Classified As Murder

SIX

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.

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.