Milicent Le Sueur

by Margaret Moseley

  MILICENT LE SUEUR

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2001 Margaret Moseley

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 1941298974

  ISBN 13: 9781941298978

  Published by Brash Books, LLC

  12120 State Line #253

  Leawood, KS 66209

  www.brash-books.com

  Books by Margaret Moseley

  Bonita Faye

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’ve never had so much fun writing a book as I did with Milicent Le Sueur. She visited me each day, making me laugh out loud and, I’m sure, disturbing my husband, Ronal Burris, as he wrote his own book, Roadkill on Mainstreet. After a day of writing, I would show him mine, and he would show me his.

  Also hooked on daily doses of Milicent were my sisters, Mary Lou Brookman—a licensed professional counselor, who kept me on track with finding Milicent’s essence—and Donna Seydler, who brought that essence alive in her original cover art.

  My dear friends Karen Edmundson and Dana Bisbee also received a daily dose of Milicent, and their encouragement was invaluable.

  Friends of mine at the Fort Smith Little Theater—where I spent many a happy hour—will recognize the setting and circumstances of Milicent’s theater adventure. Thanks for the memories, guys!

  And to my sistahs—Karen, Susu, Sandra, Deborah, Janice, Deni, Robin, and Jen—thank you for your unconditional support and love. The same appreciation goes to Barbara Ford and the Cowtown Crimesolvers—Fort Worth’s chapter of Sisters in Crime—as well as the regulars in the Writers Café on AOL.

  And to my own sweet babies, Dixie and Charlotte, who now are the most wonderful young women a mother could ever hope to have.

  It is gratifying to be working once again with Three Forks Press publisher Darwin Payne. There’s fitting symmetry in Three Forks publishing Milicent as they did Bonita Faye.

  Once again, for Ronal…I love you.

  For the re-issuing of Milicent Le Sueur, I would like to sincerely give heartfelt thanks to Brash Book’s publishers Lee Goldberg and Joel Goldman for having faith in my work and for including my books in their prestigious author list. Thanks also to Denise Fields, and to the cadre of sensitive and capable editors for their expert contributions. And, yes, I still love Ron!

  Cheers to the Critters

  Shawn

  Flora

  Melissa

  Nathan

  Laura Diane

  Samantha

  Steven

  Katherine

  Alexandra

  Ashley

  and

  John Thomas

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ONE

  “Whatcha lookin’ at?”

  The ragtag group of early morning snoopers turned toward me as I edged my way through them. Most of them stepped away as I approached. Well, whoop-de-do. I was used to that, but I drew the line at the lady in a housecoat who sniffed the air as I brushed by her. “Hey, you, Grandma, bet I’ve had a bath since you have.” I stopped and looked at her again. “But I do like your taste in clothes. Is that Goodwill or Abilities Unlimited?”

  I will never know where to improve my eclectic wardrobe because she stuck that sniffing nose in the air and pushed to the side of the crowd. “Your loss,” I shouted after her. “I would have told them at the Oscars that you were my designer. Whoop-de-do, what have we here?”

  I had finally reached the yellow police tape draped around my two trees on the vacant lot. Between the trees, down by the curb, lay a black plastic sheet. The plastic was stiff in the chilled morning air and, not being warmed by what it was covering, barely allowed me to see the small form underneath it.

  “Oh, yeah, I remember her. Are you just now finding her? And you call yourselves professionals. Oh, well, I’m off to KFC for a biscuit. Anyone treating me?”

  “Here, here’s a dollar. That ought to get you a hot biscuit,” said a suit with an Oscar de la Renta tie.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m kind of in between the rock and the hard place today.”

  The suit next to him, pinstriped and proud of his bad taste in cheap neckties, offered another buck. “Have some coffee, too, lady; it’s cold this morning.”

  “Will do. Will do.” I looked around for some more givers, but they had mostly turned their attention to an arriving police car. It joined the two others already parked around the small bundle at the curb. I pocketed the bills on the inside of my blue parka and ducked down a little to make my way through the people. I didn’t need to see what they uncovered, and I sure didn’t need the police to see me.

  I knocked my mitten at the KFC window down the block, and the lazy-faced attendant rolled her eyes. “Don’t be giving me your looks, missy. Just give me a biscuit and coffee. Oh, and I want mixed-fruit jelly.”

  “Here, take it and go. You’re holding up the line. Next time, come inside.”

  Whoop-de-do. A free biscuit and coffee, and me with big money in my pocket.

  “I’ll do that when this coffee runs through me,” I promised. KFC was my favorite restaurant, open twenty-four hours a day and the cleanest restrooms in Portsmith. I knew that because I clean them myself when I’m in the mood.

