Classified As Murder

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 shudder. “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 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.”