Classified As Murder

“Certainly,” I said, relieved. “Come on, Diesel.” The cat and I walked back to the front of the hall. Suddenly the house seemed oppressive. I could feel the weight of two centuries press down on me, and I had to step outside for a moment to shake it off.

I opened the door, and Diesel and I walked out onto the front porch. For the first time I realized the rain had ended, and the skies had cleared. I breathed in the cool air, and I felt a little of my tension ease. Diesel seemed calmer out here, too. He sat down and gazed up at me, almost as if he expected an explanation.

I wished I could give him one. I had a terrible feeling that James Delacorte’s death would turn out to be complicated, not merely death from a heart attack.

Movement out on the street caught my eye. A car from the sheriff’s department turned into the driveway, and I watched as it moved swiftly toward the house. The driver stopped behind the city patrol car.

As I watched, I saw a head with black hair arranged in a tight bun emerge from the passenger side.

I knew that hairstyle and the woman to whom it belonged.

My stomach twisted into a knot.

Finding me here would make her about as happy as a cat being forced to swallow a pill.

A very bad day was about to get worse.

THIRTEEN

The woman with that severe bun was Kanesha Berry, the only African American female chief deputy in Mississippi. She was also the daughter of my housekeeper, Azalea, and Kanesha wasn’t happy that her mama worked as a domestic. Azalea won’t put up with any sass from her daughter about her job, though. Kanesha chooses instead to focus her displeasure on me, as if I and I alone am responsible for her mother’s choice of employment.

Throughout the events of this past fall, when I was part of a murder investigation Kanesha conducted, I aggravated her more often than not in my attempts to assist. If she had known last fall that her mother put me up to it, she would have locked me up for sure. Concerned that her daughter should make a success of her first homicide investigation, Azalea urged me to use my inside knowledge of the victim and suspects to do a little nosing around on the side. I did poke around, and I discovered important information that Kanesha might not have found.

By the time that case ended, I thought we had managed at least a fragile rapprochement. Finding me in a house with another dead body, however, might shatter the small amount of goodwill I’d managed to win from her.

Kanesha and her fellow officer—I recognized Deputy Bates from our brief acquaintance in the fall—proceeded up the walk and up the steps onto the front porch. Kanesha stopped short the moment she spotted me. Bates, a step or two behind, almost bumped into her.

Her eyes narrowed, and I could almost read her mind. And I didn’t think her mother would appreciate the unladylike language going through her daughter’s head at the sight of me and my cat.

“Mr. Harris. What an interesting . . . surprise to see you here.” Kanesha clipped her words like a barber shaving new military recruits.

I couldn’t think of any response to that.

She eyed Diesel. The cat eyed her back and uttered two quick chirps. “You really do take that cat everywhere, don’t you?”

I didn’t think she really expected an answer to that, and I moved quickly to open the door for her and Bates. Diesel slipped through ahead of us.

Inside, I pointed the way down the hall to the library. Officer Hankins was walking toward us, but he stopped short when he saw Kanesha and Bates.

“Morning, ma’am,” he said, his face blank, his posture stiff.

Kanesha brushed past him. “Come with me, please,” she said.

Hankins trailed after her and Bates. Diesel and I remained near the front door. I wasn’t sure what to do. Hang around here in the hall, or find somewhere to perch and wait until someone wanted to speak to me?

I decided to stay put for the moment. I spotted a wooden bench against the wall a few feet away, and that seemed as good a spot as any. I sat down, and Diesel hopped up beside me. The bench was polished wood on top, and unyielding to the behind, but at least it was out of the way.

What I really wanted to do was go home. Maybe there I would be better able to keep the vision of the corpse out of my head. I shuddered.

Hoping to erase the image of Mr. Delacorte’s face, I turned my thoughts to Sean. What was he doing? If he knew what was good for him, he’d better be home by three, when Azalea left. I doubted she would go off and leave Dante alone in the house, and if Sean weren’t back when she was ready to go, she’d probably put Dante out in the backyard.

That was Sean’s problem, not mine, I reminded myself. He was a grown man, and he didn’t need his father minding his business for him. I hoped we would be able to get along for whatever length of time Sean lived with me. I didn’t want our relationship to become any more strained that it already was.

My thoughts inevitably returned to Mr. Delacorte.

Why would someone want to harm that old man?