Miranda James - Classified as Murder

“Good for you,” Sean said, and I echoed him. Stewart had more on the ball than I would have given him credit for—a couple of days ago, that is.

Stewart hardly seemed to notice we had spoken—he was off again. “Hubert, though, he’s another story. The man can’t keep a job to save his life, and you know why? Because he always knows more than anyone else, and he tells everyone. Who’d want to keep a jerk like that on the payroll?”

“From what I could tell, at the reading of the will, he did expect to inherit the entire estate.” I had another bite of pasta and meat sauce while I waited for Stewart’s reply.

“He was so stupid he actually figured Uncle James would leave him everything.” Stewart shook his head. “I could have told you Nigel would probably get the lion’s share, but Hubert couldn’t believe Uncle James would actually favor a servant over his own flesh and blood. That’s how blind Hubert is, though. He always expects the world is going to be exactly the way he thinks it should be, and he’s constantly disappointed because it’s not.

“Mind you, Aunt Daphne’s mostly to blame for Hubert. That’s my opinion, anyway. She raised him to think that because he had Delacorte blood in his veins, he was better than anyone else and didn’t have to abide by the same rules as mere humans. She’s that way herself, at least when she’s not moaning and groaning over the pitiful state of her health.”

“Is anything really wrong with her?” I asked. “I’ve known a few malingerers, and she does sound like one, I must say.”

I should probably be ashamed for encouraging all this gossip, and I wouldn’t have done it if there hadn’t been a murder that needed solving.

“She does have some heart problems,” Stewart said. “Runs in the family. But that’s about it. She’s always carrying on like she’s at death’s door, but I bet you she’ll live to be ninety-five, like her father.”

“Nice to know you’re so fond of your family,” Sean said with a wicked glint in his eye. “Now, who have we not talked about yet?”

Stewart threw a piece of garlic bread at Sean. The bread landed on Sean’s plate. “Dear, sweet Cynthia, of course. Brrrr.” He crossed his arms and rubbed his hands up and down them a few times. “She’s definitely the ice queen. I told one of my friends once that you could refrigerate meat by putting it next to her, and I don’t think I was exaggerating all that much.”

“She did seem pretty reserved when I met her,” I said as I tried not to laugh at the mental image Stewart invoked with his vivid description of his cousin.

“Reserved?” Stewart snorted. “You remember what Dorothy Parker said about Katharine Hepburn in that infamous review? ‘Miss Hepburn’s emotions ran the gamut from A to B.’ Something like that. Cynthia can’t even get past A.”

“That you know of,” Sean said. “She could have a whole secret life you know nothing about.”

“Oh, I like that.” Stewart practically bounced in his chair. “ The Double Life of Cynthia Delacorte. That’s so deliciously movie-of-the-week. By day she’s a dedicated, if unfeeling, daughter of Florence Nightingale. By night she roams the streets, on the lookout for passion and perversion to slake her thirst.”

Sean burst out laughing. When he could speak again, he said, “I think you’re wasted in the chemistry department. You should be out in Hollywood, writing movies of the week instead.”

I was chuckling myself. Stewart was outrageous, but I sensed that he used humor as a shield. From what he had told us, his childhood and adolescence couldn’t have been filled with much tender loving care. No one in his family seemed capable of giving him that. I had seen the same thing in one of my former colleagues in Houston. But he kept others at bay with a sarcastic tongue instead of humor.

Stewart dabbed at his forehead with his napkin. “How exciting. See, I’m breaking into a sweat just thinking about it.” Then his expression sobered. “That would be interesting, I suppose, but actually I really do love what I do.”

“Then you’re a lucky man,” Sean said with a tinge of bitterness.

Stewart looked at him for a moment but evidently decided not to comment.

I changed the subject—slightly. “What about Eloise’s cousin, Anita Milhaus? I work with her at the public library. Does she come to the house very often?”

“You poor man,” Stewart said. “Anita’s the type of woman to make you long for retroactive birth control.” He shuddered. “Unfortunately, yes, she visits a lot. She tells everyone it’s to see Eloise, but I know better.”

“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.”