Classified As Murder

He paused for a sip of tea. “Sorry, I’m rambling. That’s what happens when I’m upset about something. Anyway, Aunt Daphne went into the kitchen, where she found Eloise slumped over the table in the corner. At first she thought Eloise was sleeping, but then she realized something was wrong.”

I really did not want to hear any gruesome details, not after my own experiences with finding dead bodies. I sent up a quick prayer of thanks that I hadn’t been the one to find Eloise.

Stewart continued. “When she got a look at poor Eloise’s face, she knew right away what had happened.” He shuddered. “She was highly allergic to peanuts—Eloise, that is, not Aunt Daphne—and somehow she’d gotten hold of something that must have had peanuts in it. Aunt Daphne thought it was probably cookies, because there were only crumbs left on the plate.”

“That’s horrible,” Sean said. “Wouldn’t she be careful about eating things, knowing she had an allergy?”

“She was very careful,” Stewart said. “Loopy as she was most of the time, she knew better than to eat anything with peanuts. It really wasn’t an issue, though, because Uncle James wouldn’t have them in the house. He was deathly allergic to them, too.”

I couldn’t help recalling Mr. Delacorte’s body as I found it—the swollen, protruding tongue. An allergic reaction. Mr. Pendergrast believed Mr. Delacorte had eaten peanuts and died. And now Eloise. How very odd that two people in the same household died from the same allergy.

A faint memory stirred. One of the family members said something I was sure was relevant, but for the moment I couldn’t recall who had said it or what he or she had said.

“Don’t people who are allergic like that usually have epinephrine with them?” Sean frowned as he set down his mug. “I used to work with someone allergic to bees, and she always had one of those pen devices with her.”

“Eloise usually did, too.” Stewart looked ill all of a sudden. “But Aunt Daphne said it wasn’t with her when she found Eloise. She must have left it upstairs.”

“What I want to know is, if peanuts were banned from the house, how did Eloise get hold of cookies—or whatever it was—with peanuts in them?” I already knew the basic answer to that, but I felt I had to express the thought aloud.

“Obviously someone brought the cookies into the house for the express purpose of killing both Uncle James and Eloise.” Stewart sat back, stunned, even as he said the words. “But why was Eloise murdered, too?”

“Maybe she knew who killed your uncle,” Sean said. “Or maybe Hubert did it because he wants to be rid of her so badly. Or it could have been his girlfriend, what’s-her-name the librarian.”

“Anita,” I said. Was Anita really cold-blooded enough to murder her cousin? In my experience, Anita was completely self-absorbed, and I supposed that if she wanted something badly enough she might go to great lengths to get it—or him, in this case.

“I’ll put my money on Hubert.” Stewart’s face darkened. “He’s been trying to get shed of her for years.”

“Maybe he thought he’d inherit most of your uncle’s money and get rid of his wife, too.” Sean drained his mug and then set it down.

“That sounds like Hubert,” Stewart said. He picked Dante up from his lap, turned the dog’s head toward him, and kissed him on the nose. Then he set him on the floor. “Let’s not talk about this anymore. I think I’m going back up to bed and try to get some sleep.”

“Good idea.” I stood and started gathering the empty mugs.

“Thanks for the tea,” Stewart said. He stood and glanced down at the floor. “And thank all of you for listening. I really appreciate it.” His face had a tinge of red. I wondered whether he was embarrassed. Perhaps he simply wasn’t used to being comforted like this.

“You’re more than welcome,” I said. I felt sorry for him.

Sean clapped him on the back, and Stewart flushed more deeply. He muttered something I couldn’t catch and practically bolted out of the kitchen. The two pets ran after him.

“What did I do?” Sean appeared bewildered. “He shot out of here like I fired him from a cannon.”

For someone who had a gay friend very like Stewart, Sean was being pretty dense.

“Surely you can figure it out,” I said in a dry tone. “Think about it for a moment.”

Sean stared hard at me for a few seconds. Then it was his turn to blush. He crossed his arms over his chest and took a couple of deep breaths. “I do not need this right now.”

The phone rang. “Who on earth?” I said. I reached over and plucked the receiver off the wall.

“Good evening. I’d like to speak to Sean Harris.” The female caller spoke like someone used to giving orders. Her tone bordered on rudeness. She also had a faint English accent.

“Who is calling?” I didn’t bother trying to be polite.

“Tell him it’s Lorelei; there’s a good chap.”

I was not going to tolerate such bad manners. “I’m not your ‘good chap.’ I’m Sean’s father, and I’ll thank you not to speak to me like I’m your servant.” Without giving her time to respond, I said, “I’ll see if he wants to talk to you.”