Milicent Le Sueur Read online

  Sandi crooked her finger at me and indicated I should follow her on into the kitchen. “About ten years. Longest we’ve lived anywhere, but thank you, I love this house. Cream? Sugar?”

  “Just black, thank you. You don’t have any Stelazine, do you?”

  “Stelazine? Is that like Prozac or saccharine? I don’t know Stelazine.”

  “Never mind. I just wondered. Did I tell you I love your dining room?”

  “You don’t think it’s a little much?”

  “Oh, no, it’s hard to get ten chairs around a table anymore, and by the way, I think I used to know one of your neighbors.”

  “Oh? Who? The Windles? Or the Keltons?” “The couple who lived next door to you six years ago? The Moores? Titus and Mrs. Mary Moore?”

  Sandi handed me a mug of hot coffee and crumpled into a kitchen chair. “Maddie, Maddie. Did you know? Mary was killed last month. I am devastated. Overcome. I can’t believe it. She was my very best friend.”

  Bingo.

  I reached for my throat and crumpled into the chair next to hers at the table. “Don’t tell me that. Not my Mary?”

  “Yes. Yes. It’s so tragic.”

  “A car wreck?” I guessed.

  “Murdered. Murdered. I went to Portsmith for the funeral. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. How did you know our Mary?”

  “I lived in Portsmith before I moved here.”

  “How on earth did you not know about her death? It’s all that’s been on the news.”

  “I took a cruise while they packed up my house?”

  “Ahh, out of touch. But how clever of you to avoid the mess. I am so sorry to be the one to tell you about poor Mary.”

  “Yes, but better you than from Titus,” I told her. “I was going to call Mary this afternoon to tell her I was getting settled in here in Upston. He must be so upset. Who on earth did it? Killed her?”

  “Well, they say it was a bag lady from the town. Titus says that, anyway. And it’s all on the news. She’s disappeared. But, you know, Maddie, how it was with Mary and Titus. If they weren’t so sure that this bag lady had killed her, I would have thought he did it. Oh, I shouldn’t go on like this, but I just hate that man.”

  I pulled my chair closer to Sandi’s. “Do tell,” I said. “Do tell.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Wade Tate. Wade Tate. It’s me. Milicent, Meredith, Madeline, Maddie Le Sueur Peas, Peace.”

  “Millie? Is that you? Where are you? Did you say peace?”

  “And may the peace be with you, too, Tate Wade. Those are my other a.k.a. names—Also Known As.”

  “Millie, you don’t have your meds, do you?”

  “I tried to get a cupful at the neighbors’, Wade Tate, but they were all out.”

  “Tell me where you are.”

  “Where are you? I pushed POWER, then one, then two, but three found you. I forget, is that your office?”

  “Millie, you only have thirty minutes on that phone, and then the battery goes dead, so talk quick. Where are you, and what are you doing?”

  “Tell me this. Is Miss Vinnie Ledbetter okay?”

  “She’s fine. Talked to her just this morning. She’s worried about you too, and she wants you to come home.”

  “I can’t do that until you arrest Titus Moore, Tate Wade. Otherwise, he’ll just go and kill Miss Vinnie Ledbetter for good measure.”

  “Millie, I’m quite capable of watching out for Miss Vinnie. Just come home.”

  “I don’t think so. You were going to arrest me for murder.”

  “I was not. I was going to put you in protective custody. For your own safety.”

  “Well, it’s just the same to me. A lock and a key are a lock and a key.”

  “Come home, and we’ll work it out, Millie. Or better yet, tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you.”

  “Hush, Wade Tate. Time is ticking away on this little phone that you gave me, and I have worlds to tell you. First of all, run out and arrest Titus Moore for the murder of Angel and Mrs. Mary Moore. Then I’ll come back to Portsmith.”

  “I can’t do that, Millie. I don’t have any proof.”

  “Well, I do. Buckets of it. You see, Titus and Mrs. Mary Moore and I have this neighbor, Sandi, who knows all the scoop, and you would too if you asked.”

