Classified As Murder

“No, I’m not. I’ve thought about asking her out, but I don’t know that I want to jeopardize our friendship.” How would he react to that?

Sean remained silent for at least a minute. “It’s been almost four years, Dad. I think Mom would want you to be happy.” He didn’t look at me when he spoke. “You should ask her out.”

A sudden lump in my throat kept me from responding right away. When I could speak, my voice sounded hoarse. “I’ll think about it. You sure you wouldn’t have a problem with me dating someone?”

“I wouldn’t, and neither would Laura. We’ve both been worried about you.” Sean cut me a sideways glance.

“I’m doing okay, I promise you. It’s been rough on all of us, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about your mother. She’s always with me.”

“I know, Dad.” Sean’s voice was husky, and for a moment I thought he might burst into tears. “Me, too.”

We finished the walk home in uneasy silence. Uneasy on my part, at least.

Sean seemed completely absorbed in his own thoughts. I hesitated to initiate a new conversation because of the emotionally charged one we had just finished. Now did not seem like a good time to bring up the subject of Sean’s having quit his job.

I glanced down at Diesel now and then, and each time I caught him looking up at me. I think he sensed my mood and was keeping an eye on me. He chirped at me, and I rubbed the top of his head to reassure him.

Dante seemed oblivious to it all. He kept finding interesting scents, and Sean had to urge him along.

By the time we reached home, I was ready for some time on my own. Sean took the cake box into the kitchen, and I waited for him to come back. When he did, I asked if he had any plans for the afternoon.

“Not really,” Sean said. “I thought maybe I could use the computer, check e-mail.” Dante danced around his feet.

“Sure, whenever you like,” I said. “But I had a wireless network installed right after the holidays.” I gave him the password. “You can even sit out in the backyard and use it.”

“That’s cool. I have my laptop with me. I’ll test it out.” He jogged past me on the stairs. Dante ran on ahead.

“I’ll be back by six, I’m sure,” I called out to him as he reached the head of the stairs. If he heard me, he gave no sign.

I plodded the rest of the way upstairs. Diesel had disappeared, probably to use the litter box and have a snack of his crunchies before joining me upstairs. I wanted to relax for a while before I had to get ready for afternoon tea with the Delacortes.

At three forty-five Diesel and I were in the car on the way to the Delacorte mansion. The Delacortes lived in the oldest part of Athena, where the town’s first families built their homes during the cotton boom of the early nineteenth century. Many of the same families still owned the houses, though most of them were not nearly as wealthy as they had been two centuries ago.

When we turned onto the street where the mansion was located, I felt a sense of déjà vu. It took me a moment, but then I remembered having come here a couple of times on field trips in school when we were studying the antebellum period and the Civil War. The old Honeycutt mansion on the corner often hosted tour groups. The family had held on to much of the furniture from the early period, along with portraits and other family memorabilia. My high school history teacher, Mrs. Pittman, a descendant of the family, loved bringing her classes to visit the place.

The Delacorte mansion, set far back from the street, was easily one of the largest on the block. It was a massive building in the Greek Revival style so popular in the South before the Civil War. There had surely been additions over the years, however, because most of the other mansions on the street were only about half the size of it. The additions harmonized with the original architecture, however, and the result was a stunning achievement.

I pulled into the driveway, flanked by a row of oak trees on either side. The drive wound through the grounds until it separated into two. One branch continued around the back of the house, and the other looped in the front. I followed that branch and parked the car a few feet past the walk leading up to the front porch.

Diesel and I exited the car and headed up the walk toward the imposing double front doors. We mounted the five steps up onto the verandah. I lifted the knocker and banged it a couple of times.

Moments later the doors swung open to reveal a tall, gaunt man who looked to be in his late sixties, dressed in a dark suit. “Good afternoon.” He stood aside to let us enter, frowning as he gazed down at Diesel. “You must be Mr. Charles Harris. And companion.” He shut the doors behind us. “Mr. Delacorte is expecting you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “This is Diesel.” As if on cue, my cat meowed. The butler did not appear amused.

I paused in the entrance to stare at my surroundings in awe. At any moment Scarlett O’Hara could come sweeping out of one of the rooms saying “Fiddle-dee-dee” or “Tomorrow is another day.”