miss fortune mystery (ff) - bloodshed in the bayou
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Authors: leslie langtry
- 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
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
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 deal 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!”