Classified As Murder

EIGHT

In the peaceful confines of my own kitchen, I finally relaxed. Even Diesel looked happier as he loped off toward the utility room. I sat down at the table to collect my thoughts and figure out what to do about dinner.

With surprise, I saw on the wall clock that it was only a quarter past five. Tea with the Delacortes hadn’t lasted half a century after all.

I got up to examine the contents of the refrigerator, and I found a note stuck to the door with a cat magnet.

Sean’s message was brief. He was still exhausted from the drive and was upstairs sleeping. He would take care of his own dinner whenever he woke up.

I placed the note on the table, frowning as I did so. Sean probably was tired from the trip, and I suspected he hadn’t been sleeping very well or very much in the weeks before he left Houston. But it could also be a tactic to delay any questions about his decision to quit his job and come to Mississippi.

I wished he felt comfortable confiding in me. The restraint between us disturbed me. What could I do to reestablish the close relationship we once enjoyed?

I thought about it off and on during dinner, with Diesel for company. The cat stuck close to me while I ate—partly in hopes of scoring some of my fried chicken, I knew, but also to comfort me. I was grateful—as always—for Diesel’s companionship. People who don’t have pets don’t understand the kind of bond we pet lovers have with our animals.

Sean failed to make an appearance before I went to bed, around nine. I was surprised Diesel hadn’t at some point gone looking for Sean and Dante, because he was usually a very sociable cat. Tonight he didn’t leave me. He was stretched out on his side of the bed, sound asleep.

I turned off the light and tried to emulate my cat, but I had trouble taming my thoughts enough to allow sleep to claim me. A half-hour’s reading soothed me, and I dropped off.

The next morning I discovered that Sean had been in the kitchen early. The coffeepot was half full, and the Sunday paper lay on the table. His car was still parked outside on the street, but there was no sign of him anywhere downstairs, including the back porch.

Diesel and I breakfasted on our own while I read the paper. When I went upstairs to dress for church, I glanced down the hall toward Sean’s room, wanting to talk to him. His door was shut, however, and I didn’t want to wake him up if he were asleep again. Maybe he’d be up and about by the time I came home.

I put a note for Sean on the fridge to explain where I was going and when I would return. Diesel eyed me hopefully in the hallway as I headed for the front door, but church was the one place I didn’t take him. I rubbed his head and told him I’d be back soon, and he warbled in reply. I think he knew perfectly well that I was going without him, but he couldn’t resist testing me.

Thanks to spring break, attendance at the nondenominational service in the college chapel was light. The chaplain focused his sermon on patience, a lesson I sorely needed, at least where Sean was concerned. I listened attentively, and by the time the service ended, I felt more at peace with the situation at home.

My mellow mood carried me home in more buoyant fashion, and the spectacular spring weather only enhanced it all. As I closed the front door behind me, I heard noise coming from the kitchen.

Dressed in ragged athletic shorts and a tattered jersey, Sean stood at the stove, his back to me. Dante and Diesel sat on the floor nearby, watching him with avid interest.

“Hi, Sean,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he replied without turning around. “Thought I’d take care of lunch and give you at least one meal off duty. It’s nothing fancy, but I think you’ll enjoy it.”

The aroma was enticing. I approached the stove to see what he was cooking. There were four chicken breasts, already grilled, simmering in a large skillet with diced tomatoes, onions, and broccoli. Sean added pinches of salt and pepper while I watched, stirred it all thoroughly, then put a lid on the skillet.

“This needs about twenty minutes,” he said as he turned away from the stove. “It’s a pretty complete meal in itself, but I think there’s still plenty of salad in the fridge if you want something to go with it.”

“No, what you’ve made looks fine,” I said. “And it smells great. I had no idea you cooked like this, though. I thought you ate out most of the time.”

Sean rubbed a hand across his bristly chin. “Yeah, well, I got tired of restaurants. Too danged expensive. So I learned some of the basics.” He brushed past me. “Think I’ll go have a quick shower and a shave. Just stir it a couple of times, will you? I’ll be back in twenty.” The dog scampered after him.

“Sure.” I frowned at his retreating back, a bit deflated by his coolness.

I tried not to let it affect my mood too much. I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of my chair, loosened my tie, and rolled up my sleeves. Diesel watched me for a moment before padding off to the utility room. I was at the stove stirring when Sean returned, as he’d said he would, in twenty minutes. Dante bounced alongside him, his head turned to look up at Sean.

Freshly showered and shaved, in jeans and dress shirt, Sean was far more presentable than he had been earlier. Now that I had a chance to examine him more closely, I thought he appeared to have slept well. His face had lost more of the signs of strain I saw yesterday.

