Classified as Murder

by Miranda James

  Diesel butted his head against my leg, and I glanced down to see his most beguiling expression. He clearly was hoping for another piece of bread. I shouldn’t encourage him, but I also couldn’t resist that face. I gave him another bite of my garlic bread. It disappeared very quickly. The beguiling expression was momentarily replaced by one of smugness before making a quick return.

  “. . . do you think, Dad?” Sean stared at me as I belatedly tuned back in to the conversation.

  “About what? Sorry, my mind was off on a tangent.” I wiped my buttery fingers on my napkin.

  “Should Stewart tell Deputy Berry about the affair?” Sean said. “I told him he should.”

  “I agree,” I said. “It could have some bearing on the case.” I wasn’t ready to share my thoughts about Hubert and Anita, although I suspected Stewart might be thinking the exact same thing.

  “I’m sure it does,” Stewart said. “Hubert has to be involved in this somehow. It would be poetic justice of a sort if he got hauled off to jail for Uncle James’s murder. Then poor Eloise would finally be free.”

  “If Hubert is the murderer, then he won’t inherit anything,” Sean said. “A murderer can’t profit from his crime. And if he can’t inherit, that pretty much leaves Eloise out in the cold, financially, anyway.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Stewart said. Then he gave a dramatic sigh. “Eloise has the worst luck. You’d think that with all the time she used to spend with Uncle James, he’d have left her something of her own, apart from Hubert.”

  “Eloise spent a lot of time with Mr. Delacorte?” I asked. That was something new, but I wasn’t sure whether it had significance.

  “Oh, yes,” Stewart said. “Every afternoon during the week they’d have tea together. Uncle James had an incredible sweet tooth, and Eloise loves cookies, so they’d sit and drink tea and munch cookies. Sometimes right after lunch, too.”

  Sean spoke up. “Dad, if you want to get any more done on the inventory tonight, we need to get back over there. It’s nearly seven-thirty.”

  “I’ll clean up the kitchen,” Stewart said. “I can’t stand a mess.”

  “Then you’ll get along fine with Dad and his housekeeper,” Sean said as he pushed back from the table. “Is it okay if I leave Dante with you?”

  Stewart grinned. “Of course you can leave that precious dog with me. Uncle Stewart will take very good care of him.”

  “Thanks for a delicious meal,” I told him. “And thanks also for cleaning up.” I followed Sean to the door into the garage. “Come on, Diesel.”

  Diesel didn’t come. When I looked back, he was sitting by Stewart’s chair, gazing up at our new boarder. He put a paw on Stewart’s leg and chirped at him.

  “That’s so adorable,” Stewart said. He turned in my direction. “Why don’t you leave him, too? I’ll be happy to watch both of them.”

  I frowned. Diesel had obviously taken a fancy to Stewart. Or did he think, with me out of the way, Stewart would be the source of more buttered bread?

  Cats are basically self-serving creatures, and in that respect, Diesel was no different from any other cat. He was also loving and loyal, and I suppose I was a little miffed that he didn’t want to come with me.

  “Sure,” I said. “He’s probably tired. He can have another bite or two of bread, but that’s it.”

  Stewart nodded. “Duly noted.”

  As Sean and I left the kitchen, Stewart started singing in a very pleasant baritone. The strains of “All Things Bright and Beautiful” followed us out.

  As I backed the car out of the garage, Sean said, “He’s quite a character, isn’t he?” He chuckled. “He really does remind me of Arthur.”

  “He’s definitely different from what I expected, based on the first couple of times I met him. A lot more personable, for one thing.” I recalled those two scenes with distaste.

  “He may turn out to be the only decent one in the batch,” Sean said. “Did you get anything useful out of all the gossip?”

  “I think so,” I said. “I should probably talk to Kanesha right away, but I’d really like to have time to mull it over.”

  “She can’t control your mind,” Sean said. “Or mine.”

  I cut him a sideways glance. He was smiling.

