The French Maid Murder

by Anisa Claire West

  “Exactly. She’s used to having everything her way. Especially since she and Sir Milton are empty nesters now. Their kids are out of the house and she has all day to go to the spa or eat bon-bons or watch grass grow or whatever the lazy bum does!” Max barked.

  “How do you know so much about this family?” I asked curiously.

  “Before I worked in the homicide unit, I did some fraud investigations. Sir Milton was suspected of some dirty dealings, but I was never able to prove anything, so he was never charged,” Max explained.

  “What kind of dirty dealings?”

  “Tax evasion, money laundering, the usual,” Max supplied.

  “Do you think he was guilty?”

  “Guilty as sin. But the facts just weren’t there. No prosecutor in his right mind would have taken the case on,” Max answered.

  I nodded my understanding then glanced over at the sidewalk where an attractive brunette was strolling towards the mansion. Dressed in a sheer cover-up sarong, she carried a wet beach towel in her hands. “I wonder if that’s the other maid,” I murmured. “Rhett said she was at the beach.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Max asserted, already walking towards the seemingly carefree woman.

  I followed my partner and assumed the lead in questioning before Max could talk. “Detective Luna Langford here and this is my partner, Max Larken. Do you work for the Miltons?” I asked firmly.

  “Yes,” the woman replied shyly, clutching the beach towel to her chest.

  “Are you Laurelle?” I continued.

  “Yes, I am Laurelle,” she confirmed with a light French accent. “Why are these fire trucks here?”

  “There was a fire in Lady Milton’s bedroom, but that’s not the worst of it,” I grimly previewed.

  “How do you know Fifi LeChou?” Max smoothly picked up before Laurelle had a chance to react.

  “Why? Is something wrong with Fifi?” Laurelle demanded in a panic.

  “Fifi was found dead a short while ago,” I revealed as Laurelle squeaked out a horrified gasp.

  “Dead? Oh no! It is not true! Is it true?” Laurelle’s bottom lip quivered and she seemed on the verge of a torrent of tears.

  “It is true,” I replied somberly.

  “How did you know her?” Max repeated.

  “We worked together of course! And we were friends!” Laurelle replied as her eyes hazed.

  “Did you come to the United States together?” I inquired.

  “No, we are not even from the same part of France. I am from Normandy and Fifi is…was…from Marseille.”

  “How long have you been employed by the Milton household?” Max asked.

  “Almost two years. Fifi was new, but we became friends so fast…” Laurelle broke off on a raw note of emotion.

  “Did you go to the beach alone today?” I inquired, gesturing towards her plush oversized towel.

  “Yes, I did. Why?”

  “Just establishing your whereabouts,” I replied casually. “What were you doing before you went to the beach?”

  “Making a pot of broccoli cheddar soup,” she replied as I made a mental note that her story corroborated with Rhett’s.

  “Thank you. That’s all the questions we have right now. Just be aware that you may be asked to come down to the police station at some point,” I said as she nodded shakily.

  Max and I circled the perimeter of the property to inspect the fire damage. The firefighters seemed to have contained the bedroom blaze as smoke was floating away with the August breeze. “Should we inspect the body?” I suggested.

  “Yes, let’s just make sure the fire team gives the all clear,” Max replied.

  A moment later a firefighter stepped onto the veranda and wiped his brow. Turning towards us, he gave a thumbs up to indicate it was safe to enter the mansion. Max and I met the hero on the veranda and shook his hand in a gesture of appreciation.

  “Do we need to launch an arson investigation?” Max asked.

  Built like the Jolly Green Giant, the firefighter replied, “It looks like the fire was accidental. Just a fallen candle. But under the circumstances, you might want to consider the possibility of arson.”

  “Thank you,” I said sincerely as the firefighter wiped his sweaty brow.

  “Let’s go inside,” Max said.

  We made our way into the den where the body had been covered with a white sheet but not yet moved. “Time to take some pictures,” I said with an involuntary shiver.

  “I already took pictures,” Max protested.

  “Can’t hurt to have more,” I reasoned.

