Classified As Murder

Mr. Delacorte sighed. “My nephew’s wife has a somewhat tenuous acquaintance with reality much of the time. She’s a dear girl and does no harm to anyone, but when she is in one of her less-lucid periods, she often dresses like Scarlett O’Hara.”

“She did look very charming,” I said, trying to be diplomatic. “Although, I must admit, for a moment I thought I was seeing things.”

“Eloise tends to have that effect on people,” Mr. Delacorte said dryly. “Eloise’s husband, Hubert, is the son of my sister, Daphne, who is a widow. They will both be present for tea, as will the rest of the family. Afternoon tea on Saturdays is almost a ritual for us.” He allowed a brief smile.

“A pleasant one,” I said.

Mr. Delacorte went on. “In addition there are Stewart and Cynthia, the grandchildren of my two deceased younger brothers. They all live here in the family home.”

“I look forward to meeting them all,” I said.

“None of them is particularly charming,” Mr. Delacorte continued with ruthless candor. “Though I have done what I can to see that family obligations are fulfilled.” His face darkened for a moment. “To think that one of them is stealing from me—well, it’s infuriating, after everything I’ve done for them.”

“Any clues at all that point to one of them specifically?” I felt Diesel rubbing against my leg. Mr. Delacorte’s suddenly sharp tone had probably made him nervous. I scratched his back for a moment.

“Not yet, though I can certainly rule out Eloise.” Mr. Delacorte’s voice softened. “She can be quite intelligent when she’s lucid, but I think slyness of this sort is beyond her. The same goes for my sister, Daphne. She is too preoccupied with the state of her health to pay attention to anything else.”

“She’s an invalid, then?” I asked.

Mr. Delacorte snorted, and his face gained a splash of color. “To hear her tell it, she is. But from my perspective it’s nothing more than a hobby.”

That was an odd way of describing it, I thought, but I could see what he meant. When I was a branch manager in the Houston Public Library system, I had encountered two different people, one of each gender, who came to the library at least once a week to consult medical reference books. Both of them appeared convinced they had a whole host of ailments, although they looked fine to me—physically, at least.

“No, the thief has to be one of three people: Hubert, Stewart, or Cynthia. Both Stewart and Cynthia are bright and fully capable of such a thing.” Mr. Delacorte paused to grimace. “Hubert is not very bright, but where money is concerned, he’ll go to great lengths to get it without actually having to work for it.”

I wasn’t certain what further response was expected of me, so I nodded and waited. Diesel had settled down again by the side of my chair.

Mr. Delacorte stood and gestured with both arms out-flung. “Here is the collection, of course. On Monday I will give you a tour of it, so to speak, before we begin work. If I start showing it to you now, we will never make it to tea.”

“I’m certainly looking forward to seeing it all,” I said. “I’m sure you must have many fascinating items.”

“Yes, I do,” Mr. Delacorte replied. “This collection has afforded me great satisfaction over the years. Building it has been a labor of love. As physical artifacts, books are astonishing.” He shook his head. “I simply cannot understand this current fascination with books on the computer. They’re nothing but a string of words on a screen. I can’t imagine relaxing with some sort of computer to read. But then I suppose I am a dinosaur, in this as in so many things.”

“You’re not alone,” I said, rather moved by his eloquence. “For those who like electronic books, they’re fine. I’m delighted they’re reading. But I’d rather hold a physical book in my hands.”

Mr. Delacorte nodded. “Just so. I’m grateful you have agreed to assist me, Charlie.” He ambled around the desk. “Now let’s go have some tea.”

Diesel and I followed him to the door and down the hall to what I would have called the living room had it been in my house. That name was far too pedestrian for the beautiful chamber we entered. “Parlor” or “drawing room” seemed more suitable.

As large as the library, this room also had bay windows in both outside walls, and the furniture no doubt represented a fortune in antiques. There were so many beautiful objects in the room that I couldn’t take many of them in as I followed Mr. Delacorte toward the fireplace. Two large sofas were placed at right angles to the fireplace, facing each other. A heavily carved, elongated table—was it rosewood?—separated them. Chairs were placed behind the sofas, and a small settee completed the rectangle, oriented to the fireplace, about three feet from the two sofas.

The desultory chatter I heard when we first entered petered out by the time Mr. Delacorte stood in front of the fireplace and faced his family. I stopped with Diesel about three feet away and waited for my host to introduce us.