miss fortune mystery (ff) - bloodshed in the bayou

by Leslie Langtry

  Text copyright ©2015 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Jana DeLeon. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original The Miss Fortune Series remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Jana DeLeon, or their affiliates or licensors.

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  BLOODSHED

  IN THE BAYOU

  Leslie Langtry

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About Leslie Langtry

  Chapter 1

  “Why don’t Junior Leaguers have orgies?” I asked as I answered my ringing cell.

  The sigh of a thousand martyrs came through the speaker and a cultured, Southern accent asked (obviously against her best judgment), “Why, Margaret?”

  “Too many thank you notes to write afterwards.” I answered.

  Most people joke about having an evil twin. But I actually have one.

  “Hilarious.” Peggy Sue said drily. She never liked my Junior League jokes…mainly because she was President of the local Junior League. “I’m calling because Mother is ill. Again.”

  “I’m busy.” I answered. And I really was. Unlike my wealthy, civic despot of the community sister, I worked for a living. And currently, I was releasing an eastern cougar from an illegal snare in a swamp. It was tricky business because the cougar was doubtful about my motives. Apparently my DNR uniform wasn’t proof enough that I was on his side. At least, I think it was a ‘he.’ I didn’t think it polite to ask.

  “I’m serious.” Peggy Sue’s drawl was very refined. She’d worked hard on that when she’d married Huntington Delacroix III fifteen years ago to become the wealthiest wife in three parishes.

  We actually came from Sinful, Louisiana. Most twins are close friends and somewhat alike. And while we were identical, there was no way you’d ever think that by looking at us. I had short, curly hair I mostly tucked up under a Department of Natural Resources cap, and wore little to no makeup.

  Peggy Sue’s hair was a glossy, blonde and ridiculously flammable confection that often resembled a football helmet, and her highly stenciled makeup was artfully applied several times a day. While I wore a t-shirt, jeans and waterproof boots, my twin was mostly spotted in a tailored twin set and pearl choker.

  “What do you want me to do about it?” I asked as the cougar took a swipe at me and hissed.

  I could literally hear Peggy Sue rolling her eyes. “Go deal with it, of course! I have a meeting of the St. Bernard’s Parish Women’s Benevolence Society today!”

  With a final tug, the snare came free and the big cat ran off. “Fine. But this is twice in a row. You owe me.” I said as I stood up and tried to brush all the mud off my pants.

  “Whatever.” My sister said as she hung up.

  Mother. Hell. I’d rather deal with the cougar.

  My name is Margaret Susan Ancelet. Yes, I know that Margaret Susan and Peggy Sue are the same. But our mother had only one name picked out when I was born and I got it. She didn’t even know she was pregnant with twins, so when my sister made her appearance minutes after me, she got the same name. Weirdly, no one in Sinful ever thought this was strange.

  I toyed with changing my filthy clothes before stopping by Mom’s. Nah - she should have to put up with a little swamp gas if I had to endure an hour with her. Mom was not an easy person to visit. To put it succinctly, she was crazy as a toothless polecat in a chicken coop.

  As I maneuvered my boat through the bayou, I wondered why I didn’t move farther away? It’s not like I had a great social life, unless you consider snakes, alligators and various birds a party. Our Parish covered several towns. I could live in any of them.

  No matter how many times I asked myself this question, I knew the answer would always be no. In spite of my sister’s inherent awfulness, they had two fabulous kids who I adored. Hunt (Huntington Delacroix IV) and Meg (there isn’t one ounce of originality in my family) were seven and nine years old and surprisingly grounded, funny, warm kids. They often roamed the swamp with me on the weekends and I was completely smitten. They were probably the closest I’d come to having kids of my own.

  Mom (or Mother, as Peggy Sue called her in hopes of making people think she came from money) lived in a nursing home in another town called Mudbug - a fact I was eternally grateful for. The staff at Sunnyvale more than earned their pay checks just from dealing with her.

