Classified As Murder

My legs wobbled as I inched toward the front of the mansion. First I had to find a phone; then I would inform Truesdale. As I neared the stairway, I remembered the cell phone in my pocket, and with an unsteady hand, I pulled it out and called 911.

I answered the operator’s questions, feeling sick to my stomach. She wanted me to attempt CPR, but I insisted that Mr. Delacorte was beyond any help I could give him.

Diesel sat at my feet, quiet now, but trembling. I squatted and hugged him to me with my free hand in an attempt to reassure us both. He had never seen a dead human body, and the experience had clearly upset him. He knew the moment we stepped into the library that something was wrong. With cats having such a keen olfactory sense, I supposed the smell of death had both alarmed and confused the poor kitty. He rubbed his head against my chin and muttered softly. After a moment I released Diesel and stood, still listening to the operator and responding when necessary.

I had to find Truesdale and inform him of his employer’s death. I prayed that I wouldn’t encounter a family member because I had no idea how any of them would react. I wasn’t prepared to deal with histrionics right now.

Cell phone still stuck to my ear, I hurried down the hall on the other side of the stairs. Ahead lay a door that led, I hoped, into the kitchen, where I might find the butler. Diesel stuck to my side.

The hallway continued beyond the door, but at the end I saw light and heard ordinary sounds—a low hum of conversation and the clink of china. When I neared the open door, I could distinguish two voices. Both sounded male. As I stepped into the kitchen, I saw Truesdale handing a small wad of cash to a heavyset man dressed in rumpled work clothes.

“. . . rest of it in a few more days,” the butler said.

“You better,” the other man replied. “Ain’t gonna wait much longer.” He stuffed the money in his pants.

Telling the 911 operator to hold on a moment, I called out the butler’s name, and both men shifted position and looked my way.

Truesdale turned back to the other man and said, “That will be all for now. You may return to your duties.”

The other man mumbled a response and then disappeared out the back door.

“The gardener,” Truesdale said as he approached me. “What can I do for you, Mr. Harris?”

My face must have revealed my distress as I struggled for the proper words.

Truesdale’s tone sharpened. “What is wrong?”

“It’s Mr. Delacorte,” I said. I hated the bluntness of what I had to say, but there was no way to cushion the blow. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid he’s dead.”

The butler stared at me. “No, he can’t be. I saw him not half an hour ago, and he was fine.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I’ve called 911.” I brandished my cell phone.

Truesdale brushed past me at a run, and I turned to follow him. Instinct told me I had to stop him before he interfered with the body.

I ran, and Diesel kept pace with me.

I caught up with the butler right inside the library door. I held out a hand to detain him.

Truesdale tried to shake me off. “Let go of me this instant. Mr. James needs me.” His face reddened.

“There’s nothing you can do for him now.” I held on to his arm.

“How can you know that? You’re not a doctor.” Truesdale shook even harder in an attempt to loosen my grip.

“No, but he has no pulse, and he’s not breathing,” I said. “I’m sorry, but he’s dead. I did check him.”

Truesdale stared at the body of his employer, and all at once the fight left him. He stood beside me, trembling. His words came out in a strangled whisper. “My God, what have they done? What have they done?”

Did he think a member of the family killed James Delacorte?

Then I admitted to myself that the same thought lurked in my brain. I hadn’t acknowledged it until now. At first I thought Mr. Delacorte had a heart attack, and although that might turn out to be the case, I couldn’t get rid of the niggling doubt that his death was not natural. Did the victim of a heart attack have a swollen, protruding tongue and blotches on the skin?

If the death wasn’t natural, a member of his strange family was probably responsible.

The butler moved forward slowly, and I went with him, alert for any attempt to rearrange the body or disturb anything. He stopped in front of the desk and with a shaky hand reached out to touch Mr. Delacorte on the hand. Truesdale jerked back and moved away from the desk. His face held an expression of such utter grief that I had to look away.

“Come with me,” I said after a moment. “The paramedics will be here any minute. We need to let them in.” Guiltily I remembered the 911 operator and stuck the cell phone back to my ear. “I’m still here,” I told her.

Truesdale accompanied me without protest, and I saw tears stream down his face. He made no attempt to wipe them away. I reflected that one person, at least, would mourn James Delacorte.