  Max pulled back the sheet as I retrieved a police camera from my purse and snapped shots from various angles. “There really are no markings on her body anywhere.”

  “That’s what I thought when I did the initial inspection,” Max sighed. “Who knows? She could have had a pre-existing heart condition that no one knew about.”

  “Possibly,” I allowed. “Or maybe she really was electrocuted like Lady Milton suggested.”

  Moving away from the body, I inspected the vacuum cleaner, carefully turning it off before I plugged it back into the wall. The contraption switched on normally without any evidence of having short circuited. “Okay, scratch that theory. I don’t think the victim was electrocuted.”

  “We’ll need an electrical expert to make the final determination,” Max informed. “The vacuum cleaner will need to be removed along with the body.”

  “Right,” I replied automatically, still scanning the scene for any clue as to how the woman met her demise.

  “This one has got me stumped,” Max admitted helplessly.

  “Wait a second…” I said excitedly as a clue finally appeared.

  “What?” Max asked urgently as I pointed to the victim’s slender neck.

  Kneeling on the floor, I observed a faint, almost invisible, bruise on the front of the victim’s neck. “That’s either from someone’s hand pressing into her neck or from some sort of ligature. Cause of death? Strangulation!” I declared.

  Chapter 3

  Max knelt down next to me and closely examined the minuscule spot I had located on the victim’s neck. His breath was warm and fluttering in stark contrast to the stony lifelessness of the corpse. I steadied the camera in my hands, zoomed in on the telltale bruise, and took a shot. Then I zoomed out and took a series of photographs of the injury from kneeling and standing angles.

  “Good call, Langford,” he marveled, patting me on the back like I was one of his buddies down at the precinct. His flirtatious behavior sometimes irked me, but for some reason, his platonic attitude bothered me even more.

  “Thanks Larken,” I muttered. “So I guess the next step is for the body to be driven to the coroner. From there, the medical examiner can determine whether it was someone’s hands or a ligature that cut off Fifi’s airways.”

  “Correct. The autopsy will also test for fingerprints on the body,” Max added.

  “Who would be foolish enough to strangle a victim with bare hands?” I scoffed doubtfully.

  “You’d be surprised. Criminals aren’t always smart. Haven’t you ever watched Cops?” He smirked.

  “Not recently,” I replied seriously as my eyes roamed to the vacuum cleaner. “Look at that hose. Seems like the perfect murder weapon to me.”

  “You could be right again,” Max said with astonishment. “The hose doesn’t have any groove marks in it. The material is smooth, which could explain why the victim’s neck shows almost no sign of strangulation.”

  I nodded, rising to my feet and feeling a wave of nausea sweep over me. “I need a break. Mind if I go grab a cup of coffee and clear my head?”

  “I was going to get you some coffee,” Max said playfully.

  “I know.” I smiled wanly. “I just need a little fresh air. I’ll be back in 20 minutes, 30 tops, okay?”

  “You’re the boss,” he joked.

  “Watch it or I won’t bring you back your favorite coffee,” I warned f
acetiously.

  “And what would that be?” Max tested me.

  “Basic black.” I grinned. “No frills.”

  “Ah, you know me too well, Langford, and we’ve only been partners for a week. Pretty soon you’ll know my favorite meal too.”

  Our lighthearted exchange was abruptly interrupted as a heavyset man plowed through the veranda whistling a tune. Quickly, Max and I blockaded the den so the man wouldn’t get shocked into a heart attack to see a dead body. “Sir Milton,” Max said knowingly as the man nearly jumped out of his skin. At least 90% bald, Sir Milton sported a scant wraparound hairdo that created a toilet seat effect on the top of his head. I tried not to giggle at the absurd sight.

  “Larken,” Sir Milton grumbled. “What are you doing in my home?”

  “Waiting for you,” was my partner’s cagey reply.

  “Why?” The man of the house asked skeptically.

  “One of your staff was found dead today. I suppose your wife hasn’t informed you?” Max guessed.

  “No, she hasn’t.” Sir Milton’s dry lips straightened in a frown.

