Miranda James - Classified as Murder

“Maybe,” Sean said. “But what about the butler? Delacorte never married, did he?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “But just because he never married and left the bulk of his estate to his butler doesn’t necessarily mean he had romantic feelings toward Truesdale. Or that Truesdale was in love with his employer. From what I observed earlier today, I don’t think he’s gay.” I gave Sean the rundown on the encounters I’d witnessed.

“Maybe not, but he doesn’t seem like the type to be juggling two women, and one of them his employer’s sister,” Sean said. “But the whole setup is interesting. It’s a good thing for Truesdale the estate doesn’t revert to the family after his death. Otherwise, I figure he’d probably be next on the hit list.”

“Agreed. The same thought occurred to me.” I finished my sandwich and considered having another but decided that two was enough. “Hubert seemed really surprised he wasn’t the chief heir. I wonder if he’ll contest the will. Pendergrast didn’t think he’d have much chance with it.”

“Hubert would have to find a lawyer willing to go up against Pendergrast first.” Sean scooped a handful of chips out of the bag onto his plate. “I did some research on the net last night on Pendergrast. He’s a legend in Mississippi legal circles—and beyond, actually. Hubert wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance, the way I see it.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” I picked up my glass to refill it from the pitcher on the table. “Hubert impresses me as being more bluster than anything else. He’ll probably tuck his tail between his legs and slink off to some corner.”

Sean just laughed at that. He finished his sandwich and chips while I cleaned up the kitchen, and we were soon on our way to the Delacorte mansion with Diesel and Dante. As I drove, I outlined to Sean the method I was using to check the inventory.

Two official cars, one from the police department and the other from the sheriff’s department, were parked in the driveway. I pulled up behind them and cut the engine.

To my surprise it was Stewart Delacorte who opened the door to us. He grabbed at my arm and said, “You’re finally here. I’ve been watching for you.” His expression alarmed me.

Sean had to shut the door behind us because Stewart was too agitated to notice it was still open.

“What’s wrong?” I tried to disengage his hand from my arm, but he gripped it more tightly.

“I’ve got to get out of here.” Stewart’s voice was hoarse. “I need a place to stay. You’ve got to help me.”

TWENTY-THREE

“Please come with me.” Stewart dropped my arm and darted over to the door to the small parlor. “In here.” He opened the door and stepped inside. He turned to peer out at me.

The last thing I wanted was to become further embroiled with the Delacortes, but Stewart looked so scared I felt sorry for him. I might as well hear what he had to say. Kanesha would want to know, I was sure.

“Drama queen,” Sean muttered in a semi-amused tone as he followed me to where Stewart waited. He held the leashes of both animals, and they came along behind him.

When we were all in the room with the door shut, Stewart appeared to relax slightly. “Thank the Lord you got here when you did. I don’t think my nerves could have stood it much longer.” He walked over to the sofa and flopped down. “You have no idea what it’s been like.”

I sat in a chair across from him, and Diesel crouched by my legs. Sean took the chair near mine and put Dante in his lap.

Stewart appeared to notice Sean for the first time. He perked up and smiled. “Well, hello . I don’t think we’ve met. Who are you ?”

“This is my son, Sean.” I made the introduction because my son appeared too bemused to speak for himself. “He’s helping me with the inventory. That’s his dog, Dante.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” Stewart said, almost in a purr. His earlier panic seemed to have disappeared. “Aren’t you tall, dark, and gorgeous.”

Sean laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were my friend Arthur from back in Houston.”

“Oh, really? Your friend ?” Stewart arched an eyebrow.

“Not that kind of friend,” Sean said, obviously amused. “Somebody I used to work with.”

“What a waste,” Stewart said with what sounded like regret.

“What’s the trouble?” I asked in an effort to get things back on track. “Why do you need my help?”

Stewart was slow to focus on my question because he was still gazing at Sean. Then he turned to me. “It’s this house. I simply cannot spend another night under this roof.”

“Why not?” Sean said. “Pretty nice place, if you ask me.”

Stewart sniffed. “Yes, but my uncle was murdered! That terribly butch female deputy told us about half an hour ago. I thought he had a heart attack, but no, someone killed him.” He shuddered. “I can’t stay in a house with a murderer.”

Before I could reply Sean said, “How do we know you aren’t the murderer?” He grinned.

“I could never harm poor Uncle James,” Stewart said with a pained expression. “Even though he could be very mean from time to time. I was very fond of him. I couldn’t kill him.” He grimaced. “We had our little tiffs, but we always made up. Besides, I wasn’t even here yesterday, so there’s no way you can accuse me of killing him.”

“Oh, really,” Sean said. “Where were you, then?”

Stewart looked coy. “If you must know, I drove up to Memphis Sunday evening to visit a friend. A very good friend, and not just somebody to have a drink with.” He leered at Sean. “I didn’t get back here until about four o’clock yesterday afternoon. I bought some gas in Memphis as I was leaving, and I have the receipt. So I have an alibi.”

If he wasn’t making the whole thing up, then he was out of the running as the killer.

“I gave my receipt to that deputy,” Stewart went on. “She said she’d have to check it out, naturally, but if my story holds up, then I’m in the clear.”

“That’s a relief,” Sean said. “For you, I mean.”

Stewart waggled his finger at Sean in a “naughty, naughty” gesture.

“Why do you need my help?” I asked again. “Surely you have friends you can stay with if you want to leave here.”

“Of course I have friends,” Stewart said. “But they aren’t going to want me living with them ad infinitum. You heard the terms of the will. I have three months to find my own place, and I want a safe haven until I find it.”

“And you think moving in with my father is the solution?” Sean regarded my prospective boarder with a cool look.

“I talked to a friend in the history department at the college, and he told me your father has boarders. I don’t see why I couldn’t be a boarder if there’s room.” Stewart turned to me with an imploring smile. “Do you have room right now? Please say you do.”

Talk about an uncomfortable position. I did have room at the moment, and I couldn’t lie to him. But I sure wanted to. The last thing I needed right now was a Delacorte under my own roof, even though this one was evidently not the murderer.

Sean once again spoke before I could frame a reply. “It’s $750 a month, with kitchen privileges and some meals included, but you have to clean your own room and do your own laundry.”

I stared at my son in disbelief. I didn’t think he wanted Stewart in the house any more than I did, so why was he even offering terms to the man? And extortionate ones as well. I charged my regular boarders only $200 a month because they were college students and couldn’t generally afford any more than that. Stewart could probably afford to pay more, but $750 seemed too much.