  Why? Because she was insane. We’d been through a lot with that woman. Every time I visited her, Mom thought she was someone else. Last month she thought she was an African- American voodoo queen. The month before she believed she was a Jewish ice cream salesman. As I docked the boat and got into my pickup truck, I wondered what she’d be this time.

  I drove as slowly as I could to Mudbug but unfortunately I eventually got there. It was a nice nursing home, with an all brick exterior, floor to ceiling windows and a wonderful courtyard garden.

  “Hey, Margaret.” Eleanor Woodruff, the nurse at reception, nodded. “She’s in her room.”

  “Thanks.” I said, embarrassed that she had to deal with Mom’s drama, because she was a nice, middle-aged lady who didn’t need that in her life. I headed down the corridor on my right and found myself in Mom’s room.

  The sounds of balalaika music came from the computer in the corner. This was going to be interesting.

  “Hey Mom. It’s Margaret.” I walked over and sat in the chair next to her bed.

  “Masha!” Mom said in a thick Russian accent. “How good of you to come. I’m dying.”

  “Of course you are.” I patted her hand. “What’s it this time?”

  “Chernobyl. I have cancer from the radiation exposure.” She wheezed for effect.

  “When are you going to die of something French?” I sighed. “We aren’t even Russian.”

  Mom swore vigorously in pretend Russian, using words like Moscow, Tolstoy and Molotov cocktail a lot. I ignored her and checked her forehead. Cool as a cucumber. She wasn’t really ill. As usual I came all the way here for nothing.

  Sadie Elizabeth Ancelet had been a smart, beautiful woman once. Her family was sixth generation French, like my father’s. Or so she said. Our dad ran out on us when we were little and I barely remembered him. Something spooked him about having twins I guess, and he just left. We called him The Bastard.

  The reason for all the crazy play acting was because she’d been a history teacher once. At least, that’s what I guessed was the reason. It could easily be something else. I never took much time to analyze it.

  Anyway, at the young age of forty-two, Mom declined mentally which is a nice way of saying she went bat-shit bezerk (or in the South, we’d say she’d become eccentric). Normally this kind of thing would come on gradually, but not in this case. Mom had gone to the grocery store on a Saturday morning, commandeered the sound system and started ranting about an alien invasion in Produce. The next day, Sheriff Robert E. Lee found her chasing folks down the sidewalk, screaming that they were ant murderers for stepping on an anthill.

  It got so bad in just a few days that Peggy Sue and I were called home from the second semester of our senior year at Tulane to dea
l with it. She’s been here in the Sunnyvale nursing home in Mudbug ever since.

  I listened for half an hour as Mom railed against former Russian President Gorbachev. She looked old, like people do when they’ve spent ten years in a place like this. Her once thick, dark hair had turned thin and gray. She’d lost a lot of weight to the point she looked like she’d break if she fell out of bed. It was sad.

  She fell asleep in mid-rant about knowing what really happened to Anastasia Romanov, and I carefully slipped out of her room and closed the door. I was exhausted. These visits were rough.

  “Hey Margaret!” Dr. Higgins walked over to me. “What are you doing here? It’s not Saturday.”

  “Peggy Sue said Mom was sick.” I answered, raising my eyebrows in askance.

  “No.” The Dr. shook her head. “She’s fine. Just raising a ruckus. I don’t know why anyone would’ve called you two.”

  I waved her off, not wanting to get any of the staff in trouble. “Don’t worry about it. No harm done.” Just a little more crushing to see Mom that bad. But I didn’t tell the Dr. that.

  The drive back got me to thinking about my own sanity. Was I doomed to lose it like Mom? Was this hereditary? Clearly my twin sister was nuts already, but what about me?

  No one was at the office when I got back to Sinful. That wasn’t too surprising because there were only three employees, myself, Ed Roberts – the wetlands science officer, and Lucia Hernandez, the receptionist. I tossed my cap on my desk and ran my fingers through my hair to deal with hat head. It did no good. As usual.

