The French Maid Murder

by Anisa Claire West

  “You do?” I asked with surprise.

  “I’m a shower crooner for now, but hey if those whole cop thing doesn’t work out…” Max laughed heartily.

  “Then maybe you’ll move from the shower to a cruise ship?” I teased.

  “Hey, thanks a lot!” He said playfully. “What about you? Do you have any hidden dreams or talents?”

  I paused thoughtfully and patted my thick honey colored bun. Stuck in unisex garb all day and night at work, I deliberately kept my hair at an ultra long waist length. The updo style I maintained at work was a leftover relic from my childhood as a ballet dancer. “I wanted to be a ballerina when I was little,” I revealed self-consciously. “But what little girl doesn’t dream of being a ballerina, right?”

  “I bet you would have made an amazing dancer,” Max praised.

  I blushed and shrugged. “Maybe. I danced all the way through my teen years until freshman year in college. One class in criminal justice and I was hooked. I decided to become a police officer right then and there. Is that how it was for you?”

  “Not exactly. I always wanted to be a private investigator and strike out on my own. But police work seemed like the more practical route,” Max said with a touch of regret.

  “Well, it’s not too late to be a P.I. How many homicide cases will you have under your belt after this one?” I asked.

  “A lot,” Max answered vaguely as though he had slipped into a daydream. “Speaking of which, we should get back to work.” He put on a pair of reading glasses and opened up a file folder.

  Sitting up straighter in my chair, I picked up another folder and busied myself with the contents. The tangent had left me flustered and confused. Max and I had worked together for so many years and never spoken about our personal lives…but we hadn’t worked this closely before. Refocusing my energy towards the case, I skimmed a document on Sir Howard Milton, gasping with shock at the information exposed.

  Chapter 4

  “Max? Have you looked at this?” I asked frantically.

  “Hmm? Looked at what?”

  “This rap sheet on Howard Milton!” I exclaimed, passing him the document across the desk.

  Max glanced at the paper and chuckled. “That’s not a rap sheet. Those are my notes. All the crimes Milton has been accused of but not charged with,” he explained as my heart rate slowed to normal.

  “Still, this is a lot of dirt on one man,” I remarked, amazed by the variety of accusations that ranged from embezzlement to fraud.

  “Believe me I know. Like I said before, in my gut I know the guy is guilty of all those crimes. But hunches won’t get you in front of a judge. Suspicious behavior and a bad attitude aren’t crimes.”

  “If they were, then we could have arrested everyone in that mansion today! Including that butler. That guy literally vanished into thin air. Poof!”

  “Yeah, he’s a wild card. We need to find out where he went,” Max said.

  “I’m on it. I’m going to run everyone’s name through the database right now and see who comes out tainted,” I said eagerly.

  Rhett Wagon was the first person of interest I searched for and his record…or lack thereof…left me speechless. “This guy is clean as a whistle. Not even a traffic violation!”

  “That’s probably because he doesn’t have a car!” Max chuckled.

  I dug a little deeper into Wagon’s personal history and found nothing of note. “The man is 43 years old. One divorce and some child support that he pays as required. No bankruptcies. Employed by the Miltons for nearly two decades. This man has been living an upstanding life.” I was genuinely surprised at my findings.

  “Okay, but that doesn’t mean he’s out of the picture as a suspect,” Max protested.

  “But he doesn’t fit the profile,” I insisted. “You know it’s usually a career criminal who commits murder at some point. Either that or someone who had a very personal vendetta against the victim and was enraged by lust or jealousy,” I argued.

  “Or someone with undiagnosed mental illness,” Max added. “There was something off about that guy. We both noticed it.”

  I shook my head in disagreement. “No, he doesn’t fit the mental illness profile either. He held down the same job for almost 20 years! He’s stable. Maybe he really did just get sick of being shackled to Lady Milton’s every whim and a murder in the household was the last straw for him.”

  “Maybe, but we still need to question him again. We can make some calls to local motels or even the YMCA and see if he’s staying there. On his budget, he couldn’t have gone far,” Max deduced.