  “Oh Howard! There you are!” Lady Milton exclaimed, appearing out of nowhere.

  “Roberta, would you mind telling me what’s going on? What are these people doing in my home?” Sir Milton demanded.

  “Fifi’s dead,” Lady Milton announced in the exact same monotone she had used with me. No regret. No sadness. Nothing.

  Already possessing a pasty complexion, Howard turned downright ghostly as his wife conveyed the news. He parted his lips to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out. Sternly, he stared his wife down until she uncomfortably looked away. The tension between the spouses was palpable.

  Breaking his gloomy silence, Sir Milton made a garbled noise in his throat before asserting, “I was in a business meeting since early this morning. You can check with my secretary or any one of the investors who was present at the meeting.”

  “We certainly will,” Max said suspiciously. “Any reason why you feel the need to provide an alibi? We didn’t ask you for one.”

  “Do you have a search warrant for my home?” Sir Milton roared. “Because if not then I want you both GONE!”

  “Sir Milton, a young woman was found dead on your property today. We have every legal right to be here and investigate the scene,” I told him stiffly.

  “The scene? Where did it happen? In my entire home? In every single room? No, you have no right to search the individual rooms. Which room did the murder occur in?” Sir Milton demanded as I winced and locked eyes with Max. Again, the millionaire had incriminated himself. What made him so sure that Fifi’s death was a homicide?

  “In the event we obtain a search warrant for the individual rooms, we will be back. I assure you. For now, we’re going to finish up the first phase of our investigation in the den. No one is to use that room until the investigation is complete. Do you understand?” Max asked austerely as Sir Milton glowered ferociously.

  “Go ahead, finish up,” he gritted impatiently.

  “By the way, if you have any contact information for Fifi’s family, I’d appreciate if you would hand it over.” I turned towards Lady Milton as she wore an indecipherable poker face.

  “She never spoke of her family. I don’t know anything about the woman except that she came from Marseille,” Lady Milton replied as Max cocked a disbelieving eyebrow.

  “Are you telling me that you didn’t conduct any background check on the maid prior to hiring her? Didn’t you find her through some sort of agency?” Max questioned incredulously.

  “We imported her from France,” Lady Milton replied crisply.

  “Imported her? Like a case of wine?” I interjected sarcastically.

  “She came highly recommended by one of my business associates in the south of France,” Sir Milton said tightly. “There was no need for any background check or other rigmarole.”

  “Um, excuse me, Lady?” Chef Gregory appeared tentatively in the corridor. In his meaty hands he held a sheet of loose leaf paper.

  “Yes?” Lady Milton replied distractedly. “What do you want Gregory?”

  “Rhett left this note for you in the kitchen,” the chef answered, placing the paper in Lady Milton’s hands.

  Pensively, she scanned the sheet of paper until her expression changed into a definitive frown. “That little weasel!” She cried.

  “What does it say, Roberta?” Sir Milton prompted.

  “Rhett quit! Just like that! Ugh, whatever happened to giving two weeks’ notice? That rodent didn’t even give two minutes!” She ranted as Sir Milton rolled his eyes.

  “We’ll survive,” he mumbled.

  “This is too much! First I lose my maid and now my butler! In the same day?!” Lady Milton complained theatrically as I wanted to gag.

  “Yeah, life is hard, ain’t it, Lady?” I muttered sarcastically. In my career, I had worked tirelessly to rise in the ranks. I had made countless sacrifices as a police officer, including my non-existent love life, and Lady Milton didn’t even have to make her bed! Steeling myself not to let my personal opinions shade my professional demeanor, I reflected on Rhett’s ill-timed resignation. The wiry man had disappeared like a phantom and his motives were highly suspect.

  “So Rhett just left all his belongings in his room?” Max asked doubtfully. “He just took off? Just like that?” He snapped his fingers to illustrate.

  “Rhett didn’t have any belongings,” Lady Milton claimed. “He just had his uniform and maybe a book or two that he kept in his room. Everything else in that room belongs to me…I mean us,” she quickly corrected herself as her husband’s eyes flashed with unconcealed malice.

