Miranda James - Classified as Murder

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.

I wondered how long before I came back from lunch that this all occurred. Not very long, was my guess. Had I returned earlier, I might have caught Truesdale in the act. He would probably have had some plausible tale, however.

Later, Truesdale gave Eloise more cookies with peanuts in them to silence her permanently. Her seemingly nonsensical remarks would give him away if anyone paid close enough attention to what she said.

If only I had done that earlier, Eloise might still be alive.

That thought made me angry and sick at the same time, but I couldn’t afford to dwell on it now. I had to complete my case against the butler.

What else was there?

The thefts from the collection, of course. They weren’t connected to the murder after all. Hubert and Anita probably had the fright of their lives when Mr. Delacorte was killed. They were pretty stupid to think they could get away with the thefts for very long, because Mr. Delacorte was bound to discover them sooner or later. His death might have seemed like a gift, as long as it was natural, but the minute it was labeled murder, they had probably started sweating. They had to realize they would be prime suspects, once their guilt in the thefts became known.

Maybe I was overestimating them both. Otherwise, why would Anita have been heading to Memphis and a flight somewhere in order to sell the copy of Tamerlane ? Didn’t she realize that trips out of town by anyone connected to the case would arouse suspicion?

Anita never failed to let those around her know how intelligent she was. Apparently Hubert also thought he was very bright. In their arrogance they failed to realize how inept they were, and how shortsighted in thinking they could get away with stealing from Mr. Delacorte’s collection.

But I didn’t think they had killed James Delacorte to hide their pilfering of his book collection.

Pendergrast mentioned Mr. Delacorte changed his will significantly the week before he was killed. Nigel Truesdale knew he was the chief heir in the new will. His position had changed in a big way, which no doubt the lawyer could confirm.

The motive for murder was greed, pure and simple. Truesdale wanted to retire, but evidently Mr. Delacorte wouldn’t let him. There was that remark in the will itself about the butler’s finally being able to retire. I also remembered what Helen Louise had told Sean and me, that Mr. Delacorte was known for not paying his household staff well.

With James Delacorte dead, Truesdale had access to a tremendous amount of money, not to mention a beautiful mansion as a home.

I recalled the odd scene I had witnessed when I went to find the butler to inform him of his employer’s death. I saw him hand a good-sized wad of currency to a man Truesdale said was the gardener. Now that I thought about it, though, the words between them hadn’t sounded much like the butler paying the gardener his wages. Truesdale had said something about having “the rest of it” soon, while the alleged gardener had replied that he wasn’t going to wait much longer.

I was now willing to bet the man wasn’t a gardener, but either a loan shark or a bookie. Maybe Truesdale had a bit of a gambling problem. With legalized gambling in Mississippi, there were plenty of people who gambled more than they could afford.