  “So you’re trying to solve this, too?” I asked.

  “Don’t see why not,” he responded. “I have a trained legal mind, after all.” He paused. “Maybe I’ll become a private detective.”

  Was he serious? I wondered. I had never heard him express an interest in the profession before. He was a mystery reader like me, however, and he wouldn’t be the first mystery lover to become a private eye.

  “You’d be good at it,” I said. “At whatever you do.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  I turned the car into the driveway of the Delacorte mansion. There were no official cars parked in front of the house. That made me a little uneasy until I remembered there would be an officer on duty in the library.

  Few lights burned in the house that I could see, though the front door was lit. I rang the bell, and moments later the door swung open.

  “Good evening,” Truesdale said. He stepped back to make way. As I moved past him, I cast a covert glance at his face. He looked exhausted, the lines of strain furrowed deep into his forehead.

  “We’re sorry to trouble you,” I said. “We came back to work more on the inventory, at Deputy Berry’s request.”

  “Yes, sir,” Truesdale said as he closed the door. “How late do you think you will work this evening?”

  “Ten or ten-thirty, if that isn’t a problem,” I said.

  “Very good, sir,” Truesdale responded. “Please ring the bell in the library when you’re ready to leave.”

  “Thank you, I will,” I said.

  Truesdale nodded before he left us. Sean and I walked down the hall to the library.

  “Poor guy,” Sean said in an undertone. “Looks like he’s about ready to collapse any minute.”

  “I wonder if he’s been able to get any rest,” I said as we drew close to the library.

  A police officer, a grizzled veteran by the look of him, sat in front of the library doors. He glanced up as we approached, then stood.

  “Good evening, Officer,” I said. I introduced myself and Sean.

  The policeman, whose nameplate read Robert Williams, nodded. “I was told to expect you,” he said. He opened one of the doors and waved us in. “After you.”

  “Thanks.” Sean and I stepped past him. The lights were still on, and I was glad of that. I hadn’t looked forward to stepping into a dark room. As it was, I couldn’t stop myself from glancing at the desk again, to make sure that there was no dead body there.

  “It feels a little spooky in here,” Sean whispered to me. “It’s so quiet.”

  I nodded. “Yes, a little.” I took a deep breath. “Let’s get back to work and see what we can accomplish tonight.” I strode over to the work table and pulled cotton gloves out of the box for both of us. I now had several pairs I needed to take home to wash. I hoped I remembered that by the time we finished work for the evening.

  We resumed where we left off earlier in the day. I read the titles aloud to Sean, and he searched for them. We worked this way for about an hour, and we still had not found any missing items. I was beginning to think we would complete the inventory without finding a single book gone.

  “What’s the next one?” Sean said as he slid a beautiful signed copy of Eudora Welty’s first short story collection, A Curtain of Green, into its proper place on the shelf.

  I turned the page in the inventory book. I whistled. “William Faulkner’s Soldiers’ Pay. First edition, signed, published by Boni and Liveright in 1926.” I skimmed the rest of the description. “Beautiful condition, too. Near mint, which means it should look almost new and unread.”

  I was not a huge Faulkner fan, I had to admit, but I couldn’t suppress a thrill at the thought of seeing Faulkner’s signat
ure in a copy of his very first novel.

  Sean was scanning the shelves. “It’s not one we’ve seen already, is it?”

  I glanced over at the work table, where there were still two small stacks of books waiting to be restored to their proper place.

  “No, I would remember it,” I said.

  Sean squatted as he examined the two bottom shelves in one bookcase. “Here it is,” he said as he pulled it carefully from the shelf. He stood and opened the book. He frowned.

  “What is it?” I said. “Something wrong with the book?”

  “There’s no signature,” Sean said. “At least not on the title page. Let me check the endpapers.” With delicate precision, he examined each of the leaves that preceded the title page. He looked up at me. “No signature. And there are spots on the outer edges of the pages, too.”

