Classified As Murder

“That’s very kind of you,” I said. “But my housekeeper has already prepared lunch, and I’d like to spend a little time with my son. He came home for a visit a few days ago.”

“Certainly, then,” Mr. Delacorte said. “Of course you must have lunch with your son.”

“I’ll be back by one,” I said. “I live only about ten minutes from here.” I laid the ledger aside. “I’ll leave my satchel, and Diesel and I will be on our way.”

“Good, I’ll see you then,” Mr. Delacorte replied.

Diesel jumped off the chair and followed me, chirping all the way. He knew we were headed home. Behind us, I heard Mr. Delacorte lock the door.

When we reached home, Azalea informed me that Sean had already eaten. “He had somewhere he was in a hurry to be getting to,” she said. “And he asked me to look after that little raggedy dog of his.” She threw a pointed glance at Dante, who lay disconsolate under the chair Sean usually occupied. Diesel went over to him and sat nearby, watching him. Dante’s tail began to thump against the floor.

“I’m sorry he lumbered you with the dog, Azalea,” I said. “He didn’t say anything to me this morning about any appointments. Did he say when he’d be back?” I went to the kitchen sink to wash my hands.

She frowned “No sirree, he sure didn’t. But I told him I’d be leaving here around three, and he’d better be back by then. All he said was, ‘Yes, ma’am.’” She frowned.

“I’ll talk to him and tell him you have better things to do than watch his dog for him.” I shook my head.

“I don’t mind ever’ once in a while,” Azalea said. “Just don’t want him making no habit of it.” She pointed to the table. “Now you set yourself down there and eat your lunch’fore it gets any colder.” She picked up a dust cloth and can of furniture polish. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

I suppressed a grin. Azalea liked to talk tough, but underneath that stern exterior lay an inner core of warmth and concern for the well-being of those in her charge.

I made quick work of the roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, and cornbread. Azalea thought a man had to have three full meals a day in order to keep up his strength, and I did enjoy her cooking. On the days she wasn’t here, however, I ate more sparingly to make up for meals like this.

By the time Diesel and I reached the Delacorte mansion, a gentle rain had begun to fall. I parked closer to the front of the house this time. Diesel wasn’t fond of walking on wet ground, so I scooped him up and hunched over to protect him from the rain as best I could. Trying to hold an umbrella and a large cat at the same time wouldn’t work, so I dashed for the front door and the protection of the verandah.

Truesdale had the door open before I could set Diesel down to do it myself. “Good afternoon, sir.” He stared out into the front yard. “We shall have a wet afternoon, I believe.”

“At least it’s not storming.” I wiped my feet on the mat before I stepped inside. Truesdale closed the door behind us as I put the cat down.

“Mr. James is in the library,” the butler said.

“Thank you. We know the way.” I smiled. There was no need for him to show me to the library every time I entered the house.

Truesdale inclined his head. “Of course.” He turned and walked away.

The library doors were closed. I hesitated a moment, and I wondered whether I should knock. Diesel sat and stared up at me. He warbled. I knocked on the door and then opened it.

“We’re back, Mr. Delacorte,” I said.

Diesel preceded me into the room.

I almost stumbled over the cat because he stopped about two inches inside the library. He made the rumbling sound I heard when he was frightened.

A quick glance toward the desk revealed the source of Diesel’s fear. I probably gasped myself.

James Delacorte sat behind the desk, as I had seen him earlier in the day, but with two startling differences.

His swollen tongue protruded from his mouth, and angry red splotches covered his face.

He sure looked dead.

TWELVE

I steeled myself to approach the desk and verify that Mr. Delacorte was indeed dead. The utter stillness of the body spooked me, and I had a sudden flashback from last fall, when I discovered another dead body.

I shook off that memory and stepped closer to the desk. Diesel, still muttering in a low-pitched rumble, remained where he was.

Mr. Delacorte’s right arm lay across the top of the desk, while his left hung down by the side of the chair. His torso reclined against the chair’s back. I suppressed a shudder of revulsion and felt for a pulse in the right wrist. The skin was cool to the touch.

The sound of my own harsh breaths filled my head and blocked out everything else except the touch of my fingertips on the dead skin. Even though there was no pulse, I continued to feel for one.

After a minute I let go and retreated to the door. Diesel scooted into the hall. I looked back one last time, perhaps to reassure myself that the dead body was really there and not a dream. I noted the time on my watch: 1:03 P.M.