Miranda James - Classified as Murder

“Sounds fine.”

“If you’ve got the number, I’ll call it in.” Sean walked over to the wall phone.

“It’s there on the pad by the phone,” I said, gesturing toward a notepad hung on the wall.

Sean called the order in. He pulled out his wallet and extracted several bills. “This ought to cover it. About twenty-five minutes, they said. While we’re waiting, I’d like to check my e-mail and look up a few things on the Internet.”

“Thanks for the pizza.”

“My pleasure.” He headed upstairs to retrieve his laptop. Both animals trailed along behind him. Diesel seemed determined to keep his new playmate in sight.

The pizza arrived thirty minutes later. I set it on the table and then went to let Sean know it was here. He and the two animals followed me into the kitchen.

Sean had ordered a large pizza, and I wondered whether he should have ordered a medium instead. When I saw him pile half the pizza on his plate, I didn’t wonder any longer.

“Mind if I eat out on the porch?” Sean grabbed some paper towels. “There’s some stuff I still need to finish up on with e-mail, and I might as well get it done.”

I was disappointed, but all I said was, “Sure. I guess I’ll start going through those instructions and copy of the inventory Alexandra Pendergrast left with me.”

“See you later, then.” Sean headed out of the kitchen, a very excited poodle running along with him.

Diesel stayed with me, and I rewarded him with a couple of bites of pizza. We didn’t have it often, and the bits of cheese and meat were a treat for him. I decided to wait to read the file until my hands were completely free of pizza grease.

I managed three of the four pieces of pizza Sean had left and then closed the box. I had a feeling the last piece would be gone before long.

Upstairs, hands washed, pajamas on, I climbed into bed with the file. Diesel jumped up beside me and settled down for a nap.

By the time I finished skimming the list of the collection, I felt like I’d strained my eye muscles from the many times my eyes must have turned into saucers. James Delacorte had amassed an amazing collection, not only of early American printed books, but also of fine examples of the earliest European printers. I couldn’t wait to get back to the collection and locate some of the gems. For a rare book cataloger, the Delacorte collection was the equivalent of heaven.

The list of instructions was brief. The main thing Mr. Delacorte wanted was to ensure that the collection remained intact. He was quite insistent on a thorough inventory. I wondered when he had drawn up these instructions.

He already thought some items were missing. Perhaps he feared the thief would loot the collection after his death. There were definitely many items that could fetch significant sums at auction. The first editions of Faulkner’s works, many of them signed and in apparently fine condition, would command an eye-popping sum on their own.

A family member who tried to steal any of the books had to be pretty stupid, however. The theft would be detected right away. Surely none of the Delacorte heirs was that desperate, or that dumb. I would know better after hearing the terms of the will tomorrow morning, I figured.

After I completed the inventory, my next task was to prepare it for the move to its new home. I grinned with pleasure when I read that the collection was to go to the Athena College library. There were provisions for a significant sum of money to be given as well, for the upkeep and cataloging of the books. I would be working on this collection for years to come.

I regretted deeply, however, the manner in which the collection was coming to my care. But all too often death was the event that triggered such magnificent gifts.

Around nine the phone rang. I checked the caller ID before I answered it. I recognized the number. Someone from the sheriff’s department was calling. My stomach grumbled. All that pizza felt like lead now.

Kanesha Berry spoke into my ear, her voice as brisk and businesslike as ever.

“Good evening, Mr. Harris. I apologize for troubling you this late, but I’d like to come by and talk to you if you’re available.”

“Sure. Come on over.” Was I in for another round of questions over my actions earlier today?

“Thank you. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

I changed back into my clothes and slipped on my shoes; then Diesel and I headed downstairs. Sean was still on the porch, hunched over his laptop with a cigar smoldering in an ashtray beside him. I let him know Kanesha was on the way because I figured he’d be annoyed if I talked to her without him.

The more I thought about, the more I was touched that my son was so determined to protect me.

By the time the doorbell rang, Sean, Dante, and Diesel were all settled in the living room, along with the tea tray I’d hastily prepared. I admitted Kanesha, who had come alone, I was interested to note. She brought with her a briefcase.

“You remember my son, Sean,” I said as we entered the living room. “And Diesel and Dante.”

Kanesha greeted Sean politely even as she eyed the animals with some forbearance, or so it appeared. Dante came dancing up to her, and after a moment she bent to hold her fingers out for him to sniff. He licked her hand, and she patted his head a bit awkwardly.

Diesel merely observed the antics from his position on the sofa. He remained a bit wary of Kanesha, though from what I could tell he didn’t actively dislike or fear her.

After everyone was seated, I offered Kanesha a cup of tea, and she accepted. That meant, I figured, this wasn’t an interrogation on the record.

Dante jumped on the sofa to sit next to Diesel, ensconced next to me. Sean started to make him get down, but I told him it was okay. He shook his head but didn’t argue. It was fine with me if Dante wanted to get on the furniture. Any family member should be able to use it, and these animals were members of the family.

But it was time to get the conversation moving. “There’s something I think you should know, Ms. Berry,” I said as she took her first sip of tea. “Q. C. Pendergrast and his daughter Alexandra came to see me this evening.”

Kanesha’s eyes narrowed at the news. “In connection with Mr. Delacorte’s death?” She held the cup and saucer with such care I knew she was tense.

“Yes. Mr. Delacorte named me as one of the two executors of his will, along with Mr. Pendergrast himself.” I smiled in self-deprecation. “I had no idea, naturally, he had done that.”

Sean, in the chair across from me, appeared to be signaling me with his eyes. What was he trying to tell me?

“I didn’t think you knew James Delacorte very well.” Kanesha set her tea on the coffee table. Her eyes bored into mine.

“I didn’t. He was only an acquaintance, really.” I shrugged. “According to Mr. Pendergrast, Mr. Delacorte named me an executor because of my experience as a rare book cataloger. And he wanted me to inventory the collection.”

Again Sean was doing his best to convey a message. I frowned at him, and Kanesha’s gaze flicked to him and then back to me.

“Are you supposed to appraise the collection?” Kanesha folded her arms across her chest as she regarded me.

“No, just do the inventory.” Should I tell her now that the collection was to be given to the college? I decided I’d better.

She didn’t say anything for a moment. “That works out pretty well for you, doesn’t it?”

Sean bristled at her words. “What do you mean by that?”

Kanesha glanced at him but then focused her gaze on me. “You get a very valuable collection in your keeping, isn’t that right?”

The way she said it sounded like I was going to start pilfering the collection myself, the minute I had it under my control.