Classified As Murder

Kanesha frowned. “And I need to talk to you, Mr. Harris. Please be patient, and I’ll get to you as soon as I can.”

“This can’t wait,” I said.

Kanesha glared at me. I stared right back at her, refusing to back down.

Another deputy, a beefy blond, entered the parlor then, and Kanesha motioned him forward. “Take Ms. Milhaus down to the station, Franklin. I’ll be along as soon as I can to question her.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Franklin took Anita by the arm and started to lead her away. “Come with me, ma’am.”

Once they were out of the room, Kanesha spoke again. “Mr. Truesdale, I need a statement from you, and I think I’ll take yours first. Please, have a seat.” She motioned toward the sofa lately occupied by Hubert.

Truesdale did as she asked, but he looked none too happy.

Kanesha turned back to me. “Mr. Harris, if you and your son—and your cat—will wait in the other parlor across the hall, I’ll be with you as soon as I finish speaking with Mr. Truesdale.”

I really wanted to talk to Kanesha first, before the butler, but I didn’t think I could sway her—short of accusing Truesdale openly of murder right this minute. I might as well give in now. At least I could spend the time until she came to talk to me marshaling my thoughts. I’d have to make a cogent, forceful argument because I figured she was set on either Hubert or Anita as the killer. Their guilt in the thefts from the rare book collection was obvious, and I was sure Kanesha still believed the thefts were the motive for the murders.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be waiting.” I stood, and Sean and Diesel followed me out of the room. I didn’t look back.

Sean didn’t say anything while we crossed the hall, but the moment we were inside the small parlor with the door shut, he said, “Okay, Dad. What is it that can’t wait? I thought for a minute there you were going to burst a blood vessel.”

I was only half listening to Sean. I remembered there was a desk in the room, and I made a beeline for it. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have poked through the drawers of a desk in someone else’s home, but I wanted pen and paper. I needed to jot down the bits and pieces of things I was remembering to see if they all added up.

“I think Truesdale is the killer,” I said as I opened a side drawer in the elegant roll-top desk. No paper in that one. I opened the next one down. Bingo. I pulled out three pieces of expensive-looking stationery and sat down at the desk. I pushed the roll-top up to use the surface of the desk, and inside I found a tray with several pens and pencils.

Diesel placed a paw on my leg and meowed. I gave him a quick rub on the head, and he sat down by me.

“The butler? You’ve got to be kidding.” Sean laughed.

“I’m not,” I said. “I’ve got to get some things down on paper before Kanesha comes in here. I’ll explain it all later, but now I need you to let me work.” I flashed my son a quick, apologetic smile.

“Sure, Dad.” Sean sat in a nearby chair. “I’ll sit here and watch Sherlock do his thing.”

I ignored that little sally as I stared at the blank piece of paper in front of me.

I picked up a pen. I would write down whatever occurred to me. I could reorganize it as needed.

I printed Truesdale in block capitals across the top of the 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.