Classified As Murder

THIRTY-THREE

Kanesha moved forward into the room, her conversation with Bates finished. She positioned herself near the end of the sofa Anita occupied, and that meant Sean and I had a clear view of everyone in the room.

“Mr. Morris, Ms. Milhaus.” Kanesha paused, perhaps to be certain that Hubert and Anita were paying attention. “I’m going to ask both of you to accompany me to the sheriff’s department. I have questions for both of you, and I think it best to talk to you there.”

Hubert started sputtering, half rising from the sofa. “This is outrageous. You can’t treat me like this.” He plopped back down on the sofa.

“I’m not arresting you, Mr. Morris—yet.” Kanesha put her right hand on the gun at her waist. “Let’s do this the easy way, all right?”

Hubert nodded. He seemed to be staring at Kanesha’s gun, and I had to admire the subtle way the deputy had intimidated him.

Anita still hadn’t said a word. When I glanced at her, she had her eyes closed. Her mouth was moving, but no sound came out. Was she praying? If she was, she’d better ask for a miracle, because I figured that was the only thing that could help her and Hubert now.

Truesdale, from his vantage point by the fireplace, watched everything with a blank face. I avoided looking at him, because I didn’t want to risk his reading my suspicions on my face. I’m not always good at hiding my thoughts.

Bates came forward and motioned for Hubert to follow him. Hubert rose from the sofa and moved on unsteady legs toward the deputy. Bates took him by the arm and led him out of the parlor.

“Ms. Milhaus.” Kanesha spoke in a sharp tone. Anita appeared oblivious, and Kanesha had to reach over and touch her on the arm to get a response out of her.

“I’m taking you to the sheriff’s department.” Kanesha grasped Anita by the arm as she rose. The contents of Anita’s tote bag were still on the floor, and Kanesha guided Anita around them and a few steps away.

Kanesha stopped, and Anita did the same. Kanesha pulled the radio mike from her shoulder and spoke into it. “Franklin, I need you inside, and bring the kit. First room on the right.” She replaced the mike.

“We’ll be going in a moment,” Kanesha said.

“Deputy Berry.” I stood, and Kanesha turned her head in my direction. “I really need to speak with you about something. It’s important.”

Kanesha frowned. “And I need to talk to you, Mr. Harris. Please be patient, and I’ll get to you as soon as I can.”

“This can’t wait,” I said.

Kanesha glared at me. I stared right back at her, refusing to back down.

Another deputy, a beefy blond, entered the parlor then, and Kanesha motioned him forward. “Take Ms. Milhaus down to the station, Franklin. I’ll be along as soon as I can to question her.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Franklin took Anita by the arm and started to lead her away. “Come with me, ma’am.”

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.

That was something Kanesha could check out.

I put the pen down and quickly scanned what I had written. Some facts, some suppositions. Kanesha could check the facts, and maybe she could find concrete proof linking Truesdale to both murders.

Kanesha walked in. “Okay, Mr. Harris, what is it you have to tell me? I need to get your statement about finding the Tamerlane.” She moved closer to where I sat at the desk.

I handed her the pieces of paper containing my notes. “Read this first; then we’ll talk.”

She frowned at me as she accepted the pages, but she couldn’t have read much before she paused to speak. “You’re telling me the butler did it? When I’ve already got my two best suspects cooling their heels at the sheriff’s department? They stole the books, or are you telling me the butler did that, too?”

I did my best to keep my temper as I replied. “No, they stole the books. Just read the rest of it. Please.” Patience is a virtue, I reminded myself. Think about the sermon you heard on Sunday.

Kanesha frowned again, but at least she went back to reading. This time it looked like she read every word. In fact, when she reached the end, she started over and went through it a second time.

When she finished, she looked at me and smiled. “Interesting.” She handed the pages back to me. “Now, about your statement. Tell me what happened when you found the copy of Tamerlane.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. I knew my face had reddened. My hold on my temper was slipping. “What about Truesdale? Aren’t you going to do anything?”

“That’s all speculation.” She pointed to the pages I held. “I can’t arrest a man on a bunch of maybes.”

“I know that none of this is hard-and-fast evidence. But don’t you find it plausible, at least?”

“Yes, it’s plausible,” Kanesha said. “I will check things out. If you’re correct in saying that Truesdale knew about the change in the will before the murder, that does make a difference. I can’t ignore the possibilities, but I have to have something more concrete to go on.”

As much as it pained me to admit, I knew she was right. I was convinced Truesdale was the killer, but my conviction wasn’t enough. I glanced at Sean, who had been trying to get my attention. He held his hand out for the papers, and I gave them to him. He began reading.

“Tell me what happened when you found Ms. Milhaus with the missing Tamerlane.” Kanesha sounded more impatient than usual. “I need to get on with this.”

“Certainly,” I said. I gave her the details of my interactions with Anita this morning. I emphasized Anita’s attempts to cajole Truesdale, and why I believed she was the one who told him about the change in Mr. Delacorte’s will.

“Very good,” Kanesha said. She hadn’t bothered to make any notes. “I’ll need you to make a formal statement later, Mr. Harris. If you could come down to the department later today or tomorrow, I’d appreciate it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some suspects to question.”

I didn’t do anything but nod as she turned to go. Further argument seemed pointless.

When the door closed behind her, Sean said, “I think you’re right, Dad, about the butler being the killer. But she’s also right. There’s nothing here solid enough to make an airtight case.” He handed the pages back to me.

I felt considerably deflated now. I was so excited that I had figured it all out, but harsh reality—in the form of Kanesha Berry—intruded. I knew both she and my son were right.

All I had to do now was prove that the butler did it.