Classified As Murder

“If she’s not there to visit her cousin, then who?” Sean drained the last of his wine.

“Hubert, of course,” Stewart said. “They’ve been having a torrid affair for years.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

That was a shocker. Anita was no prize herself, but surely even she could do better than Hubert Morris. He was a sorry specimen of manhood if I ever saw one.

But there was no accounting for taste, and I knew from experience that some women were drawn to losers.

And this particular loser had been the heir, at least potentially, to a fortune.

If Anita was motivated by money, how steadfast would she be now that Nigel Truesdale had inherited the bulk of the estate? I knew her family had a lot of money, but Anita never seemed to have much herself. Maybe that was why she was trying hard to snare a wealthy man for herself.

That could be the motive behind the scene between butler and librarian I witnessed in the kitchen.

I wondered if this had anything to do with who killed James Delacorte. Did I believe Anita Milhaus was capable of murder?

After a moment, I decided I did. Or, at least, of being an accessory to murder. A thought niggled at my memory but disappeared before it could form completely. Something about Anita, but what was it?

If I forgot about it, perhaps the stray thought would come back to me more fully formed.

Hubert was probably the killer because he had easier access to his uncle.

I considered another part of the puzzle. If someone had indeed stolen items from Mr. Delacorte’s collection, who better to advise Hubert than a librarian?

Anita was a giant pain in the neck to work with, but she wasn’t stupid—although not as clever as she thought she was. She was smart enough to give Hubert tips on which books to steal and where to sell them.

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.”