Classified As Murder

TEN

“Why not?” I asked, surprised. “I don’t know much about him, I’ll admit. I have to say, though, he’s treated me with respect and courtesy.”

“He got good manners.” Azalea nodded. “I’ll give him that. But you don’t reckon a man makes that much money being nice to people, do you? They say he was mean as ole Satan himself when it come to business. Don’t nobody get in his way.”

I hadn’t really thought about Mr. Delacorte as a businessman since I knew him only through our interactions at the public library. Though he was always pleasant, I had sensed a core of steel beneath the politeness.

“He’s not still in business, is he?” Sean put his fork down on his empty plate.

“No, he retired about ten years ago,” Azalea said. “When he turned seventy-five, I think it was.”

“How does he treat his family? Like he did his business rivals?” Sean surprised me by taking such an interest in this gossip. Maybe he was coming out of his funk.

Azalea’s response was tart. “He give ’em all a home, didn’t he? Miss Daphne, Mister Hubert, and Miss Eloise be done living in the poorhouse, Mr. James ain’t take ’em in.” She snorted. “Miss Daphne’s husband was some sorry excuse for a man. Couldn’t keep a job and took to drinking real bad. Drowned hisself in a swimming pool. And Mister Hubert ain’t much better than his daddy, ’cepting he ain’t bad to drink.”

Sean regarded me quizzically. “Sounds like really nice folks you’re going to be associating with, Dad.”

“You better heed my words, Mr. Charlie. Whatever time you spend in that house, you don’t turn your back on them people.”

I tried to make light of the situation, though Azalea’s pronouncements about the family made me increasingly uneasy. “Diesel will be with me, and he’s as good as a watchdog.”

Hearing his name, Diesel sat up and meowed.

Azalea eyed my cat askance, clearly unimpressed by my claim. “He’s big, the good Lord knows.” She glanced at the clock. “I can’t be standing around here talking no more. I got to get the washing going. You mind what I told you now.” She headed for the laundry room.

“Seriously, Dad,” Sean said the moment Azalea was out of earshot. “Are you really sure you want to get mixed up with this bunch? The more I hear about them, the more I think you were right in the first place. Why don’t you call Mr. Delacorte and tell him you’ve changed your mind?”

“I’ll admit I’ve had some qualms.” I folded my linen napkin and laid it beside my plate. “But I decided that, as long as I can keep away from the rest of the family, I’ll make it through fine.”

“What happens if Mr. Delacorte wants you to take tea with him and his family again? I know you, Dad. You’re too polite for your own good. You won’t be able to say no.”

Did I imagine a slight edge of scorn in my son’s tone? My reply was a bit heated. “There’s nothing wrong with good manners. Mr. Delacorte is a gentleman. If I decline an invitation politely, he won’t press me to change my mind.”

Sean rolled his eyes at that. “It’s all too Miss Manners for me. I guess you know what you’re doing.”

“Thank you,” I said. I decided there was no point in delaying any longer as I stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I want to freshen up before I leave for the Delacorte house. Come on, Diesel.”

“See you later,” Sean called out as Diesel and I left the kitchen.

A few minutes before nine I parked in the shade of one of the massive live oaks that lined the Delacorte driveway. The tree had to be hundreds of years old, and there were others of similar size and age on the grounds, all of them festooned with Spanish moss. For a moment I fancied I had stepped backward in time a couple of centuries to around the time the house was first built.

The sound of traffic on the nearby street and the mewing of my cat brought me back to reality. I released Diesel from his safety harness, grabbed my satchel, and got out of the car with my cat.

I stood for a moment and stared at the facade of the house. After a couple of deep breaths, I headed up the walk. Diesel strode along beside me.

Truesdale opened the door as I raised my hand to knock.

“Good morning, Mr. Harris.” He stood back to allow me and Diesel to enter, then carefully shut the door behind us. “Mr. Delacorte awaits you in the library.”

“Thank you, Truesdale,” I said. Before I could say that I knew the way and would announce myself, the butler headed toward the library.

