Miranda James - Classified as Murder

“I’d appreciate that.” Kanesha pointed to the final inventory book. “Did you look in there yet to see if Mr. Delacorte recorded the purchase of Tamerlane ?”

I shook my head. “No, I wanted to, but I figured I’d be in big trouble if I did.”

“Let’s look now,” she said. “And since you’re wearing those”—she pointed to my cotton gloves—“you do it.”

I had completely forgotten I had the gloves on. I glanced down at them and could see several cat hairs adhered to them. “Let me put on a fresh pair. I’ve been petting Diesel with these on.”

Kanesha nodded as I stripped off the gloves and shoved them in my pocket. I went to the work table and the box of gloves I had left there earlier.

With a fresh pair on my hands, I went back to the desk and gingerly opened the inventory volume. I riffled through the pages until I reached the last entry.

I groaned in frustration as Kanesha peered over my shoulder. “It’s not here. The last book listed is a first edition of Edith Wharton’s Ethan Frome , personally inscribed by her.” The Wharton entry ended on the verso of the page. I bent to examine the next page closely. What I spotted excited me. “Look here.” I pointed to the gutter between the pages. “A page has been removed, but the rest of the signature is intact.”

Kanesha frowned as she examined the gutter. “Signature? I don’t see any writing here.”

I went into brief lecture mode. “The text block—all of the pages inside the book—is composed of sheets, leaves, pages, and signatures. One sheet of paper is folded in half. One half of the folded paper is a leaf, and each side of the leaf is a page. A signature is two or more leaves of paper, or four pages, stacked and folded as a group. The signatures are then bound together, either with glue or stitching, to form the text block of the book. There are variations, of course, depending on the size of the book.”

I could have gone on, about folio sizes, quartos and octavos, and so on, but I figured that was enough of an information dump for the moment.

Kanesha nodded and peered even more closely at the gutter. Whoever detached the page—and I presumed it was Hubert—had done a very neat job of it.

Kanesha stood and rubbed the back of her neck. “If we presume the missing page contained the details about the copy of Tamerlane , then the obvious conclusion is that someone is trying to erase the record of the purchase.”

I brought up the point that I still found so perplexing. “In that case why didn’t he also remove the letters about the purchase from Mr. Delacorte’s desk?”

Kanesha shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t know about the letters.”

“Let me pose a different scenario,” I said. “What if the killer wanted those letters found?”

“What do you mean?” Kanesha frowned at me.

“What if the killer wanted us to think that the Tamerlane had been stolen? And what if there was no Tamerlane at all?”

“A wild-goose chase, in other words, meant to keep the investigation focused in the wrong direction.”

Kanesha didn’t sound as skeptical as I feared she might. “Have you been in contact with the book dealer who supposedly sold the Tamerlane to Mr. Delacorte?”

“Not yet,” Kanesha said. “It’s on my list, but I haven’t had time so far. But I think it will be the first thing I do tomorrow morning.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s after six in New York now.”

“I’ll be very curious to hear the outcome of that conversation,” I said.

Kanesha turned to Bates. “Go out to the squad car and see if there’s a bag big enough for this book. If not, I’ll have to get one of the crime scene guys out here to bag this thing up.”

Bates nodded. As he opened the door, he surprised Sean in the act of knocking. Sean stepped back, and Bates walked out.

Sean shut the door behind him when he entered. “I finally got that poor woman to settle down.” He grimaced. “Fortunately, her mother-in-law happened along, and I was able to let her take over.”

“I need to interview her,” Kanesha said. “As soon as Bates is back, I’ll go up to her room.”

“She’s probably calm enough now,” Sean said. “But whether you’ll get any sense out of her . . .” He shrugged.

“Deputy, if it’s okay with you, we’ll run home for something to eat now, but we’ll be back soon.” I peeled off the cotton gloves and placed them on the work table.

“Good idea. I’m pretty hungry.” Sean rubbed his stomach. “And besides, we have a new boarder to feed, don’t forget that.”

“New boarder?” Kanesha glanced at me.

“Stewart Delacorte,” I said. I should have remembered to tell her. “He says he’s afraid of staying here, now that he knows his uncle was murdered. So he’s going to board with me for a while, until he can find his own place.”

Kanesha didn’t appear any too pleased at the news. “He should have talked to me before he decided to move out of the house.”

“It’s not like he suddenly left town,” Sean said. “You know where he is, and if you need him, you can get to him. Besides,” he grinned at her, “this way Dad and I can pump him for all the dirt on the family. Not that we’ll have to do much pumping, I expect.”

Kanesha pondered that for a moment. “I reckon it’s okay. But you can tell Mr. Delacorte that if he decides to move anywhere else, he needs to let me know right away.”

Bates returned then, without a bag. “Nothing big enough,” he told Kanesha.

“Right, then,” she said. “Get on to the crime scene guys, tell them what I need, and have someone come over and pick up this book. I’ll send someone to relieve you in a couple of hours.”

Bates nodded and pulled out his cell. Kanesha turned back to me and Sean. “Y’all go on home, and if you can do some more work tonight, that would be great. The sooner I have an answer about thefts, the happier I’ll be.”

“Thanks, Deputy,” I said. “We’ll find you an answer as quickly as we can.” I motioned for Diesel to come out from under the table. “Come on, boy. Let’s go home.”

Diesel didn’t have to hear those words more than once. He knew what they meant. He hurried to my side, and I rubbed his head a few times. Then Sean preceded us out the door.

As we exited I heard Kanesha tell Bates she was going upstairs to question Eloise. I wished her luck on that, and I hoped poor Eloise had recovered from the incident on the stairs. Someone should take a belt or a baseball bat to Hubert for his treatment of his wife. I had absolutely no use for men like that.

On the drive home I asked about Eloise. “Did she say anything about the incident?”

“No,” Sean said. “At first all she did was cry, and I couldn’t blame her. He hit her hard enough to bruise her. Man, I’d like a few minutes alone with that jerk, show him what it’s like to be hit by someone bigger and stronger.”

“I know how you feel,” I said. “I sympathize, but I wouldn’t suggest actually doing it.”

“I know. But I’d sure like to.”

From the backseat, Diesel meowed loudly. Sean laughed and turned to look at him. “I’m glad you agree, cat.” He faced forward again.

“Did Eloise say anything?” I asked.

“After she stopped crying, she started rambling,” Sean said with a frown. “It was hard to make any sense of it, because each sentence didn’t connect to the one before it. She talked about cookies, the summer hunt ball, canning vegetables, and other stuff. Made me dizzy to listen to her. And she kept looking at me like I was supposed to know what she was talking about.”

“I suppose it’s the way her mind copes with unpleasant things,” I said. “Poor woman.”