  The door opened right at that moment and Deputy Sheriff Carter LeBlanc walked in. He was a nice guy and we got along well. I sighed, wondering who was poaching in the wetlands again. Around here the usual suspects were numerous.

  “Hey Carter.” I greeted him with a handshake.

  “Margaret.” Carter nodded and sat down in the chair opposite my desk, so I sat down.

  “Who is it this time?” I asked, pencil poised over my log book.

  “I’m sorry Margaret. I have some bad news.” He looked pained.

  I froze. Not Hunt or Meg. Please don’t let anything have happened to those kids. Or was it Mom? Maybe she really was sick? Oh yeah, and Peggy Sue – maybe something went horribly wrong at the beauty parlor?

  “What is it?” I managed, bracing myself.

  Carter bit his lower lip. “It’s your father. Hugo Ancelet. We found his body in the swamp.”

  Chapter 2

  “My father?” I croaked. “Are you sure?” How would he know my father? Sure, Dad had grown up here, but he ran off when I was an infant. Carter wasn’t any older than me. And no one ever talked to me about Dad. Well, I never asked anyone about The Bastard.

  “My Uncle Walter found him when he was fishing. He knew your father. And he found the wallet on him with his I.D. I’m sorry Margaret.”

  I stared at the deputy, my mouth hanging over for what seemed like forever. My dad. A man who didn’t even deserve to be called Dad. Dead. I guess he’d finally come back home after all. Or had he been here longer? And if so, why didn’t he get in touch? But then, I probably wouldn’t have anything to do with him if he did. Maybe he knew that. My brain was spinning.

  “Have you told Peggy Sue yet?” I asked finally.

  Carter shook his head. “No. I was going to go there next.”

  I shook my head. “I’d better do it.” It seemed like it should come from me.

  “Are you sure?” LeBlanc squinted at me. I knew this was his job.

  “Yeah. I’ll go now. And thanks for letting me know.” I stood and walked the Deputy to the door.

  “Sorry Margaret. I really am.” Carter gave me a weak smile and walked out the door. As I watched him go, I wondered, was I sorry?

  That thought pestered me all the way to Peggy Sue’s house. The only feeling I seemed to be experiencing was shock. And not that Hugo Ancelet was dead, but that he was actually here. I wasn’t upset, which seemed wrong somehow. But then, he didn’t really deserve my sorrow.

  I pulled up outside the enormous, gothic, yellow plantation house that several generations of the Delacroix Family had called home over the decades, and rang the bell. Paloma, the maid, answered, dressed in a crisp gray and white uniform.

  “Miss Margaret,” She nodded and I followed her into the house. As hot as it had been outside, the inside of my sister’s house was cool and smelled overwhelmingly like roses. Peggy always had the house full of tea roses. She said they helped counter the odor of the bayou. I looked down at my muddy jeans and boots. Oh well.

  “Aunt Margaret!” Hunt shouted from the staircase above. Meg’s blonde head appeared next to him and the two kids shot down the stairs, crushing me in a group hug.

  “Children!” Peggy sniped, “Your Aunt is filthy! You’ll get your clothes dirty!”

  Hunt winked at me and Meg gave me another squeeze before they stepped away. I patted them both on the head.

  “Go on. I need to talk to your Mom for a moment.” I smiled as the two kids ran to the back door and tumbled outside.

  “Really, Margaret!” Peggy would’ve frowned had she believed in it. But frowning caused wrinkles and those just wouldn’t do.

  “You could’ve changed before you came over here! Look at the mess you’ve left on my floors!” She pointed to the slight dirt trail I’d left behind.

  “And I’d feel sorry for you if I didn’t know that Paloma will be cleaning it up.” I said. “We need to talk. Where can we sit so I won’t muss your house?” I arched my right brow.

