Classified As Murder

I trailed in his wake like a dory attached to the QE2. I knew there were people in the room, but at the moment I concentrated all my attention on the lawyer. If I focused on Pendergrast, I reasoned, I wouldn’t have to think as much about potential histrionics among the family members.

Pendergrast halted before the fireplace and faced his audience. I took position about four feet to his right, beyond the edge of the mantel, while the lawyer cleared his throat.

“Morning, everyone. I regret having to meet with you under such sad circumstances, especially when I know y’all are in mourning for a beloved member of the family.” Pendergrast smiled, and the image of a wolf stalking its prey popped into my head. “I’m sure y’all are wondering why Mr. Charles Harris, here, is with me. James named Mr. Harris my coexecutor, so there is an official reason for his presence.”

I heard an indrawn breath from a person in the room when Pendergrast introduced me, but when I turned to survey the family, I couldn’t tell from whom the sound originated.

“Good morning,” I said. “Please allow me to express my deepest sympathies for your loss.” I could have said more, but I tended to babble in situations like this. Better to dam the flow before it started.

Pendergrast made a few further preliminary remarks, and while he spoke, I made as discreet an examination as I could of the family. I wanted to try to gauge their emotions.

The first person I examined was Eloise Morris. I wasn’t all that surprised to see that she was once again garbed in full Scarlett O’Hara regalia. This time the dress was made of some blue material, probably satin. She sat with her voluminous skirt spread about her. She gazed intently at Pendergrast. He still spoke in platitudes, and I tuned him out while I continued my perusal.

Hubert Morris occupied the sofa about three feet from his wife. Today he wore an outmoded suit of fabric shiny from age and wear. He blinked often and held a handkerchief to his eyes, dabbing at tears. Crocodile? Or genuine? I wondered.

Daphne, Hubert’s mother, reclined on the other sofa parallel to his. She rubbed at her forehead with one hand while the other clutched at her throat—exactly the same as I had seen on Saturday. Soft moans issued forth as she continued to minister to herself. No one else in the room seemed to be paying her the slightest attention.

Truesdale hovered discreetly near Daphne but did not appear unduly concerned by the woman’s seeming distress. His expression remained impassive.

I noticed that the final two family members, the great-niece and -nephew, had claimed chairs behind Hubert. That’s when I realized that every one of them sat in the same spot he or she had occupied on Saturday.

Cynthia Delacorte appeared as completely detached from everything today as she had been when I first met her on Saturday. Stewart, on the other hand, seemed barely able to contain his emotions—excitement?—as he squirmed in his chair.

I tuned back in as Pendergrast wound up his prefatory spiel. He pulled a thick document from the inner pocket of his jacket and began to unfold the pages.

Before the lawyer could continue, however, Eloise spoke, rustling her skirts about her. “Uncle James loves cookies. I think there are some in the kitchen just for him. Truesdale said so. We always have such a nice time eating cookies.”

Eloise rose from her perch on a stool, but Hubert leaned forward and shoved her back down. “Shut up about cookies, Eloise. Uncle James is dead, remember? He’s not going to be eating any more cookies with you.” Hubert’s voice, high and thin, could have been the voice on the phone last night.

Eloise, to my great surprise, showed no emotion. She remained quiet and stared at the floor.

Daphne Morris, on the other hand, was quick to complain. “Hubert, Eloise, I beg of you, don’t have another argument. I don’t think I can bear it, not with my poor brother so cruelly dead before his time. It was bad enough having all those horrid policemen in the house, going through our personal things. If you two keep arguing, I think I’ll have a heart attack like poor James.” While she spoke, her hands never left off caressing her forehead and her throat.

Her voice, eerily like her son’s, could also have been the one that threatened me last night. Very interesting.

Also interesting to know that the authorities searched the house. If they turned up anything relevant to the rare book collection, I hoped Kanesha would share information with me.

“Give it a rest, Aunt Daphne,” Stewart said. Every word he spoke dripped with acid. “Asking Hubert not to be ugly to Eloise is like asking the government to abolish the income tax.”

Hubert huffed a time or two but didn’t respond. Eloise continued to gaze with a vacant stare, while Daphne moaned a few times and then subsided.

Cynthia remained aloof from it all, or at least appeared to. I wondered if she were truly emotionally disconnected from her family, or only wanted everyone to think she was.