Miranda James - Classified as Murder

I waited patiently until he finished, then invited him to take the chair beside my desk. When he was seated, I said, “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Delacorte?”

“You are knowledgeable about rare books, are you not?” His sharp eyes bored into mine, and for a moment I had the feeling I was about to be cross-examined.

“Yes, to a degree,” I said. “I’ve been cataloging the collection here for nearly three years, and I’ve developed a certain amount of expertise during that time. I don’t have an exhaustive knowledge of rare books in general, however.”

“Your level of expertise is sufficient,” Mr. Delacorte said in a tone that brooked no argument. “And you are a librarian, and a librarian, above all others, should know how to find information he needs.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, suppressing a smile. It was a rare pleasure to deal with someone with an obvious respect for my profession.

“You are perhaps not aware that I have an extensive book collection, with many rare and unusual volumes. I have spent many years in this endeavor and have found it most rewarding.” He nodded as if to emphasize his point.

“It must be quite a collection,” I said. “I had not heard about it, though.”

“I would like for you to see it,” Mr. Delacorte said. “It’s a pleasure to show my collection to someone who can appreciate it.” He paused. “I would also like to hire you to assist me with doing an inventory of it.”

“I’m definitely interested,” I said. “But how soon do you want it done? I have my work here, of course, and the volunteer work I do for the public library. That doesn’t leave me with much spare time, except on weekends.”

“I would like to have it done as soon as possible.” Mr. Delacorte frowned. “You see, I believe some items are missing, and I want to put a stop to the pilfering.”

FOUR

“You don’t know for sure that anything is missing from your collection?” I found Mr. Delacorte’s phrasing odd. Either things were missing or they weren’t.

“There are more than seven thousand items in the collection.” Mr. Delacorte’s voice was tart. “And I am not a young man, with a young man’s memory. I have been collecting for over fifty years now, and my memories of what I actually purchased decades ago are imprecise. I do have an extensive handwritten inventory, but there is no index.”

“I can certainly understand that,” I said in a placatory tone.

Mr. Delacorte continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Not only that, the collection is not as well organized as it should be, I must admit. Nor do I have the energy nowadays to go through the entire collection to determine whether something is missing.” He paused to frown at me. “That is why I seek the help of a professional.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “And I’ll be happy to assist you in any way I can.” My week of relaxation during spring break was about to disappear. “I have the coming week off, and I will do as much work during the week as I can.”

“That is very good of you,” Mr. Delacorte said, with a brief smile of approval. “I will pay you three hundred dollars an hour. I trust you find that sufficient?”

“That’s more than generous,” I said, slightly bemused. The money wasn’t really an issue. I would have done the job for far less, but I knew I would offend him if I tried to dicker with him.

But there was one condition I had to impose, and it could be a problem.

Almost as if he were reading my thoughts, the potential deal-breaker touched the back of my right shoulder with a paw and gave a little warble.

“How do you feel about cats, Mr. Delacorte?” I smiled as Diesel warbled again.

The seeming non sequitur appeared not to faze him. “I am rather fond of them, as a matter of fact. My own dear little friend passed away several months ago at the age of nineteen.”

“You have my sympathies,” I said. “They do add a lot to one’s life, don’t they?” After he nodded, I went on, “The reason I ask is that I’m accustomed to taking Diesel with me almost everywhere. He is very well behaved.”

Mr. Delacorte practically beamed. “I’d be delighted for you to bring such a fine fellow with you. He is very welcome in my home.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Then we have a deal. Would you like me to start on Monday morning?”

“Yes. How about nine o’clock?”

“That’s fine,” I said. “One more thing, before I forget, though. Do you have any idea who might be pilfering from your collection?”

“There are several possibilities,” Mr. Delacorte said. “Sadly, I fear they are all members of my family.” He paused as an idea seemed to strike him. “Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to meet them all before you start the job on Monday. Are you available this afternoon at four?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Then I’ll expect you for tea. It’s an afternoon custom in my home, a legacy of the years I lived in England several decades ago. And do bring Diesel with you.” He rose and extended his right hand.

I stood to shake his hand. “We’ll see you this afternoon at four. Now, let me just put on Diesel’s leash, and we’ll go downstairs to let you out of the building.”

A couple of minutes later, the front door locked behind us, Diesel and I bade good-bye to Mr. Delacorte. I waited until he was in his car and driving away before I turned to head for home. The morning was pleasant, not too cool, not too warm, and the walk home was most enjoyable.

Sean’s car was gone, I noticed when we approached our block. I hoped he hadn’t changed his mind about staying with me. Surely he wouldn’t have gone back to Texas.

By the time we reached the front walk, I could hear barking coming from inside the house. Feeling oddly reassured by Dante’s racket, I opened the front door, being careful not to let the excited poodle out. Dante moved out of reach when Diesel batted at him. I managed to squeeze in and shut the door, only to discover shreds of newspaper all over the hall and on the first three steps of the staircase. Dante had done what all bored, unhappy dogs do when they’re left alone. I felt sorry for the poor little guy, but I was going to leave this mess for Sean to clean up.

After removing Diesel’s harness, I checked the water and dry food supply in the utility room. Then I went upstairs to change into more casual weekend clothes.

By the time Diesel and I returned downstairs about twenty minutes later, Sean was back and in the kitchen, putting some bottles of beer in the refrigerator. Dante’s mess was gone, and the poodle lay on the floor a few feet away from Sean, his head down on his front paws. Diesel padded over to the dog and sat down beside him.

“Sorry about the newspaper, Dad,” Sean said as he shut the door of the fridge. “I scolded Dante for making such a mess. I don’t know how he got hold of the newspaper unless he jumped on the table somehow.”

I pointed to one of the chairs around the table, pushed back several inches. “He probably hopped up into the chair and then onto the table. But there’s no real harm done. He simply wasn’t happy about being left alone.”

“I know,” Sean said. “But I can’t take him everywhere I go. That’s just nuts.”

Two seconds later, he realized what he’d said. He started to apologize, but I waved it away. “Again, no harm done. You aren’t the first person to think I’m eccentric because Diesel goes almost everywhere with me.” I grinned. “Every Southern family worth anything has at least one eccentric among its ranks. And I’m it for the Harris clan.”