Classified As Murder

“He must have had his reasons.” I had another bite of my ham sandwich. “I’d say he had a lot to put up with while he was alive, and maybe this was his way of telling them what he really thought of them.”

“Maybe,” Sean said. “But what about the butler? Delacorte never married, did he?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “But just because he never married and left the bulk of his estate to his butler doesn’t necessarily mean he had romantic feelings toward Truesdale. Or that Truesdale was in love with his employer. From what I observed earlier today, I don’t think he’s gay.” I gave Sean the rundown on the encounters I’d witnessed.

“Maybe not, but he doesn’t seem like the type to be juggling two women, and one of them his employer’s sister,” Sean said. “But the whole setup is interesting. It’s a good thing for Truesdale the estate doesn’t revert to the family after his death. Otherwise, I figure he’d probably be next on the hit list.”

“Agreed. The same thought occurred to me.” I finished my sandwich and considered having another but decided that two was enough. “Hubert seemed really surprised he wasn’t the chief heir. I wonder if he’ll contest the will. Pendergrast didn’t think he’d have much chance with it.”

“Hubert would have to find a lawyer willing to go up against Pendergrast first.” Sean scooped a handful of chips out of the bag onto his plate. “I did some research on the net last night on Pendergrast. He’s a legend in Mississippi legal circles—and beyond, actually. Hubert wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance, the way I see it.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” I picked up my glass to refill it from the pitcher on the table. “Hubert impresses me as being more bluster than anything else. He’ll probably tuck his tail between his legs and slink off to some corner.”

Sean just laughed at that. He finished his sandwich and chips while I cleaned up the kitchen, and we were soon on our way to the Delacorte mansion with Diesel and Dante. As I drove, I outlined to Sean the method I was using to check the inventory.

Two official cars, one from the police department and the other from the sheriff’s department, were parked in the driveway. I pulled up behind them and cut the engine.

To my surprise it was Stewart Delacorte who opened the door to us. He grabbed at my arm and said, “You’re finally here. I’ve been watching for you.” His expression alarmed me.

Sean had to shut the door behind us because Stewart was too agitated to notice it was still open.

“What’s wrong?” I tried to disengage his hand from my arm, but he gripped it more tightly.

“I’ve got to get out of here.” Stewart’s voice was hoarse. “I need a place to stay. You’ve got to help me.”

TWENTY-THREE

“Please come with me.” Stewart dropped my arm and darted over to the door to the small parlor. “In here.” He opened the door and stepped inside. He turned to peer out at me.

The last thing I wanted was to become further embroiled with the Delacortes, but Stewart looked so scared I felt sorry for him. I might as well hear what he had to say. Kanesha would want to know, I was sure.

“Drama queen,” Sean muttered in a semi-amused tone as he followed me to where Stewart waited. He held the leashes of both animals, and they came along behind him.

When we were all in the room with the door shut, Stewart appeared to relax slightly. “Thank the Lord you got here when you did. I don’t think my nerves could have stood it much longer.” He walked over to the sofa and flopped down. “You have no idea what it’s been like.”

I sat in a chair across from him, and Diesel crouched by my legs. Sean took the chair near mine and put Dante in his lap.

Stewart appeared to notice Sean for the first time. He perked up and smiled. “Well, hello. I don’t think we’ve met. Who are you?”

“This is my son, Sean.” I made the introduction because my son appeared too bemused to speak for himself. “He’s helping me with the inventory. That’s his dog, Dante.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” Stewart said, almost in a purr. His earlier panic seemed to have disappeared. “Aren’t you tall, dark, and gorgeous.”

Sean laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were my friend Arthur from back in Houston.”

“Oh, really? Your friend?” Stewart arched an eyebrow.

“Not that kind of friend,” Sean said, obviously amused. “Somebody I used to work with.”

“What a waste,” Stewart said with what sounded like regret.

“What’s the trouble?” I asked in an effort to get things back on track. “Why do you need my help?”

Stewart was slow to focus on my question because he was still gazing at Sean. Then he turned to me. “It’s this house. I simply cannot spend another night under this roof.”

“Why not?” Sean said. “Pretty nice place, if you ask me.”

Stewart sniffed. “Yes, but my uncle was murdered! That terribly butch female deputy told us about half an hour ago. I thought he had a heart attack, but no, someone killed him.” He shuddered. “I can’t stay in a house with a murderer.”