Miranda James - Classified as Murder

“I’m looking forward to working with the collection,” I said, my voice a shade too hearty. “I know it’s going to be very interesting.” I paused. What else could I say? “Oh, and I’ll be bringing Diesel with me. He won’t bother anyone, I can promise you that. He’s accustomed to going places with me, and I’m really used to having him around all the time.”

Okay, time to stop babbling , I told myself sternly.

“Diesel is quite welcome here,” Mr. Delacorte said. His tone brooked no opposition. “I really do miss having a cat about the place.”

“I believe I’d like tuna salad for lunch,” Eloise announced. She rose from her perch and swept away toward the door.

Hubert scowled, then spoke in a low voice to his uncle. “She belongs in Whitfield, Uncle James. She gets loonier all the time. Surely you can see that?”

Such personal comments made me want to squirm. The Mississippi State Hospital, a psychiatric facility, was located at Whitfield, not far from the state capitol, Jackson.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Delacorte snapped. “Eloise is simply eccentric. She’s perfectly fine right here. I will not discuss this again, Hubert.”

Hubert looked over at me. “What do you think? You think she’s just eccentric ? Or is she a lunatic?”

Stewart saved me from having to answer. “Of course she’s a lunatic, Hubert. Why else would she have married you ?” He laughed.

“Stewart, you shouldn’t say such things.” Daphne sighed heavily. “You know how it upsets me.”

“Sorry, Aunt Daphne,” Stewart replied, his words laced with mockery. “I do hope you’re not about to have one of your spells. Shall I get the smelling salts? Or perhaps a bucket of water?”

“Stop it this instant, all of you.” Mr. Delacorte was getting red in the face again. He sounded short of breath.

Were they deliberately trying to provoke him into a heart attack? I was afraid they might succeed, at this rate. Truesdale remained stoically near his employer. I hoped he wouldn’t need another nitroglycerine pill.

“Sorry, Uncle,” Stewart murmured, not appearing at all contrite.

Hubert threw his uncle a poisonous glance while his mother languished on the sofa. Was she having one of her spells? No one but me seemed to be paying any attention to her.

Diesel nudged my leg with his paw. I glanced down at him, and he stared at me. He was sensitive to atmosphere, and he was clearly uneasy. All this sniping was unsettling to both of us. I rubbed his back some more, trying to reassure him.

I was trying to think of a graceful way to extract both of us from this unpleasant mess, but short of standing up and announcing we were leaving, I was stumped.

Surprisingly, it was Cynthia Delacorte who poured much-needed balm on the troubled waters. “I’m sure your work must be very interesting, Mr. Harris. Does the college have a large rare book collection?”

I was so grateful I beamed at her. “Yes, there’s a collection of early American imprints, plus many signed first editions of works by Southern writers, particularly Mississippi natives. We also have the papers of a number of distinguished graduates of the college. Oh, and there’s a small collection of antebellum and Civil War diaries.”

“Like Mary Boykin Chesnut’s?” Mr. Delacorte perked up.

“Very similar, yes, but of course not nearly as well known.” I smiled. “Since I’ve been in charge of the collection, I’ve assisted a couple of graduate students in the history department working on diaries for their dissertations. Neither of them has been published, however.”

After that I fielded a few more questions about the archive and its contents, from Mr. Delacorte and Cynthia. Neither Hubert nor Daphne appeared the least interested in the subject. Daphne alternately smoothed the skirt of her dress and rubbed her temples, while Hubert sipped at his tea and sulked. Stewart appeared to be playing with his cell phone, but at least he wasn’t rude enough to be talking on it.

While I chatted, I kept an eye on the mantel clock. As the minutes limped by, I wondered how soon I could extract myself and my cat from the situation without appearing rude. Though I was not worried about offending most of the people in the room, I didn’t want to return Mr. Delacorte’s hospitality with anything other than correct behavior. Several generations of my Southern grandmothers would spin in their graves if I were needlessly rude to my host, no matter the circumstances.

At the thirty-minute mark I decided that the dictates of genteel behavior had been properly served and set my empty teacup on the tray. With the first pause in the conversation, I turned to Mr. Delacorte and said, “Thank you for inviting me to join you this afternoon. I mustn’t impose on your hospitality any longer, though.” I stood, and Diesel brushed against my legs. “Diesel and I look forward to seeing you on Monday.”

Mr. Delacorte came slowly to his feet. Though his voice was strong, he seemed rather tired. He extended his hand, and I shook it. “I’ll see you at nine, Charlie.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll see you then.” I nodded at the other members of the family, and Truesdale glided forward to escort me to the front door.

The family remained quiet while we exited the room, but once Truesdale closed the doors behind us, I could hear a male voice raised in anger. Perhaps Mr. Delacorte was giving his family a more private dressing-down for their appalling behavior in front of a stranger.

As Diesel and I left, I had a decision to make. Should I return on Monday or keep my distance from this unpleasant and decidedly odd family?

EIGHT

In the peaceful confines of my own kitchen, I finally relaxed. Even Diesel looked happier as he loped off toward the utility room. I sat down at the table to collect my thoughts and figure out what to do about dinner.

With surprise, I saw on the wall clock that it was only a quarter past five. Tea with the Delacortes hadn’t lasted half a century after all.

I got up to examine the contents of the refrigerator, and I found a note stuck to the door with a cat magnet.

Sean’s message was brief. He was still exhausted from the drive and was upstairs sleeping. He would take care of his own dinner whenever he woke up.

I placed the note on the table, frowning as I did so. Sean probably was tired from the trip, and I suspected he hadn’t been sleeping very well or very much in the weeks before he left Houston. But it could also be a tactic to delay any questions about his decision to quit his job and come to Mississippi.

I wished he felt comfortable confiding in me. The restraint between us disturbed me. What could I do to reestablish the close relationship we once enjoyed?

I thought about it off and on during dinner, with Diesel for company. The cat stuck close to me while I ate—partly in hopes of scoring some of my fried chicken, I knew, but also to comfort me. I was grateful—as always—for Diesel’s companionship. People who don’t have pets don’t understand the kind of bond we pet lovers have with our animals.

Sean failed to make an appearance before I went to bed, around nine. I was surprised Diesel hadn’t at some point gone looking for Sean and Dante, because he was usually a very sociable cat. Tonight he didn’t leave me. He was stretched out on his side of the bed, sound asleep.

I turned off the light and tried to emulate my cat, but I had trouble taming my thoughts enough to allow sleep to claim me. A half-hour’s reading soothed me, and I dropped off.

The next morning I discovered that Sean had been in the kitchen early. The coffeepot was half full, and the Sunday paper lay on the table. His car was still parked outside on the street, but there was no sign of him anywhere downstairs, including the back porch.