Read Online Classified as Murder by Miranda James - Free Book Online
Authors: Miranda James
Ads: Link
waited. Diesel had settled down again by the side of my chair.
Mr. Delacorte stood and gestured with both arms out-flung. “Here is the collection, of course. On Monday I will give you a tour of it, so to speak, before we begin work. If I start showing it to you now, we will never make it to tea.”
“I’m certainly looking forward to seeing it all,” I said. “I’m sure you must have many fascinating items.”
“Yes, I do,” Mr. Delacorte replied. “This collection has afforded me great satisfaction over the years. Building it has been a labor of love. As physical artifacts, books are astonishing.” He shook his head. “I simply cannot understand this current fascination with books on the computer. They’re nothing but a string of words on a screen. I can’t imagine relaxing with some sort of computer to read. But then I suppose I am a dinosaur, in this as in so many things.”
“You’re not alone,” I said, rather moved by his eloquence. “For those who like electronic books, they’re fine. I’m delighted they’re reading. But I’d rather hold a physical book in my hands.”
Mr. Delacorte nodded. “Just so. I’m grateful you have agreed to assist me, Charlie.” He ambled around the desk. “Now let’s go have some tea.”
Diesel and I followed him to the door and down the hall to what I would have called the living room had it been in my house. That name was far too pedestrian for the beautiful chamber we entered. “Parlor” or “drawing room” seemed more suitable.
As large as the library, this room also had bay windows in both outside walls, and the furniture no doubt represented a fortune in antiques. There were so many beautiful objects in the room that I couldn’t take many of them in as I followed Mr. Delacorte toward the fireplace. Two large sofas were placed at right angles to the fireplace, facing each other. A heavily carved, elongated table—was it rosewood?—separated them. Chairs were placed behind the sofas, and a small settee completed the rectangle, oriented to the fireplace, about three feet from the two sofas.
The desultory chatter I heard when we first entered petered out by the time Mr. Delacorte stood in front of the fireplace and faced his family. I stopped with Diesel about three feet away and waited for my host to introduce us.
While I waited, I glanced around at the people in the room. The first person I examined was Eloise Morris. She sat between the sofas with her voluminous skirts spread about her. No chair was visible, so she had to have a stool of some sort beneath her.
The man on a sofa about three feet to her right had to be her husband, Hubert. Roughly my age, he wore an outmoded suit of fabric shiny from age and wear. His slickedback, shoulder-length dark hair flipped up at the ends in a fashion that reminded me of Marlo Thomas in her That Girl days. His face was nondescript, one easily overlooked in a crowd or even in a small group.
An elderly woman, obviously Hubert’s mother, Daphne, sat at one end of the other sofa and rubbed at her forehead with one hand while the other clutched at her throat. Her rusty black dress had seen better days, and her heavily lined face looked remarkably like that of her brother.
The final two family members, the great-niece and -nephew, had claimed chairs behind Hubert Morris. They both appeared about forty, perhaps a trifle younger. The great-niece, Cynthia Delacorte, could have posed for an illustration of an ice queen. Blonde, dressed in a cool shade of blue, she appeared completely detached from everyone and everything around her.
Her cousin, Stewart Delacorte, also blond, made an effective counterpoint. His eyes sparkled, his body language indicated total engagement as he eyed me and Diesel with curiosity, and his hands played restlessly with a small item I couldn’t identify. He was evidently shorter than Cynthia. Their chairs were identical but her head topped his by at least three inches.
“We have a
Mr. Delacorte stood and gestured with both arms out-flung. “Here is the collection, of course. On Monday I will give you a tour of it, so to speak, before we begin work. If I start showing it to you now, we will never make it to tea.”
“I’m certainly looking forward to seeing it all,” I said. “I’m sure you must have many fascinating items.”
“Yes, I do,” Mr. Delacorte replied. “This collection has afforded me great satisfaction over the years. Building it has been a labor of love. As physical artifacts, books are astonishing.” He shook his head. “I simply cannot understand this current fascination with books on the computer. They’re nothing but a string of words on a screen. I can’t imagine relaxing with some sort of computer to read. But then I suppose I am a dinosaur, in this as in so many things.”
“You’re not alone,” I said, rather moved by his eloquence. “For those who like electronic books, they’re fine. I’m delighted they’re reading. But I’d rather hold a physical book in my hands.”
Mr. Delacorte nodded. “Just so. I’m grateful you have agreed to assist me, Charlie.” He ambled around the desk. “Now let’s go have some tea.”
Diesel and I followed him to the door and down the hall to what I would have called the living room had it been in my house. That name was far too pedestrian for the beautiful chamber we entered. “Parlor” or “drawing room” seemed more suitable.
As large as the library, this room also had bay windows in both outside walls, and the furniture no doubt represented a fortune in antiques. There were so many beautiful objects in the room that I couldn’t take many of them in as I followed Mr. Delacorte toward the fireplace. Two large sofas were placed at right angles to the fireplace, facing each other. A heavily carved, elongated table—was it rosewood?—separated them. Chairs were placed behind the sofas, and a small settee completed the rectangle, oriented to the fireplace, about three feet from the two sofas.
The desultory chatter I heard when we first entered petered out by the time Mr. Delacorte stood in front of the fireplace and faced his family. I stopped with Diesel about three feet away and waited for my host to introduce us.
While I waited, I glanced around at the people in the room. The first person I examined was Eloise Morris. She sat between the sofas with her voluminous skirts spread about her. No chair was visible, so she had to have a stool of some sort beneath her.
The man on a sofa about three feet to her right had to be her husband, Hubert. Roughly my age, he wore an outmoded suit of fabric shiny from age and wear. His slickedback, shoulder-length dark hair flipped up at the ends in a fashion that reminded me of Marlo Thomas in her That Girl days. His face was nondescript, one easily overlooked in a crowd or even in a small group.
An elderly woman, obviously Hubert’s mother, Daphne, sat at one end of the other sofa and rubbed at her forehead with one hand while the other clutched at her throat. Her rusty black dress had seen better days, and her heavily lined face looked remarkably like that of her brother.
The final two family members, the great-niece and -nephew, had claimed chairs behind Hubert Morris. They both appeared about forty, perhaps a trifle younger. The great-niece, Cynthia Delacorte, could have posed for an illustration of an ice queen. Blonde, dressed in a cool shade of blue, she appeared completely detached from everyone and everything around her.
Her cousin, Stewart Delacorte, also blond, made an effective counterpoint. His eyes sparkled, his body language indicated total engagement as he eyed me and Diesel with curiosity, and his hands played restlessly with a small item I couldn’t identify. He was evidently shorter than Cynthia. Their chairs were identical but her head topped his by at least three inches.
“We have a
Similar Books
