Classified as Murder (12 page)

The first ledger started with the first book on the top shelf and proceeded in order through five ranges of shelves. That took us down the wall and on to the next, almost to the end, where the second ledger started. That was enough for now, I decided. One ledger at a time.

This was going to be tedious. I rather relished the challenge, I had to admit. To bring order out of chaos—well, librarians have lived for that for thousands of years.

I stood in front of the first shelf and opened the ledger while Mr. Delacorte returned to his desk. He said he was going to work on his correspondence while I started the inventory.

The first page of the ledger was a title page that read simply “Collection of James S. Delacorte,” followed by his address. The handwriting was clearly and precisely formed, the letters neat and orderly. I turned the page to the first entry and found that it took up the entire page. I skimmed through the information on the copy of
The Bay Psalm Book
and whistled softly when I saw what Mr. Delacorte paid for it. A bargain. Then I realized he bought it fifty years ago. Adjusting for inflation, he had paid a hefty sum, even for a later edition.

I verified that the book was indeed on the shelf. I was tempted to pull it off the shelf and delve inside, but I resisted. I turned the page to get to the second item, and I almost dropped the ledger because the title listed was a three-volume first edition of Jane Austen’s
Pride and Prejudice
, published in London in 1813. This was one of my all-time favorite novels, and the thought of holding a first edition thrilled me.

That particular thrill would have to wait, I realized, when I examined the second book on the shelf. It was not part of a three-volume set, and it was also too tall—probably about thirty-seven centimeters, or fourteen-and-a-half inches, according to my trained eye. The binding was ravaged by time, and no title was visible. Before I handled it, I needed to be prepared.

I retrieved my satchel from the chair where I’d been sitting, opened it, and extracted a box of cotton gloves and set them on the work table. I smiled to see Diesel now occupying my former place. He was curled up and twisted partway onto his back, sleeping. I set the satchel down and put on the gloves.

With gentle care I pulled the volume from the shelf and held it so that I could open it. I read the title,
Tabulae Anatomicae
, by Bartolomeo Eustachi, published in Rome in 1728. Nearly three hundred years old. I marveled that it was still intact in what might have been its original binding.

I set the book down on a nearby work table and went back to the ledger. I skimmed through the next twenty-five or thirty entries, but I didn’t find this book among them. My head began to ache a little at that point, because the enormity of this task hit even harder.

I would have to set aside each volume incorrectly placed on the shelf, search out the volume that did belong in that spot, and then move on. Place after place after place, through the inventory. Would there be enough room on the table?

One thought did encourage me, however. Perhaps the idiot who did this hadn’t had time enough to do extensive swapping. Or else got tired of it and quit.

I consulted the ledger and read Mr. Delacorte’s description of the set of
Pride and Prejudice
. His volumes had been rebound at some point in dark brown sprinkled calf, with green leather labels on the spines. Those should be easy enough to spot. Setting the ledger aside, I began to scan the shelves.

As I searched, I noted many titles that I wanted to examine, but I steeled myself against the impulse to stop what I was doing. I worked my way through six ranges of shelves, into the items from the second ledger of the inventory, before I found the Austen set.

At least the idiot had not separated the volumes. They nestled together between two novels by obscure antebellum Southern writers. I removed the three books and carried them to the proper shelf. I restored the second and third volumes to their place, but I couldn’t resist opening the first volume.

A faint, musty hint of age tickled my nostrils as I turned to the somewhat browned and foxed title page and stared down at it. First published about two centuries ago, this book remained relevant, delighting generation after generation of readers. With great care I turned to the first page of the novel and whispered to myself that famous opening line: “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

I had never stolen anything in my life, but I had the overwhelming urge to sneak those three volumes into my satchel and carry them home with me. Only another bibliophile could understand that impulse. I would never yield to it, of course, but, oh, how I longed to. I closed the book and held it for a moment before putting it where it belonged.

I picked up the ledger and turned to the third entry, a four-volume set of George Eliot’s
Middlemarch
, first published in book form in 1871 and 1872. I couldn’t help sighing. This was another favorite of mine, from a long-ago class in English literature at Athena College with the inimitable Dr. Maria Butler. I don’t think I ever worked harder in a class in my entire scholastic career, and I enjoyed every minute.

Stop woolgathering
, I told myself.
Focus
.

I glanced up at the shelf, relieved to see
Middlemarch
present and accounted for. This time I wasn’t going to expose myself to temptation. I left the book where it was.

On to item number four.

Absorbed in my task, I worked for more than two hours without a break, except for an occasional absentminded scratch of Diesel’s head or back with my elbow. I couldn’t get cat hair on the cotton gloves.

Diesel was on his best behavior, though I did notice him approach Mr. Delacorte once. That didn’t seem to bother my employer, so I left them to it.

There was one brief interruption. After I had been working about an hour, the butler entered the room bearing a tray, which he placed on the desk in front of Mr. Delacorte.

“Your mid-morning tea, Mr. James,” he said.

“Thank you, Nigel.” Mr. Delacorte laid his papers aside as the butler poured a cup of tea.

I resumed work, anxious to make as much progress as possible this morning.

The butler spoke again, his voice pitched so low I could barely make out the words. “About the matter we discussed earlier, Mr. James.”

Mr. Delacorte spoke at normal volume when he replied. “I gave you my answer already, Nigel. Not another penny. You’ll have to sort it out for yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

I heard Truesdale leave the room. I kept my back to Mr. Delacorte. I couldn’t help but hear the previous exchange, but I would try to pretend I hadn’t.

