the foot of the stairs. There she paused while she smoothed the wrinkles in the fabric, and I had a better look at her face. About my age, give or take a few years, she was blonde, with skin so tight across her face it probably hurt her to smile. She appeared thin to the point of emaciation—at least, the parts of her above the skirt did. The bodice of her gown was flat, and her arms were no bigger around than those of an eight-year-old.

The butler moved forward until he was two steps away from the woman.

“Madam, may I present Mr. Charles Harris and his companion?” That English accent held the trace of a sniff. He obviously wasn’t too keen on the idea of having a stranger’s cat in the house.

He turned briefly to me. “Mr. Harris, may I present Mrs. Hubert Morris?”

Mrs. Morris inclined her head in my direction. Her hair, as thin as the rest of her, was wound into a lopsided bun at the back of her neck. She stared at Diesel for a moment. “We don’t have any rats or mice in the house.”

What an odd thing to say. Did she think I was an exterminator, and Diesel was my assistant?

Before I could speak, she continued, “I have finished addressing the invitations for the summer hunt ball, Truesdale. Please see that they are put in the mail right away.”

I’d never heard of a summer hunt ball in Athena, but then I didn’t move in the highest social circles either. Still, it sounded strange.

As the butler said, “Yes, madam,” she turned away, her skirts again gathered in her hands, and headed for a set of doors a few feet away. Truesdale managed to get there first to open the doors. He pulled them gently closed after her and returned.

“Mr. Delacorte will receive you in the library first, Mr. Harris. If you’ll come this way, please.” Truesdale headed down the hall and past the doors Mrs. Morris entered moments before.

Richly hued Persian rugs dotted the marble floor and muffled our footsteps. An array of Oriental porcelains graced small tables here and there along the hall, and several beautiful framed landscapes hung on the walls. The overall effect was opulent, but tasteful. I wondered idly, though, whether Oriental carpets had been in vogue in the antebellum years. Mrs. Pittman would no doubt be disappointed in me, after all the time she devoted to those field trips.

Truesdale opened another set of double doors and entered. As we walked in, I spied James Delacorte in the center of the room behind a large, ornately carved desk—mahogany, I thought, and probably a couple of hundred years old.

My host rose and came slowly around the desk to shake my hand. He was dressed as I had always seen him, in a suit of vintage cut. His face had a pinched look, as if he were in pain.

When he spoke, he sounded tired. “Good afternoon, Mr. Harris. And you too, Diesel.” He reached forward and caressed Diesel’s head. “Such a beautiful creature.”

“Thank you,” I said. Diesel thanked him with a warble.

I let my gaze roam around the large room. The proportions were generous, about thirty feet by forty, I estimated. The walls were covered by bookshelves that reached within a couple of feet of the high ceiling. The outside wall bore two deep bay windows, one on either side of the desk, with bookshelves inset below them. Every shelf was full of books, and there were cabinets around the room as well. The bookshelves on one wall were covered, their contents obscured behind glass. Perhaps these were the cases that held the rarest books in the collection, while the wooden cabinets probably held other treasures. I was itching to explore.

“We’ll join the others in a few minutes, Nigel,” Mr. Delacorte said. “Go ahead and serve their tea now.”

“Certainly, sir,” Truesdale said, with a slight bow. He withdrew quietly from the room.

“Please be seated.” Mr. Delacorte indicated a leather armchair near his desk as he resumed his seat.

Diesel stretched out on the floor beside my chair, and I waited for Mr. Delacorte to continue.

“In a few minutes you will be meeting my family,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’re acquainted with any of them.”

“No, but I did meet Mrs. Hubert Morris briefly. She was coming down the stairs when Diesel and I came in.”

With a sad expression, Mr. Delacorte asked, “And how was Eloise dressed?”

“In a hoop skirt,” I said.

Mr. Delacorte sighed. “My nephew’s wife has a somewhat tenuous acquaintance with reality much of the time. She’s a dear girl and does no harm to anyone, but when she is in one of her less-lucid periods, she often dresses like Scarlett O’Hara.”

