Miranda James - Classified as Murder

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.”

“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.”