Classified As Murder

“Your clothes smell like cigar,” I said before I thought about it.

Sean stiffened and pulled away. “Are you going to keep ragging on me about that? I’ll go sit out in the backyard naked when I smoke, and that way my clothes at least won’t stink.”

“Take it easy,” I said. “It wasn’t a complaint, and I didn’t say you stink.” It had been a complaint, I realized, but I also knew I had to watch my words more carefully as long as Sean remained prickly.

“Really?” Sean quirked an eyebrow at me, a gesture I had come to loathe during his teenage years.

“Really. I just noticed it, that’s all. It reminds me of my grandfather, my dad’s dad. He died when you were only three, so you probably wouldn’t remember him. He smoked cigars too, right up until the day he died, at eighty-four.”

“Huh.” Sean flashed a brief smile. “Guess it runs in the family, then.”

“It skipped a couple of generations,” I said wryly. “Now, how about you get out the plates—or should we use bowls? I’ll dish up this concoction of yours.” I set the lid aside and retrieved a ladle from the drawer.

“Dante, sit.” Sean spoke sternly to the dog, still hovering anxiously near his feet. He went to the cabinet and pulled out plates. “I’ve got some garlic bread in the oven. I’ll get it out when you’re done there.”

Dante sat. Diesel approached him and sniffed at him before assuming his regal cat pose next to the dog. They watched intently as I ladled the chicken and vegetables onto our plates. Sean set the table with silverware and napkins, plated the bread, and then pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge for himself. I had iced tea.

The food was tasty, and I complimented Sean on his efforts. “You’ll have to share your recipe with Azalea. She collects them.”

Up went the eyebrow again. “Uh-huh. Like Azalea’s really going to be interested in something I cooked.” He forked more chicken into his mouth.

Was he regressing to adolescence simply because he was under my roof again? I didn’t appreciate his flippant attitude.

“Watch your tone, young man,” I said, trying to keep my own sounding more jovial than peremptory, though I don’t think I was entirely successful.

“Relax, Dad,” Sean said. “I just think it’s funny that an amazing cook like Azalea would be interested in a recipe this simple.” He waved his empty fork over his plate.

Had my remark about sharing the recipe been the slightest bit patronizing? That might in part explain Sean’s reaction.

Perhaps it was time to change the subject. “I had an interesting time yesterday at tea with the Delacorte family.”

“How crazy are they?” Sean smirked. “Your friend Helen Louise seemed to think they’re pretty odd.”

“Helen Louise was right,” I said. “Mr. Delacorte is basically a charming, cultured man. But that family.” I shook my head as I remembered the antics of yesterday afternoon.

“Here’s an example for you. Eloise Morris, the wife of Mr. Delacorte’s nephew, Hubert, was coming down the hall stairs when I arrived. She was wearing a dress with a hoop-skirt straight out of Gone with the Wind.” I laughed. “And when she saw Diesel and me, she made a remark about there not being rats or mice in the house.”

Sean laughed. For a moment he looked like a boy again. He said, “That’s more than odd. It’s eccentric with a capital E. What about the rest of them?”

“The worst thing about the rest of them was their horrendous backbiting and bickering. And in front of a stranger. It was downright off-putting.” I made a moue of distaste.

“You wouldn’t like that,” Sean said.

“I didn’t,” I said. “It was appallingly bad manners, for one thing. It made me start thinking about whether I really want to go back there tomorrow.”

“Why not?” Sean seemed disgruntled, and I couldn’t figure out why. He went on, “What does it matter? You’re going to be working in his library, aren’t you? You probably won’t see them, unless you eat lunch with them. You can get out of having tea with them again.”

“I suppose so.” It was clear I wasn’t going to get any sympathy from my son. Not that I really needed any, I realized, now feeling faintly ridiculous. I was being needlessly skittish over dealing with the Delacorte family.

I was about to express this to Sean when I was startled by loud music. The strains of Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” rent the air.

“Sorry,” Sean muttered. He stood and pulled a cell phone from his trouser pocket. He glanced at it and muttered again, a word I preferred not to acknowledge. “Excuse me.” He strode out into the hall.

Dante ran after him. The poor dog wouldn’t let Sean out of his sight.

I got up to refill my tea glass, and I could hear Sean talking. He hadn’t gone far into the hall. I couldn’t help but hear his end of the conversation as I poured the tea.

“Stop calling me. I don’t owe you anything, I don’t care what you say.”

NINE

I finished pouring the tea and went back to my place at the table. From here I could no longer hear anything coming from the hallway.