Miranda James - Classified as Murder

A sudden lump in my throat kept me from responding right away. When I could speak, my voice sounded hoarse. “I’ll think about it. You sure you wouldn’t have a problem with me dating someone?”

“I wouldn’t, and neither would Laura. We’ve both been worried about you.” Sean cut me a sideways glance.

“I’m doing okay, I promise you. It’s been rough on all of us, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about your mother. She’s always with me.”

“I know, Dad.” Sean’s voice was husky, and for a moment I thought he might burst into tears. “Me, too.”

We finished the walk home in uneasy silence. Uneasy on my part, at least.

Sean seemed completely absorbed in his own thoughts. I hesitated to initiate a new conversation because of the emotionally charged one we had just finished. Now did not seem like a good time to bring up the subject of Sean’s having quit his job.

I glanced down at Diesel now and then, and each time I caught him looking up at me. I think he sensed my mood and was keeping an eye on me. He chirped at me, and I rubbed the top of his head to reassure him.

Dante seemed oblivious to it all. He kept finding interesting scents, and Sean had to urge him along.

By the time we reached home, I was ready for some time on my own. Sean took the cake box into the kitchen, and I waited for him to come back. When he did, I asked if he had any plans for the afternoon.

“Not really,” Sean said. “I thought maybe I could use the computer, check e-mail.” Dante danced around his feet.

“Sure, whenever you like,” I said. “But I had a wireless network installed right after the holidays.” I gave him the password. “You can even sit out in the backyard and use it.”

“That’s cool. I have my laptop with me. I’ll test it out.” He jogged past me on the stairs. Dante ran on ahead.

“I’ll be back by six, I’m sure,” I called out to him as he reached the head of the stairs. If he heard me, he gave no sign.

I plodded the rest of the way upstairs. Diesel had disappeared, probably to use the litter box and have a snack of his crunchies before joining me upstairs. I wanted to relax for a while before I had to get ready for afternoon tea with the Delacortes.

At three forty-five Diesel and I were in the car on the way to the Delacorte mansion. The Delacortes lived in the oldest part of Athena, where the town’s first families built their homes during the cotton boom of the early nineteenth century. Many of the same families still owned the houses, though most of them were not nearly as wealthy as they had been two centuries ago.

When we turned onto the street where the mansion was located, I felt a sense of déjà vu. It took me a moment, but then I remembered having come here a couple of times on field trips in school when we were studying the antebellum period and the Civil War. The old Honeycutt mansion on the corner often hosted tour groups. The family had held on to much of the furniture from the early period, along with portraits and other family memorabilia. My high school history teacher, Mrs. Pittman, a descendant of the family, loved bringing her classes to visit the place.

The Delacorte mansion, set far back from the street, was easily one of the largest on the block. It was a massive building in the Greek Revival style so popular in the South before the Civil War. There had surely been additions over the years, however, because most of the other mansions on the street were only about half the size of it. The additions harmonized with the original architecture, however, and the result was a stunning achievement.

I pulled into the driveway, flanked by a row of oak trees on either side. The drive wound through the grounds until it separated into two. One branch continued around the back of the house, and the other looped in the front. I followed that branch and parked the car a few feet past the walk leading up to the front porch.

Diesel and I exited the car and headed up the walk toward the imposing double front doors. We mounted the five steps up onto the verandah. I lifted the knocker and banged it a couple of times.

Moments later the doors swung open to reveal a tall, gaunt man who looked to be in his late sixties, dressed in a dark suit. “Good afternoon.” He stood aside to let us enter, frowning as he gazed down at Diesel. “You must be Mr. Charles Harris. And companion.” He shut the doors behind us. “Mr. Delacorte is expecting you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “This is Diesel.” As if on cue, my cat meowed. The butler did not appear amused.

I paused in the entrance to stare at my surroundings in awe. At any moment Scarlett O’Hara could come sweeping out of one of the rooms saying “Fiddle-dee-dee” or “Tomorrow is another day.”

I blinked as I glanced at the grand marble staircase ahead. Surely I was seeing things—or there really was a woman in a hoop skirt and crinolines gliding down the stairs.

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.