Classified As Murder

SEVENTEEN

“And you think it was in that folder?” Sean didn’t bother to hide his disbelief. “Why would it be in a folder anyway?”

“I’ll answer that for you in a moment,” I told him with a frown. Kanesha had already bristled at his tone, and I didn’t want him to antagonize her any further. “May I see the folder again?” I held my hand out to Kanesha.

Kanesha passed the folder back to me. I held it close and examined it through the plastic as well as I could. I handed it back to her.

“It’s an archival folder, made from acid-free paper,” I said. “It’s exactly the kind of folder I would use to hold something old and valuable to protect it.”

“How big is this thing anyway?” Sean prodded. “You can’t tell me someone would stick a book in a thing like that.”

“No, you wouldn’t. There are specially made boxes for books, if one needs to be protected like that.” Before I could continue and answer Sean’s original question, Kanesha spoke up with one of her own. “When was Tamerlane published?”

“I’m pretty sure it was in 1827. Poe was only eighteen at the time.” I paused while I dredged up what details I could remember. “It’s an epic poem, not really a book—about forty pages, the size of a pamphlet. Something that would fit in an archival folder like that one.” I remembered a bit more. “There are nine other poems besides ‘Tamerlane.’ ”

“You’re really up on your Poe.” Kanesha sounded impressed, albeit a bit grudgingly. “But I guess that’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to know, right?”

“Librarians tend to pick up all kinds of information.” I offered a self-deprecating smile. “In this case, useful information. Sometimes it’s merely trivia.”

Sean laughed. “Don’t let the modest act take you in, Deputy. He’s a mine of all kinds of information to do with books.”

I smiled briefly at my son, silently thanking him for the compliment.

“The folder,” Sean said. “It could have contained this pamphlet, then.”

“Yes. There are some tiny chips of paper in the folder. Both letters are intact, and the chips are a different color paper than the letters anyway.” Kanesha shrugged. “We’ll have to wait till the state crime lab can examine those chips to see how old the paper is.”

Those little bits of paper were not conclusive at this point, but the romantic in me wanted to believe that they came from an original copy of one of the rarest American literary works ever published. I could easily imagine Mr. Delacorte’s excitement when he held such a precious object in his hands, knowing that it was now a part of his collection.

Then I felt pangs of sorrow. If he had bought the Tamerlane recently, he hadn’t had much time to enjoy it.

The memory of a bit of conversation popped into my head. “Mr. Delacorte went somewhere on a business trip last week,” I said. “I remember hearing somebody mention it. Maybe he told me himself, I’m not sure. But the point is, it might have some connection with the purchase.”

“That’s good to know,” Kanesha said. “I’ll check into it.” She paused for a moment. “Now, getting back to what I was saying earlier, about you observing while you’re in the Delacorte house.”

“Yes, of course. Do you have any particular instructions for me?” I still couldn’t quite believe that she was asking for my assistance, and in front of a witness, no less.

A pained look appeared briefly, then disappeared as she replied. “Keep your eyes open. Particularly for this copy of Tamerlane. See if you can verify that Mr. Delacorte did purchase it. If you find it there in the collection, that’s one thing I can cross off my list.”

“It will probably be there somewhere. Surely a thief wouldn’t believe he could steal it and get away with it, not an item as rare as that.” Sean shifted in his chair.

“You may be overestimating someone’s intelligence, Mr. Harris.” Kanesha’s wry tone piqued my curiosity. “In my experience the average thief is about as smart as a box of dirt. They always think they can get away with it, when it would be pretty obvious to anyone with sense that they won’t.”

“Are you referring to members of Mr. Delacorte’s family?” Sean leaned forward. “From what Dad and I have heard, they don’t sound all that bright.”

Kanesha regarded us in turn with her poker face. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I don’t have any official opinion on the Delacorte family. You can decide for yourselves soon enough.”

“Fair enough,” I said. I knew we wouldn’t get any more out of her. She would be forthcoming when it suited her and not before. “Any other instructions for me and Sean?”

“No. Just some words of warning. Remember what I said about observing. That’s what I need from you, okay?” Kanesha frowned.

“Understood, Deputy.” I smiled as I gestured toward the tea tray. “How about more tea?”

“Thanks, but no.” Kanesha gathered her things before she rose from her chair. “I’ve got to get back to the station. I’ll expect you to call me if you find anything. The moment you find it.” She stared hard at me.

I stood, as did Sean. “I understand what you want, Deputy. I assure you I’ll abide by your rules.” Diesel and Dante both hopped down from their perches as I prepared to escort the deputy to the front door.

“I’ll see Ms. Berry out, Dad.” Sean preempted me.

I nodded, curious as to why Sean insisted on doing it. Did he have something to say to her that he didn’t want me to hear?

I watched as Sean and Kanesha exited the room, followed by the cat and the dog. Dante seemed determined to make every step Sean did. The poor little guy had to be a bit confused, not to mention anxious, going from one owner to another, and then traveling a long distance to a strange house.

