Classified as Murder (34 page)

What first?

I started writing.

Truesdale knew the terms of the will before James Delacorte died.

Anita told him, after getting the information from her niece, who worked for Q. C. Pendergrast.

Truesdale was an actor in England when Mr. Delacorte met him. His fainting at the reading of the will, therefore, and his reaction when I told him his employer was dead could easily have been faked.

Eloise had mentioned Truesdale twice that I could recall in connection with cookies. She and Mr. Delacorte shared a fondness for cookies and often ate them together. Eloise might have been the one who actually gave Mr. Delacorte cookies with peanuts in them, but I would bet that Truesdale was the original source. He gave them to Eloise, knowing his employer would eat one and die from an allergic reaction.

Had Eloise sat there and watched James Delacorte die?

I didn’t think so, after reflecting on it briefly. What was it she said about cookies when she came into the library with the missing inventory book?

It took me a moment, but the details of that strange conversation came back to me. Eloise said Mr. Delacorte had eaten all the cookies she left for him. She was going to ask Truesdale for more, and maybe this time she could have some, too.

Here was my guess as to what happened that day. Truesdale gave Eloise cookies to take to Mr. Delacorte—cookies with peanuts in them. He probably told her they were only for Mr. Delacorte, so the poor woman didn’t eat one. Otherwise she would have died then, too. Eloise left the cookies on the desk in the library when she went in and Mr. Delacorte wasn’t there. Truesdale later removed the cookies as soon as he knew his employer was dead.

I wondered how long before I came back from lunch that this all occurred. Not very long, was my guess. Had I returned earlier, I might have caught Truesdale in the act. He would probably have had some plausible tale, however.

Later, Truesdale gave Eloise more cookies with peanuts in them to silence her permanently. Her seemingly nonsensical remarks would give him away if anyone paid close enough attention to what she said.

If only I had done that earlier, Eloise might still be alive.

That thought made me angry and sick at the same time, but I couldn’t afford to dwell on it now. I had to complete my case against the butler.

What else was there?

The thefts from the collection, of course. They weren’t connected to the murder after all. Hubert and Anita probably had the fright of their lives when Mr. Delacorte was killed. They were pretty stupid to think they could get away with the thefts for very long, because Mr. Delacorte was bound to discover them sooner or later. His death might have seemed like a gift, as long as it was natural, but the minute it was labeled murder, they had probably started sweating. They had to realize they would be prime suspects, once their guilt in the thefts became known.

Maybe I was overestimating them both. Otherwise, why would Anita have been heading to Memphis and a flight somewhere in order to sell the copy of
Tamerlane
? Didn’t she realize that trips out of town by anyone connected to the case would arouse suspicion?

Anita never failed to let those around her know how intelligent she was. Apparently Hubert also thought he was very bright. In their arrogance they failed to realize how inept they were, and how shortsighted in thinking they could get away with stealing from Mr. Delacorte’s collection.

But I didn’t think they had killed James Delacorte to hide their pilfering of his book collection.

Pendergrast mentioned Mr. Delacorte changed his will significantly the week before he was killed. Nigel Truesdale knew he was the chief heir in the new will. His position had changed in a big way, which no doubt the lawyer could confirm.

The motive for murder was greed, pure and simple. Truesdale wanted to retire, but evidently Mr. Delacorte wouldn’t let him. There was that remark in the will itself about the butler’s finally being able to retire. I also remembered what Helen Louise had told Sean and me, that Mr. Delacorte was known for not paying his household staff well.

With James Delacorte dead, Truesdale had access to a tremendous amount of money, not to mention a beautiful mansion as a home.

I recalled the odd scene I had witnessed when I went to find the butler to inform him of his employer’s death. I saw him hand a good-sized wad of currency to a man Truesdale said was the gardener. Now that I thought about it, though, the words between them hadn’t sounded much like the butler paying the gardener his wages. Truesdale had said something about having “the rest of it” soon, while the alleged gardener had replied that he wasn’t going to wait much longer.

I was now willing to bet the man wasn’t a gardener, but either a loan shark or a bookie. Maybe Truesdale had a bit of a gambling problem. With legalized gambling in Mississippi, there were plenty of people who gambled more than they could afford.

That was something Kanesha could check out.

I put the pen down and quickly scanned what I had written. Some facts, some suppositions. Kanesha could check the facts, and maybe she could find concrete proof linking Truesdale to both murders.

Kanesha walked in. “Okay, Mr. Harris, what is it you have to tell me? I need to get your statement about finding the
Tamerlane
.” She moved closer to where I sat at the desk.

I handed her the pieces of paper containing my notes. “Read this first; then we’ll talk.”

She frowned at me as she accepted the pages, but she couldn’t have read much before she paused to speak. “You’re telling me the butler did it? When I’ve already got my two best suspects cooling their heels at the sheriff’s department? They stole the books, or are you telling me the butler did that, too?”

I did my best to keep my temper as I replied. “No, they stole the books. Just read the rest of it. Please.”
Patience is a virtue
, I reminded myself.
Think about the sermon you heard on Sunday.

Kanesha frowned again, but at least she went back to reading. This time it looked like she read every word. In fact, when she reached the end, she started over and went through it a second time.

When she finished, she looked at me and smiled. “Interesting.” She handed the pages back to me. “Now, about your statement. Tell me what happened when you found the copy of
Tamerlane
.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. I knew my face had reddened. My hold on my temper was slipping. “What about Truesdale? Aren’t you going to do anything?”

