Classified As Murder

TWELVE

I steeled myself to approach the desk and verify that Mr. Delacorte was indeed dead. The utter stillness of the body spooked me, and I had a sudden flashback from last fall, when I discovered another dead body.

I shook off that memory and stepped closer to the desk. Diesel, still muttering in a low-pitched rumble, remained where he was.

Mr. Delacorte’s right arm lay across the top of the desk, while his left hung down by the side of the chair. His torso reclined against the chair’s back. I suppressed a shudder of revulsion and felt for a pulse in the right wrist. The skin was cool to the touch.

The sound of my own harsh breaths filled my head and blocked out everything else except the touch of my fingertips on the dead skin. Even though there was no pulse, I continued to feel for one.

After a minute I let go and retreated to the door. Diesel scooted into the hall. I looked back one last time, perhaps to reassure myself that the dead body was really there and not a dream. I noted the time on my watch: 1:03 P.M.

My legs wobbled as I inched toward the front of the mansion. First I had to find a phone; then I would inform Truesdale. As I neared the stairway, I remembered the cell phone in my pocket, and with an unsteady hand, I pulled it out and called 911.

I answered the operator’s questions, feeling sick to my stomach. She wanted me to attempt CPR, but I insisted that Mr. Delacorte was beyond any help I could give him.

Diesel sat at my feet, quiet now, but trembling. I squatted and hugged him to me with my free hand in an attempt to reassure us both. He had never seen a dead human body, and the experience had clearly upset him. He knew the moment we stepped into the library that something was wrong. With cats having such a keen olfactory sense, I supposed the smell of death had both alarmed and confused the poor kitty. He rubbed his head against my chin and muttered softly. After a moment I released Diesel and stood, still listening to the operator and responding when necessary.

I had to find Truesdale and inform him of his employer’s death. I prayed that I wouldn’t encounter a family member because I had no idea how any of them would react. I wasn’t prepared to deal with histrionics right now.

Cell phone still stuck to my ear, I hurried down the hall on the other side of the stairs. Ahead lay a door that led, I hoped, into the kitchen, where I might find the butler. Diesel stuck to my side.

The hallway continued beyond the door, but at the end I saw light and heard ordinary sounds—a low hum of conversation and the clink of china. When I neared the open door, I could distinguish two voices. Both sounded male. As I stepped into the kitchen, I saw Truesdale handing a small wad of cash to a heavyset man dressed in rumpled work clothes.

“. . . rest of it in a few more days,” the butler said.

“You better,” the other man replied. “Ain’t gonna wait much longer.” He stuffed the money in his pants.

Telling the 911 operator to hold on a moment, I called out the butler’s name, and both men shifted position and looked my way.

Truesdale turned back to the other man and said, “That will be all for now. You may return to your duties.”

The other man mumbled a response and then disappeared out the back door.

“The gardener,” Truesdale said as he approached me. “What can I do for you, Mr. Harris?”

My face must have revealed my distress as I struggled for the proper words.

Truesdale’s tone sharpened. “What is wrong?”

“It’s Mr. Delacorte,” I said. I hated the bluntness of what I had to say, but there was no way to cushion the blow. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid he’s dead.”

The butler stared at me. “No, he can’t be. I saw him not half an hour ago, and he was fine.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I’ve called 911.” I brandished my cell phone.

Truesdale brushed past me at a run, and I turned to follow him. Instinct told me I had to stop him before he interfered with the body.

I ran, and Diesel kept pace with me.

I caught up with the butler right inside the library door. I held out a hand to detain him.

Truesdale tried to shake me off. “Let go of me this instant. Mr. James needs me.” His face reddened.

“There’s nothing you can do for him now.” I held on to his arm.

“How can you know that? You’re not a doctor.” Truesdale shook even harder in an attempt to loosen my grip.

“No, but he has no pulse, and he’s not breathing,” I said. “I’m sorry, but he’s dead. I did check him.”

Truesdale stared at the body of his employer, and all at once the fight left him. He stood beside me, trembling. His words came out in a strangled whisper. “My God, what have they done? What have they done?”

Did he think a member of the family killed James Delacorte?

Then I admitted to myself that the same thought lurked in my brain. I hadn’t acknowledged it until now. At first I thought Mr. Delacorte had a heart attack, and although that might turn out to be the case, I couldn’t get rid of the niggling doubt that his death was not natural. Did the victim of a heart attack have a swollen, protruding tongue and blotches on the skin?

If the death wasn’t natural, a member of his strange family was probably responsible.

The butler moved forward slowly, and I went with him, alert for any attempt to rearrange the body or disturb anything. He stopped in front of the desk and with a shaky hand reached out to touch Mr. Delacorte on the hand. Truesdale jerked back and moved away from the desk. His face held an expression of such utter grief that I had to look away.

“Come with me,” I said after a moment. “The paramedics will be here any minute. We need to let them in.” Guiltily I remembered the 911 operator and stuck the cell phone back to my ear. “I’m still here,” I told her.

Truesdale accompanied me without protest, and I saw tears stream down his face. He made no attempt to wipe them away. I reflected that one person, at least, would mourn James Delacorte.

We paused near the front door. Diesel once again took refuge behind my legs. I squatted by him and rubbed his back while I looked up at Truesdale. He pulled a handkerchief from inside his jacket and dabbed at his eyes. The tears flowed unabated.

