Miranda James - Classified as Murder

Diesel head-butted my right arm a couple of times. That brought me out of my reverie.

“I know, boy; time to go in.” I needed to see my son and to assure myself he was okay.

I opened the door, and Diesel crawled across me and hopped to the garage floor. By the time I gathered my things and locked the car, he had the door to the kitchen open. He learned this trick recently, and I suspected my boarder, Justin Wardlaw, taught him.

I dropped my things on the kitchen table, and Diesel disappeared into the utility room to visit his litter box.

I left the kitchen and walked to the foot of the stairs.

“Sean, where are you?” I waited a moment and called again.

The house was still. Justin left this morning on a camping trip with his father and some other family members. The coming week was spring break at nearby Athena College, where Justin was a freshman. I had the week off too, as I’d mentioned to Mr. Delacorte, from the college library where I worked part-time as a rare book cataloger.

I felt pressure against the backs of my legs as Diesel rubbed himself against me. I turned to look down at him.

“Where do you think Sean is?” With his sense of smell he could locate Sean faster than I could, I figured.

Diesel gazed up at me as if he were considering my question. After a moment he padded around the stairs and down the hall toward the back of the house. As I followed him, I detected a faint whiff of something vaguely pleasant and spicy.

The cat stopped in front of the closed door onto the back porch. He chirped.

“Go ahead; you might as well.” He reared up on his hind legs and grasped the doorknob with his front paws. With a deft twist and a sharp push forward, he opened the door.

That alien scent was much stronger here, and I identified it. Sean must be smoking a cigar.

Before either Diesel or I could step out onto the enclosed porch, a barking dervish appeared in front of us. I think the cat and I both blinked in astonishment at the tiny bundle of champagne-colored fur hopping around and emitting loud noises.

“Dante, stop that.” Sean’s rich baritone came from the left end of the porch and had little effect on the dog.

Diesel approached the poodle, towering over him, or so it seemed. The cat bowed up and hissed at the dog. The dog backed up a few inches but kept barking. The cat spit at the poodle, then held out a paw and tapped Dante on the head. Astonished—to judge by the comical look on its face—the dog shut up and sat down. The two animals regarded each other in silence now.

I glanced to where Sean sprawled in one of the wicker chairs in the corner. At six foot three, there was a lot of him, from the worn and scuffed cowboy boots and faded jeans, to the T-shirt that hugged his muscular upper body, and the handsome face with its shadowing of dark stubble. His black hair was cut short and gave no hint of the thick curls he’d sported at Christmas. The lack of hair only accentuated the gauntness of his face. He had lost weight the past three months.

“Sean, this is an unexpected surprise. But very welcome, of course.” I tried to make my expression as bright and cheerful as I could, but Sean’s appearance concerned me. He was far too thin.

“Hi, Dad.” Sean stood up. He gestured with his right hand. “I came out here to have a cigar.”

“I noticed. I started smelling it in the hallway but wasn’t quite sure what it was.” I stepped around Diesel and Dante, who now sniffed each other with caution.

“I should have called, but I hope it’s okay that I just showed up like this. And with a dog.”

“Of course it’s okay. You and Dante are welcome here for as long as you like. Diesel will enjoy having a playmate, and I’m glad to have my son with me, no matter why.” I felt a tightening in my chest. Was my son really that unsure of his welcome?

“Thanks.” Sean didn’t smile.

“How long have you been here?”

“About twenty minutes.” Sean took a couple of steps in my direction, then halted. The look in his eyes and his tense stance pained me. He drew on his cigar and expelled smoke in a plume that drifted away through the screens.

I wanted to hug him, but he didn’t move any closer. I hung back too long, and the moment passed.

Sean remained silent, smoking and watching me.

I gazed at his face. He appeared tired, but after the twelve-hour drive from Houston, that was no surprise.

“When did you start smoking?” I frowned.

“In law school. Whenever I had to stay up and cram.” He shrugged. “Now I do it to relax. A good cigar usually mellows me out.”

I preferred a good book, but I decided to keep my opinion to myself. “You must have driven all night.”

“Left Houston around two this morning.”

“You must be totally wiped out. Why don’t you go take a nap?”

“In a while. When I finish this.” Sean brandished the cigar. He glanced past me and frowned. “No, Dante. Bad dog.”

I turned to see the poodle hiking his leg against the wicker sofa. Sean lunged forward and grabbed Dante before he could do any further damage. Sean opened the door onto the backyard and set the dog down on the step. “Go on; go finish your business outside.”

Dante gazed up at his master. Sean gestured impatiently, and the dog scampered down the steps. Diesel followed him before I could do anything.

“Sorry, Dad. Didn’t mean to let the cat out.” Sean eased the screen door shut but didn’t face me.

“The yard’s fenced in, and Diesel is good about not trying to get out.” I joined Sean by the door, staying upwind of his cigar, and we watched the two animals chase each other through the grass.

“Looks like they’re getting along fine.” Sean rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “I was afraid they wouldn’t.”

“Diesel is pretty easygoing. Besides, he must outweigh Dante by a good twenty pounds. He’ll keep Dante in his place.”

Sean laughed. He smoked and stared out at the frolicking animals.

“When did you get Dante? You didn’t mention him at Christmas.”

“Two months ago. He belonged to a friend who couldn’t keep him any longer, so I said I’d take him. He’s about fifteen months old.”

Sean’s tone was flat. Maybe it was the exhaustion, but he sounded depressed.

“Son, is everything okay?” I placed a hand on his arm. “Are you ill?”

“No, I’m not sick, Dad. Just tired.” Sean walked away from me, back to his chair. He sat down and brushed some ash from his cigar into the ashtray on the table beside the chair. He stared moodily out through the screen in front of him.

I leaned against the door frame and regarded him. He was obviously more than tired, but could I get him to open up to me? “I’m glad you could get some time off so soon after the holidays. I know it’s been difficult in the past.”

Sean was a corporate lawyer with a large firm in Houston. At twenty-seven he had several years to go before he could make partner. He worked seventy or eighty hours a week on average.

Sean shrugged. He drew on his cigar and laid it in the ashtray. He expelled smoke as he stood. “I was due some vacation. Couldn’t think of anywhere else to go, so I came here.” He yawned. “Think I’ll go have that nap.”

“Sure. You can have the room you had at Christmas.” So much for getting him to talk to me. His flat tone and shuttered expression warned me off.

Sean stepped to the back door, opened it, and called, “Dante. Come here.” He whistled. “Here, boy.”

Moments later Dante trotted up the steps, wheezing from the play session. Diesel loped in right behind him.

Sean reached down and scooped Dante into his arms. The dog licked his master’s face, and Sean winced, pulling his head away.