Kanesha turned to Bates. “Go out to the squad car and see if there’s a bag big enough for this book. If not, I’ll have to get one of the crime scene guys out here to bag this thing up.”
Bates nodded. As he opened the door, he surprised Sean in the act of knocking. Sean stepped back, and Bates walked out.
Sean shut the door behind him when he entered. “I finally got that poor woman to settle down.” He grimaced. “Fortunately, her mother-in-law happened along, and I was able to let her take over.”
“I need to interview her,” Kanesha said. “As soon as Bates is back, I’ll go up to her room.”
“She’s probably calm enough now,” Sean said. “But whether you’ll get any sense out of her . . .” He shrugged.
“Deputy, if it’s okay with you, we’ll run home for something to eat now, but we’ll be back soon.” I peeled off the cotton gloves and placed them on the work table.
“Good idea. I’m pretty hungry.” Sean rubbed his stomach. “And besides, we have a new boarder to feed, don’t forget that.”
“New boarder?” Kanesha glanced at me.
“Stewart Delacorte,” I said. I should have remembered to tell her. “He says he’s afraid of staying here, now that he knows his uncle was murdered. So he’s going to board with me for a while, until he can find his own place.”
Kanesha didn’t appear any too pleased at the news. “He should have talked to me before he decided to move out of the house.”
“It’s not like he suddenly left town,” Sean said. “You know where he is, and if you need him, you can get to him. Besides,” he grinned at her, “this way Dad and I can pump him for all the dirt on the family. Not that we’ll have to do much pumping, I expect.”
Kanesha pondered that for a moment. “I reckon it’s okay. But you can tell Mr. Delacorte that if he decides to move anywhere else, he needs to let me know right away.”
Bates returned then, without a bag. “Nothing big enough,” he told Kanesha.
“Right, then,” she said. “Get on to the crime scene guys, tell them what I need, and have someone come over and pick up this book. I’ll send someone to relieve you in a couple of hours.”
Bates nodded and pulled out his cell. Kanesha turned back to me and Sean. “Y’all go on home, and if you can do some more work tonight, that would be great. The sooner I have an answer about thefts, the happier I’ll be.”
“Thanks, Deputy,” I said. “We’ll find you an answer as quickly as we can.” I motioned for Diesel to come out from under the table. “Come on, boy. Let’s go home.”
Diesel didn’t have to hear those words more than once. He knew what they meant. He hurried to my side, and I rubbed his head a few times. Then Sean preceded us out the door.
As we exited I heard Kanesha tell Bates she was going upstairs to question Eloise. I wished her luck on that, and I hoped poor Eloise had recovered from the incident on the stairs. Someone should take a belt or a baseball bat to Hubert for his treatment of his wife. I had absolutely no use for men like that.
On the drive home I asked about Eloise. “Did she say anything about the incident?”
“No,” Sean said. “At first all she did was cry, and I couldn’t blame her. He hit her hard enough to bruise her. Man, I’d like a few minutes alone with that jerk, show him what it’s like to be hit by someone bigger and stronger.”
“I know how you feel,” I said. “I sympathize, but I wouldn’t suggest actually doing it.”
“I know. But I’d sure like to.”
From the backseat, Diesel meowed loudly. Sean laughed and turned to look at him. “I’m glad you agree, cat.” He faced forward again.
“Did Eloise say anything?” I asked.
“After she stopped crying, she started rambling,” Sean said with a frown. “It was hard to make any sense of it, because each sentence didn’t connect to the one before it. She talked about cookies, the summer hunt ball, canning vegetables, and other stuff. Made me dizzy to listen to her. And she kept looking at me like I was supposed to know what she was talking about.”
“I suppose it’s the way her mind copes with unpleasant things,” I said. “Poor woman.”
“I can’t tell you how happy I was when her mother-in-law turned up. I was getting to the point of running out into the hall and yelling for help, I was so desperate.” He sighed. “The only time she really made sense was when she told me which room was hers.”
Two minutes later I pulled the car into the garage. The moment I stepped into the kitchen, Diesel right on my heels, I smelled an enticing aroma.
Stewart Delacorte was at the stove. He glanced up as we entered. “Dinner will be ready in about half an hour, gentlemen. I thought I’d better prove to you that I’m not merely decorative.” He laughed at his own joke, and I couldn’t help but laugh with him. Sean did, too.
Dante had been lying under the table, but he emerged with a joyful bark the moment he spotted Sean. My son bent and scooped the dog into his arms, and Dante licked him repeatedly on the cheek. Sean grimaced but didn’t reprimand him.
Diesel had disappeared, but he would be back as soon as he finished in the utility room.
I stepped closer to the stove to see what he was cooking, but the pots were covered. “It smells wonderful,” I said. “What is it?”
“My very special meat sauce,” Stewart replied. “Now, shoo, both of you, out of the kitchen while I put the finishing touches to this delectable repast. I’ll yoo-hoo when it’s ready.”
“Good,” Sean said as he put Dante down again. “I’m starved.”
“Don’t worry,” Stewart said with a flirtatious glance. “There’s plenty here to satisfy a big, strong man like you.”
Sean burst out laughing, and it was then that Stewart’s double entendre registered with me. I probably blushed, but Sean didn’t seem to mind.
Time for me to head upstairs and wash up. This could turn out to be one heck of an interesting meal.
