Free Classified as Murder by Miranda James

capitol, Jackson.
    “Nonsense,” Mr. Delacorte snapped. “Eloise is simply eccentric. She’s perfectly fine right here. I will not discuss this again, Hubert.”
    Hubert looked over at me. “What do you think? You think she’s just eccentric ? Or is she a lunatic?”
    Stewart saved me from having to answer. “Of course she’s a lunatic, Hubert. Why else would she have married you ?” He laughed.
    “Stewart, you shouldn’t say such things.” Daphne sighed heavily. “You know how it upsets me.”
    “Sorry, Aunt Daphne,” Stewart replied, his words laced with mockery. “I do hope you’re not about to have one of your spells. Shall I get the smelling salts? Or perhaps a bucket of water?”
    “Stop it this instant, all of you.” Mr. Delacorte was getting red in the face again. He sounded short of breath.
    Were they deliberately trying to provoke him into a heart attack? I was afraid they might succeed, at this rate. Truesdale remained stoically near his employer. I hoped he wouldn’t need another nitroglycerine pill.
    “Sorry, Uncle,” Stewart murmured, not appearing at all contrite.
    Hubert threw his uncle a poisonous glance while his mother languished on the sofa. Was she having one of her spells? No one but me seemed to be paying any attention to her.
    Diesel nudged my leg with his paw. I glanced down at him, and he stared at me. He was sensitive to atmosphere, and he was clearly uneasy. All this sniping was unsettling to both of us. I rubbed his back some more, trying to reassure him.
    I was trying to think of a graceful way to extract both of us from this unpleasant mess, but short of standing up and announcing we were leaving, I was stumped.
    Surprisingly, it was Cynthia Delacorte who poured much-needed balm on the troubled waters. “I’m sure your work must be very interesting, Mr. Harris. Does the college have a large rare book collection?”
    I was so grateful I beamed at her. “Yes, there’s a collection of early American imprints, plus many signed first editions of works by Southern writers, particularly Mississippi natives. We also have the papers of a number of distinguished graduates of the college. Oh, and there’s a small collection of antebellum and Civil War diaries.”
    “Like Mary Boykin Chesnut’s?” Mr. Delacorte perked up.
    “Very similar, yes, but of course not nearly as well known.” I smiled. “Since I’ve been in charge of the collection, I’ve assisted a couple of graduate students in the history department working on diaries for their dissertations. Neither of them has been published, however.”
    After that I fielded a few more questions about the archive and its contents, from Mr. Delacorte and Cynthia. Neither Hubert nor Daphne appeared the least interested in the subject. Daphne alternately smoothed the skirt of her dress and rubbed her temples, while Hubert sipped at his tea and sulked. Stewart appeared to be playing with his cell phone, but at least he wasn’t rude enough to be talking on it.
    While I chatted, I kept an eye on the mantel clock. As the minutes limped by, I wondered how soon I could extract myself and my cat from the situation without appearing rude. Though I was not worried about offending most of the people in the room, I didn’t want to return Mr. Delacorte’s hospitality with anything other than correct behavior. Several generations of my Southern grandmothers would spin in their graves if I were needlessly rude to my host, no matter the circumstances.
    At the thirty-minute mark I decided that the dictates of genteel behavior had been properly served and set my empty teacup on the tray. With the first pause in the conversation, I turned to Mr. Delacorte and said, “Thank you for inviting me to join you this afternoon. I mustn’t impose on your hospitality any longer, though.” I stood, and Diesel brushed against my legs. “Diesel and I look forward to seeing you on Monday.”
    Mr. Delacorte came slowly to his feet. Though his voice was