  “A neighbor? Where?”

  “Why, right here in Upston, silly. Sandi lived next door to Titus and Mrs. Mary for lots of years, and she knows. She knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  “That Titus Moore had a reputation for fooling around with young girls, and Mrs. Mary Moore cried and cried over it. And that he was asked to resign when one of the teenagers became pregnant, and Mrs. Mary Moore cried and cried. And wasn’t he lucky to get a job at Portsmith with no questions asked?”

  “You’re in Upston, then?”

  “Yes, I said so, didn’t I? And would you believe, Sandi had this phone call from Mrs. Mary Moore just before she was killed, and Mrs. Mary Moore cried and cried and told our neighbor Sandi that it was happening all over again, but much, much worse.”

  “Now, who is this Sandi? What’s her last name?”

  “Swanson. It’s in the phone book. That’s how I found her. And then I found the diamond earring…”

  “Diamond earring?”

  “Yes, would you believe it was in the trash? I had to make up a dog—Sir Valentine—but someday when I get a dog, I’ll name it Sir Valentine so it won’t be a whole lie. Now my plan was that I would find something in the trash—I would have settled for a hair clip—and to take it to her so I could get to know her, but lo and behold, there was this little box with one diamond earring in it. Well, one needs two and that’s how I came up with Bingo.”

  “You found a diamond earring in the trash?”

  “Yes, it was a little miracle, and now that Sandi and I are best friends, she’s invited Ethel and me to play bridge on alternate Wednesdays.”

  “Ethel?”

  “You remember my friends Fred and Ethel, don’t you?”

  “Okay, Millie, I’ll check out this woman, but I wish you would come back to Portsmith.”

  “Portsmith is where I want to be, Tate Wade, but not yet. Justice has to be served first.”

  “You would not believe how many people have contacted the office since you disappeared, Millie. Everyone thinks you belong to them. You ever hear of a Lynda Walker or a Katherine Grayson?”

  “Katherine Grayson? Isn’t she a movie star? Someone thinks I’m a movie star? Didn’t she win an Oscar? Oh, dear, what did I do with that Oscar? Wonder if I left it in some bag?”

  “Millie, I want you to go to the Upston Police Station and wait for me there. Today. Right now.”

  “I can’t, Tate Wade, I have to go practice my acceptance speech to the Academy. Tell me again. What movie I was in?”

  “Millie!”

  “Good-bye, Wade Tate. Your battery is low, and you are blinking red.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  I told my new friend Cherries about my phone call to Wade Tate and the whole story about Mr. Titus Moore and the dead people. She said I needed a good lawyer, and she recommended Greta Van Susteren. I had caught Greta on Burden of Proof while I rested up in the Portsmith hospital, and I had to agree with her choice. I promised to call CNN just as soon as I could figure out how to recharge the phone in the green bag.

  In the meantime, we both agreed that Tate Wade would be sending cops to find me. “You have to move, Milicent. Box City will be the first place the Upston cops will check out. It always is.”

  Wearily, I agreed with her once again. Cherries has been a great source of comfort to me, showing me big-city bag-lady rules and recommending good lawyers. I gathered together the stuff I had accumulated over the time I had lived in the box, necessitating the appropriation of another
bag—a puce one I had found in Sandi Swanson’s trash. It was a good bag, but definitely not my color of choice.

  Life is strange. I didn’t know how rich I was when I lived at my place in Portsmith and had ten bags. Four seemed such a comedown, but then four was better than three.

  I stood at the opening of Cherries’s box with my four bags and said, “Now where do I go?”

  She had another recommendation, of course, and even treated me to a bagel and coffee as she showed me the way. I would never have made it in Upston without her, but I had shown her a few things too. I had taught her to say, “A quarter? Is it going to harelip the Pope for you to part with a dollar?” Sometimes she would say, “A quarter? Keep it. It won’t even buy a flower for my funeral.” Our colorful style is what separated us from the other bag ladies who sucked up to passersby. Of course, it kept us broke, too, but life is relevant. You have to have your pride.

