Classified As Murder

Sean pulled out a chair and sat. Though he hadn’t shaved this morning, he looked neat enough in jeans and last night’s button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up below the elbows.

Azalea watched the animals for a moment. She shook her head. “Don’t look like much of a dog to me.”

Sean laughed. “He’s not so bad. I promise he won’t make any messes.”

“He better not,” Azalea said. “You best be eating that breakfast before it gets any colder.” She frowned at Sean as she examined his face. “You be looking like you need a good breakfast. Your face is too thin, but I can take care of that.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sean smiled at Azalea, and I could see her expression soften. “I love pancakes for breakfast better than anything. Three will be plenty, though.” He attacked his plate, cutting up the pancakes and drowning them in syrup. Azalea watched him for a moment and then, apparently satisfied, headed in the direction of the laundry room.

Sean forked pancake into his mouth, and he chewed with evident satisfaction. He swallowed. “These are the best pancakes I’ve ever had. At least since the time I had them at Christmas.” He ate more.

I’d have to be careful. If Azalea was determined to fatten Sean up, I might find myself adding a few pounds as well. I already had to battle the bulge, because there was nothing low calorie about Azalea’s food. Not that I was complaining, mind you, but I did exercise more now than I did before I moved back to Athena.

Sean glanced down at the floor beside him. “No, Dante, you can’t have any of this. Azalea would wring both our necks.” The dog sat, the epitome of patience and optimism, while Sean resumed eating.

I checked, and Diesel lay stretched out near my feet. As long as both pets stayed out of Azalea’s way, everyone would be happy.

“Are you going to ask Azalea about the Delacortes?” Sean asked. “Your friend said she used to work for them. Maybe you can find out how nutty they really are.”

“How nutty who be?” Azalea came back into the kitchen to hear the last of Sean’s remark.

“The Delacortes,” Sean said before I could respond. “Somebody told us you used to work for them.”

Azalea nodded. “About twenty-five years ago. Didn’t stay there long, though. Old Miz Delacorte, Mister James’s and Miss Daphne’s mama, she was pretty near impossible to work for. Always sore about something. She didn’t care who she lit into when she was mad, and that was most of the time.”

“No wonder you didn’t work there long,” Sean said.

“How come you want to know about them?” Azalea asked.

“James Delacorte has asked for my help doing an inventory of his book collection. I went there for tea yesterday afternoon and met his family.” I paused as I tried to think of a diplomatic way to express my feelings. “They behaved pretty oddly.”

Azalea shook her head. “You best be watching your back while you over there, Mr. Charlie. They is some kind of strange folks. Ain’t none of ’em worth the time of day, except maybe that butler fellow of Mr. Delacorte’s. He sure do work hard, and if you need something, you talk to him.”

“Yes, I met him yesterday,” I said. “He seems like a very competent man. But not from around here, of course.”

“He be some kind of Englishman Mr. Delacorte brought home with him years ago, once he decided to stop running around them foreign countries and come back to Athena where he was raised. I heard he used to be an actor over in England. He could sure be fancy when he wanted to.” Azalea picked up the coffeepot and brought it over to the table to refill our cups.

“Since I’m going to be working in the library with Mr. Delacorte, I hope I won’t see much of the family while I’m there.”

“That’ll be good,” Azalea said as she returned the coffeepot to its berth. “But I ’spect you gone be hearing from’em anyway. They gone be nosing around what you doing; you better count on that. Anything to do with money, they be real interested in, and I hear tell them books of Mr. Delacorte’s be worth a lot of money.”

“They certainly are,” I said. I hesitated for a moment, but curiosity won out over discretion. “Tell me, is Eloise Morris really crazy? Or is it some kind of act she puts on?”

Azalea folded her arms across her chest and regarded me for a moment. “She was a little bitty thing back then, always looked like you could knock her down by just waving at her. She married that no-account Hubert when she was seventeen, a couple of years before I worked for ol’ Miz Delacorte.” Her expression softened. “She was real sweet to me, and I never could figure out why she married into that family.”

“But was she eccentric back then?” On occasion Azalea meandered around the point, and I figured a little prodding wouldn’t hurt.

Azalea grimaced. “I heard tell her mama had to be locked in her room for years because she’d strip off all her clothes and go walking around the plantation as naked as the day the Good Lord brought her into the world. And I reckon poor Miss Eloise done took after her poor mama.”