Mr. Delacorte called out to me. “How about some tea, Charlie? Why don’t you take a break for a few minutes?”

“Thank you, but I’m fine. I’ll just push on ahead if you don’t mind. This is so fascinating. You have some amazing items in your collection.” I was babbling, but I felt awkward, having overheard what should have been a private conversation.

“Very well,” Mr. Delacorte said. “If you should change your mind, I will have Nigel bring fresh tea, or anything else you’d care to drink.”

“Thank you,” I said with a quick smile. I focused on the job and was soon absorbed in it.

I stopped when Mr. Delacorte tapped me on the shoulder and announced that it was time for lunch. Startled, I almost dropped the ledger on his feet.

“You’ve made good progress, Charlie,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re halfway through the first range.”

“Thank goodness whoever did this didn’t switch that many volumes thus far,” I said. I pointed to the books arranged on the work table nearby. “Those are the ones I found placed incorrectly, and so far I haven’t found their proper spots. I hope I don’t have a third of your collection off the shelves before I can start replacing some of these.”

“I’m pleased you’re coping with this so well,” Mr. Delacorte said with a weak smile. “Watching you at work has exhausted me, I must admit.”

He did look a little gray around the mouth. I hoped he was only a bit tired, and not on the verge of another heart episode.

“Why don’t you go on to lunch? Diesel and I will run home to eat, if you don’t mind.”

Mr. Delacorte frowned. “You’re welcome to lunch here, Charlie. There’s no need to go all the way home.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said. “But my housekeeper has already prepared lunch, and I’d like to spend a little time with my son. He came home for a visit a few days ago.”

“Certainly, then,” Mr. Delacorte said. “Of course you must have lunch with your son.”

“I’ll be back by one,” I said. “I live only about ten minutes from here.” I laid the ledger aside. “I’ll leave my satchel, and Diesel and I will be on our way.”

“Good, I’ll see you then,” Mr. Delacorte replied.

Diesel jumped off the chair and followed me, chirping all the way. He knew we were headed home. Behind us, I heard Mr. Delacorte lock the door.

When we reached home, Azalea informed me that Sean had already eaten. “He had somewhere he was in a hurry to be getting to,” she said. “And he asked me to look after that little raggedy dog of his.” She threw a pointed glance at Dante, who lay disconsolate under the chair Sean usually occupied. Diesel went over to him and sat nearby, watching him. Dante’s tail began to thump against the floor.

“I’m sorry he lumbered you with the dog, Azalea,” I said. “He didn’t say anything to me this morning about any appointments. Did he say when he’d be back?” I went to the kitchen sink to wash my hands.

She frowned “No sirree, he sure didn’t. But I told him I’d be leaving here around three, and he’d better be back by then. All he said was, ‘Yes, ma’am.’” She frowned.

“I’ll talk to him and tell him you have better things to do than watch his dog for him.” I shook my head.

“I don’t mind ever’ once in a while,” Azalea said. “Just don’t want him making no habit of it.” She pointed to the table. “Now you set yourself down there and eat your lunch’fore it gets any colder.” She picked up a dust cloth and can of furniture polish. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

I suppressed a grin. Azalea liked to talk tough, but underneath that stern exterior lay an inner core of warmth and concern for the well-being of those in her charge.

I made quick work of the roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, and cornbread. Azalea thought a man had to have three full meals a day in order to keep up his strength, and I did enjoy her cooking. On the days she wasn’t here, however, I ate more sparingly to make up for meals like this.

By the time Diesel and I reached the Delacorte mansion, a gentle rain had begun to fall. I parked closer to the front of the house this time. Diesel wasn’t fond of walking on wet ground, so I scooped him up and hunched over to protect him from the rain as best I could. Trying to hold an umbrella and a large cat at the same time wouldn’t work, so I dashed for the front door and the protection of the verandah.

Truesdale had the door open before I could set Diesel down to do it myself. “Good afternoon, sir.” He stared out into the front yard. “We shall have a wet afternoon, I believe.”

“At least it’s not storming.” I wiped my feet on the mat before I stepped inside. Truesdale closed the door behind us as I put the cat down.

“Mr. James is in the library,” the butler said.

“Thank you. We know the way.” I smiled. There was no need for him to show me to the library every time I entered the house.

Truesdale inclined his head. “Of course.” He turned and walked away.

The library doors were closed. I hesitated a moment, and I wondered whether I should knock. Diesel sat and stared up at me. He warbled. I knocked on the door and then opened it.

“We’re back, Mr. Delacorte,” I said.

Diesel preceded me into the room.

I almost stumbled over the cat because he stopped about two inches inside the library. He made the rumbling sound I heard when he was frightened.

A quick glance toward the desk revealed the source of Diesel’s fear. I probably gasped myself.

James Delacorte sat behind the desk, as I had seen him earlier in the day, but with two startling differences.

His swollen tongue protruded from his mouth, and angry red splotches covered his face.

He sure looked dead.

I steeled myself to approach the desk and verify that Mr. Delacorte was indeed dead. The utter stillness of the body spooked me, and I had a sudden flashback from last fall, when I discovered another dead body.

I shook off that memory and stepped closer to the desk. Diesel, still muttering in a low-pitched rumble, remained where he was.

Mr. Delacorte’s right arm lay across the top of the desk, while his left hung down by the side of the chair. His torso reclined against the chair’s back. I suppressed a shudder of revulsion and felt for a pulse in the right wrist. The skin was cool to the touch.