Classified As Murder

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?”

“About your cousin’s wife,” I said.

“Eloise?” Cynthia shook her head. “What, is she sick? Should I go look in on her?” She didn’t appear too happy about the idea. I was sure all she wanted was her bed.

“No, I’m sorry to tell you Eloise is dead. Your aunt found her last night.” I wondered how she would react. Thus far in my experience she had always kept her emotions well in check.

The tote bag slung over her shoulder slid off and onto the floor as Cynthia’s body went slack. Her shock was obvious. “What on earth happened?”

“According to Stewart, who spoke to your aunt, it was an allergic reaction to something she ate.”

“Just like Uncle James, you mean.” Cynthia frowned, her brow furrowed. “But how the heck did she get hold of peanuts?”

“My guess is cookies,” I said. “The same way your uncle did.”

Cynthia didn’t appear to have heard me. She stared hard at something beyond me. “Bastard!”

“Excuse me,” I said, startled. Beside me Diesel meowed.

“Sorry,” Cynthia replied as she focused once again on Sean and me. She glanced down at the cat, then back up at me. “I think I know where the cookies came from.”

My pulse jumped. This could be the proof needed to link Truesdale to the murder.

“Where?” Sean asked.

“Last night I came through here on my way out back to the garage, like I always do. I stop in here to find something to take with me because the cafeteria at the hospital is closed all night.” She paused. “I was just coming in the door”—she pointed to the door through which we had entered earlier—“and I could hear the phone ringing in the butler’s pantry. As I was entering, I saw Truesdale over there.” She pointed to a door in the far wall, about fifteen feet away. She strolled in that direction, and Sean, Diesel, and I followed along.

“He was on his way to answer the phone, and he set down something on this table before he entered the pantry.” Cynthia rested her hand on a table against the wall. “I went to the fridge and got some cheese, grapes, and a couple of apples and put them in my lunch bag. Then I headed toward the back door. That’s when I glanced at the table and saw what Truesdale had put there.”

I was getting antsy, and when she stopped talking, I couldn’t keep quiet. “What was it?”

“A plateful of cookies. There must have been a dozen and a half, kind of small.”

Sean and I exchanged glances. This definitely linked Truesdale to Eloise’s murder, but how to prove he gave her the cookies? Especially when none of them were left.

“What did you do then? Leave?” Sean asked.

“Yes, but I grabbed a cookie first and was out the door before Truesdale came back. I didn’t think he’d notice one cookie gone,” Cynthia said, sounding slightly embarrassed. “Normally I don’t eat any kind of sweets, only fruit, but they were too tempting. I thought eating one wouldn’t hurt.”

“And did you eat it?” I prayed that she hadn’t, by some miracle, because that cookie could be the necessary proof.

“I sure wanted to,” Cynthia said. She headed back to the other side of the kitchen to where her tote bag lay on the floor. She stooped and rummaged around in it until she extracted one of those insulated lunch bags by its handle. “I stuck it in here, and by the time I had a chance to eat something, it was all broken up. I didn’t bother with it and ate some of my fruit and the cheese instead. I left the bits in here.”

Sean and I stepped forward as she unzipped the bag and held it open for us to see. I could hardly breathe as I glanced inside.

A small red apple nestled among the cookie crumbs.

“Thank goodness you didn’t throw them out,” I said. “They’re important evidence.”

“If it turns out those crumbs have peanuts in them,” Sean said, sounding like the lawyer he was. “If they don’t, there goes your evidence.”