Happy Birthday Murder

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Eddie loves nursery school. The first year he went, he attended on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This year he goes every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning. As it happens, this is very convenient for me, because I have made a great change in my life. From the time I left St. Stephen's Convent, having been released from my vows, and came to live in the house I inherited from Aunt Meg in Oakwood, New York, I had taught a college course in poetry. Sometime last year I decided that both my students and I would benefit if I taught something new. The college was acquiescent and agreed to let me teach a course on American mysteries by female writers. It seemed an appropriate topic, as I have worked to solve several murders over the last few years. The best thing about it was that I spent the summer reading the most wonderful books, telling myself it was work and not fun and never believing it for one second. By the end of August I had a syllabus ready, and I began teaching just after Labor Day. It's a Wednesday morning class and Eddie is in nursery school that day, so the changes in both our schedules have meshed nicely. Nursery school has given Eddie friends who live farther than our neighbors. At the end of September he was invited to a birthday party for a boy who was turning four. We went to a toy store together, perhaps not the best idea I've ever had, and bought his friend something that I'm sure Eddie wanted for himself, so I made a note of it, as his birthday will be coming along later this fall. The party was on a Wednesday afternoon, which was no problem. My class ended before lunch and at four we drove over to Ryan Damon's house, where Ryan's mother was preparing a splendid barbecue that included mothers as well as children. The children donned party hats and blew noisemakers, making all of us over the age of four a little crazy, but they had a great time playing a bunch of games and then eating hot dogs and hamburgers and potato chips while we older folks were presented with steaks. I had a feeling as I was eating this wonderful fare that the present should have gone to Ryan's mother. A large birthday cake, decorated with blue roses and green leaves and lots of butter cream, ended our feast. Every small face was sticky with white stuff and no one wanted to go home. There was something lovely about sitting outside on a lazy autumn evening, breathing in the good fresh air, and knowing it would all end soon, the pleasant weather, the light in the early evening, the leaves still on the trees. Finally, several of us got up and started clearing away the debris and then coaxed our rambunctious youngsters to go home. "I like Ryan," Eddie said as I seat-belted him in the car. "He has a very nice mommy, too," I said, appreciating all her hard work. "I like that cake." "Well, you have a birthday coming up in a couple of months. We can try to get a cake like that for you." "And hot dogs." "But not outside, honey. It'll be too cold by then. We'll do something else. And we'll be sure to invite Ryan." "OK." Jack was home by the time we got there. Jack is one husband it's OK to leave without dinner already prepared, as he is the better cook. Eddie told him about every mouthful he had eaten and all the games the kids had played. When he was thoroughly worn out, he went upstairs for a much-needed bath and bed. Jack had the coffee going when I came downstairs, and we had just settled down to a quiet evening when there was a cry from upstairs. It was the beginning of the worst night of my life. I won't go into details. Suffice it to say that Eddie was sick and the cause was most likely