Miranda James - Classified as Murder

I checked, and Diesel lay stretched out near my feet. As long as both pets stayed out of Azalea’s way, everyone would be happy.

“Are you going to ask Azalea about the Delacortes?” Sean asked. “Your friend said she used to work for them. Maybe you can find out how nutty they really are.”

“How nutty who be?” Azalea came back into the kitchen to hear the last of Sean’s remark.

“The Delacortes,” Sean said before I could respond. “Somebody told us you used to work for them.”

Azalea nodded. “About twenty-five years ago. Didn’t stay there long, though. Old Miz Delacorte, Mister James’s and Miss Daphne’s mama, she was pretty near impossible to work for. Always sore about something. She didn’t care who she lit into when she was mad, and that was most of the time.”

“No wonder you didn’t work there long,” Sean said.

“How come you want to know about them?” Azalea asked.

“James Delacorte has asked for my help doing an inventory of his book collection. I went there for tea yesterday afternoon and met his family.” I paused as I tried to think of a diplomatic way to express my feelings. “They behaved pretty oddly.”

Azalea shook her head. “You best be watching your back while you over there, Mr. Charlie. They is some kind of strange folks. Ain’t none of ’em worth the time of day, except maybe that butler fellow of Mr. Delacorte’s. He sure do work hard, and if you need something, you talk to him.”

“Yes, I met him yesterday,” I said. “He seems like a very competent man. But not from around here, of course.”

“He be some kind of Englishman Mr. Delacorte brought home with him years ago, once he decided to stop running around them foreign countries and come back to Athena where he was raised. I heard he used to be an actor over in England. He could sure be fancy when he wanted to.” Azalea picked up the coffeepot and brought it over to the table to refill our cups.

“Since I’m going to be working in the library with Mr. Delacorte, I hope I won’t see much of the family while I’m there.”

“That’ll be good,” Azalea said as she returned the coffeepot to its berth. “But I ’spect you gone be hearing from’em anyway. They gone be nosing around what you doing; you better count on that. Anything to do with money, they be real interested in, and I hear tell them books of Mr. Delacorte’s be worth a lot of money.”

“They certainly are,” I said. I hesitated for a moment, but curiosity won out over discretion. “Tell me, is Eloise Morris really crazy? Or is it some kind of act she puts on?”

Azalea folded her arms across her chest and regarded me for a moment. “She was a little bitty thing back then, always looked like you could knock her down by just waving at her. She married that no-account Hubert when she was seventeen, a couple of years before I worked for ol’ Miz Delacorte.” Her expression softened. “She was real sweet to me, and I never could figure out why she married into that family.”

“But was she eccentric back then?” On occasion Azalea meandered around the point, and I figured a little prodding wouldn’t hurt.

Azalea grimaced. “I heard tell her mama had to be locked in her room for years because she’d strip off all her clothes and go walking around the plantation as naked as the day the Good Lord brought her into the world. And I reckon poor Miss Eloise done took after her poor mama.”

“That would explain it, then,” I said, feeling sorry for Eloise Morris.

“My friend Lorraine be the cook there now,” Azalea said. “She tells me things sometimes. Mr. Delacorte pays her real good; otherwise, she wouldn’t still be working there.”

“Mr. Delacorte seems like a very nice man,” I said. “It’s a pity his family is so strange.”

“He be one acorn that didn’t fall too far from the tree, Mr. Charlie,” Azalea said, her expression enigmatic. “Don’t you go trusting him too much.”

TEN

“Why not?” I asked, surprised. “I don’t know much about him, I’ll admit. I have to say, though, he’s treated me with respect and courtesy.”

“He got good manners.” Azalea nodded. “I’ll give him that. But you don’t reckon a man makes that much money being nice to people, do you? They say he was mean as ole Satan himself when it come to business. Don’t nobody get in his way.”

I hadn’t really thought about Mr. Delacorte as a businessman since I knew him only through our interactions at the public library. Though he was always pleasant, I had sensed a core of steel beneath the politeness.

“He’s not still in business, is he?” Sean put his fork down on his empty plate.

“No, he retired about ten years ago,” Azalea said. “When he turned seventy-five, I think it was.”

“How does he treat his family? Like he did his business rivals?” Sean surprised me by taking such an interest in this gossip. Maybe he was coming out of his funk.

Azalea’s response was tart. “He give ’em all a home, didn’t he? Miss Daphne, Mister Hubert, and Miss Eloise be done living in the poorhouse, Mr. James ain’t take ’em in.” She snorted. “Miss Daphne’s husband was some sorry excuse for a man. Couldn’t keep a job and took to drinking real bad. Drowned hisself in a swimming pool. And Mister Hubert ain’t much better than his daddy, ’cepting he ain’t bad to drink.”

Sean regarded me quizzically. “Sounds like really nice folks you’re going to be associating with, Dad.”

“You better heed my words, Mr. Charlie. Whatever time you spend in that house, you don’t turn your back on them people.”

I tried to make light of the situation, though Azalea’s pronouncements about the family made me increasingly uneasy. “Diesel will be with me, and he’s as good as a watchdog.”

Hearing his name, Diesel sat up and meowed.

Azalea eyed my cat askance, clearly unimpressed by my claim. “He’s big, the good Lord knows.” She glanced at the clock. “I can’t be standing around here talking no more. I got to get the washing going. You mind what I told you now.” She headed for the laundry room.

“Seriously, Dad,” Sean said the moment Azalea was out of earshot. “Are you really sure you want to get mixed up with this bunch? The more I hear about them, the more I think you were right in the first place. Why don’t you call Mr. Delacorte and tell him you’ve changed your mind?”

“I’ll admit I’ve had some qualms.” I folded my linen napkin and laid it beside my plate. “But I decided that, as long as I can keep away from the rest of the family, I’ll make it through fine.”

“What happens if Mr. Delacorte wants you to take tea with him and his family again? I know you, Dad. You’re too polite for your own good. You won’t be able to say no.”

Did I imagine a slight edge of scorn in my son’s tone? My reply was a bit heated. “There’s nothing wrong with good manners. Mr. Delacorte is a gentleman. If I decline an invitation politely, he won’t press me to change my mind.”

Sean rolled his eyes at that. “It’s all too Miss Manners for me. I guess you know what you’re doing.”

“Thank you,” I said. I decided there was no point in delaying any longer as I stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I want to freshen up before I leave for the Delacorte house. Come on, Diesel.”

“See you later,” Sean called out as Diesel and I left the kitchen.

A few minutes before nine I parked in the shade of one of the massive live oaks that lined the Delacorte driveway. The tree had to be hundreds of years old, and there were others of similar size and age on the grounds, all of them festooned with Spanish moss. For a moment I fancied I had stepped backward in time a couple of centuries to around the time the house was first built.