“What did you mean when you said ‘What have they done’?” I hated to intrude further upon his grief, but I felt compelled to ask.

At first he didn’t appear to have heard me, but after a deep sigh he replied, “Pay no attention to me. I have no idea what I said, or why.” He turned away, and I dropped the matter.

He knew very well what he said, and why. He wouldn’t confide in me—that much was obvious.

I heard the sirens then, and Truesdale stared at the door as if mesmerized. His shoulders squared, he opened the door.

I moved Diesel a few feet back so he would be out of the way of the crew from the ambulance pulling up in the driveway. I stayed with him. Four men in uniform, laden with equipment, entered moments later, and Truesdale led them down the hall. I informed the 911 operator the paramedics had arrived and ended the call.

The sound of shoes against marble warned me that someone was coming down the stairs. I glanced up to see Eloise Morris, dressed in contemporary jeans, blouse, and flat-heeled shoes, pause about two-thirds of the way down. She regarded me in silence, then spoke as she resumed her descent.

“I thought I heard a siren and then a truck or something pull into the driveway.” Today her voice was stronger, more assured, than it had been on Saturday. “Has something happened?”

“Yes, there’s an ambulance crew here.” I hesitated a moment. If I told her James Delacorte was dead, would she become the Eloise of the tea party, rather than this apparently lucid woman?

She halted three feet away from me and assessed me with a clear gaze. “Don’t tell me. Daphne has finally had a real ‘spell,’ and they’ll cart her off to the hospital.”

The amused contempt in her tone surprised me.

“No,” I said. “It’s not your mother-in-law. It’s your husband’s uncle. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he has died.”

Eloise’s mouth flew open—in presumed shock—and she began to tremble.

I stepped forward, afraid that she might faint, but she closed her mouth and took a deep breath. I stopped and waited, but she seemed in control of herself once again. The trembling stopped.

“Poor dear Uncle James. He was so kind to me.”

I barely heard the words, her voice was so faint. She muttered something else, and the one word I made out was cookies. That made absolutely no sense.

“I’m really sorry for your loss,” I said, not sure what else to say. Or what to do, frankly. Should I offer to escort her to another part of the house?

She peered at me and then down at Diesel. “Have we met recently?” she said. “You seem familiar somehow. Your cat, too.”

“We were here on Saturday for tea with you and your family,” I said. When she was lucid like this, did she remember what happened when she wasn’t?

She frowned. “If you say so.”

A knock at the front door startled all of us, Diesel included. Eloise stared at the door as if willing it to open. I supposed she was so used to having a butler perform the task she was confused about what to do.

I opened the door to find two policemen on the verandah. I glanced beyond them to spot an Athena Police Department patrol car parked in the drive behind the ambulance.

“Somebody called 911, reported a death.” The older of the two men spoke. The nameplate over his badge proclaimed him as William Hankins.

“I did, Officer. I’m Charlie Harris.” I stood aside and motioned for them to enter. “I’ll show you where, um, the body is. The EMTs are in there now.”

Hankins nodded, but his companion, Roscoe Grimes, stared at Diesel. “What is that?”

“He’s a cat,” I said as I closed the door behind the two officers. How many times had I answered this question? “A Maine coon. They’re pretty big.”

“I’ll say.” Officer Grimes shook his head. “Dang thing looks like a bobcat or something.”

Hankins scowled at the younger man. “Keep your mind on the job. We’re not here to talk about cats.”

Grimes nodded, his face blank.

I looked around, and Eloise Morris was nowhere in sight. She had disappeared while I was opening the door to the police.

“If you’ll come with me, officers, I’ll show you to the library,” I said, heading in that direction. “I found Mr. Delacorte there.” Diesel kept close to me, and I had to be careful not to stumble over him.

“James Delacorte?” Hankins asked, his voice sharp.

“Yes.” I stopped a few feet away from the open library doors. “In there.” I had no desire to go any closer at the moment. I wondered if Truesdale was still inside. I hadn’t noticed him come back to the front hall after he showed the emergency personnel to the library. I hovered uncertainly.

Hankins was brusque. “Thanks. If you’ll go wait in the hall, Mr. Harris, I’d appreciate it.”

“Certainly,” I said, relieved. “Come on, Diesel.” The cat and I walked back to the front of the hall. Suddenly the house seemed oppressive. I could feel the weight of two centuries press down on me, and I had to step outside for a moment to shake it off.

I opened the door, and Diesel and I walked out onto the front porch. For the first time I realized the rain had ended, and the skies had cleared. I breathed in the cool air, and I felt a little of my tension ease. Diesel seemed calmer out here, too. He sat down and gazed up at me, almost as if he expected an explanation.

I wished I could give him one. I had a terrible feeling that James Delacorte’s death would turn out to be complicated, not merely death from a heart attack.

Movement out on the street caught my eye. A car from the sheriff’s department turned into the driveway, and I watched as it moved swiftly toward the house. The driver stopped behind the city patrol car.

As I watched, I saw a head with black hair arranged in a tight bun emerge from the passenger side.

I knew that hairstyle and the woman to whom it belonged.

My stomach twisted into a knot.

Finding me here would make her about as happy as a cat being forced to swallow a pill.

A very bad day was about to get worse.