Miranda James - Classified as Murder

The final two family members, the great-niece and -nephew, had claimed chairs behind Hubert Morris. They both appeared about forty, perhaps a trifle younger. The great-niece, Cynthia Delacorte, could have posed for an illustration of an ice queen. Blonde, dressed in a cool shade of blue, she appeared completely detached from everyone and everything around her.

Her cousin, Stewart Delacorte, also blond, made an effective counterpoint. His eyes sparkled, his body language indicated total engagement as he eyed me and Diesel with curiosity, and his hands played restlessly with a small item I couldn’t identify. He was evidently shorter than Cynthia. Their chairs were identical but her head topped his by at least three inches.

“We have a guest for tea this afternoon. Actually two guests,” Mr. Delacorte said with a brief smile. “This is Mr. Charles Harris. He’s a librarian at Athena College, and he also works at the public library, where he has often been of great help to me.”

“I thought you looked familiar.” Stewart Delacorte nodded. “I must have seen you on campus. I’m an associate professor in the chemistry department.”

Before I could respond, James Delacorte continued. “That is my late brother Arthur’s grandson, Stewart. And next to him is my brother Thomas’s granddaughter, Cynthia.”

Cynthia inclined her head in regal fashion, but her eyes indicated her complete lack of interest in me and Diesel.

Mr. Delacorte went on with his introductions. “Eloise you’ve met. My nephew, Hubert, her husband, and my sister, Daphne, Hubert’s mother.”

“Good afternoon, everyone,” I said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’d like to introduce my friend here.” I rubbed Diesel’s head. “This is Diesel. He’s a Maine coon, and he’s almost three years old.”

Daphne Morris left off rubbing her forehead and stared at Diesel in obvious fascination. “That’s a cat?” Her voice was not much above a whisper.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Maine coons are pretty large. Diesel is actually larger than average for the breed.”

Eloise spoke then, rustling her skirts about her. “I really do think China tea is superior to Indian. I can’t abide Darjeeling, but I do adore Lapsang souchong.”

“Shut up, Eloise. No one cares what kind of tea you like.” Hubert’s voice, high and thin, startled me with its vicious tone.

Daphne practically moaned her words as she resumed rubbing her forehead. “Hubert, darling, please. My head aches so terribly today. Don’t make it worse.”

Stewart’s deep voice rumbled as he shot a glance of pure vitriol at Hubert. “Dearest Aunt, don’t pay any attention to silly Hubert. You know he yells at poor Eloise just to annoy us all.”

“What about that nineteen-year-old I saw you with the other night?” Hubert twisted in his seat to glare at Stewart. “It’s far worse than silly—it’s disgusting. Do his parents know he’s carrying on with a man twice his age? You make me sick.”

Both Diesel and I shrank back from the unpleasant scene unfolding before us. Diesel got behind me, and I was ready to bolt from the room. These people had no boundaries, talking about things like this in front of a stranger.

Eloise started singing, Stewart yelled something back at Hubert, and Daphne moaned even louder.

I gazed on in horrified fascination until I heard a strangled gasp from Mr. Delacorte.

His face was red, and he struggled to breathe. He clutched at his chest, and I was afraid he was having a heart attack.

SEVEN

I moved to assist Mr. Delacorte, but Cynthia pushed me out of the way. I stumbled backward and grabbed the mantel for support. She was a nurse, I remembered, from Helen Louise’s conversation about the family. I was relieved to have a professional intercede.

Cynthia reached inside Mr. Delacorte’s jacket pocket and withdrew a small bottle. She quickly opened it and shook out a tiny pill into her palm. She thrust it into his mouth under his tongue and stood back as she replaced the cap.

He labored for breath for a moment, but gradually he relaxed, and his face resumed a more normal color. Cynthia took his arm and led him to the sofa occupied by Hubert. Mr. Delacorte nodded up at her, and she stepped back.

“Thank you, Cynthia,” he said, his voice not quite steady.

Truesdale appeared then—had one of the family summoned him?—and offered his employer a glass of water. Mr. Delacorte smiled briefly before he sipped at the water. Truesdale watched, his concern obvious. Cynthia resumed her seat near Stewart.

I felt rather awkward through all this, and poor Diesel remained behind my legs. I found a chair near Daphne’s sofa and sat. Diesel put both front paws on my legs, and I rubbed his head and murmured softly to reassure him.

No one else spoke, and from my vantage point I watched the various family members in turn as they kept their eyes glued to Mr. Delacorte. Did any of them feel remorse for having induced his attack? At least, I assumed their behavior brought it on.

Diesel sat on the floor beside me, and I kept one hand on his back.

Finally Daphne broke the silence, her voice hesitant. “James, dear, are you all right?”

I hoped no one ever gave me a look like the one James Delacorte cast at his sister. She shrank back on the sofa and dropped her gaze.

I had to glance away for a moment because the raw emotion between the siblings made me uncomfortable.

When Mr. Delacorte spoke again, his voice was stronger and tinged with acid. “I’m as well as could be expected, Daphne, after the shameful behavior exhibited by my family in front of my guest. You all owe Mr. Harris an apology for such an appalling display.”

I wanted to crawl under the sofa at that moment. Hubert regarded me balefully, as if the incident were my fault. Stewart stared at something in his hands. Daphne didn’t turn my way, and Eloise appeared lost in her own world. Cynthia appraised me coolly, and it was all I could do not to turn and run from the room. I abhorred confrontations like this, and I was having serious second thoughts about assisting Mr. Delacorte with his inventory. This family might be more than I could take on a regular basis.

No apology appeared to be forthcoming, and frankly I was grateful. I’d just as soon forget the whole incident.

“May I get you something else, sir?” Truesdale continued to hover by his employer’s side.

“Tea,” was Mr. Delacorte’s response. “Mr. Harris, would you like some tea?”

For a moment I was tongue-tied. Then I managed to say, “Yes, thank you. Cream, two sugars.”

The silence continued as Truesdale prepared our tea. I thanked him in a low voice, and he acknowledged my thanks with the barest nod. He returned to stand behind the sofa near Mr. Delacorte.

My host sipped at his tea, his face a polite mask. After a moment, he spoke. “I invited Mr. Harris and Diesel here this afternoon so everyone could get acquainted. I have hired Mr. Harris, because of his expertise with rare books and cataloging, to assist me with my collection. It’s been far too long since I’ve gone through it and done an inventory, and I decided I might as well have the assistance of an expert.”

They all stared at me, making me extremely uncomfortable. I glanced at each of them in turn, wondering if I might spot some hint of unease in their faces or their posture to identify the thief.

No such luck. If one of them was stealing from the collection, I didn’t spot any clues. Other than Eloise, still adrift in her own little world, they all had excellent poker faces.

Suddenly I realized the silence had stretched a tad too long. Mr. Delacorte was regarding me expectantly.