Classified As Murder

“I didn’t expect to inherit everything, you know.” Stewart patted his lips with his linen napkin. “I was hoping for a bit more than he left me, like the furniture in my room, but I’ll be fine.” He offered us a sunny smile. “One benefit of living in my uncle’s house is that I’ve been able to save a significant part of my salary. The college doesn’t pay me nearly what I’m worth—I’ve won several teaching awards, did you know that? But after a while, it all adds up rather nicely.”

“Good for you,” Sean said, and I echoed him. Stewart had more on the ball than I would have given him credit for—a couple of days ago, that is.

Stewart hardly seemed to notice we had spoken—he was off again. “Hubert, though, he’s another story. The man can’t keep a job to save his life, and you know why? Because he always knows more than anyone else, and he tells everyone. Who’d want to keep a jerk like that on the payroll?”

“From what I could tell, at the reading of the will, he did expect to inherit the entire estate.” I had another bite of pasta and meat sauce while I waited for Stewart’s reply.

“He was so stupid he actually figured Uncle James would leave him everything.” Stewart shook his head. “I could have told you Nigel would probably get the lion’s share, but Hubert couldn’t believe Uncle James would actually favor a servant over his own flesh and blood. That’s how blind Hubert is, though. He always expects the world is going to be exactly the way he thinks it should be, and he’s constantly disappointed because it’s not.

“Mind you, Aunt Daphne’s mostly to blame for Hubert. That’s my opinion, anyway. She raised him to think that because he had Delacorte blood in his veins, he was better than anyone else and didn’t have to abide by the same rules as mere humans. She’s that way herself, at least when she’s not moaning and groaning over the pitiful state of her health.”

“Is anything really wrong with her?” I asked. “I’ve known a few malingerers, and she does sound like one, I must say.”

I should probably be ashamed for encouraging all this gossip, and I wouldn’t have done it if there hadn’t been a murder that needed solving.

“She does have some heart problems,” Stewart said. “Runs in the family. But that’s about it. She’s always carrying on like she’s at death’s door, but I bet you she’ll live to be ninety-five, like her father.”

“Nice to know you’re so fond of your family,” Sean said with a wicked glint in his eye. “Now, who have we not talked about yet?”

Stewart threw a piece of garlic bread at Sean. The bread landed on Sean’s plate. “Dear, sweet Cynthia, of course. Brrrr.” He crossed his arms and rubbed his hands up and down them a few times. “She’s definitely the ice queen. I told one of my friends once that you could refrigerate meat by putting it next to her, and I don’t think I was exaggerating all that much.”

“She did seem pretty reserved when I met her,” I said as I tried not to laugh at the mental image Stewart invoked with his vivid description of his cousin.

“Reserved?” Stewart snorted. “You remember what Dorothy Parker said about Katharine Hepburn in that infamous review? ‘Miss Hepburn’s emotions ran the gamut from A to B.’ Something like that. Cynthia can’t even get past A.”

“That you know of,” Sean said. “She could have a whole secret life you know nothing about.”

“Oh, I like that.” Stewart practically bounced in his chair. “The Double Life of Cynthia Delacorte. That’s so deliciously movie-of-the-week. By day she’s a dedicated, if unfeeling, daughter of Florence Nightingale. By night she roams the streets, on the lookout for passion and perversion to slake her thirst.”

Sean burst out laughing. When he could speak again, he said, “I think you’re wasted in the chemistry department. You should be out in Hollywood, writing movies of the week instead.”

I was chuckling myself. Stewart was outrageous, but I sensed that he used humor as a shield. From what he had told us, his childhood and adolescence couldn’t have been filled with much tender loving care. No one in his family seemed capable of giving him that. I had seen the same thing in one of my former colleagues in Houston. But he kept others at bay with a sarcastic tongue instead of humor.

Stewart dabbed at his forehead with his napkin. “How exciting. See, I’m breaking into a sweat just thinking about it.” Then his expression sobered. “That would be interesting, I suppose, but actually I really do love what I do.”

“Then you’re a lucky man,” Sean said with a tinge of bitterness.

Stewart looked at him for a moment but evidently decided not to comment.

I changed the subject—slightly. “What about Eloise’s cousin, Anita Milhaus? I work with her at the public library. Does she come to the house very often?”

“You poor man,” Stewart said. “Anita’s the type of woman to make you long for retroactive birth control.” He shuddered. “Unfortunately, yes, she visits a lot. She tells everyone it’s to see Eloise, but I know better.”