Classified As Murder

I was touched by his evident concern. “Thank you. I’m okay, just tired. If you wouldn’t mind making sure the doors are locked and the lights off when you come up to bed, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure thing,” Sean said. “Good night.” He turned for the kitchen. “Come on, Dante.”

Diesel warbled and rubbed against me as we watched my son and his dog leave the room. I scratched the cat’s head, noting that I no longer had to bend to do it. He had grown a bit taller the last couple of months. Surely he would reach his full growth soon. Maine coons generally did by the time they were three, and I estimated Diesel was close to that by now. Dante looked almost like a pygmy beside him.

Upstairs, some minutes later, I climbed into bed. I was so tired, I didn’t feel much like reading. Diesel was in his usual spot, and I decided to turn out the light and try to sleep.

Try was the operative word, I discovered. When I closed my eyes I kept seeing James Delacorte at his desk, dead. His body hadn’t been a particularly gruesome sight, more unsettling than anything. I had barely known the man, but his death upset me more than I realized earlier. Others, particularly his family, might have had legitimate grudges against him—or not—but to me he had been unfailingly courteous.

The thought that he had been poisoned made me angry. If that proved to be the case, I would do my best to aid Kanesha in rooting out the killer. I felt a bit like Nemesis, I suppose.

That reminded me of Miss Marple and the novel in which an elderly millionaire hired her to serve as Nemesis and avenge an old crime. I wouldn’t put myself in Miss Marple’s league, but she was certainly a fine role model.

I did my best to calm my thoughts and drift off to sleep. I was in that in-between state, ready to slip off at any moment, when the phone rang and startled me fully awake again.

I squinted at the luminous numbers of my bedside clock. Who would be calling me at 10:28?

Perhaps it was my daughter, Laura. She sometimes forgot about the time difference between here and Los Angeles and called after I had gone to bed.

As the phone kept ringing, I squinted at the caller ID. It appeared to be a local number, but I didn’t recognize it. Obviously not Laura.

I picked up the receiver and spoke into it, identifying myself. For a moment all I heard was harsh breathing. I was about to hang up when a voice with a pronounced Mississippi twang spoke.

“Mind your own business, Harris. Stay away from the Delacortes if you want to stay healthy.”

For a moment I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Had I suddenly stumbled into a Hardy Boys book? This was ridiculous.

It was probably the wrong thing to do, but it was late, and I was very tired. I laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Why should I take your threat seriously?”

All I heard in response was heavy breathing. Then the voice spoke again. “You’d better take this seriously, or your family will regret it.” The pitch rose with every word, until the final three syllables came out as little more than a squeak. The caller slammed the phone down in my ear, and I winced.

Diesel had moved to sit beside me during the conversation, and now he placed a paw on my arm and warbled. It sounded almost like a question, thanks to the inflection.

“I’m okay, boy,” I said as I rubbed his back. “Just some idiot on the phone.” I figured the cat, thanks to his keen hearing, must have picked up on the caller’s tone, and that made him uneasy.

I had laughed in the caller’s ear, but now that the phone was back on the hook, I began to wonder if I had responded rashly. What if the caller was the person who killed James Delacorte? Had I really annoyed the killer by my attitude? How would the killer respond?

Put the brakes on, I told myself. The sheriff’s department was still trying to confirm whether a crime had actually taken place. I felt in my heart that Mr. Delacorte was murdered, though. It was too convenient, somehow, that he died when we started working on the inventory to uncover possible thefts.

I should take the call seriously, I decided. I picked up the phone and punched in a number I knew all too well.

Moments later I was connected with Kanesha Berry. Did the woman ever go home?

“What’s going on, Mr. Harris? I presume you have a good reason for calling?” The waspish tone irritated me, but I forbore responding in kind.

“Yes, I thought you should know that I’ve received a threatening phone call.”

“What?” In the background I heard a sound like a book banged against a hard surface. “Details. What did the caller say?”

I repeated the conversation, as near verbatim as I could. “And if you can hold on a sec, I’ll give you the number from my caller ID.”

“You mean to tell me that an actual number came up on your caller ID? From a threatening phone call?” Kanesha snorted into the phone. “How stupid is that?”

“I know,” I said. “I thought it was pretty odd myself. That’s why I said what I did to the caller.” I read out the number.