He stood beside me and examined the contents of the skillet. “It’s ready if you are. I sure am.” I noticed the clean smell of soap emanating from him, along with the faint aroma of cigar coming from his shirt.

“Your clothes smell like cigar,” I said before I thought about it.

Sean stiffened and pulled away. “Are you going to keep ragging on me about that? I’ll go sit out in the backyard naked when I smoke, and that way my clothes at least won’t stink.”

“Take it easy,” I said. “It wasn’t a complaint, and I didn’t say you stink.” It had been a complaint, I realized, but I also knew I had to watch my words more carefully as long as Sean remained prickly.

“Really?” Sean quirked an eyebrow at me, a gesture I had come to loathe during his teenage years.

“Really. I just noticed it, that’s all. It reminds me of my grandfather, my dad’s dad. He died when you were only three, so you probably wouldn’t remember him. He smoked cigars too, right up until the day he died, at eighty-four.”

“Huh.” Sean flashed a brief smile. “Guess it runs in the family, then.”

“It skipped a couple of generations,” I said wryly. “Now, how about you get out the plates—or should we use bowls? I’ll dish up this concoction of yours.” I set the lid aside and retrieved a ladle from the drawer.

“Dante, sit.” Sean spoke sternly to the dog, still hovering anxiously near his feet. He went to the cabinet and pulled out plates. “I’ve got some garlic bread in the oven. I’ll get it out when you’re done there.”

Dante sat. Diesel approached him and sniffed at him before assuming his regal cat pose next to the dog. They watched intently as I ladled the chicken and vegetables onto our plates. Sean set the table with silverware and napkins, plated the bread, and then pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge for himself. I had iced tea.

The food was tasty, and I complimented Sean on his efforts. “You’ll have to share your recipe with Azalea. She collects them.”

Up went the eyebrow again. “Uh-huh. Like Azalea’s really going to be interested in something I cooked.” He forked more chicken into his mouth.

Was he regressing to adolescence simply because he was under my roof again? I didn’t appreciate his flippant attitude.

“Watch your tone, young man,” I said, trying to keep my own sounding more jovial than peremptory, though I don’t think I was entirely successful.

“Relax, Dad,” Sean said. “I just think it’s funny that an amazing cook like Azalea would be interested in a recipe this simple.” He waved his empty fork over his plate.

Had my remark about sharing the recipe been the slightest bit patronizing? That might in part explain Sean’s reaction.

Perhaps it was time to change the subject. “I had an interesting time yesterday at tea with the Delacorte family.”

“How crazy are they?” Sean smirked. “Your friend Helen Louise seemed to think they’re pretty odd.”

“Helen Louise was right,” I said. “Mr. Delacorte is basically a charming, cultured man. But that family.” I shook my head as I remembered the antics of yesterday afternoon.

“Here’s an example for you. Eloise Morris, the wife of Mr. Delacorte’s nephew, Hubert, was coming down the hall stairs when I arrived. She was wearing a dress with a hoop-skirt straight out of Gone with the Wind.” I laughed. “And when she saw Diesel and me, she made a remark about there not being rats or mice in the house.”

Sean laughed. For a moment he looked like a boy again. He said, “That’s more than odd. It’s eccentric with a capital E. What about the rest of them?”

“The worst thing about the rest of them was their horrendous backbiting and bickering. And in front of a stranger. It was downright off-putting.” I made a moue of distaste.

“You wouldn’t like that,” Sean said.

“I didn’t,” I said. “It was appallingly bad manners, for one thing. It made me start thinking about whether I really want to go back there tomorrow.”

“Why not?” Sean seemed disgruntled, and I couldn’t figure out why. He went on, “What does it matter? You’re going to be working in his library, aren’t you? You probably won’t see them, unless you eat lunch with them. You can get out of having tea with them again.”

“I suppose so.” It was clear I wasn’t going to get any sympathy from my son. Not that I really needed any, I realized, now feeling faintly ridiculous. I was being needlessly skittish over dealing with the Delacorte family.

I was about to express this to Sean when I was startled by loud music. The strains of Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” rent the air.

“Sorry,” Sean muttered. He stood and pulled a cell phone from his trouser pocket. He glanced at it and muttered again, a word I preferred not to acknowledge. “Excuse me.” He strode out into the hall.

Dante ran after him. The poor dog wouldn’t let Sean out of his sight.

I got up to refill my tea glass, and I could hear Sean talking. He hadn’t gone far into the hall. I couldn’t help but hear his end of the conversation as I poured the tea.

“Stop calling me. I don’t owe you anything, I don’t care what you say.”