“She did look very charming,” I said, trying to be diplomatic. “Although, I must admit, for a moment I thought I was seeing things.”

“Eloise tends to have that effect on people,” Mr. Delacorte said dryly. “Eloise’s husband, Hubert, is the son of my sister, Daphne, who is a widow. They will both be present for tea, as will the rest of the family. Afternoon tea on Saturdays is almost a ritual for us.” He allowed a brief smile.

“A pleasant one,” I said.

Mr. Delacorte went on. “In addition there are Stewart and Cynthia, the grandchildren of my two deceased younger brothers. They all live here in the family home.”

“I look forward to meeting them all,” I said.

“None of them is particularly charming,” Mr. Delacorte continued with ruthless candor. “Though I have done what I can to see that family obligations are fulfilled.” His face darkened for a moment. “To think that one of them is stealing from me—well, it’s infuriating, after everything I’ve done for them.”

“Any clues at all that point to one of them specifically?” I felt Diesel rubbing against my leg. Mr. Delacorte’s suddenly sharp tone had probably made him nervous. I scratched his back for a moment.

“Not yet, though I can certainly rule out Eloise.” Mr. Delacorte’s voice softened. “She can be quite intelligent when she’s lucid, but I think slyness of this sort is beyond her. The same goes for my sister, Daphne. She is too preoccupied with the state of her health to pay attention to anything else.”

“She’s an invalid, then?” I asked.

Mr. Delacorte snorted, and his face gained a splash of color. “To hear her tell it, she is. But from my perspective it’s nothing more than a hobby.”

That was an odd way of describing it, I thought, but I could see what he meant. When I was a branch manager in the Houston Public Library system, I had encountered two different people, one of each gender, who came to the library at least once a week to consult medical reference books. Both of them appeared convinced they had a whole host of ailments, although they looked fine to me—physically, at least.

“No, the thief has to be one of three people: Hubert, Stewart, or Cynthia. Both Stewart and Cynthia are bright and fully capable of such a thing.” Mr. Delacorte paused to grimace. “Hubert is not very bright, but where money is concerned, he’ll go to great lengths to get it without actually having to work for it.”

I wasn’t certain what further response was expected of me, so I nodded and waited. Diesel had settled down again by the side of my chair.

Mr. Delacorte stood and gestured with both arms out-flung. “Here is the collection, of course. On Monday I will give you a tour of it, so to speak, before we begin work. If I start showing it to you now, we will never make it to tea.”

“I’m certainly looking forward to seeing it all,” I said. “I’m sure you must have many fascinating items.”

“Yes, I do,” Mr. Delacorte replied. “This collection has afforded me great satisfaction over the years. Building it has been a labor of love. As physical artifacts, books are astonishing.” He shook his head. “I simply cannot understand this current fascination with books on the computer. They’re nothing but a string of words on a screen. I can’t imagine relaxing with some sort of computer to read. But then I suppose I am a dinosaur, in this as in so many things.”

“You’re not alone,” I said, rather moved by his eloquence. “For those who like electronic books, they’re fine. I’m delighted they’re reading. But I’d rather hold a physical book in my hands.”

Mr. Delacorte nodded. “Just so. I’m grateful you have agreed to assist me, Charlie.” He ambled around the desk. “Now let’s go have some tea.”

Diesel and I followed him to the door and down the hall to what I would have called the living room had it been in my house. That name was far too pedestrian for the beautiful chamber we entered. “Parlor” or “drawing room” seemed more suitable.

As large as the library, this room also had bay windows in both outside walls, and the furniture no doubt represented a fortune in antiques. There were so many beautiful objects in the room that I couldn’t take many of them in as I followed Mr. Delacorte toward the fireplace. Two large sofas were placed at right angles to the fireplace, facing each other. A heavily carved, elongated table—was it rosewood?—separated them. Chairs were placed behind the sofas, and a small settee completed the rectangle, oriented to the fireplace, about three feet from the two sofas.