Miranda James - Classified as Murder

I realized I was trying hard not to think about the scene about to ensue with the Delacorte family as Pendergrast knocked at the doors to the large front parlor. I disliked confrontations, and Pendergrast had already predicted histrionics in response to James Delacorte’s will.

The situation was increasingly coming to resemble the plot of an Agatha Christie novel, complete with a body in the library. Would I spot the clues properly, or would I end up being chagrined at overlooking the important ones when the solution to “whodunit” was revealed?

Then an unpleasant thought struck me. What if the terms of the will made someone angry enough to kill again?

NINETEEN

Q. C. Pendergrast strode confidently across the hall to the front parlor, where he headed for the massive fireplace against the wall shared with the library.

I trailed in his wake like a dory attached to the QE2. I knew there were people in the room, but at the moment I concentrated all my attention on the lawyer. If I focused on Pendergrast, I reasoned, I wouldn’t have to think as much about potential histrionics among the family members.

Pendergrast halted before the fireplace and faced his audience. I took position about four feet to his right, beyond the edge of the mantel, while the lawyer cleared his throat.

“Morning, everyone. I regret having to meet with you under such sad circumstances, especially when I know y’all are in mourning for a beloved member of the family.” Pendergrast smiled, and the image of a wolf stalking its prey popped into my head. “I’m sure y’all are wondering why Mr. Charles Harris, here, is with me. James named Mr. Harris my coexecutor, so there is an official reason for his presence.”

I heard an indrawn breath from a person in the room when Pendergrast introduced me, but when I turned to survey the family, I couldn’t tell from whom the sound originated.

“Good morning,” I said. “Please allow me to express my deepest sympathies for your loss.” I could have said more, but I tended to babble in situations like this. Better to dam the flow before it started.

Pendergrast made a few further preliminary remarks, and while he spoke, I made as discreet an examination as I could of the family. I wanted to try to gauge their emotions.

The first person I examined was Eloise Morris. I wasn’t all that surprised to see that she was once again garbed in full Scarlett O’Hara regalia. This time the dress was made of some blue material, probably satin. She sat with her voluminous skirt spread about her. She gazed intently at Pendergrast. He still spoke in platitudes, and I tuned him out while I continued my perusal.

Hubert Morris occupied the sofa about three feet from his wife. Today he wore an outmoded suit of fabric shiny from age and wear. He blinked often and held a handkerchief to his eyes, dabbing at tears. Crocodile ? Or genuine? I wondered.

Daphne, Hubert’s mother, reclined on the other sofa parallel to his. She rubbed at her forehead with one hand while the other clutched at her throat—exactly the same as I had seen on Saturday. Soft moans issued forth as she continued to minister to herself. No one else in the room seemed to be paying her the slightest attention.

Truesdale hovered discreetly near Daphne but did not appear unduly concerned by the woman’s seeming distress. His expression remained impassive.

I noticed that the final two family members, the great-niece and -nephew, had claimed chairs behind Hubert. That’s when I realized that every one of them sat in the same spot he or she had occupied on Saturday.

Cynthia Delacorte appeared as completely detached from everything today as she had been when I first met her on Saturday. Stewart, on the other hand, seemed barely able to contain his emotions—excitement?—as he squirmed in his chair.

I tuned back in as Pendergrast wound up his prefatory spiel. He pulled a thick document from the inner pocket of his jacket and began to unfold the pages.

Before the lawyer could continue, however, Eloise spoke, rustling her skirts about her. “Uncle James loves cookies. I think there are some in the kitchen just for him. Truesdale said so. We always have such a nice time eating cookies.”

Eloise rose from her perch on a stool, but Hubert leaned forward and shoved her back down. “Shut up about cookies, Eloise. Uncle James is dead, remember? He’s not going to be eating any more cookies with you.” Hubert’s voice, high and thin, could have been the voice on the phone last night.

Eloise, to my great surprise, showed no emotion. She remained quiet and stared at the floor.

Daphne Morris, on the other hand, was quick to complain. “Hubert, Eloise, I beg of you, don’t have another argument. I don’t think I can bear it, not with my poor brother so cruelly dead before his time. It was bad enough having all those horrid policemen in the house, going through our personal things. If you two keep arguing, I think I’ll have a heart attack like poor James.” While she spoke, her hands never left off caressing her forehead and her throat.

Her voice, eerily like her son’s, could also have been the one that threatened me last night. Very interesting.

Also interesting to know that the authorities searched the house. If they turned up anything relevant to the rare book collection, I hoped Kanesha would share information with me.

“Give it a rest, Aunt Daphne,” Stewart said. Every word he spoke dripped with acid. “Asking Hubert not to be ugly to Eloise is like asking the government to abolish the income tax.”

Hubert huffed a time or two but didn’t respond. Eloise continued to gaze with a vacant stare, while Daphne moaned a few times and then subsided.

Cynthia remained aloof from it all, or at least appeared to. I wondered if she were truly emotionally disconnected from her family, or only wanted everyone to think she was.

Pendergrast spoke again. “If I might reclaim your attention, ladies and gentlemen, there is the matter of James’s will, which I am about to read to you.”

At those words Daphne sighed in pitiable fashion a couple of times, but no one else spoke. Pendergrast continued, beginning with the standard phrases. “I, James Sullivan Delacorte, being of sound mind . . .”

I let my mind wander as I continued to take covert glances at the family. With the exception of Daphne, none of them seemed all that distressed at the death of James Delacorte. I did catch Truesdale dabbing at his face with a handkerchief, but I wasn’t sure whether he was crying or sweating. The room was a bit warm.

When I focused again on the lawyer’s words, he was reading out the bequests from the will.

“To Stewart Delacorte, the grandson of my brother Arthur, the sum of $250,000.”

At the mention of his name and a large sum of money, Stewart’s face lit up. He didn’t seem so happy, however, when Pendergrast continued.

“Stewart, I heartily suggest you use some of your inheritance to find your own place to live. Your days as a resident of Delacorte House are over. You are to be out of the house three months from the day of my death. And no, before you ask, you may not take with you any of the furnishings except for those things you brought with you when you moved in thirty-two years ago or have purchased since.”

Stewart’s face reddened to the point that I thought he might well have a stroke. He didn’t say anything, and that surprised me. He even stopped squirming in his chair, almost as if he were frozen in place.

If he had killed his great-uncle, he wasn’t getting a lot for his trouble. Although $250,000 was not a trifling sum, the fact that he was being kicked out of the house was obviously painful.