Classified As Murder

I had no business listening to my son’s private phone conversations anyway, I told myself.

Sean reappeared then, and it was obvious he was annoyed.

“You look upset,” I said.

He shrugged. “Stupid phone call from someone I used to work with.” He sat down. “Dante, stop hopping around. Sit.”

The dog sat, chastened by the rough tone. Beside me, Diesel chirped a couple of times, and I scratched his head.

I figured any questions about Sean’s former coworker would not be welcome, and I decided not to risk the rebuff.

Sean regarded his food with what looked like distaste, as if he had suddenly lost his appetite. He stood, picked up his plate, and took it to the garbage can under the sink. He scraped the food off and stuck the plate in the sink.

“I’ll clean up later,” he said. He strode around the table and snapped his fingers. “Come on, Dante, want to go outside?”

The dog stood and wagged his tail. Diesel perked up too—he knew what outside meant.

“Diesel wants to come, if that’s okay with you,” I said.

“Sure,” Sean said. “Think I’ll relax on the back porch a while, have a cigar, let the boys play in the yard.”

“Fine.” I watched as he left the room, the “boys” right on his heels.

The rest of the day was quiet. I caught up on my e-mail and finished the book I’d been reading. Diesel wandered into my bedroom mid-afternoon and leapt on the bed, where he remained until dinnertime, having a good old snooze. I joined him for a while.

Downstairs again early that evening I found another note on the fridge. Sean had gone out, taking Dante with him. He would see to his own dinner later.

That disappointed me, but I had to recognize the fact that Sean needed time on his own to work through his problems. He had sought refuge with me, and I had to remember that. Surely at some point—before too long, I hoped—he’d be ready to confide in me.

Diesel and I had a quiet evening, spent mostly in my bedroom. Diesel napped some more, and I read. I heard Sean come in around eight. My door was open, but he didn’t stop by as I’d hoped he might.

The next morning, by the time Diesel and I made it downstairs around seven, Azalea Berry, my housekeeper, was already in the kitchen and busy at the stove. In her late fifties, Azalea worked for my aunt Dottie for twenty years. When Aunt Dottie left me her house, she also in a sense bequeathed me Azalea. The day I moved in, Azalea was here to greet me. She informed me that Aunt Dottie wanted her to keep house for me, and as far as Azalea was concerned, that was that. I really had no say in the matter, and, truth be told, I found having a housekeeper much more congenial than I would have predicted.

Particularly on Monday mornings, when a stack of three pancakes and several pieces of bacon waited at my place at the table, along with a steaming cup of coffee. The newspaper lay beside my plate.

“Good morning, Azalea. How are you?” While I sat down to start my breakfast, Diesel disappeared in the direction of the utility room.

Azalea spoke without turning her attention away from the stove. “Tolerable, Mr. Charlie, tolerable. And yourself?”

“I’m doing fine,” I said. “With food like this, the day has to be good.” I sipped at my coffee.

“A man should have a solid breakfast to start off his day.” Azalea piled three pancakes on a plate, added some bacon, and set the plate on the table across from me. “That son of yours better get down here before this food gets cold.”

“How did you know . . .” My voice trailed off as I realized the answer. “His car, of course.”

Azalea didn’t bother to reply as she turned back to the stove.

“He might not be down for breakfast. He’s been sleeping a lot. I think he was working way too much, and he’s come to visit for a rest. Oh, and he’s brought a little dog with him, a poodle named Dante.” I was rambling a bit, but Azalea tended to have that effect on me.

“Still don’t mean he shouldn’t eat regular,” she said. “And that dog better not be making no messes on my clean floors. Else he be learning to live outside.”

I suppressed a smile, even though Azalea still had her back to me. I was convinced she had eyes in the back of her head, like my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Tenney, who never missed a thing going on in her classroom.

“Dante seems to be house-trained,” I said. “Sean is good about letting him out in the backyard to do his business.”

Diesel reappeared under the table, near my feet. He stayed out of Azalea’s way. He was also hoping for a bite of pancake or bacon, but Azalea wouldn’t be too happy if she caught me slipping her food to the cat.

“Good morning, everyone. I knew you were here, Miss Azalea, because something sure smells good, and I’m starving.” Sean walked into the kitchen while Dante scampered about until he spotted Diesel under the table. The dog barked joyfully and advanced to greet his playmate. Diesel regarded the poodle for a moment before placing a paw on Dante’s head. The dog laid down, and Diesel licked one of his ears.