Classified As Murder

Anita flapped her hand in the direction of the stacks. “The old fart’s back there at his usual table. Honestly, the man has more money than the Rockefellers. Why he keeps coming here when he could afford to buy whatever book he wants is beyond me.”

“It must be for the friendly atmosphere and dedicated customer service,” I deadpanned.

Behind me Lizzie guffawed. Anita shot me a look of pure loathing. I just smiled.

“Time for us to be heading home,” I said. “Come on, boy. See you later, Lizzie.”

Lizzie responded in kind, and Diesel and I headed for the area where Mr. Delacorte was working. He wasn’t at the table, but I spotted his dispatch case and left the final page of citations on top of it. On the way to the staff lounge we passed by Anita, dawdling at the water fountain instead of sitting at the desk. Once we passed her, Diesel warbled at me, and I nodded at him. “I know, boy; she’s one strange lady. Thank goodness we only have to see her once or twice a week.” I sighed. “And may the good Lord reward Mrs. Manscoe and the rest of the staff who have to deal with her on a daily basis.”

Diesel watched as I gathered my jacket and lunch bag from my locker. My volunteer shift ended at two, and I was ready to head home. It was Friday afternoon, and the forecast promised spectacular spring weather the next few days. I anticipated a relaxing weekend working in the yard and reading—all with the assistance of Diesel, of course.

On the way to the car, I remembered my appointment with James Delacorte tomorrow morning. I was looking forward to talking to him and finding out what he wanted.

A few minutes later, with Diesel in the car beside me, I approached my house.

A dusty late-model car with Texas plates occupied a spot on the street in front of the house.

I knew that car. It belonged to my son, Sean.

He hadn’t told me he was coming to visit. He’d been here only once—this past Christmas—since I moved back to Athena. Showing up out of the blue like this was unlike him. He had always been methodical and well organized, doing nothing without planning ahead.

My spirits sank. This couldn’t be good news.

TWO

After I pulled the car into the garage and shut off the ignition, I sat for a moment, speculating on Sean’s sudden appearance. When he spent the Christmas holidays with me and his sister, Laura, he had little to say to me. When I asked him anything about his job or his life in Houston, he brushed me off.

Clearly something was wrong, or he wouldn’t have turned up unannounced. Sean, like his late mother, invariably stuck to his prearranged schedule. Laura, younger by two years, was like me, flexible and easygoing. As an actress making her way in Hollywood, Laura had to adapt quickly to the uncertain nature of her profession.

Diesel head-butted my right arm a couple of times. That brought me out of my reverie.

“I know, boy; time to go in.” I needed to see my son and to assure myself he was okay.

I opened the door, and Diesel crawled across me and hopped to the garage floor. By the time I gathered my things and locked the car, he had the door to the kitchen open. He learned this trick recently, and I suspected my boarder, Justin Wardlaw, taught him.

I dropped my things on the kitchen table, and Diesel disappeared into the utility room to visit his litter box.

I left the kitchen and walked to the foot of the stairs.

“Sean, where are you?” I waited a moment and called again.

The house was still. Justin left this morning on a camping trip with his father and some other family members. The coming week was spring break at nearby Athena College, where Justin was a freshman. I had the week off too, as I’d mentioned to Mr. Delacorte, from the college library where I worked part-time as a rare book cataloger.

I felt pressure against the backs of my legs as Diesel rubbed himself against me. I turned to look down at him.

“Where do you think Sean is?” With his sense of smell he could locate Sean faster than I could, I figured.

Diesel gazed up at me as if he were considering my question. After a moment he padded around the stairs and down the hall toward the back of the house. As I followed him, I detected a faint whiff of something vaguely pleasant and spicy.

The cat stopped in front of the closed door onto the back porch. He chirped.

“Go ahead; you might as well.” He reared up on his hind legs and grasped the doorknob with his front paws. With a deft twist and a sharp push forward, he opened the door.

That alien scent was much stronger here, and I identified it. Sean must be smoking a cigar.

Before either Diesel or I could step out onto the enclosed porch, a barking dervish appeared in front of us. I think the cat and I both blinked in astonishment at the tiny bundle of champagne-colored fur hopping around and emitting loud noises.

“Dante, stop that.” Sean’s rich baritone came from the left end of the porch and had little effect on the dog.