Classified As Murder

“What did you do then?” Kanesha shifted in the chair. “Tell me every detail you can remember.” I drew a deep breath to steady myself. “I paused in the doorway. Diesel was acting skittish about going into the room, almost as if he knew Mr. Delacorte was dead. Then I saw Mr. Delacorte, and I realized something was wrong.” Though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I described how the body looked to me.

“Go on,” Kanesha said when I paused.

“I checked for a pulse,” I said. “But there wasn’t one, and he wasn’t breathing. Diesel and I left the room, and I glanced at my watch. It was 1:03 then. On the way to the front of the house, in search of a phone, I remembered I had my cell phone and called 911. Then I went to find the kitchen, because I thought that’s where I might find Truesdale.”

“And did you find him there?”

“Yes, he was talking to a man, the gardener I think he said, and giving him some money. The man left, and I told Truesdale Mr. Delacorte was dead. Truesdale rushed out of the room, and I went after him. I knew he’d want to see for himself, and I didn’t want him to disturb the body.”

“Did you enter the library again?” Kanesha glared at me.

“Yes. I caught up with Truesdale at the door, and I had to restrain him from rushing in. He was clearly upset and thought he might be able to help his employer. But I told him it was no use.” I paused, remembering the butler’s distress. “He did go close enough to touch Mr. Delacorte’s hand, briefly, but after that I persuaded him to come with me to the front door. I knew the paramedics—and probably the police—would be arriving any minute.”

“That’s clear enough.” Kanesha nodded. “Now, let’s back up. You said Mr. Delacorte hired you to do an inventory of his book collection. Any particular reason he decided to do that?”

“He thought someone was stealing from his collection.” I hesitated. “He suspected a member of his family was responsible.”

Kanesha’s eyes narrowed. “Did he say which member of the family he thought was stealing from him?”

“He didn’t,” I said. “Although he apparently thought that neither his sister, Daphne Morris, nor her daughter-in-law, Eloise, was capable of theft.”

“Were books missing from the collection?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. At the risk of irritating her, I decided I’d better explain how the collection was arranged and how the alleged thief had screwed up the order of the books.

She listened patiently and caught on very quickly to the significance of what I was telling her.

“I managed to get through only part of the first range of shelves before lunchtime,” I concluded. “And in that first section, at least, I didn’t discover anything missing. There are many more shelves and books to inventory, though.”

“And the only way to figure out whether any books are missing is to complete the inventory.” Kanesha shook her head. “Then I guess it will have to be completed.”

“Are you saying there’s something suspicious about Mr. Delacorte’s death? That he didn’t simply have a heart attack?” That was the conclusion I drew from her statement, but whether she would confirm it, I had no idea.

Kanesha stared at me for a moment before she answered. “I’ll say this much. Unless he poisoned himself for some reason, it’s murder.”

FOURTEEN

Poisoned? “That’s horrible.” I shuddered and tried not to visualize the corpse again.

“We can’t rule out suicide or accidental death yet.” Kanesha spoke in an official manner, but her expression betrayed her skepticism. She thought James Delacorte was murdered, I was sure.

“I can’t imagine he would commit suicide.” I shook my head. “If he wanted to kill himself, I don’t think he would have been so intent on having that inventory done.”

“Maybe,” Kanesha said. “I can’t afford to rule anything out, at least until we have more information. What I told you about poison goes no further than this room, understood?”

That baleful gaze of hers—I wanted to squirm like a schoolboy who’s been caught shooting spitballs.

“Of course.” By telling me this, was she also letting me know I was not a suspect?

No, I decided; she was too professional not to keep me on the list. She also knew her mother would have a few choice things to say if she gave me a hard time.

A knock sounded at the door. Kanesha turned toward it and called out, “Come in.”

Officer Grimes, the younger of the two city cops, opened the door and took one step inside.

“Excuse me, ma’am, for interrupting.” Grimes glanced at me before he focused on Kanesha. “Some guy outside, says he’s a lawyer. Insists on talking to Mr. Harris here.”

“A lawyer?” I frowned. “I didn’t call . . .” Light dawned. “That’s my son, Sean.”

Kanesha grimaced as she stood. “Tell him okay.”

Grimes stepped farther into the room and opened the door. Sean hovered on the threshold, and the young cop beckoned to him.