  “That makes sense,” I mused. “He was living in a furnished room and he didn’t need to have a wardrobe outside of his uniform. But do you have any idea what would make him leave so suddenly?”

  “Yes! He hates me!” Lady Milton whined.

  I smirked sardonically, knowing those sentiments to be true. Rhett hadn’t pretended to be a satisfied employee during my brief interrogation. He had openly expressed his bitterness towards his employer. Still, I had to attribute the butler’s abrupt departure to more than a horrible boss; his quitting had to be somehow linked to Fifi’s death.

  “Come on, Luna,” Max said in a low voice. “Let’s finish up here and figure out our game plan.”

  “Game plan,” Sir Milton snorted with disgust.

  “Watch yourself, Howie,” Max warned. “You’re talking to a pair of police officers, not your domestic staff.”

  Sir Milton didn’t budge an inch, standing erect and arrogant like an overweight peacock. Lady Milton kept her eyes averted from her husband, balling one hand into a fist and crumpling Rhett’s resignation letter. “Not so fast,” I intervened. “I’m going to need to confiscate that letter.”

  “Why? Do you think Rhett killed Fifi? Maybe he did!” Lady Milton handed me the crumpled note.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I think I need to lie down,” she replied with exaggerated fatigue. “That is, if my bedroom hasn’t burnt to ashes!”

  “What are you babbling about?” Sir Milton snapped.

  “There was a minor fire in your master bedroom,” I informed. “The firefighters quickly contained it and I don’t think much damage has been done.”

  “How did the fire start?” Sir Milton demanded angrily.

  “One of Lady Milton’s candles…” I began but the matriarch cut me off.

  “We don’t know,” she said quickly.

  “But you said…” I started again before being rudely interrupted.

  “I said nothing!” Lady Milton shrugged with a falsetto laugh.

  “You don’t light candles during the day,” Sir Milton said accusingly as his wife shot him an intensely meaningful look that instantly silenced him.

  “This house contains a lot of secrets,” Max said with conviction. “And my partner and I are going to uncover every last one of them!”
>
  ***

  Over a foamy double cappuccino and a jet black cup of java, Max and I sorted through the day’s evidence. The hour was close to midnight and the police crew was down to a skeleton staff. Suppressing a yawn, I knew that sleep would be unlikely that night. I couldn’t get any rest until we at least made some progress with the maddeningly complex case.

  “I wish we had the autopsy report in hand right now,” I commented.

  “So do I. But it’s wishful thinking, Luna. We can ask the medical examiner to expedite it, though.” Max downed the last drop of coffee and poured himself a refill.

  “Definitely. And we should start running some background checks on everyone in that house,” I advised.

  “Yeah, including the victim,” Max said firmly.

  “Really?”

  “Standard practice, you know that, Luna…” Max’s voice faded out on a breathy laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked blankly.

  “Nothing…it’s just…your name.” He couldn’t resist another chord of laughter.

  “My name is funny?” I questioned, mildly insulted.

  “In a good way,” he assured me. “I’ve always wondered how you got the name Luna.”

  I sighed and told him the story. “Luna means ‘moon’ in Italian. My mother is Italian…”

  “So she wanted to give you an Italian name?” Max conjectured.

  “Not exactly. I was born during a new moon on a really freezing winter night. My mother said the night was so cold and dark until the moment I was born. Then, she felt like a radiant light as bright as a full moon had come into her life. So she named me Luna,” I explained, feeling my cheeks go red with embarrassment at the sentimental tale.

  But Max appeared charmed. “That’s a sweet story. About a sweet lady.”

  Ignoring his compliment, I joked, “And how did you get the name Max? Is it short for Maximilian? Like the bossy emperor Maximilian?”

  “No,” Max smiled easily. “It’s short for Maxwell. Like the smooth R&B singer Maxwell,” he boasted.

  “He was just a kid when you were born! You weren’t named after him!” I giggled.

  “No, but I think the name fits.” He winked at me. “I do like to sing.”