Miranda James - Classified as Murder

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Stewart said. Then he gave a dramatic sigh. “Eloise has the worst luck. You’d think that with all the time she used to spend with Uncle James, he’d have left her something of her own, apart from Hubert.”

“Eloise spent a lot of time with Mr. Delacorte?” I asked. That was something new, but I wasn’t sure whether it had significance.

“Oh, yes,” Stewart said. “Every afternoon during the week they’d have tea together. Uncle James had an incredible sweet tooth, and Eloise loves cookies, so they’d sit and drink tea and munch cookies. Sometimes right after lunch, too.”

Sean spoke up. “Dad, if you want to get any more done on the inventory tonight, we need to get back over there. It’s nearly seven-thirty.”

“I’ll clean up the kitchen,” Stewart said. “I can’t stand a mess.”

“Then you’ll get along fine with Dad and his housekeeper,” Sean said as he pushed back from the table. “Is it okay if I leave Dante with you?”

Stewart grinned. “Of course you can leave that precious dog with me. Uncle Stewart will take very good care of him.”

“Thanks for a delicious meal,” I told him. “And thanks also for cleaning up.” I followed Sean to the door into the garage. “Come on, Diesel.”

Diesel didn’t come. When I looked back, he was sitting by Stewart’s chair, gazing up at our new boarder. He put a paw on Stewart’s leg and chirped at him.

“That’s so adorable,” Stewart said. He turned in my direction. “Why don’t you leave him, too? I’ll be happy to watch both of them.”

I frowned. Diesel had obviously taken a fancy to Stewart. Or did he think, with me out of the way, Stewart would be the source of more buttered bread?

Cats are basically self-serving creatures, and in that respect, Diesel was no different from any other cat. He was also loving and loyal, and I suppose I was a little miffed that he didn’t want to come with me.

“Sure,” I said. “He’s probably tired. He can have another bite or two of bread, but that’s it.”

Stewart nodded. “Duly noted.”

As Sean and I left the kitchen, Stewart started singing in a very pleasant baritone. The strains of “All Things Bright and Beautiful” followed us out.

As I backed the car out of the garage, Sean said, “He’s quite a character, isn’t he?” He chuckled. “He really does remind me of Arthur.”

“He’s definitely different from what I expected, based on the first couple of times I met him. A lot more personable, for one thing.” I recalled those two scenes with distaste.

“He may turn out to be the only decent one in the batch,” Sean said. “Did you get anything useful out of all the gossip?”

“I think so,” I said. “I should probably talk to Kanesha right away, but I’d really like to have time to mull it over.”

“She can’t control your mind,” Sean said. “Or mine.”

I cut him a sideways glance. He was smiling.

“So you’re trying to solve this, too?” I asked.

“Don’t see why not,” he responded. “I have a trained legal mind, after all.” He paused. “Maybe I’ll become a private detective.”

Was he serious? I wondered. I had never heard him express an interest in the profession before. He was a mystery reader like me, however, and he wouldn’t be the first mystery lover to become a private eye.

“You’d be good at it,” I said. “At whatever you do.”

“Thanks,” he said.

I turned the car into the driveway of the Delacorte mansion. There were no official cars parked in front of the house. That made me a little uneasy until I remembered there would be an officer on duty in the library.

Few lights burned in the house that I could see, though the front door was lit. I rang the bell, and moments later the door swung open.

“Good evening,” Truesdale said. He stepped back to make way. As I moved past him, I cast a covert glance at his face. He looked exhausted, the lines of strain furrowed deep into his forehead.

“We’re sorry to trouble you,” I said. “We came back to work more on the inventory, at Deputy Berry’s request.”

“Yes, sir,” Truesdale said as he closed the door. “How late do you think you will work this evening?”

“Ten or ten-thirty, if that isn’t a problem,” I said.

“Very good, sir,” Truesdale responded. “Please ring the bell in the library when you’re ready to leave.”

“Thank you, I will,” I said.

Truesdale nodded before he left us. Sean and I walked down the hall to the library.

“Poor guy,” Sean said in an undertone. “Looks like he’s about ready to collapse any minute.”

“I wonder if he’s been able to get any rest,” I said as we drew close to the library.

A police officer, a grizzled veteran by the look of him, sat in front of the library doors. He glanced up as we approached, then stood.

“Good evening, Officer,” I said. I introduced myself and Sean.

The policeman, whose nameplate read Robert Williams, nodded. “I was told to expect you,” he said. He opened one of the doors and waved us in. “After you.”

“Thanks.” Sean and I stepped past him. The lights were still on, and I was glad of that. I hadn’t looked forward to stepping into a dark room. As it was, I couldn’t stop myself from glancing at the desk again, to make sure that there was no dead body there.

“It feels a little spooky in here,” Sean whispered to me. “It’s so quiet.”

I nodded. “Yes, a little.” I took a deep breath. “Let’s get back to work and see what we can accomplish tonight.” I strode over to the work table and pulled cotton gloves out of the box for both of us. I now had several pairs I needed to take home to wash. I hoped I remembered that by the time we finished work for the evening.

We resumed where we left off earlier in the day. I read the titles aloud to Sean, and he searched for them. We worked this way for about an hour, and we still had not found any missing items. I was beginning to think we would complete the inventory without finding a single book gone.

“What’s the next one?” Sean said as he slid a beautiful signed copy of Eudora Welty’s first short story collection, A Curtain of Green , into its proper place on the shelf.

I turned the page in the inventory book. I whistled. “William Faulkner’s Soldiers’ Pay . First edition, signed, published by Boni and Liveright in 1926.” I skimmed the rest of the description. “Beautiful condition, too. Near mint, which means it should look almost new and unread.”

I was not a huge Faulkner fan, I had to admit, but I couldn’t suppress a thrill at the thought of seeing Faulkner’s signature in a copy of his very first novel.

Sean was scanning the shelves. “It’s not one we’ve seen already, is it?”

I glanced over at the work table, where there were still two small stacks of books waiting to be restored to their proper place.

“No, I would remember it,” I said.

Sean squatted as he examined the two bottom shelves in one bookcase. “Here it is,” he said as he pulled it carefully from the shelf. He stood and opened the book. He frowned.

“What is it?” I said. “Something wrong with the book?”

“There’s no signature,” Sean said. “At least not on the title page. Let me check the endpapers.” With delicate precision, he examined each of the leaves that preceded the title page. He looked up at me. “No signature. And there are spots on the outer edges of the pages, too.”

To be completely certain, I read through the description in the inventory book again. Signed, near mint. No mention of foxed pages.

The book Sean held was an impostor. We had finally turned up an item stolen from the collection.