  “Right. We also need to get in touch with the French police ASAP and see if we can get some records on Fifi LeChou and the other maid, Laurelle Castinette,” I said authoritatively. “And we also have to make an effort to reach out to the victim’s family since Lady Milton was no help with that.”

  “Good thinking. It could take a while to obtain those records from Europe, so that should be the first order of business tonight. Correction: finishing this delicious coffee is the first order of business.” Max’s face lit up with a smile and his eyes creased charmingly in the corners. But I tried not to notice.

  Burying my face in my cappuccino, I delved into the international detective work. “I’ve never worked with the French police before, have you?”

  “No, but there’s a first time for everything.” Max rubbed his hands together keenly.

  The next several hours passed in a whirlwind as I reached out via email to both the Normandy and Marseille police departments. My guess was that both maids’ criminal histories would be clean, but the police departments could still help us access the ladies’ public records. Max polished off a third cup of coffee as he pored over documents pertaining to Sir Milton’s business dealings. It was well past 3 am when we finally decided to call it a night.

  “Any more work at this point would be redundant,” I yawned. “My eyes can’t read anymore and my brain can’t think anymore.”

  “Definitely. Let’s get some shut-eye,” Max replied with a mighty yawn of his own.

  “And I vote for a 10 am start time tomorrow.” I smiled impishly, prepared to sleep in whether Max agreed or not.

  “No arguments here!” He stretched and rose from his chair. “Ah, did you hear that crack?”

  “Was that your back?” I asked.

  “Yeah, we’ve been sitting way too long.” Max fumbled around in his pocket and produced a car key. “Good work today, Luna. I think this is going to be a beautiful partnership.”

  “So do I.” Consciously, I tried not to hear any undertones in his statement, but deep inside my heart read between the lines.

  Accompanying me to my car, Max gave me a long, intense look. He inclined his head ever so slightly and then walked in the other direction without uttering another word. Even though my eyes were so tired they could barely focus, I still stared after him for a heartbeat or two before driving home to my empty apartment.

  ***

  “It’s 10:03 Luna. You really are a slacker!” Max teased with a crooked grin as I walked into the precinct.

  “I needed three extra minutes of sleep,” I joked.

  “Looks like those three minutes of beauty sleep really did the trick,” he said huskily.

  “I didn’t say beauty sleep…” I murmured as Max looked me square in the eyes. All his innuendo was making me nervous…and excited.

  “Come on, Langford, let’s go bug the medical examiner and see if he’ll do the autopsy this morning.” Max slipped seamlessly back into work mode.

  “Good idea. If we hover over him all morning, he won’t be able to say no!”

  “You know what? On second thought, why don’t we split up?” Max suggested as I scrunched my nose in disapproval. The words ‘split up’ had a terrible ring coming from his mouth.

  “Why?” I asked, feeling unreasonably disappointed.

  “So that you can go over to the Milton mansion and do a second round of interviews. It�
��ll save us some time. Plus, the morgue is no place for a lady like you to be going.”

  I chortled. “That’s sweet, Max, but I’m a homicide detective now. I’m sure I’ll have to go there at some point.”

  “Not as long as I’m your partner,” he reprised chivalrously.

  “You know, I’ve never been one for special treatment. I don’t need it and I don’t like it.” I set the record straight, recalling how my weapons trainer had treated me like a loose cannon when I learned how to shoot a gun at the police academy. The memory of his condescending treatment still made me flinch with anger.

  “And I respect that. Okay, look at it this way. The medical examiner knows me personally, so I’ll probably be more effective getting an expedited report from him. And you’ll be more effective questioning the Miltons since old Howie hates me so much,” Max persuaded.

  “Well-balanced argument, Larken. Are you sure you’re not a lawyer too?” I grinned.

  “A singing lawyer on a Caribbean cruise ship,” Max joked as I rolled my eyes humorously.

  “Okay, enough funny business. Let’s get this day started. See you at the mansion later?”

  “As soon as I can get there,” Max promised.