TWENTY-SIX
Dinner with Stewart turned out to be a stimulating experience. The food was superb—whole wheat linguine with a delicious meat sauce, tossed salad, and the best garlic bread I’ve ever tasted. All topped off with a bottle of excellent Merlot I’d had waiting in the cabinet for a special meal.
Dante spent the whole meal going back and forth between Sean and Stewart, begging. Sean let him have a few morsels, but that was all. I suspected that Stewart sneaked the dog as many treats as Sean did—if not more.
Diesel sat by me and watched in hopes that I would slip him a tidbit or two. He loved buttered bread, and I gave him several small chunks. He licked my fingers as a thank-you.
Conversation focused on the murder investigation. I would be in big trouble with Kanesha if we let anything confidential slip to Stewart. Sean and I were careful about what we said—when we had a chance to talk, that is. I soon discovered that Stewart was capable of carrying on the conversation on his own, with only the occasional brief comment from Sean or me.
The first topic during dinner was the victim.
“I meant what I said earlier today about Uncle James.” Stewart gestured airily with his fork. “I was fond of the old man. After all, he did take me in when my parents died and saw that I had a home and an education. But you didn’t dare cross him. No sirree. He could be nasty if he got his dander up.”
Sean smiled. “I’m sure you took care not to annoy him.”
“I had my moments,” Stewart answered in a wry tone.
“What happened when you came out to him?” Sean asked.
“Didn’t even blink,” Stewart said. “He could hardly say anything, could he? Even though he never officially came out of the closet, everyone in the family knew he was gay.” He paused. “Not that he ever did anything about it, I reckon, except nurse his silent passion for Nigel.”
“Silent passion? That’s an odd phrase,” I said. “I suppose that means he never acted on his feelings.”
“Heavens, no,” Stewart said with a mock shu
dder. “Uncle James was far too fastidious, if you know what I mean. No, he was apparently content simply to have the object of his affection near him at all times.”
“What about Truesdale?” Sean asked. “Did he return this silent passion?”
Stewart laughed. “That randy old goat? No, he didn’t. Mind you, I think he was genuinely fond of Uncle James, but Nigel is as straight as they come. When he was younger, Uncle James couldn’t keep a housemaid because Nigel was always panting after them—as long as they were attractive, of course. The man does have some standards.”
Recalling the scene in the kitchen with Anita Milhaus and the butler, I wondered about that. I couldn’t see it myself, but I supposed some men might find Anita attractive.
“I can’t say that I blame poor Uncle James,” Stewart said. “I’ve seen pictures of Nigel when he was younger—from his days on the stage in England. He was an absolute hunk.” He laughed. “And for his age, he’s not so bad-looking now.”
I tried to imagine Nigel Truesdale as a matinee idol forty years ago. He had a distinguished appearance now, certainly, as befit his position. Former position, I should say.
“You’re telling us your uncle was in love with his straight butler for no telling how long, and he never did anything about it?” Sean sipped his wine. “Man, that’s pretty sad.”
“I agree.” Stewart twirled his fork in his pasta. “But that was Uncle James. I said he was fastidious, didn’t I? The man couldn’t bear to break a sweat, so do you think he would ever get passionate with someone?” Stewart shook his head. “Wouldn’t happen. Besides, he knew he could never have Nigel, and that was that.”
How terribly sad. To be unable to open oneself up to passion with another person—I pitied him. I supposed Mr. Delacorte transferred those feelings to his book collection. That became his passion instead.
“You missed all the excitement this afternoon,” Sean said.
I shot my son a warning look. He nodded slightly.
“Do tell,” Stewart said. “Surely there wasn’t another murder?”
“No, nothing as bad as that.” Sean laughed. “There was a fight between your cousin and his wife. I happened to find them on the stairs. Eloise was crying and clutching the side of her face, and your cousin was yelling at her.”
“Poor, poor Eloise,” Stewart said with what sounded like genuine sympathy. “Hubert is simply horrid to her, and I know he hits her occasionally. What was he going on about?”
“I couldn’t really tell,” Sean said. “But the two deputies were there, and they courted him off to have a talk with him.”
“Good. Serves him right.” Stewart had a sip of his wine. “Uncle James would’ve had a fit. He didn’t like the way Hubert treated Eloise, but most of the time he was able to keep Hubert in check.”
“What do you think will happen now?” I asked.
“I’m sure Hubert will try to have Eloise committed to Whitfield,” Stewart replied. “In a way, I can’t really blame him, because Eloise has been very odd ever since they got married, eons ago. But she’s basically harmless, and she’s rather sweet.” He snorted with laughter. “Frankly, I think if we could get Hubert committed instead, Eloise would do a lot better mentally.”
“Hubert can’t be very happy about the terms of the will,” I said. “And I guess you’re not that happy either.”
“I didn’t expect to inherit everything, you know.” Stewart patted his lips with his linen napkin. “I was hoping for a bit more than he left me, like the furniture in my room, but I’ll be fine.” He offered us a sunny smile. “One benefit of living in my uncle’s house is that I’ve been able to save a significant part of my salary. The college doesn’t pay me nearly what I’m worth—I’ve won several teaching awards, did you know that? But after a while, it all adds up rather nicely.”
“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 Elo
ise’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.
Classified as Murder Page 19