Sean and the animals returned as I finished loading the tea tray.

“I don’t know about you,” I said as I hoisted the tray, “but I’m ready for bed. This has been one long day.”

“Why don’t you let me take care of this.” Sean pulled the tray from my hands. “You go on up and relax. Is there anything I can do for you?”

I was touched by his evident concern. “Thank you. I’m okay, just tired. If you wouldn’t mind making sure the doors are locked and the lights off when you come up to bed, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure thing,” Sean said. “Good night.” He turned for the kitchen. “Come on, Dante.”

Diesel warbled and rubbed against me as we watched my son and his dog leave the room. I scratched the cat’s head, noting that I no longer had to bend to do it. He had grown a bit taller the last couple of months. Surely he would reach his full growth soon. Maine coons generally did by the time they were three, and I estimated Diesel was close to that by now. Dante looked almost like a pygmy beside him.

Upstairs, some minutes later, I climbed into bed. I was so tired, I didn’t feel much like reading. Diesel was in his usual spot, and I decided to turn out the light and try to sleep.

Try was the operative word, I discovered. When I closed my eyes I kept seeing James Delacorte at his desk, dead. His body hadn’t been a particularly gruesome sight, more unsettling than anything. I had barely known the man, but his death upset me more than I realized earlier. Others, particularly his family, might have had legitimate grudges against him—or not—but to me he had been unfailingly courteous.

The thought that he had been poisoned made me angry. If that proved to be the case, I would do my best to aid Kanesha in rooting out the killer. I felt a bit like Nemesis, I suppose.

That reminded me of Miss Marple and the novel in which an elderly millionaire hired her to serve as Nemesis and avenge an old crime. I wouldn’t put myself in Miss Marple’s league, but she was certainly a fine role model.

I did my best to calm my thoughts and drift off to sleep. I was in that in-between state, ready to slip off at any moment, when the phone rang and startled me fully awake again.

I squinted at the luminous numbers of my bedside clock. Who would be calling me at 10:28?

Perhaps it was my daughter, Laura. She sometimes forgot about the time difference between here and Los Angeles and called after I had gone to bed.

As the phone kept ringing, I squinted at the caller ID. It appeared to be a local number, but I didn’t recognize it. Obviously not Laura.

I picked up the receiver and spoke into it, identifying myself. For a moment all I heard was harsh breathing. I was about to hang up when a voice with a pronounced Mississippi twang spoke.

“Mind your own business, Harris. Stay away from the Delacortes if you want to stay healthy.”

For a moment I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Had I suddenly stumbled into a Hardy Boys book? This was ridiculous.

It was probably the wrong thing to do, but it was late, and I was very tired. I laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Why should I take your threat seriously?”

All I heard in response was heavy breathing. Then the voice spoke again. “You’d better take this seriously, or your family will regret it.” The pitch rose with every word, until the final three syllables came out as little more than a squeak. The caller slammed the phone down in my ear, and I winced.

Diesel had moved to sit beside me during the conversation, and now he placed a paw on my arm and warbled. It sounded almost like a question, thanks to the inflection.

“I’m okay, boy,” I said as I rubbed his back. “Just some idiot on the phone.” I figured the cat, thanks to his keen hearing, must have picked up on the caller’s tone, and that made him uneasy.

I had laughed in the caller’s ear, but now that the phone was back on the hook, I began to wonder if I had responded rashly. What if the caller was the person who killed James Delacorte? Had I really annoyed the killer by my attitude? How would the killer respond?

Put the brakes on, I told myself. The sheriff’s department was still trying to confirm whether a crime had actually taken place. I felt in my heart that Mr. Delacorte was murdered, though. It was too convenient, somehow, that he died when we started working on the inventory to uncover possible thefts.

I should take the call seriously, I decided. I picked up the phone and punched in a number I knew all too well.

Moments later I was connected with Kanesha Berry. Did the woman ever go home?

“What’s going on, Mr. Harris? I presume you have a good reason for calling?” The waspish tone irritated me, but I forbore responding in kind.

“Yes, I thought you should know that I’ve received a threatening phone call.”

“What?” In the background I heard a sound like a book banged against a hard surface. “Details. What did the caller say?”

I repeated the conversation, as near verbatim as I could. “And if you can hold on a sec, I’ll give you the number from my caller ID.”

“You mean to tell me that an actual number came up on your caller ID? From a threatening phone call?” Kanesha snorted into the phone. “How stupid is that?”

“I know,” I said. “I thought it was pretty odd myself. That’s why I said what I did to the caller.” I read out the number.

“I recognize the number,” Kanesha said after a brief silence. Something in her tone gave me a slight chill.

“Whose is it?”

“James Delacorte’s,” Kanesha said. “From the private line in his bedroom.”

That was definitely creepy, and I felt the chill more distinctly. But then a question popped into my head.

“How do you know it’s the bedroom phone?” I asked.

“Later,” Kanesha said. “Right now I have to get to the house. That room’s supposed to be sealed.” The phone clicked in my ear.