  The day was sticky and humid, but as I drove closer to the Milton estate, a delicious sea breeze undulated through the air. With the windows rolled all the way down, I let the breeze toss a few tendrils of hair out of my bun. As I drove, a fleeting image of Max’s brilliant smile wafted through my mind. Defiantly, I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself not to fantasize about my colleague. Falling for my partner would do nothing to propel my career. If anything, it could send my career crashing to the ground.

  Smoothly wrapping my car around a corner, I arrived on the quaint cul-de-sac where the mansion was situated. I smirked to myself, wondering what sort of histrionics Lady Milton would pull when she saw me again. I was about as welcome in her house as black mold. To my surprise, an ambulance was parked directly in front of the mansion. I squinted then blinked in disbelief as two paramedics lifted Sir Milton’s motionless body onto a stretcher.

  Chapter 5

  Clamoring out of the car, I tripped over the curb as I rushed to see what had happened. My mind raced with morbid scenarios. Was Sir Milton dead? Had Lady Milton killed both her husband and the French maid? As I inched closer to the scene, I tried to get a good look at Sir Milton, but the paramedics were blocking my view.

  “Is he okay? What happened?” I asked frantically, recognizing one of the paramedics as Dane, an old-timer with the crew.

  “Oh hey, Luna. We’re not sure. Need to get him to the hospital, stat!” Dane said distractedly.

  “But he’s alive?” I stole a look over Dane’s shoulder and couldn’t discern any movement in the portly man’s body.

  “He’s breathing, but he seems to be just hanging on. Could be a heart attack,” Dane guessed. “Okay, load him up! One, two, three!”

  The paramedics lifted the stretcher into the ambulance as the driver switched on the emergency sirens. “Is anyone going to ride with him? Like his wife?” I wondered aloud.

  “Doesn’t look that way,” Dane replied with a shrug. “Take care, Luna.”

  The rear doors to the ambulance slammed shut as I walked in a daze to the mansion. Why hadn’t Lady Milton accompanied her husband to the emergency room? Perhaps she was just a cold crustacean of a woman who didn’t feel remorse over her employee’s untimely death or her husband’s possible heart attack.

  I tapped the brass knocker three times against the front door. My knocks went unanswered for a full minute until delicate footsteps pattered in my direction. “Bonjour Detective,” Laurelle greeted as she opened the door. “Are you here to speak with Lady Milton again?”

  “To start with,” I replied. “I may need to speak with you as well.”

  “D’accord. I am ironing right now. And I am also answering the door as you can see. No more butler!” She threw her hands up in the air in a gesture of mock exasperation.

  “Do you by any chance know where Rhett might be staying?”

  “No, I did not talk to Rhett very much. Fifi was closer to him,” Laurelle informed as I raised an eyebrow.

  “Really? Rhett didn’t say they were close,” I said suspiciously.

  “Eh bien, I mean close compared to Rhett and me. I try to do my work and mind my business. But Fifi liked to talk.”

  “Is that right?” I muttered, absorbing the fascinating tidbit. I definitely needed to speak further with Laurelle. She clearly had more helpful knowledge than she realized. But first, I had to wake the beast: Roberta Milton.

  “Is Lady Milton home?” I asked.

  “Yes, she is in the living room with a book,” Laurelle replied. “Come with me.”

  As we strolled into the living room, Lady Milton glanced up, tearing her spectacles off her face and throwing them on a velour sofa. “Laurelle!” She scolded. “I told you to tell the detectives I’m not home!”

  “Oh, sorry. I thought you meant just the man. What is his name?” Laurelle asked sheepishly.

  “Detective Larken,” I supplied, regarding Lady Milton as though she were a bizarre character in The Twilight Zone. “Are you aware that your husband was just rushed to the hospital?”

  “Yes,” she clipped uncaringly. “So?”

  “Aren’t you concerned?”

  “Yes, I’m concerned about finishing this novel for my book club,” she said snootily. “I don’t have time to go to the hospital and hold Howard’s hand.”

