Classified As Murder

While I waited, I glanced around at the people in the room. The first person I examined was Eloise Morris. She sat between the sofas with her voluminous skirts spread about her. No chair was visible, so she had to have a stool of some sort beneath her.

The man on a sofa about three feet to her right had to be her husband, Hubert. Roughly my age, he wore an outmoded suit of fabric shiny from age and wear. His slickedback, shoulder-length dark hair flipped up at the ends in a fashion that reminded me of Marlo Thomas in her That Girl days. His face was nondescript, one easily overlooked in a crowd or even in a small group.

An elderly woman, obviously Hubert’s mother, Daphne, sat at one end of the other sofa and rubbed at her forehead with one hand while the other clutched at her throat. Her rusty black dress had seen better days, and her heavily lined face looked remarkably like that of her brother.

The final two family members, the great-niece and -nephew, had claimed chairs behind Hubert Morris. They both appeared about forty, perhaps a trifle younger. The great-niece, Cynthia Delacorte, could have posed for an illustration of an ice queen. Blonde, dressed in a cool shade of blue, she appeared completely detached from everyone and everything around her.

Her cousin, Stewart Delacorte, also blond, made an effective counterpoint. His eyes sparkled, his body language indicated total engagement as he eyed me and Diesel with curiosity, and his hands played restlessly with a small item I couldn’t identify. He was evidently shorter than Cynthia. Their chairs were identical but her head topped his by at least three inches.

“We have a guest for tea this afternoon. Actually two guests,” Mr. Delacorte said with a brief smile. “This is Mr. Charles Harris. He’s a librarian at Athena College, and he also works at the public library, where he has often been of great help to me.”

“I thought you looked familiar.” Stewart Delacorte nodded. “I must have seen you on campus. I’m an associate professor in the chemistry department.”

Before I could respond, James Delacorte continued. “That is my late brother Arthur’s grandson, Stewart. And next to him is my brother Thomas’s granddaughter, Cynthia.”

Cynthia inclined her head in regal fashion, but her eyes indicated her complete lack of interest in me and Diesel.

Mr. Delacorte went on with his introductions. “Eloise you’ve met. My nephew, Hubert, her husband, and my sister, Daphne, Hubert’s mother.”

“Good afternoon, everyone,” I said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’d like to introduce my friend here.” I rubbed Diesel’s head. “This is Diesel. He’s a Maine coon, and he’s almost three years old.”

Daphne Morris left off rubbing her forehead and stared at Diesel in obvious fascination. “That’s a cat?” Her voice was not much above a whisper.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Maine coons are pretty large. Diesel is actually larger than average for the breed.”

Eloise spoke then, rustling her skirts about her. “I really do think China tea is superior to Indian. I can’t abide Darjeeling, but I do adore Lapsang souchong.”

“Shut up, Eloise. No one cares what kind of tea you like.” Hubert’s voice, high and thin, startled me with its vicious tone.

Daphne practically moaned her words as she resumed rubbing her forehead. “Hubert, darling, please. My head aches so terribly today. Don’t make it worse.”

Stewart’s deep voice rumbled as he shot a glance of pure vitriol at Hubert. “Dearest Aunt, don’t pay any attention to silly Hubert. You know he yells at poor Eloise just to annoy us all.”

“What about that nineteen-year-old I saw you with the other night?” Hubert twisted in his seat to glare at Stewart. “It’s far worse than silly—it’s disgusting. Do his parents know he’s carrying on with a man twice his age? You make me sick.”

Both Diesel and I shrank back from the unpleasant scene unfolding before us. Diesel got behind me, and I was ready to bolt from the room. These people had no boundaries, talking about things like this in front of a stranger.

Eloise started singing, Stewart yelled something back at Hubert, and Daphne moaned even louder.

I gazed on in horrified fascination until I heard a strangled gasp from Mr. Delacorte.

His face was red, and he struggled to breathe. He clutched at his chest, and I was afraid he was having a heart attack.

SEVEN

I moved to assist Mr. Delacorte, but Cynthia pushed me out of the way. I stumbled backward and grabbed the mantel for support. She was a nurse, I remembered, from Helen Louise’s conversation about the family. I was relieved to have a professional intercede.

Cynthia reached inside Mr. Delacorte’s jacket pocket and withdrew a small bottle. She quickly opened it and shook out a tiny pill into her palm. She thrust it into his mouth under his tongue and stood back as she replaced the cap.