  To be completely certain, I read through the description in the inventory book again. Signed, near mint. No mention of foxed pages.

  The book Sean held was an impostor. We had finally turned up an item stolen from the collection.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I instructed Sean to put the inferior copy of Soldiers’ Pay on the desk, and I walked over to Officer Williams near the door.

  “Could you get in touch with Deputy Berry and let her know that we’ve made a discovery?” I asked. “We’ve identified one item stolen from the collection, and we’re going to continue looking for others.”

  “Sure thing,” Williams said. He pulled out a cell phone and started punching numbers as I went back to work with Sean.

  I quickly scanned the succeeding entries in the book. The next twelve consisted of Faulkner novels, all signed and in near-mint condition. I checked the dates of purchase, and they were the same for all thirteen Faulkners. Mr. Delacorte had purchased them as a collection about twelve years ago. No price was listed, but I suspected he had paid a hefty amount for the thirteen signed books.

  The second Faulkner listed was his second published novel, Mosquitoes, from 1927. Sean pulled it from the shelf as I read the description aloud.

  “Deputy Berry’s on her way.” Williams spoke from right behind me, startling me.

  “Good,” I said. “Thanks for calling her.”

  “Just doing my job.” Williams flashed a brief smile before he returned to his chair.

  I focused again on Sean and the book in his hands.

  “This one’s bad, too,” Sean said, indicating the copy of Mosquitoes. “No signature, loose binding, spots.”

  “I suspect we’ll find that all the Faulkners have been replaced with inferior copies,” I said. “Let’s keep checking.”

  Sean and I examined the remaining eleven. An inferior copy had been substituted for each one. The one consistent factor with all thirteen was the dust jacket. They were all in remarkably good condition for books that were in such bad shape.

  On a hunch I took the jacket of Mosquitoes out of its clear archival cover and examined it closely under the light of the desk lamp. After only a brief study, I confirmed my suspicions. I was sure this was a laser-printed copy of the dust jacket, perhaps taken from Mr. Delacorte’s authentic, near-mint copy of the book.

  Kanesha entered the library as I was explaining my opinion of the dust jackets to Sean. She didn’t bother with preliminaries.

  “Tell me.” She stood with arms folded and stared at me while I recounted the tale of the thirteen Faulkner novels replaced with inferior, unsigned copies. She didn’t interrupt, and I kept my narrative brief and precise.

  When I finished, Kanesha didn’t speak for a moment. Her first question was one I was expecting. “How much are they worth?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “A collection of signed Faulkner novels like that would go for a lot. At auction, perhaps as much as $750,000, maybe even more. A group like this doesn’t go up for sale every day.”

  “But would whoever stole them be able to sell them in a public auction?” Sean asked. “That would leave a very visible trail.”

  “Excellent point,” Kanesha said. “How would somebody go about selling them without attracting attention?”

  “Depends on the kind of connections the thief has,” I said. “If they’re sold directly to a private collector, no one would know. Or the thief could sell them one at a time to different dealers. He’d probably get less overall for them that way, though.”

  “How would you go about tracing them?” Kanesha asked. Her expression betrayed her discomfort. This was clearly something outside her realm of experience.

  “My guess is that you’d get the FBI involved,” Sean said.

  “Yes. There have been some highly publicized cases in recent years of rare book thefts, usually from libraries,” I said. “The FBI gets called in on those. This case is probably no different, because I suspect the books probably will have been sold outside the state.”

  “I’ll talk to a guy I know in the MBI,” Kanesha said. When she noticed Sean’s puzzled look, she elaborated. “Mississippi Bureau of Investigation. They work with the FBI on a regular basis.”

  A cell phone rang. The sound emanated from a holster attached to Kanesha’s belt. “Excuse me,” she said. She stepped away from us as she answered the call.

  I glanced at my watch—eight-forty-five. “What say we do as much as we can by ten, and then head home? I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to feel pretty wiped out.”

  “Sounds fine to me,” Sean said. He flexed his shoulders. “My neck’s feeling a little stiff.”