  Cherries declared that since my life was a soap opera, she knew the perfect place for me to hide out. “No one is ever there during the day, and at night, no one will ever notice you. These people are all bag ladies at heart, they just don’t know it.”

  So that is how I wound up living at the UCLT—the Upston Community Little Theater.

  This is what is good about the UCLT. They had their own washer and dryer, so I could wash my sweats. They had free food every night, served in the Greenroom. They never asked any questions and assumed I was part of the prop crew because I wore black sweats like they did when they changed scenery. I took to carrying a lamp around saying, “It’s for act three.”

  I would never steal anything, but it was nice that they kept extra keys by the stage door. Theater people were always locking themselves in or out. With a key I could come and go during the day. Once the director stopped by during the day to check the lighting and asked what I was doing there during the day. I said, “I’m cleaning the bathrooms because the cleaning crew is not up to par”—which is what I had overheard in the Greenroom the night before.

  “I wish more of the volunteers were as responsible as you, Milicent. Your name is Milicent, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes, Milicent Grayson,” I told him.

  “Well, welcome to our world, Milicent. We’re glad to have you. Do you have any acting credits?”

  “Just some movies,” I told him. “No stage work.”

  “Fantastic. Our next play is a murder mystery. You ought to audition for one of the parts.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “Great, I’ll make sure you get a script. And thank you for cleaning the bathrooms. You do have your own key now, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Great. I’ve got to run now. I’m working on a special lighting effect. Stay out of the stage area for a bit, okay? I’ve got the big ladder out, and I’m resetting some spots. And don’t touch any cables you see around. One tug and those babies will come crashing down on you. Otherwise make yourself at home and lock up when you’re through. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Is this a great world, or what?

  I slept on a real bed in the prop room and took showers in the actors’ dressing room. I borrowed clothes and makeup from the theater and could sashay anywhere in Upston without being recognized.

  “A little less blush would be good,” Cherries told me when I took her a bag of leftover Greenroom food that would have spoiled by the next night anyway.

  “I know. I’m practicing with makeup to find my look.”

  “Have you called Greta yet?”

  “No, but one of the bit actors in the second act is bringing me a charger tonight, so maybe I could call her tomorrow.”

  “The cops are looking for you big-time, Milicent,” Cherries told me.

  “That’s why I am practicing the look. And I think the prop clothes help too, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but next time, don’t wear an evening gown down here in Box City during the day.”

  “Point well taken,” I replied. “I just liked this shade of blue.”

  Greta didn’t take my calls, but I had high hopes. The operator at CNN told me that if I called one more time, steps would be taken. I took that as progress.

  I got the lead in the next play. It was a comedy about a woman who has amnesia and is wandering around looking for her identity. The director told me I had the right look.

  “I’ve been working on it,” I admitted.

  Life was just about perfect.

  As long as I stayed away from Portsmith, Miss Vinnie Ledbetter was safe and so was I. I hoped Tate Wade was following up on the leads I had given him, but I was so deep into memorizing lines that I forgot about most of it. I thought about calling him but had used up all my charge on the phone calling Greta.

  Before I knew it, it was Christmas, and I was shopping for a new bag.

  A diaper bag for the baby.

  THIRTY

  Only a mother would know how hard it is to raise a baby in a theater.

  There I was, right in the middle of rehearsals, scrounging around for gifts for the cast and crew, and I had to go and find a baby.

  “I’ve heard about that on television,” said Cherries. “They call them throwaway babies. Which Dumpster did you find her in?”

  “The one down from the theatre. I was looking for Christmas presents. What I need to know is if you can babysit while I am on stage at night? I manage all right during the day, but I hate to keep running off the stage to check on her at night. Everyone thinks I have a stomach ailment. They’ve brought me tons of Imodium and Kaopectate. If I don’t ‘get well’ soon, they are going to send me to the doctor.”