“That’s all speculation.” She pointed to the pages I held. “I can’t arrest a man on a bunch of maybes.”

“I know that none of this is hard-and-fast evidence. But don’t you find it plausible, at least?”

“Yes, it’s plausible,” Kanesha said. “I will check things out. If you’re correct in saying that Truesdale knew about the change in the will before the murder, that does make a difference. I can’t ignore the possibilities, but I have to have something more concrete to go on.”

As much as it pained me to admit, I knew she was right. I was convinced Truesdale was the killer, but my conviction wasn’t enough. I glanced at Sean, who had been trying to get my attention. He held his hand out for the papers, and I gave them to him. He began reading.

“Tell me what happened when you found Ms. Milhaus with the missing
Tamerlane
.” Kanesha sounded more impatient than usual. “I need to get on with this.”

“Certainly,” I said. I gave her the details of my interactions with Anita this morning. I emphasized Anita’s attempts to cajole Truesdale, and why I believed she was the one who told him about the change in Mr. Delacorte’s will.

“Very good,” Kanesha said. She hadn’t bothered to make any notes. “I’ll need you to make a formal statement later, Mr. Harris. If you could come down to the department later today or tomorrow, I’d appreciate it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some suspects to question.”

I didn’t do anything but nod as she turned to go. Further argument seemed pointless.

When the door closed behind her, Sean said, “I think you’re right, Dad, about the butler being the killer. But she’s also right. There’s nothing here solid enough to make an airtight case.” He handed the pages back to me.

I felt considerably deflated now. I was so excited that I had figured it all out, but harsh reality—in the form of Kanesha Berry—intruded. I knew both she and my son were right.

All I had to do now was prove that the butler did it.

Diesel chirped at me. I patted him, but he kept chirping. Then he started butting my thigh with his head. When I looked down at him, I suddenly realized what he wanted.

“I’ve got to take Diesel outside right now,” I said as I stood. “Come on, boy.” Diesel loped ahead of me to the door.

“What’s going on?” Sean followed me. “Is he telling you he needs to use the litter box?”

“Something like that,” I said as we walked into the hall and headed for the front door. “I forgot about the cheese he got from Anita’s bag, and I don’t know how much he ate or what kind of cheese it was. It may have upset his stomach a bit, and he needs to get outside to do his business.”

I opened the front door, and Diesel bolted out of it. I hurried after him, and Sean brought up the rear.

By the time I made it down the steps into the front yard, all I saw was a bushy tail disappearing into one of the flower beds behind some azaleas to my right. I moved closer to wait for Diesel to finish while Sean remained on the verandah. I was aggravated with myself, because if I had taken the cheese away from him sooner, Diesel wouldn’t be dealing with an upset stomach right now.

“Are we going home now?” Sean asked. “The library is locked now, and we can’t get in to work on the inventory.”

“We might as well,” I said. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”

Diesel popped out of the azaleas and meowed. I rubbed his head. “I’m sorry, boy; I shouldn’t have let you eat enough cheese to make you sick. You were naughty to do it, but it wasn’t really your fault.”

Sean laughed as the cat and I met him at the foot of the steps. “The way you talk to that cat, I swear you think he’s human sometimes.”

I replied in a wry tone. “If you ever need evidence I’ve gone completely potty, you can always use it to get me committed.”

The sound of a vehicle coming up the driveway caused me to turn. A cruiser from the sheriff’s department pulled in and parked in front of my car. Deputy Bates exited from the driver’s side and approached us.

“Morning again, Mr. Harris.” Bates held out his hand and offered me a key. “Ms. Berry sent me over with this, so you can get into the library and work on that inventory. Said to tell you she’d appreciate it if you could get back to it.”

“You arrived just in time, Deputy,” I said as I accepted the key. “We were about to head home.”

Bates nodded. “She said to tell you also that she took Mr. Truesdale to the sheriff’s department with her to get his statement on what happened this morning.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad to hear that. You can tell her we’ll work on the inventory and get as much done today as we can.”

“Yes, sir,” Bates said. With a tip of his hat, he turned and went back to his cruiser.

“Back at it, then,” I said to Sean as we mounted the steps to the verandah.

“I don’t know about you, Dad, but I could use something to drink.” Sean turned to me with a frown as he shut the front door behind us.

“Sounds good to me. I’m sure Diesel could use some water by now, too.” I headed for the kitchen, with Diesel trotting right beside me.

The house was eerily silent, and I realized that we might be the only occupants. Unless, of course, Daphne Morris and Cynthia Delacorte were here somewhere.

In the kitchen we helped ourselves to water, and I filled a small bowl for Diesel. He lapped at the water and then chirped at me when he finished.

Sean refilled his glass from the tap while I drained mine. I put my hand on the faucet, but I froze as I heard the sound of a door opening.

Sean and I turned to see Cynthia Delacorte, dressed in hospital scrubs and looking very tired, enter the kitchen from the back door.

She pulled up short when she spotted us. “Morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” I said. “How are you?”

“Exhausted.” She suppressed a yawn as she went to the refrigerator and opened it. She pulled out a plastic pint bottle of milk and opened it.

As Sean and I watched, she finished the milk and then tossed the bottle in a recycling bin nearby.

“You must have been at the hospital all night,” Sean said as Cynthia started to walk by us without another word. “Have you heard what happened here last night?”

She stopped and stared hard at my son. “I’ve been at the hospital since about seven last night. What are you talking about?”