  I picked up the inventory book, but Kanesha spoke before I could look up the next entry after the Faulkners.

  “Looks like I’m heading over to your house,” Kanesha said. “Your new boarder wants to talk to me. Says he has some information for me.” She regarded me, one eyebrow raised.

  “Yes, he did mention talking to you over dinner,” I said. I kept my expression bland.

  “Yeah, he sure did,” Sean said.

  Kanesha stared at both of us for a moment. “Good evening, gentlemen. I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

  “Good night,” I said, and Sean echoed my words.

  Kanesha offered a curt nod as she left.

  Sean and I turned back to our work.

  “Next entry,” I said as I picked up the book. “William Alexander Percy’s Lanterns on the Levee. Knopf, 1941. Fine in dust jacket. Signed on the title page.”

  “It’s here,” Sean said as he pulled it off the shelf. He opened it to examine it further. After a moment he nodded. “Present and accounted for.” He slipped the book back into place.

  So it went for the next hour. We didn’t find any other books that had been replaced with inferior copies. Perhaps the thief had taken only the set of signed Faulkner first editions. Those alone would account for a hefty sum of money, one way or another.

  But there was another item potentially worth as much as all the Faulkners put together—Poe’s Tamerlane. I had not forgotten it, though there had been plenty of distractions. Tomorrow we might know more, if Kanesha was able to get in touch with the rare book dealer.

  If a copy of Tamerlane came up for auction anytime soon, there would be questions. A book like that was a definite candidate for a private sale. If the thief had any sense, he—or she—would try to find someone willing to pay for it under the table and not risk publicity of any kind. But how would the thief go about finding a private buyer? There would have to be a trail, and that’s where the FBI would come in. They had experience with thefts of this kind and would know where to start looking.

  By ten o’clock Sean and I finished the second inventory book. “Two down, two to go,” I said as I pulled off my cotton gloves and stuffed them in my pants pocket. “We really have accomplished a lot, and it’s gone much faster with you here.”

  “Glad I could help,” Sean said. I held out my hand for his gloves, and he passed them over. “I’ve never seen so many amazing books in one place before.” He shook his head. “This collection is awesom
e.”

  “It certainly is.” All of a sudden I remembered the terms of Mr. Delacorte’s will. I almost went weak at the knees. “And it’s going to belong to Athena College now.”

  Sean grinned. “Guess that means you can play with the books whenever you want. You being the rare book guru and all.”

  “It’s an amazing gift to the college,” I said. My mind was hopping from one idea to the next, like where we would house the collection. There was no space at present in the rare book room to accommodate it. Wait till Peter Vanderkeller, the head of the Athena College library, heard about the Delacorte collection. He would be beside himself with joy.

  “Come on, Dad,” Sean said, placing a gentle arm on my shoulder. “Watch where you’re going. You’re going to run into something.”

  I had been so lost in thought I almost walked straight into the closed library door.

  Officer Williams chuckled as he opened the door for us to exit. “Good night, gentlemen.”

  We bade him good night, and I followed Sean to the front door. There was no sign of Truesdale, and I remembered belatedly that we were supposed to ring the bell for him when we were ready to leave.

  “The bell,” I said, and Sean knew what I meant. He glanced about.

  “Guess there isn’t one in the hall,” he said. “We could just leave, I guess. The door will probably lock behind us.”

  I was tempted to follow Sean’s suggestion, but I decided that would be rude. Truesdale had made rather a point of my ringing for him when we were ready to leave. We were guests in his house, after all.

  “How about if I stick my head in the kitchen and see if I can find him?” Sean said. “Point me in the right direction.”

  I gestured down the left side of the grand staircase, and Sean headed off.

  While I waited, I looked about me. The stairs were dimly lit, the second floor fading into the shadows as I gazed up. The house was also eerily silent. For a moment I fancied that, if I listened hard enough, I could hear whispers from long-silent voices.