  “But he may have had a heart attack!” I said harshly.

  “And it wouldn’t be his first. The man is addicted to butter. Oh and he loves his ribeye steaks. That’s not my fault,” she said defensively. Turning towards Laurelle, she snapped, “Why are you still standing there? You have twice as much ironing to do today without Fifi here! Go on!”

  Hunching her shoulders, Laurelle disappeared down the corridor as I gawked at Lady Milton, thoroughly appalled. “I need to have a word with you,” I said tightly.

  “Did you obtain a search warrant yet?” She inquired coolly.

  “Not yet…”

  “Then I can simply ask you to leave, can’t I?”

  “You could, but it would be in your best interest to cooperate and let me stay,” I said edgily.

  “That sounded like a threat. Was that a threat?”

  “No, it was the truth,” I stated matter-of-factly. Lady Milton fixed me with a sour stare, but she didn’t ask me to leave. Seizing the opportunity, I remarked, “You seem very unaffected by the events of the past 24 hours. And I’m just wondering why.”

  “This is how I deal with my problems. Calm, cool, and collected,” she said, glowering at me more fiercely as though daring me to question her.

  “So then you are upset about Fifi’s death?” I supposed. “You just don’t show your feelings outwardly, right?”

  “Right,” Lady Milton replied breezily, reaching for her book.

  “Lady Chatterley’s Lover,” I read the title aloud. “D.H. Lawrence. I think I read that book in college.”

  “It’s a classic,” she said tersely. “But don’t try to drag me into small talk. I’d like to get this little meeting over as quickly as possible. My book club will be here soon. They couldn’t come yesterday because of the fire if you recall.”

  “Yes, I do recall,” I drawled in a patronizing tone. “Speaking of that fire, I can’t help but also recall what your husband said.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That you don’t usually light candles during the day.”

  “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s not home during the day,” Lady Milton retorted.

  “He was home just now,” I pointed out.

  “Getting ready for a meeting,” she quickly countered. “He started having chest pains as he was putting on his necktie.”

  “Okay, Lady Milton. I’ll let you get back to your reading. For now.” I turned in the direction o
f the servant quarters.

  Lady Milton buried her nose in the book and heaved a frustrated woe-is-me sigh. I rolled my eyes and roamed the hallways until I arrived in the kitchen. Chef Gregory was chatting animatedly with Laurelle as he prepared a platter of finger sandwiches. “Knock knock,” I said lightly.

  Chef Gregory looked up from his chopping board and frowned while Laurelle greeted me with a genial smile. “Are you finished talking to the Lady?” She asked.

  “For now,” I replied. “I’m trying to track down your former co-worker, Rhett. Do you have any idea where he might be staying, Gregory?”

  “I don’t know anything,” he grunted like a caveman as I wondered if there were any other words in his vocabulary.

  “He doesn’t like the tenth degree,” Laurelle explained softly as my eyes narrowed in confusion.

  “Tenth degree? Oh you mean the third degree,” I pointed out her linguistic faux pas. “But I wasn’t giving him the third degree. I was just asking a simple question.”

  “You know how chefs are temperamental,” she giggled. “Hotter than the oven!”

  Before I could respond to the maid’s silly comment, my cell phone beeped with a new text message. I quickly checked my phone and read the urgent message from Max.

  We’re in! Autopsy complete. Search warrant secured. Meet you at the mansion in 15. Time to yank some skeletons out of those swanky closets…

  Chapter 6

  Chef Gregory practically danced a jig when I told him I was stepping outside for a moment. All my police experience, not to mention feminine intuition and common sense, screamed at me that the man had a huge skeleton to unearth from his closet. Standing on the front lawn, I waited no more than five minutes before Max pulled up in his unmarked police cruiser.

  “You’re George Jetson today,” I quipped as he walked towards me.

  “Time is of the essence,” he replied. “Always is in a homicide investigation. Fortunately, the medical examiner started the autopsy yesterday and the results were pretty straightforward.” He handed me a sealed manila envelope.