After all the English mysteries I’ve read, I should have realized there were no shortcuts with a butler. Diesel and I trailed in the man’s wake.

Truesdale opened the door and advanced inside. “Mr. Harris is here, sir. With his companion.”

James Delacorte rose from behind his desk as Diesel and I moved forward. “Good morning, Charlie. And Diesel.” He beamed as he gazed down at the cat. I was pleased to note that he seemed more chipper than he had on Saturday afternoon.

“Good morning, Mr. Delacorte,” I said. Diesel warbled, and our host laughed.

“What a charming sound.” Mr. Delacorte came around the desk to rub Diesel’s head.

Truesdale coughed discreetly, and I turned to him.

“Would you care for any refreshment, Mr. Harris?” The butler waited for my response, his face a polite mask.

“Not at the moment, thank you,” I said. “Perhaps some water later, if it’s no trouble.”

“Not at all, sir.” Truesdale gave a small bow before he turned to his employer. “Sir?”

“That will be all for now, Nigel, thank you.” Mr. Delacorte waved his butler away. “I’ll ring if I need you.”

“Of course, sir.” Truesdale bowed again and then left the room.

“You’re certainly punctual,” Mr. Delacorte said. “A virtue, to my mind.” He returned to his chair behind the desk. “Please, sit.”

I sat in the chair I’d occupied two days ago and set my satchel on the floor beside me. Diesel began to prowl around the room. I watched him for a moment, but he was not a destructive cat. I didn’t think he would be leaping onto shelves and knocking things off. He simply wanted to sniff out the room and see what it had to offer.

Mr. Delacorte coughed gently, and I turned my attention to him.

“Sorry, sir,” I said.

I was about to assure him that Diesel wouldn’t damage anything when Mr. Delacorte spoke. “Not to worry. When I had a cat in the house, I always allowed it in this room. I never had a problem, other than the odd hairball.

“Now, about the inventory,” he continued. “Over the years I have kept my own sort of catalog of the collection in these volumes, adding each acquisition as I made it.” He patted a stack of four leather-bound books, each about an inch thick, on the desk in front of him. “I suppose I should have computerized it at some point, but I am not fond of the things. I would much rather rely on my own way of doing things, old-fashioned as it may be.”

“Are those volumes the only copy of your inventory?”

My concern must have shown in my face. Mr. Delacorte chuckled. “No, there is a backup copy. My lawyer keeps it in his office, along with other important papers of mine. I bring the second copy up-to-date every couple of months. That’s one of the tasks for this week, as I have made several acquisitions in the past month that need to be included.”

“Having a backup is always a good idea,” I said. “Whether it’s an electronic copy or a print one. At some point, if you like, I can work on creating a database for your collection so you can have an electronic version.” I didn’t add that the electronic version would have considerable more flexibility than his print one. How did he ever find anything in those volumes, unless he remembered exactly when he purchased each item in his collection, and in which order?

The magnitude of the job hit me then. How did he expect to match the items on the shelves with the entries in his catalog? Unless his collection was arranged in accession order. That is, the first book he bought was the first book on the first shelf, followed by the second book he bought, and so on through all his purchases and arranged in that order on all the shelves in the room.

Or perhaps he had another system—some system, at least. Trying to inventory the collection would be chaos otherwise.

I was never very good at playing poker, and Mr. Delacorte was watching me intently. He smiled. “I know what you’re thinking, Charlie. ‘How does he ever find anything?’ I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it’s the kind of thing that can give a librarian a headache.”

“There is method in my record keeping, rest assured on that. Perhaps not the conventional way of doing things, but it has worked for me for over fifty years now.” He tapped the volumes in front of him. “Each of these books corresponds to a set of shelves in the room. The books are placed in accession order—isn’t that what librarians call it?—on the shelves to correspond with the entries in the book.”

“That’s the right term,” I said, feeling much relieved. But Mr. Delacorte’s next words made my spirits sink all over again.

“At least, they used to correspond,” he said, almost as if I hadn’t spoken. “I discovered last week that a number of the shelves have been rearranged, and now everything is quite mixed up.”