In August 1898, a seemingly thoughtful gift arrived on the doorstep of the Dunning family in Dover, Delaware. The package contained an elegant one-pound box of chocolates, accompanied by a note that read simply, “With love to yourself and baby – Mrs. C.” The sender was not immediately known, but the gesture appeared warm and friendly.
That evening, Mary Elizabeth “Lizzie” Dunning shared the chocolates with her family on their sunlit porch. Her sister, Ida, joined in as the family sampled the sweets. Within forty-eight hours, both sisters were dead, and the box of candy became the centerpiece of one of the most sensational crimes of the late 19th century.
Suspicion Falls on the Chocolates
It did not take long for suspicion to settle on the chocolates. At least six people fell violently ill after eating them, but those who refrained from indulging remained well. Elizabeth and Ida had eaten the largest number of pieces, and by August 17, 1898, both women were gone. The rest of the family, though sickened, survived.
Tests confirmed what investigators feared: the chocolates contained large amounts of arsenic, with some clumps the size of peas. The question remained—who had sent them, and why?
The Trail Leads West
The mysterious note, signed “Mrs. C.,” initially suggested the gift might have come from one of Elizabeth’s acquaintances from the Dunnings’ years in San Francisco. But as police dug deeper, another name soon surfaced: Mrs. Cordelia “Ada” Botkin.
Cordelia was no stranger to the Dunning family. She had been involved in a long and complicated affair with Elizabeth’s husband, John Dunning, a prominent Associated Press correspondent. Their relationship had begun almost by chance, when John stopped to fix his bicycle and struck up conversation with the vivacious, older Cordelia. She was married but estranged from her husband, and she quickly became a central figure in John’s life.
By the time the affair was in full swing, Elizabeth had left San Francisco, returning to her family in Delaware with their child. John’s drinking and gambling had already strained their marriage, and his relationship with Cordelia widened the divide. Meanwhile, Cordelia reportedly sent Elizabeth a series of anonymous letters mocking her about John’s infidelity.
John’s reckless habits eventually cost him his position with the Associated Press, after it was discovered he had embezzled office funds. Yet when the Spanish-American War broke out in 1898, the AP took him back and sent him to Cuba. In a twist of fate, John and Elizabeth had reconciled before his departure. While he was abroad reporting from Havana, tragedy struck at home.
Recognizing the Handwriting
When John learned of his wife’s death, he immediately suspected Cordelia Botkin. The handwriting on the chocolate box’s note was painfully familiar—its long, looping script identical to letters she had sent him during their affair. The anonymous letters Elizabeth had received also bore the same handwriting.
Investigators traced the postmark on the package to San Francisco, confirming the chocolates had been mailed from there. This discovery tightened the net around Cordelia. Soon, she was arrested and charged with two counts of murder.
The Trial of the Century
Cordelia Botkin’s trial became a media sensation, with newspapers across the country covering every detail. The evidence against her was extensive and damning.
Handwriting experts testified that the note accompanying the chocolates matched Cordelia’s penmanship. A San Francisco pharmacist recalled selling her arsenic, which she claimed was needed to bleach a hat—a flimsy excuse that carried little weight in court. Candy shop clerks testified they had sold a one-pound box of chocolates to a woman matching her description, who curiously requested that the box be only partly filled.
Additional physical evidence emerged from a hotel room where Cordelia had stayed days before the crime. Investigators found string, a box seal, and wrapping paper consistent with the package sent to the Dunning home. Piece by piece, the case against her grew stronger.
John Dunning himself testified, acknowledging his belief in Cordelia’s guilt. “In my own heart I did not think anyone else would do it,” he told the court. His admission not only implicated Cordelia but also highlighted the jealousy and resentment that had likely motivated her actions.
Guilty as Charged
The jury was convinced. Cordelia Botkin was found guilty of murder and sentenced to life in prison. She appealed and was granted a retrial in 1904, but the outcome was the same—another guilty verdict, another life sentence. She would spend the remainder of her life behind bars.
Cordelia’s downfall was as dramatic as the crime she committed. Once known in San Francisco society for her charm and flamboyant personality, she became infamous as the woman who killed with candy. Her case was one of the earliest high-profile examples of poisoning through the mail, a crime that shocked the public and underscored the dangers of unchecked jealousy and obsession.
Legacy of the Chocolate Murders
The Botkin case left a deep imprint on American true crime history. It had all the elements of a Victorian melodrama: love affairs, betrayal, jealousy, and a cruelly ingenious method of murder. The newspapers of the day relished the story, feeding a public hungry for lurid details.
For historians, the case illustrates both the vulnerabilities of the late 19th-century postal system and the growing reliance on forensic science in solving crimes. The careful analysis of handwriting, chemical testing of the chocolates, and testimony from multiple witnesses all played pivotal roles in securing Cordelia’s conviction.
Cordelia Botkin died in prison in 1910, remembered not for her earlier social standing but for the deadly box of chocolates she mailed across the country. Mary Elizabeth and Ida Dunning, meanwhile, were mourned as innocent victims of a jealous woman’s vendetta.
The story of the chocolate murders continues to be retold more than a century later. It remains a grim reminder that even the sweetest gifts can hide the most bitter intentions.
The Press and the Botkin Trial
The Cordelia Botkin case unfolded at a time when newspapers thrived on sensational trials. By the late 19th century, crime reporting was not just journalism but entertainment, and the poisoned chocolates of Dover, Delaware, provided irresistible copy.
From San Francisco to New York, headlines screamed of the “Chocolate Cream Killer” and the “Jealous Mistress’ Deadly Gift.” Newspapers reveled in the scandalous love triangle: a prominent war correspondent, his respectable wife, and the flamboyant, middle-aged lover who plotted revenge from across the continent.
Reporters filled their columns with vivid courtroom details. They described Cordelia’s appearance each day — her gowns, her expressions, even her posture in the witness box. Testimony from pharmacists, candy clerks, and handwriting experts was breathlessly relayed to readers who followed the case like serialized fiction.
The coverage wasn’t limited to facts. Papers speculated freely on Cordelia’s motives, often framing her as a woman scorned, undone by passion and vanity. This melodramatic framing ensured the case reached far beyond Delaware, capturing national attention.
The sensational reporting also shaped public perception long before the jury reached its verdict. To many, Cordelia Botkin was guilty the moment the first headline linked her name to the poisoned chocolates.
In this way, the Botkin trial not only underscored advances in forensic evidence but also highlighted the power of the press in shaping the narrative of American justice. It remains one of the earliest examples of a trial becoming a nationwide media spectacle.
