Miranda James - Classified as Murder

“What did you mean when you said ‘What have they done’?” I hated to intrude further upon his grief, but I felt compelled to ask.

At first he didn’t appear to have heard me, but after a deep sigh he replied, “Pay no attention to me. I have no idea what I said, or why.” He turned away, and I dropped the matter.

He knew very well what he said, and why. He wouldn’t confide in me—that much was obvious.

I heard the sirens then, and Truesdale stared at the door as if mesmerized. His shoulders squared, he opened the door.

I moved Diesel a few feet back so he would be out of the way of the crew from the ambulance pulling up in the driveway. I stayed with him. Four men in uniform, laden with equipment, entered moments later, and Truesdale led them down the hall. I informed the 911 operator the paramedics had arrived and ended the call.

The sound of shoes against marble warned me that someone was coming down the stairs. I glanced up to see Eloise Morris, dressed in contemporary jeans, blouse, and flat-heeled shoes, pause about two-thirds of the way down. She regarded me in silence, then spoke as she resumed her descent.

“I thought I heard a siren and then a truck or something pull into the driveway.” Today her voice was stronger, more assured, than it had been on Saturday. “Has something happened?”

“Yes, there’s an ambulance crew here.” I hesitated a moment. If I told her James Delacorte was dead, would she become the Eloise of the tea party, rather than this apparently lucid woman?

She halted three feet away from me and assessed me with a clear gaze. “Don’t tell me. Daphne has finally had a real ‘spell,’ and they’ll cart her off to the hospital.”

The amused contempt in her tone surprised me.

“No,” I said. “It’s not your mother-in-law. It’s your husband’s uncle. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he has died.”

Eloise’s mouth flew open—in presumed shock—and she began to tremble.

I stepped forward, afraid that she might faint, but she closed her mouth and took a deep breath. I stopped and waited, but she seemed in control of herself once again. The trembling stopped.

“Poor dear Uncle James. He was so kind to me.”

I barely heard the words, her voice was so faint. She muttered something else, and the one word I made out was cookies. That made absolutely no sense.

“I’m really sorry for your loss,” I said, not sure what else to say. Or what to do, frankly. Should I offer to escort her to another part of the house?

She peered at me and then down at Diesel. “Have we met recently?” she said. “You seem familiar somehow. Your cat, too.”

“We were here on Saturday for tea with you and your family,” I said. When she was lucid like this, did she remember what happened when she wasn’t?

She frowned. “If you say so.”

A knock at the front door startled all of us, Diesel included. Eloise stared at the door as if willing it to open. I supposed she was so used to having a butler perform the task she was confused about what to do.

I opened the door to find two policemen on the verandah. I glanced beyond them to spot an Athena Police Department patrol car parked in the drive behind the ambulance.

“Somebody called 911, reported a death.” The older of the two men spoke. The nameplate over his badge proclaimed him as William Hankins.

“I did, Officer. I’m Charlie Harris.” I stood aside and motioned for them to enter. “I’ll show you where, um, the body is. The EMTs are in there now.”

Hankins nodded, but his companion, Roscoe Grimes, stared at Diesel. “What is that ?”

“He’s a cat,” I said as I closed the door behind the two officers. How many times had I answered this question? “A Maine coon. They’re pretty big.”

“I’ll say.” Officer Grimes shook his head. “Dang thing looks like a bobcat or something.”

Hankins scowled at the younger man. “Keep your mind on the job. We’re not here to talk about cats.”

Grimes nodded, his face blank.

I looked around, and Eloise Morris was nowhere in sight. She had disappeared while I was opening the door to the police.

“If you’ll come with me, officers, I’ll show you to the library,” I said, heading in that direction. “I found Mr. Delacorte there.” Diesel kept close to me, and I had to be careful not to stumble over him.

“James Delacorte?” Hankins asked, his voice sharp.

“Yes.” I stopped a few feet away from the open library doors. “In there.” I had no desire to go any closer at the moment. I wondered if Truesdale was still inside. I hadn’t noticed him come back to the front hall after he showed the emergency personnel to the library. I hovered uncertainly.

Hankins was brusque. “Thanks. If you’ll go wait in the hall, Mr. Harris, I’d appreciate it.”

“Certainly,” I said, relieved. “Come on, Diesel.” The cat and I walked back to the front of the hall. Suddenly the house seemed oppressive. I could feel the weight of two centuries press down on me, and I had to step outside for a moment to shake it off.

I opened the door, and Diesel and I walked out onto the front porch. For the first time I realized the rain had ended, and the skies had cleared. I breathed in the cool air, and I felt a little of my tension ease. Diesel seemed calmer out here, too. He sat down and gazed up at me, almost as if he expected an explanation.

I wished I could give him one. I had a terrible feeling that James Delacorte’s death would turn out to be complicated, not merely death from a heart attack.

Movement out on the street caught my eye. A car from the sheriff’s department turned into the driveway, and I watched as it moved swiftly toward the house. The driver stopped behind the city patrol car.

As I watched, I saw a head with black hair arranged in a tight bun emerge from the passenger side.

I knew that hairstyle and the woman to whom it belonged.

My stomach twisted into a knot.

Finding me here would make her about as happy as a cat being forced to swallow a pill.

A very bad day was about to get worse.

THIRTEEN

The woman with that severe bun was Kanesha Berry, the only African American female chief deputy in Mississippi. She was also the daughter of my housekeeper, Azalea, and Kanesha wasn’t happy that her mama worked as a domestic. Azalea won’t put up with any sass from her daughter about her job, though. Kanesha chooses instead to focus her displeasure on me, as if I and I alone am responsible for her mother’s choice of employment.

Throughout the events of this past fall, when I was part of a murder investigation Kanesha conducted, I aggravated her more often than not in my attempts to assist. If she had known last fall that her mother put me up to it, she would have locked me up for sure. Concerned that her daughter should make a success of her first homicide investigation, Azalea urged me to use my inside knowledge of the victim and suspects to do a little nosing around on the side. I did poke around, and I discovered important information that Kanesha might not have found.

By the time that case ended, I thought we had managed at least a fragile rapprochement. Finding me in a house with another dead body, however, might shatter the small amount of goodwill I’d managed to win from her.

Kanesha and her fellow officer—I recognized Deputy Bates from our brief acquaintance in the fall—proceeded up the walk and up the steps onto the front porch. Kanesha stopped short the moment she spotted me. Bates, a step or two behind, almost bumped into her.

Her eyes narrowed, and I could almost read her mind. And I didn’t think her mother would appreciate the unladylike language going through her daughter’s head at the sight of me and my cat.