Classified As Murder

“What should I do with them?” Cynthia asked. “I’m so tired I’m about to drop in my tracks.”

“I’m sure you’re exhausted,” I said in sympathy. “But this is vital. You have to turn this over to the sheriff’s department as soon as possible.”

“You’re right,” Cynthia said. “I can always sleep later, I guess. I’m not due back at the hospital again until Saturday night.”

“I think we should go straight down there,” Sean said. “Before they let Truesdale leave.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Let’s go. Sean, you drive, and I’ll call right now to let them know we’re coming and that there’s important new evidence.”

Cynthia zipped up the lunch bag and stuck it back in her tote. As she followed Sean out of the kitchen, Diesel right behind them, I brought up the rear. I already had my cell phone out, punching in the number of the sheriff’s department.

THIRTY-FIVE

Four of us sat down to dinner Saturday night. Helen Louise Brady joined Stewart, Sean, and me for a festive meal.

Better make that six—of course Diesel and Dante were present as well.

Stewart insisted on preparing the meal, and in honor of Helen Louise’s presence—and the gâteau au chocolat she brought for dessert—he prepared vichyssoise, coq au vin, and green beans. I remembered Helen Louise telling me once vichyssoise was most likely created here in America, albeit by a French-born chef who worked at the Ritz-Carlton in New York. No matter what its origin, it was delicious.

Neither Helen Louise nor Stewart had ever met a stranger, as far as I could ascertain. They got on like the proverbial house afire, and the conversation between the two of them kept Sean and me entertained through the first half of the meal.

When we finally reached the dessert course and each had a large piece of the gâteau along with a cup of coffee ready to consume, Helen Louise turned to me and said, “Enough about food, though I’m sure Stewart and I could natter on for hours. What’s the latest on the case of the murderous butler?”

I finished chewing a bite of the sinfully delicious cake before I replied. Helen Louise watched me avidly. “He’s been formally charged with Eloise’s murder now.”

“Only poor Eloise?” Helen Louise frowned. “What about Mr. Delacorte?”

I shrugged. “I believe Kanesha is holding off charging him with that one, because she still doesn’t have enough solid evidence to link him to it. She’ll keep digging, though, and I’m sure she’ll find evidence if it’s there.”

“They know for sure now that Anita Milhaus told Truesdale about the change in the will,” Sean said. “Anita’s niece, who works for Q. C. Pendergrast, confessed that she told her aunt.”

“And Anita was apparently all too happy to assure Kanesha that she told Truesdale the good news.” I forked up another piece of the cake.

“At least they’ve got him for Eloise’s murder. Thanks to dear Cousin Cynthia,” Stewart said. “I’m still amazed by that. She’s always so quiet, slipping in and out of the house, half the time I forgot she was there. Thank goodness, though, for the sweet tooth she tries to pretend she doesn’t have. If she hadn’t swiped that cookie, Truesdale might have got away with it.”

“So the cookie she took turned out to have peanuts in it?” Helen Louise sipped her coffee.

“They’re still waiting for results from the state crime lab,” I said. “But Kanesha told me she’s convinced that those crumbs will turn out to have peanuts in them. She also said they’ve been able to track down where Truesdale bought the cookies.”

“Where?” Helen Louise’s eyes grew big.

I had to laugh. “The Piggly Wiggly, where else? Can you believe it, he still had the receipt. He bought them when he bought other groceries, and he put the receipt away to record in his expense book.”

“Uncle James made him account for every penny.” Stewart sniffed as he contemplated the last bite of cake on his plate. “I suppose the habit was so ingrained he did it without thinking.”

“Another brick in the case against him,” Sean said. He reached for the cake plate and cut himself a second, smaller piece. “This is awesome cake, Helen Louise.”

“Thank you.” If she’d been a cat, Helen Louise would have purred.

My own cat, sitting by my chair, had successfully begged a couple of bites of the chicken, but I knew better than to let him have any chocolate. I warned Stewart against giving either Diesel or Dante any bites of the cake, but he assured me he was aware of the dangers of chocolate for both cats and dogs.

Between Sean and Stewart, Dante had managed to scarf down a fair amount of chicken, I was sure. He was an appealing little beggar, but he would have a weight problem soon if both my son and my boarder continued to indulge him.

“Cynthia was certainly a dark horse,” I said. “Thank goodness for her, though. And for Diesel.” I scratched the cat behind the ears. “If he hadn’t dug into Anita’s bag, she might have gotten on that plane and managed to sell the copy of Tamerlane to that buyer in Chicago.”