Classified As Murder

“That would explain it, then,” I said, feeling sorry for Eloise Morris.

“My friend Lorraine be the cook there now,” Azalea said. “She tells me things sometimes. Mr. Delacorte pays her real good; otherwise, she wouldn’t still be working there.”

“Mr. Delacorte seems like a very nice man,” I said. “It’s a pity his family is so strange.”

“He be one acorn that didn’t fall too far from the tree, Mr. Charlie,” Azalea said, her expression enigmatic. “Don’t you go trusting him too much.”

TEN

“Why not?” I asked, surprised. “I don’t know much about him, I’ll admit. I have to say, though, he’s treated me with respect and courtesy.”

“He got good manners.” Azalea nodded. “I’ll give him that. But you don’t reckon a man makes that much money being nice to people, do you? They say he was mean as ole Satan himself when it come to business. Don’t nobody get in his way.”

I hadn’t really thought about Mr. Delacorte as a businessman since I knew him only through our interactions at the public library. Though he was always pleasant, I had sensed a core of steel beneath the politeness.

“He’s not still in business, is he?” Sean put his fork down on his empty plate.

“No, he retired about ten years ago,” Azalea said. “When he turned seventy-five, I think it was.”

“How does he treat his family? Like he did his business rivals?” Sean surprised me by taking such an interest in this gossip. Maybe he was coming out of his funk.

Azalea’s response was tart. “He give ’em all a home, didn’t he? Miss Daphne, Mister Hubert, and Miss Eloise be done living in the poorhouse, Mr. James ain’t take ’em in.” She snorted. “Miss Daphne’s husband was some sorry excuse for a man. Couldn’t keep a job and took to drinking real bad. Drowned hisself in a swimming pool. And Mister Hubert ain’t much better than his daddy, ’cepting he ain’t bad to drink.”

Sean regarded me quizzically. “Sounds like really nice folks you’re going to be associating with, Dad.”

“You better heed my words, Mr. Charlie. Whatever time you spend in that house, you don’t turn your back on them people.”

I tried to make light of the situation, though Azalea’s pronouncements about the family made me increasingly uneasy. “Diesel will be with me, and he’s as good as a watchdog.”

Hearing his name, Diesel sat up and meowed.

Azalea eyed my cat askance, clearly unimpressed by my claim. “He’s big, the good Lord knows.” She glanced at the clock. “I can’t be standing around here talking no more. I got to get the washing going. You mind what I told you now.” She headed for the laundry room.

“Seriously, Dad,” Sean said the moment Azalea was out of earshot. “Are you really sure you want to get mixed up with this bunch? The more I hear about them, the more I think you were right in the first place. Why don’t you call Mr. Delacorte and tell him you’ve changed your mind?”

“I’ll admit I’ve had some qualms.” I folded my linen napkin and laid it beside my plate. “But I decided that, as long as I can keep away from the rest of the family, I’ll make it through fine.”

“What happens if Mr. Delacorte wants you to take tea with him and his family again? I know you, Dad. You’re too polite for your own good. You won’t be able to say no.”

Did I imagine a slight edge of scorn in my son’s tone? My reply was a bit heated. “There’s nothing wrong with good manners. Mr. Delacorte is a gentleman. If I decline an invitation politely, he won’t press me to change my mind.”

Sean rolled his eyes at that. “It’s all too Miss Manners for me. I guess you know what you’re doing.”

“Thank you,” I said. I decided there was no point in delaying any longer as I stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I want to freshen up before I leave for the Delacorte house. Come on, Diesel.”

“See you later,” Sean called out as Diesel and I left the kitchen.

A few minutes before nine I parked in the shade of one of the massive live oaks that lined the Delacorte driveway. The tree had to be hundreds of years old, and there were others of similar size and age on the grounds, all of them festooned with Spanish moss. For a moment I fancied I had stepped backward in time a couple of centuries to around the time the house was first built.

The sound of traffic on the nearby street and the mewing of my cat brought me back to reality. I released Diesel from his safety harness, grabbed my satchel, and got out of the car with my cat.

I stood for a moment and stared at the facade of the house. After a couple of deep breaths, I headed up the walk. Diesel strode along beside me.

Truesdale opened the door as I raised my hand to knock.

“Good morning, Mr. Harris.” He stood back to allow me and Diesel to enter, then carefully shut the door behind us. “Mr. Delacorte awaits you in the library.”

“Thank you, Truesdale,” I said. Before I could say that I knew the way and would announce myself, the butler headed toward the library.

After all the English mysteries I’ve read, I should have realized there were no shortcuts with a butler. Diesel and I trailed in the man’s wake.