Miranda James - Classified as Murder

“Did he have a heart attack?” Sean asked. “You said he had some kind of episode with his heart on Saturday when you were here for tea.”

“I don’t think it was as simple as a heart attack. You cannot repeat this to anyone, or Kanesha will have my hide. I think he might have been poisoned.”

“Nasty,” Sean said. “One of the family, you think?”

“I don’t know who else it could be,” I replied. “I was here all morning, and he was fine when I left for lunch.” I shrugged. “Unless some stranger slipped into the house and did it, it has to be someone in the house.”

“Then we ought to go home before one of the family turns up.”

Both cat and dog perked up at the words go home. I knew Diesel would be much happier in a familiar environment.

I was more than ready to go myself, but then I remembered something. “My satchel. It’s still in the library. I left it there while I went home for lunch.”

“Then it’s part of the scene,” Sean said. “You can ask, but they won’t let you have it back for a while.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s still aggravating.” Then I realized how I sounded. Mr. Delacorte was dead, possibly murdered, and here I was whining about my satchel. There was nothing in it I couldn’t live without, at least temporarily.

Sean must have sensed what I was thinking. He patted my shoulder. “It’s okay; I understand.”

As the four of us neared the door, it swung open without warning. Daphne Morris walked in, accompanied by her son, Hubert.

They both stopped short.

“I beg your pardon,” Daphne said in her fade-away voice. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

Hubert scowled. “Why are you here anyway?” He pointed at our feet. “And with a dog and a cat, too. They have no business in here with these priceless antiques. If one of them pees on the floor or scratches anything, you’ll have to pay for it.”

Hubert’s attack left me speechless, but Sean was more than a match for him. “Listen, buddy, this dog and cat have better manners than you do. They’re housebroken, and they’re not going to piddle on your carpet. If anybody pays for anything, it’ll be you for speaking to my father and me in a tone like that.”

Hubert scowled. Sean was several inches taller and about three decades younger. I didn’t think my son would actually strike the man, but I could see that Sean’s temper had flared from the blaze of red in his cheeks.

Daphne intervened. Placing a hand on her son’s arm, she said, “Really, Hubert, where are your manners? These people are guests in our home. My poor dear brother invited that man and his cat here, and if James invited them, that’s all there is to it.”

That was quite a long speech for Daphne, I thought, based on my limited acquaintance with her. Plus I didn’t have to strain to hear every word.

“Sorry, Mother,” Hubert muttered. “Sorry.”

“This is a stressful time for everyone,” I said in an effort to extend an olive branch. “Mrs. Morris, you have my deepest sympathies on the loss of your brother.”

“And mine,” Sean added.

Hubert escorted his mother to the sofa I recently vacated.

“Thank you on behalf of the family,” he said. “My mother and my uncle were very close, and naturally this has come as a great shock to her. And to me, too.” He had such a falsely pious look I knew that he, at least, wasn’t all that upset over the loss of his uncle.

“Poor, sweet James,” Daphne said, her voice once again dying away as she spoke. “His weak heart finally took him away from us. His doctor warned him to slow down, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Uncle James always did whatever he damn well pleased,” Hubert said. “And you know it, Mother. Serves him right for not doing what the doctor said.”

“Hubert,” Daphne said in a tone of protest. “ Pas devant les étrangers .”

Even I knew enough French to understand what that meant. Beside me Sean barely suppressed a laugh. “Not in front of the strangers” indeed. Hubert was so lacking in the social graces that he apparently didn’t care what he said, or to whom.

“If you’ll excuse us, we must be going,” I said. I looked right at Daphne. “Again, my sympathies for your loss.”

Daphne nodded, and Hubert plopped down on the sofa beside her.

Sean and I with our four-legged companions left the room. During the brief encounter with Daphne and Hubert, both animals had been subdued. The moment we stepped out the front door, they both perked up. Diesel meowed at me, and Dante began dancing around Sean’s feet.

I had to smile. I was so thankful to be out of that house, I felt like dancing or warbling myself. Then I remembered what Kanesha had said. I might come back to do more work on the inventory, if she decided it was pertinent to her investigation.

I wasn’t sure at the moment how I felt about the situation. I’d address that later.

Sean and I settled our animals in our cars and headed home.

Sean and Dante were out on the back porch when Diesel and I found them fifteen minutes later. Sean was lighting a cigar, and Dante rested by his master’s feet.

“I think some relaxation is called for,” Sean said. “How about you?”

“I agree,” I said, “but I think mine will take a different form.”

“Whatever,” Sean said. “If you want to leave Diesel with me, I’ll let him and Dante out for a run while you go and relax however you want.”

That was certainly pointed, I thought. I was planning to stay here with him for a while in hopes of a conversation, but he obviously wasn’t encouraging me to stay. I felt awkward with him as a consequence. I mustered a smile anyway. “Okay, thanks. Diesel could use some exercise. I guess I’ll go upstairs and read for a bit.”

Sean nodded as he expelled a plume of smoke. “See you later then.”

I scratched Diesel’s head for a moment, and he looked up at me and chirped. “You stay here, boy, and have some fun. I’ll see you later.”

I headed for the door into the house, and Diesel came with me. I paused at the door. “I guess he doesn’t want to go out right now. I’ll take him with me.”

Sean nodded, and Diesel and I went into the house.

Up in my bedroom, I stretched out on the bed with a book, and Diesel curled up beside me and was soon asleep. I put my book aside after a few minutes. I couldn’t concentrate. Images of Mr. Delacorte kept intruding. I did my best to empty my mind, and deep breathing helped. It wasn’t long before I relaxed enough to nod off.

I awoke to the sound of the phone on my bedside table. I blinked several times to clear my vision. I glanced at the clock. It was nearly 5:15. I had been sleeping for well over two hours.

A woman’s voice sounded in my ear. “Could I speak to Mr. Charles Harris, please?”

I identified myself, and she continued. “My name is Alexandra Pendergrast. I’m an attorney, and I work with my father, Q. C. Pendergrast. Perhaps you know of him?”

Everyone in Athena knew Quentin Curtis Pendergrast III. He was one of the “characters” in town, a lawyer with near-legendary status for his exploits. I remembered vaguely hearing that he had a daughter, but I’d never met either the great man himself or his offspring.

“Yes, I do. What can I do for you, Ms. Pendergrast?” I couldn’t imagine why a lawyer I didn’t know personally would be calling me, unless it had something to do with James Delacorte. But the man had been dead only a few hours.

That thought unsettled me.

Alexandra Pendergrast confirmed my guess. “My father and I represent the estate of James Delacorte. We need to discuss something with you pertaining to Mr. Delacorte’s will. Would you be available in a little while, say at six? I apologize for the short notice, but it is urgent.”