  Across the street, both my trees were tied up at the moment, so I moseyed on down the walk and sat on the waist-high wall that surrounded my property and had myself a little picnic while the cars and the people came and went.

  I liked the sound of the car doors opening and shutting. Whoosh, slam. Whoosh, slam. There was a nice rhythm to it, and it beat the heck out of those mockingbirds in the trees fussing at the crowd as good as I could have. I closed my eyes. Whoosh, slam.

  Whoosh, slam. “Whoosh, slam,” I said aloud. My words rose above the birds’ chatter as I enjoyed them sliding off my tongue. So I said them again. And again.

  “Whoosh, slam? Now, would that be the sound yo
u heard when the car hit that woman, Millie?”

  Uh-oh. I hunkered down on the wall like a beagle caught stealing the leftover meat loaf off the dining-room table. There was a definite silence in the air. Where were the birds when you needed them?

  “Are you finished with your breakfast, Millie?”

  “I sure am, Wade Tate. Nary a crumb left for you.”

  “That’s fine. Now how about you get in my car and come on downtown with me for a little talk?”

  “I don’t think so, Tate Wade. This is a busy day for me.”

  “You’ve got that right, Millie. And it starts in my office. Come on now, don’t give me any trouble.”

  Wade Tate was Portsmith’s Police Chief and this day was no friend of mine. And I hate when he calls me Millie. But what can you do? He’s the one with the gun.

  I love his name, though. It’s the same sound backward and forward. I changed whoosh, slam to Wade Tate, Tate Wade as he guided me toward his white car with the blue letters. I stopped before I got in the passenger side. “Tate Wade, Wade Tate, we have a new car.”

  The little man with the big gun laughed. “Yes, I guess we do, Millie. I guess we do.”

  Yep, I got special treatment from the police around here. I’m a bit of a celebrity. People drive by just to point me out. Happens when you’re the only bag lady in town.

  TWO

  “Whatcha lookin’ at?”

  I fairly screamed at the reporters gathered around the police car as we arrived at city hall. I didn’t even take the time to study the black-and-gray granite blocks that arranged themselves to make up the building. The black squares were polished, and the gray ones rough. Whoever designed it grew up in a quilt-filled household; that was for sure. Ordinarily I would sit for hours and study the geometry of it all. How many black ones? How many gray blocks? How did they fit the windows and doors in? Basic stuff. But oh, no…not today.

  Today my Wade Tate just parked at the curb and opened the door on the right side for me and told the little uniformed elf who followed him around to take me on inside to his office. The elf took my elbow and guided me away. But I could still hear the words floating in the air.

  “Who’s the dead girl, Tate?”

  “Why are you bringing Millie in? Did she do it, or did she see it?”

  “Wade, can you give me a sound bite for the twelve o’clock news?”

  The elf turned me over to a female elf. You can tell the difference right away. The females have wings. You used to tell by the skirts, but now they all wear pants, so whoop-de-do, I had resorted to new clues. They hid the wings, of course. Made them look like bosoms, but I knew.

  By the time Wade Tate joined us in his big pink room, I had already had two cups of awful coffee and a sticky donut.

  His name was Wade Tate. I could read it on the desk plate. I had read it before, but this time I was determined to carry it in my head.

  “Damned reporters,” he said as he seated himself in his chair. It was an old wooden one with creaky parts that allowed him to lean back in it and swivel if he wanted to. I thought about asking him if I could sit in it—just for a minute, mind you—but decided now was not the time.

  Wade Tate was a good-looking man. My type. Rich brown hair and tight buns. Tall enough to carry a gun, but short enough to not look like a bully doing it.

  “You’re a good-looking man, Tate Wade,” I said.

  “It’s Wade Tate, Millie.” The poor man sighed. “And flattery will only get you another donut.” He shouted, “Andy, bring us another go-round.” Pause. “Please.”

  “Well, my name is Milicent, Mr. Wade, and I’ll be going now. I’m not hungry anymore.”

  “I reckon you won’t, Milicent. Not till you answer a few questions. God help me, but you are our only clue this morning.”

  “Don’t know a thing,” I said. “The numbers aren’t right. I thought you knew about the numbers.”

  “Dammit, who brought Millie in by the front door? Andy?”

  Deputy Andy Forest deposited the donuts on the wood part of Wade Tate’s metal desk. “It was the rookie, Wade. I’ve told him. He knows better now.”

  “Now won’t cut it this morning, Andy,” bellowed Wade Tate. “Milicent, can’t we forget the numbers this morning? I’ve got work to do here.”