  “Sure, no problem. I’ll be there about six. Will that work?”

  “Yes, thanks. We open in two weeks, and I really need to concentrate on act three. And would you spread the word that I just want baby formula for Christmas? I’m using cloth diapers that I can wash every night, but do you know how much baby formula costs? I’ve been nice to people on the street corners for so long now, I think I’ve forgotten how to yell. Lucky it’s Christmas, and everyone is in a giving mood.”

  “You’re a good mother, Milicent.”

  “I’m trying. It’s tough raising babies nowadays.”

  I named her Harriet Diamond Peace. She was a better find than a diamond earring.

  She was probably the most beautiful baby in the world, and she was mine. Finders, keepers.

  Harriet didn’t know I was a bag lady and had no home. She didn’t care that I had been without my meds for longer than was good for me. She didn’t know that Mr. Titus Moore was trying to frame me for murder and that I was up for an Oscar in March.

  She just knew that I was her mother and had been so ever since I fished her out of that big black Dumpster where she had been wrapped in the Sunday funnies.

  Harriet had red fuzz on the top of her head, giving her a halo look, and her small face was all brown eyes and eyelashes. She was pink and healthy and held on to my finger when I gave her a bottle. And I swear to God, she smiled when I bathed her in the theatre sink every night with Lever 2000.

  Cherries brought me a case of formula, donated by the Upston bag-ladies association. “We’re a little worried, Milicent. Someone has been around asking for you, and we’re not sure she is a cop. But we didn’t say a word. Said her name was Gypsy.”

  “Oh, I know Gypsy, yes.”

  “So you want us to tell her where you are?”

  I thought about it.

  “Well, Gypsy is a friend, and I would like to see her. She’ll just love the baby. She has a real natural woman’s instinct. On the other hand, she is a link to Portsmith, and I don’t want anyone there to know what I’m doing right now. On the third hand, Gypsy is good with plans, and I have one in the works. But on the final hand, I’m not ready to show my cards yet. Tell her to come back
on Christmas Day, and maybe you’ll have some news for her.”

  “That’s two weeks away,” said Cherries. “I don’t know if she will be patient that long.”

  “Well, she’ll just have to be. That is the way it is. Christmas Eve is our last performance, and I want to go home for Christmas. But I don’t want Wade Tate or Mr. Titus Moore to know I’m coming. Better yet, tell Gypsy I’ll meet her in Portsmith at the left tree on Christmas Day and not to tell one single soul. That ought to satisfy her.”

  “How are you getting home, Milicent? You barely have money for baby food and blankets.”

  “Well, in a way you could say I was going by horse.”

  “I didn’t know you rode,” said Cherries.

  “Just English riding, Cherries. I’m Irish, and we all ride English. I haven’t quite figured that one out, but whoop-de-do, when in Rome, you ride like the Romans.”

  “Milicent, sometimes I can’t follow you.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “Sometimes I can’t follow myself. I think I need to focus. Here, you hold Harriet, and let’s look at my shoes for a while.”

  Focusing always helps.

  The UCLT did eight performances of Who Am I? and I received a standing ovation for each performance.

  “You’re a natural actor if I ever saw one, Millie,” said the director during the cast party.

  “Well, it helps when you understand your part,” I told him.

  Christmas morning I called Miss Vinnie Ledbetter on the last charge of the battery.

  “Merry Christmas, Miss Vinnie Ledbetter.”

  “Well, as I live and breathe. Milicent Le Sueur. Merry Christmas to you.”

  “I’ve missed you, Miss Vinnie Ledbetter.”

  “And I’ve missed you, Milicent. It’s so awful what all they are saying about you.”

  “I’ve read the papers, Miss Vinnie Ledbetter. They think I killed the angel and Mrs. Mary Moore, but I didn’t. That is, I don’t think I did.”

  “Of course, you didn’t, Milicent. No matter what Titus says you are capable of when you…when you—”