Classified as Murder (8 page)

The desultory chatter I heard when we first entered petered out by the time Mr. Delacorte stood in front of the fireplace and faced his family. I stopped with Diesel about three feet away and waited for my host to introduce us.

While I waited, I glanced around at the people in the room. The first person I examined was Eloise Morris. She sat between the sofas with her voluminous skirts spread about her. No chair was visible, so she had to have a stool of some sort beneath her.

The man on a sofa about three feet to her right had to be her husband, Hubert. Roughly my age, he wore an outmoded suit of fabric shiny from age and wear. His slickedback, shoulder-length dark hair flipped up at the ends in a fashion that reminded me of Marlo Thomas in her
That Girl
days. His face was nondescript, one easily overlooked in a crowd or even in a small group.

An elderly woman, obviously Hubert’s mother, Daphne, sat at one end of the other sofa and rubbed at her forehead with one hand while the other clutched at her throat. Her rusty black dress had seen better days, and her heavily lined face looked remarkably like that of her brother.

The final two family members, the great-niece and -nephew, had claimed chairs behind Hubert Morris. They both appeared about forty, perhaps a trifle younger. The great-niece, Cynthia Delacorte, could have posed for an illustration of an ice queen. Blonde, dressed in a cool shade of blue, she appeared completely detached from everyone and everything around her.

Her cousin, Stewart Delacorte, also blond, made an effective counterpoint. His eyes sparkled, his body language indicated total engagement as he eyed me and Diesel with curiosity, and his hands played restlessly with a small item I couldn’t identify. He was evidently shorter than Cynthia. Their chairs were identical but her head topped his by at least three inches.

“We have a guest for tea this afternoon. Actually two guests,” Mr. Delacorte said with a brief smile. “This is Mr. Charles Harris. He’s a librarian at Athena College, and he also works at the public library, where he has often been of great help to me.”

“I thought you looked familiar.” Stewart Delacorte nodded. “I must have seen you on campus. I’m an associate professor in the chemistry department.”

Before I could respond, James Delacorte continued. “That is my late brother Arthur’s grandson, Stewart. And next to him is my brother Thomas’s granddaughter, Cynthia.”

Cynthia inclined her head in regal fashion, but her eyes indicated her complete lack of interest in me and Diesel.

Mr. Delacorte went on with his introductions. “Eloise you’ve met. My nephew, Hubert, her husband, and my sister, Daphne, Hubert’s mother.”

“Good afternoon, everyone,” I said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’d like to introduce my friend here.” I rubbed Diesel’s head. “This is Diesel. He’s a Maine coon, and he’s almost three years old.”

Daphne Morris left off rubbing her forehead and stared at Diesel in obvious fascination. “That’s a cat?” Her voice was not much above a whisper.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Maine coons are pretty large. Diesel is actually larger than average for the breed.”

Eloise spoke then, rustling her skirts about her. “I really do think China tea is superior to Indian. I can’t abide Darjeeling, but I do adore Lapsang souchong.”

“Shut up, Eloise. No one cares what kind of tea you like.” Hubert’s voice, high and thin, startled me with its vicious tone.

Daphne practically moaned her words as she resumed rubbing her forehead. “Hubert, darling, please. My head aches so terribly today. Don’t make it worse.”

Stewart’s deep voice rumbled as he shot a glance of pure vitriol at Hubert. “Dearest Aunt, don’t pay any attention to silly Hubert. You know he yells at poor Eloise just to annoy us all.”

“What about that nineteen-year-old I saw you with the other night?” Hubert twisted in his seat to glare at Stewart. “It’s far worse than silly—it’s disgusting. Do his parents know he’s carrying on with a man twice his age? You make me sick.”

Both Diesel and I shrank back from the unpleasant scene unfolding before us. Diesel got behind me, and I was ready to bolt from the room. These people had no boundaries, talking about things like this in front of a stranger.

Eloise started singing, Stewart yelled something back at Hubert, and Daphne moaned even louder.

