Miranda James - Classified as Murder

“Come on, Dad,” Sean said, placing a gentle arm on my shoulder. “Watch where you’re going. You’re going to run into something.”

I had been so lost in thought I almost walked straight into the closed library door.

Officer Williams chuckled as he opened the door for us to exit. “Good night, gentlemen.”

We bade him good night, and I followed Sean to the front door. There was no sign of Truesdale, and I remembered belatedly that we were supposed to ring the bell for him when we were ready to leave.

“The bell,” I said, and Sean knew what I meant. He glanced about.

“Guess there isn’t one in the hall,” he said. “We could just leave, I guess. The door will probably lock behind us.”

I was tempted to follow Sean’s suggestion, but I decided that would be rude. Truesdale had made rather a point of my ringing for him when we were ready to leave. We were guests in his house, after all.

“How about if I stick my head in the kitchen and see if I can find him?” Sean said. “Point me in the right direction.”

I gestured down the left side of the grand staircase, and Sean headed off.

While I waited, I looked about me. The stairs were dimly lit, the second floor fading into the shadows as I gazed up. The house was also eerily silent. For a moment I fancied that, if I listened hard enough, I could hear whispers from long-silent voices.

Sean’s footsteps rang on the marble as he returned, and that brought me out of my reverie.

“He’s on his way,” Sean said. “I yoo-hooed when I reached the kitchen, and he popped out of some room at the back.”

Sure enough, Truesdale appeared then, and he strode past us to the front door. Sean and I turned to follow him.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Truesdale said as he opened the door. “At what time will you return tomorrow morning?”

“Nine,” I said, “if that’s not too early.”

“Not at all, Mr. Harris,” he responded.

I stared at him for a moment in the dimly lit entranceway but averted my eyes when he started to frown.

“Good night,” I said as we walked out into the cool of the evening.

“Did you notice anything on his face?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Sean said. “Little smudge near one corner of his mouth. Lipstick, you think?”

“Probably,” I said. “I wonder whose?” Daphne’s or Anita’s?

“He could have had company with him, wherever he was when I called out,” Sean said. “But I didn’t see or hear anyone.”

“No way to find out now,” I said.

During the ride home, neither of us spoke again. I think we were both far too tired. I knew I couldn’t wait to climb into bed, Diesel at my side, and try to get some sleep. I was too tired even to speculate much about the source of the lipstick on Truesdale’s mouth. Tomorrow, I decided in good Scarlett O’Hara fashion. I’d think about it tomorrow.

I halfway feared that Kanesha might still be there, listening to Stewart talking about the Delacorte family. But if anyone could persuade Stewart to get to the point, Kanesha could.

Only Stewart’s car was in evidence when we arrived home. I found to my great satisfaction that Stewart had put everything away. The kitchen looked like it did when Azalea cleaned.

There was no sign of either animal as Sean and I made our way upstairs.

“I guess they’re both with Stewart,” Sean said as we reached the second-floor landing. “Want me to go up and see?”

“Thanks,” I said. “I don’t feel like climbing any more stairs.” I turned toward my room as Sean continued up to the third floor.

As I came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, dressed for bed, Diesel strolled into the room and hopped up onto the bed. I climbed in beside him, and we regarded each other.

“I trust you had a good evening with Stewart.”

Diesel meowed, and I took that to be an affirmative. I reached over and started scratching his head. His purr rumbled out, and I smiled.

We “chatted,” as I liked to call it, for a few minutes. These chats consisted of my talking to Diesel and rubbing or scratching him, and of Diesel meowing or chirping in return. Then I was ready to turn off the light and try to get some sleep.

Diesel stretched out, his head on the other pillow, and I snuggled down to get comfortable.

I think I drifted off to sleep pretty soon, but at some point I was awakened by loud knocks on my door.

“What on earth?” I came bolt upright in bed and threw off the covers. Diesel stayed where he was, afraid of the noise.

I stumbled to the door and opened it.

Stewart Delacorte stood there, tears streaming down his face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed by his appearance.

“Eloise,” Stewart said, almost choking on the word. “Poor, sad little Eloise. She’s dead.”

TWENTY-NINE

“Eloise dead?” Was I having a bad dream? I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them, Stewart was still standing there, tearful. I felt the chill of the hardwood floor under my bare feet.

“I know; I can hardly believe it either,” Stewart said, a catch in his voice.

“Let’s go down to the kitchen.” I patted his shoulder. “Maybe a cup of hot tea? I know I could use one.”

“Yes, thank you.” Stewart turned toward the stairs. “Here’s Sean.”

My son was loping down the hallway toward us. Dante trotted beside him. “What’s going on?” He rubbed at his eyes and yawned. He wore a tattered jersey and some old athletic shorts. I noticed Stewart giving him covert glances.

“Stewart’s had some bad news. We’re going down to make some tea.” I felt a familiar body brush against my legs. Now that the loud racket was over, Diesel felt comfortable joining us.

Diesel led the way with Dante not far behind. As we descended, Stewart repeated what he had told me, and Sean expressed condolences.

I snapped on the light in the kitchen and headed immediately to fill the kettle with water. Sean took it from me and set it on the stove to heat. I checked the cabinet for tea and found some of the bedtime variety I liked. It had a soothing effect and helped me sleep sometimes when I was restless. This was what we all needed.

Stewart sat at the table with Diesel beside him and Dante in his lap. My cat, sensitive to distress as always, had one paw on Stewart’s leg as he stared up at the man and warbled for him. Stewart rubbed Diesel’s head and thanked him. Dante snuggled against him, and Stewart used his other hand to pet the dog.

Sean watched the scene with a bemused expression. Then the kettle whistled, and he added boiling water to the teapot I’d prepared.

Over tea Stewart revealed the few details he knew of Eloise’s death.

“Aunt Daphne found her,” he said. “She was so shocked she completely forgot about her own health for more than five minutes.” He grimaced. “Aunt Daphne had gone down to the kitchen to fetch more of the special brew she drinks to calm her nerves. She keeps a supply of it in her room and makes it there, but she had run out and went down to find more. Truesdale, who does all the grocery shopping, always makes sure there’s some in the pantry.”

He paused for a sip of tea. “Sorry, I’m rambling. That’s what happens when I’m upset about something. Anyway, Aunt Daphne went into the kitchen, where she found Eloise slumped over the table in the corner. At first she thought Eloise was sleeping, but then she realized something was wrong.”

I really did not want to hear any gruesome details, not after my own experiences with finding dead bodies. I sent up a quick prayer of thanks that I hadn’t been the one to find Eloise.