  I listened to the phones ring outside the Police Chief’s office. If it rang three times in the next minute, I would consider his request.

  One.

  Wade Tate and Andy Forest stared down at me.

  I held up a finger for them to wait.

  Two.

  Andy started to say something, but Wade Tate held up a finger to him.

  Yep, there it was. Three.

  “Okay,” I said, “they beat the clock. But only if I get to sit in your chair.”

  “By all means, please do.” Wade Tate smiled as he replied. Well, not a real smile, but his mouth was going in the right direction. He stood up and bowed as we changed seats. “And for god’s sake, Andy, don’t ever bring her in the front again. The steps don’t count right.”

  I sat in Wade Tate’s creaky chair and counted ten creaks before I looked up from my rocking. “Now, what was it you wanted to know?”

  He thought for a minute. “I was wondering, Millie. Where did you spend last night?”

  I tried to give him the right answer. “At home in bed?”

  “Millie, you don’t have a home.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I do.”

  “Want to think again?”

  “Okay, well, let’s see. Oh, I remember. I didn’t sleep last night. It was a wandering night. I remember when the dew fell.” I smiled a real smile at him, hoping it was the answer he wanted.

  “And did you hear or see anything unusual?” His voice was encouraging.

  The room was quiet except for the squeaks. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

  “The moon was out.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “There was a cloud cover came over at five this morning.” The two men and the woman elf waited. “That’s about it?” I asked.

  “What about the whoosh, slam?”

  “Oh, that! That’s what this is all about? Whoop-de-do. Yes, there was a whoosh, slam about five fifteen this morning. Hit that girl and down she went.”

  Wade Tate was excited. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Millie, did you see the car? Do you know what kind it was? Did you see who was driving it?”

  “What car?”

  “The car that hit the girl? And did you know the girl? Know what she was doing out that time of day?”

  Too many questions. Tate Wade knows better than that. Guess he was forgetting who he was with.

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  “Millie?”

  Five.

  Hell, I had to start over again. They all waited; I could hear them counting the squeaks along with me. That was nice.

  “The car came later,” I said.

  “Later than what? The whoosh, slam?”

  I loved it when Tate Wade spoke my language.

  “Yes, the he/she pulled the girl into the street and came back with a car and did a second slam, bang.”

  The chief gave me a look. “Andy, phone the ME and tell him to look for a primary cause of death. Might not have been the car.”

  “I’m tired now,” I said.

  “Will you tell me more later, Millie?”

  “Will you get me a cheeseburger for lunch?”

  “Of course,” said the woman elf.

  “With a chocolate milk shake?” I turned to her. Women always were the nurturing ones. “Fries?” I added hopefully.

  “With the works, Millie,” she answered.

  “Milicent,” I corrected her. I turned to the man in charge. “Can I sleep here?”

&n
bsp; “We’re cleaning out your cell now, Milicent,” Wade Tate replied.

  “Number four, now mind you.”

  “Yes, we know. We know.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Can I ask you one more question before you go to sleep, Millie?”

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

  “Just one,” I said.

  “Why did you say he/she? Was it a man or a woman?”

  “Silly, who could tell with that hood?”

  “Millie, I hate this, but I have to ask you. You didn’t kill Angela, did you?”

  “That’s two questions, Wade Tate, but I guess I owe you one. No, I didn’t kill that angel-sweet girl. Why would I? And furthermore, I would remember if I had done so. I never forget anything,” I ended proudly.

  Three heads swerved as one to face me.

  “Okay,” I confessed. “Sometimes I have blank spells, but I remember the important stuff.” I looked at the ceiling to avoid their incredulous looks as I added, “What’s important to me, anyway.”

  The woman elf, whose earth name was Betty, took me by the elbow and led me toward my room. “We’ll have that burger ready for you when you wake up, Milicent.”

  I reminded her, “Cheese. And don’t forget the Fancy Ketchup. You can’t get that at KFC.”

  As we went through the door, I could hear Tate Wade moving back to his chair.

  I waited.

  He did ten squeaks and stopped. They were fast, quick ones, but ten nonetheless.

  THREE

  Now here is why I am called Milicent Le Sueur.

  I really am a Milicent, although I think it’s spelled different, but it doesn’t matter about that. What matters is that I am every woman’s worst nightmare come to life. Which is doubly hard if you’re the one living the nightmare.

  Once, when I was the other-spelled Millicent, I drove by this place, and there was a bag lady. Every day I drove by on my way to somewhere in my other life, and there she was. Sitting and knitting under this tree.