I gazed on in horrified fascination until I heard a strangled gasp from Mr. Delacorte.

His face was red, and he struggled to breathe. He clutched at his chest, and I was afraid he was having a heart attack.

I moved to assist Mr. Delacorte, but Cynthia pushed me out of the way. I stumbled backward and grabbed the mantel for support. She was a nurse, I remembered, from Helen Louise’s conversation about the family. I was relieved to have a professional intercede.

Cynthia reached inside Mr. Delacorte’s jacket pocket and withdrew a small bottle. She quickly opened it and shook out a tiny pill into her palm. She thrust it into his mouth under his tongue and stood back as she replaced the cap.

He labored for breath for a moment, but gradually he relaxed, and his face resumed a more normal color. Cynthia took his arm and led him to the sofa occupied by Hubert. Mr. Delacorte nodded up at her, and she stepped back.

“Thank you, Cynthia,” he said, his voice not quite steady.

Truesdale appeared then—had one of the family summoned him?—and offered his employer a glass of water. Mr. Delacorte smiled briefly before he sipped at the water. Truesdale watched, his concern obvious. Cynthia resumed her seat near Stewart.

I felt rather awkward through all this, and poor Diesel remained behind my legs. I found a chair near Daphne’s sofa and sat. Diesel put both front paws on my legs, and I rubbed his head and murmured softly to reassure him.

No one else spoke, and from my vantage point I watched the various family members in turn as they kept their eyes glued to Mr. Delacorte. Did any of them feel remorse for having induced his attack? At least, I assumed their behavior brought it on.

Diesel sat on the floor beside me, and I kept one hand on his back.

Finally Daphne broke the silence, her voice hesitant. “James, dear, are you all right?”

I hoped no one ever gave me a look like the one James Delacorte cast at his sister. She shrank back on the sofa and dropped her gaze.

I had to glance away for a moment because the raw emotion between the siblings made me uncomfortable.

When Mr. Delacorte spoke again, his voice was stronger and tinged with acid. “I’m as well as could be expected, Daphne, after the shameful behavior exhibited by my family in front of my guest. You all owe Mr. Harris an apology for such an appalling display.”

I wanted to crawl under the sofa at that moment. Hubert regarded me balefully, as if the incident were my fault. Stewart stared at something in his hands. Daphne didn’t turn my way, and Eloise appeared lost in her own world. Cynthia appraised me coolly, and it was all I could do not to turn and run from the room. I abhorred confrontations like this, and I was having serious second thoughts about assisting Mr. Delacorte with his inventory. This family might be more than I could take on a regular basis.

No apology appeared to be forthcoming, and frankly I was grateful. I’d just as soon forget the whole incident.

“May I get you something else, sir?” Truesdale continued to hover by his employer’s side.

“Tea,” was Mr. Delacorte’s response. “Mr. Harris, would you like some tea?”

For a moment I was tongue-tied. Then I managed to say, “Yes, thank you. Cream, two sugars.”

The silence continued as Truesdale prepared our tea. I thanked him in a low voice, and he acknowledged my thanks with the barest nod. He returned to stand behind the sofa near Mr. Delacorte.

My host sipped at his tea, his face a polite mask. After a moment, he spoke. “I invited Mr. Harris and Diesel here this afternoon so everyone could get acquainted. I have hired Mr. Harris, because of his expertise with rare books and cataloging, to assist me with my collection. It’s been far too long since I’ve gone through it and done an inventory, and I decided I might as well have the assistance of an expert.”

They all stared at me, making me extremely uncomfortable. I glanced at each of them in turn, wondering if I might spot some hint of unease in their faces or their posture to identify the thief.

No such luck. If one of them was stealing from the collection, I didn’t spot any clues. Other than Eloise, still adrift in her own little world, they all had excellent poker faces.

Suddenly I realized the silence had stretched a tad too long. Mr. Delacorte was regarding me expectantly.