  My twin looked at me darkly. “On the veranda.” She called for her maid to bring us two mint juleps. Today she was wearing a jewel toned pink silk dress, with her signature pearls and matching kitten heels. They clicked on the marble floor as I followed her outside to a patio so heavily endowed with roses that it looked like a garden show had exploded.

  We sat down on wicker furniture that I knew would be scoured clean the second I left.

  “Is it Mother?” Peggy Sue’s perfectly manicured hand went up to touch her pearls. It was a nice dramatic effect that meant nothing. Mom was my sister’s cross to bear and she bore it like a martyred saint.

  “No, actually.” I rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans. I’d always thought it would be Mom I told her about someday. I never dreamed that dad would ever come back into our lives.

  “Deputy LeBlanc came to see me. It appears that Hugo Ancelet has died.”

  “Father?” Peggy Sue sucked in a breath. Her perfectly golden skin (not too tan but not too light and totally fake) turned pale. “Oh no!”

  “Oh cut the crap.” I said. I was tired of all this. “You don’t care about him any more than I do.”

  The mint juleps arrived and I took one, sipping greedily. It was beyond hot and after what I’d been through today, I needed it. Peggy Sue waited until Paloma had gone and relaxed. She only was this way with me. No one else was allowed to see the perfect veneer crack. Her own husband had never seen her without makeup. Not ever.

  “Does Mother know?” Her voice was still the artfully crafted accent. But at least there wasn’t any playacting.

  I shook my head. “No. But I just came from there. She’s a Russian now.”

  “Well maybe we shouldn’t tell her.” My sister said. “I don’t think it would help with her eccentricities and all.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments, drinking our cocktails.

  “I don’t suppose we can just dump his body in the swamp and let the gators have him.” Peggy Sue said at last.

  “I know a spot or two where we could go.” I said. “But probably not. Walter found the body.”

  Peggy Sue rolled her eyes. “Oh wonderful. Now the whole town probably knows.”

  “Walter’s not a gossip. Well not really,” I said. But he was the owner of the General Store – one of the most highly trafficked places in Sinful.

  “I’ll have to have a full-blown to-do at the Catholic Church then, I guess.” Peggy Sue sig
hed. “Maybe Francine can cater it.”

  Peggy Sue converted from whatever we were to Catholicism when she married Huntington. She embraced the church with such gusto she was a fixture. She’d probably be the altar itself if that job didn’t already belong to Mrs. Celia Arceneaux. Celia was ensconced in the community as a dictator who could reduce Vladimir Putin to tears. And she and my sister were thick as thieves.

  I stayed out of church and town politics in general mostly because I was avoiding the two questions I was always asked; “How’s your mother?” and “What’s Peggy Sue up to these days?” With Southern manners the way they were it didn’t seem right to answer, “In the nuthouse,” and “Polishing her collection of human skulls,” all the time.

  “I’ll leave you to the details then.” I said as I stood up. “Give the kids a hug from me.”

  By the time I’d reached the door, Peggy Sue was already on the phone, gasping in horror to someone about the death of our beloved Father.

  Chapter 3

  I spent the last couple of hours of my shift just sitting at my desk and staring out the window into the murky depths of the Louisiana bayou. This was all just too hard to believe. Not necessarily that my father was dead. I didn’t care much about that. No, it was that he’d come back here and done something that ended in his death.

  Unable to focus or get any work done, I locked up the office and went home. There wasn’t any point in staying at work. I drove to my little house on the edge of town and after making a whiskey sour, sat down on my front porch rocker to decompress. The humidity rose off the grass and shimmered in the setting sun, leaving a sheen of sweat on my skin. But the drink was cold and the red and purple sky relaxed my thoughts, making it easier to think.

  I wasn’t there long before Ally showed up with a homemade peach pie. Ally was the best baker in all of Louisiana and as sweet as her famous pies. Even though we weren’t close, I wasn’t surprised to see her. People always showed up with food when someone died. Kind of strange how we thought about eating at times like this.