“I’m looking forward to working with the collection,” I said, my voice a shade too hearty. “I know it’s going to be very interesting.” I paused. What else could I say? “Oh, and I’ll be bringing Diesel with me. He won’t bother anyone, I can promise you that. He’s accustomed to going places with me, and I’m really used to having him around all the time.”

Okay, time to stop babbling
, I told myself sternly.

“Diesel is quite welcome here,” Mr. Delacorte said. His tone brooked no opposition. “I really do miss having a cat about the place.”

“I believe I’d like tuna salad for lunch,” Eloise announced. She rose from her perch and swept away toward the door.

Hubert scowled, then spoke in a low voice to his uncle. “She belongs in Whitfield, Uncle James. She gets loonier all the time. Surely you can see that?”

Such personal comments made me want to squirm. The Mississippi State Hospital, a psychiatric facility, was located at Whitfield, not far from the state capitol, Jackson.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Delacorte snapped. “Eloise is simply eccentric. She’s perfectly fine right here. I will not discuss this again, Hubert.”

Hubert looked over at me. “What do
you
think? You think she’s just
eccentric
? Or is she a lunatic?”

Stewart saved me from having to answer. “Of course she’s a lunatic, Hubert. Why else would she have married
you
?” He laughed.

“Stewart, you shouldn’t say such things.” Daphne sighed heavily. “You know how it upsets me.”

“Sorry, Aunt Daphne,” Stewart replied, his words laced with mockery. “I do hope you’re not about to have one of your spells. Shall I get the smelling salts? Or perhaps a bucket of water?”

“Stop it this instant, all of you.” Mr. Delacorte was getting red in the face again. He sounded short of breath.

Were they deliberately trying to provoke him into a heart attack? I was afraid they might succeed, at this rate. Truesdale remained stoically near his employer. I hoped he wouldn’t need another nitroglycerine pill.

“Sorry, Uncle,” Stewart murmured, not appearing at all contrite.

Hubert threw his uncle a poisonous glance while his mother languished on the sofa. Was she having one of her spells? No one but me seemed to be paying any attention to her.

Diesel nudged my leg with his paw. I glanced down at him, and he stared at me. He was sensitive to atmosphere, and he was clearly uneasy. All this sniping was unsettling to both of us. I rubbed his back some more, trying to reassure him.

I was trying to think of a graceful way to extract both of us from this unpleasant mess, but short of standing up and announcing we were leaving, I was stumped.

Surprisingly, it was Cynthia Delacorte who poured much-needed balm on the troubled waters. “I’m sure your work must be very interesting, Mr. Harris. Does the college have a large rare book collection?”

I was so grateful I beamed at her. “Yes, there’s a collection of early American imprints, plus many signed first editions of works by Southern writers, particularly Mississippi natives. We also have the papers of a number of distinguished graduates of the college. Oh, and there’s a small collection of antebellum and Civil War diaries.”

“Like Mary Boykin Chesnut’s?” Mr. Delacorte perked up.

“Very similar, yes, but of course not nearly as well known.” I smiled. “Since I’ve been in charge of the collection, I’ve assisted a couple of graduate students in the history department working on diaries for their dissertations. Neither of them has been published, however.”

After that I fielded a few more questions about the archive and its contents, from Mr. Delacorte and Cynthia. Neither Hubert nor Daphne appeared the least interested in the subject. Daphne alternately smoothed the skirt of her dress and rubbed her temples, while Hubert sipped at his tea and sulked. Stewart appeared to be playing with his cell phone, but at least he wasn’t rude enough to be talking on it.

While I chatted, I kept an eye on the mantel clock. As the minutes limped by, I wondered how soon I could extract myself and my cat from the situation without appearing rude. Though I was not worried about offending most of the people in the room, I didn’t want to return Mr. Delacorte’s hospitality with anything other than correct behavior. Several generations of my Southern grandmothers would spin in their graves if I were needlessly rude to my host, no matter the circumstances.