Widow

by Martha Miller

  The black-blond hooker sat and pulled her legs into the car. She slammed the door shut, pulled her fake fur coat around her, and said, “This car is as cold as outside. Maybe worse.”

  “Should warm up in a minute. You working in this mess tonight?”

  “In my business you go where the work is.”

  “Anyone else inside?” Bertha could smell cigarettes, alcohol, and cologne. Johnson’s swollen eye was covered with heavy makeup. Her split lip showed only up close.

  “Say. What’s that smell?”

  “What you mean?”

  “This car smells like chocolate.”

  “Little Debbie Snack Cakes. I used them to stay awake.”

  “Got any left?”

  “I could share the last one with you.” Bertha turned and fished the box from the back floorboard and shook out the last pastry. She opened the cellophane and broke the cake in half.

  “Thanks. I didn’t get dinner.”

  “In that case, take both halves.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No. Eat it quick before I change my mind.”

  Despite her laughter, January Johnson ate slowly. “These are so good.”

  “I know.”

  Shoving the last of the cake in her mouth, January said, “What you want with me? Are you lonely? You want to party?”

  “You called me, remember?”

  January nodded as if she only now remembered. “I got bailed out. I really didn’t want that. I thought you might help me.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “You mean in addition to the fact that my manager beat me up, I’m a street whore, and I just spent an hour trying to help some fat fuck get it up?”

  “Yeah. In addition to that.”

  January was quiet for a moment. The car was warming up and the windshield was clearing. At length she said, “There’s something I should tell you.”

  Her tone was quiet and amiable, but something in her eyes told Bertha to think about her own personal safety. Where was the beat cop? Where was her pimp? Bertha said nothing. She waited.

  “You want to know about Officer Matulis’s murder?”

  Bertha nodded, slowly.

  “You can never let anybody know this came from me. They already suspect I’ve revealed too much.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  Shaking her head, January said, “I can’t tell you that and live outside of jail.”

  “So jail was your goal?”

  “Stupid idea.”

  “Look, we’re in the middle of a snowstorm at three in the morning. I doubt if anybody would suspect that I was here with you.” But as soon as it was out of her mouth, Bertha regretted it. Of course there was a danger. “I won’t tell a soul where the information came from. In fact, I’ll guard it with everything I have.”

  “Be careful. I ain’t the only one in danger.”

  “I know. I’ve had a few close calls. But please, just tell me.”

  The hooker shook a finger at her. “Do not implicate me.”

  “I won’t.”

  January lowered her voice as if someone might hear her and leaned toward Bertha. “Toni learned something about a group of crooked cops. But she didn’t know how widespread the whole thing was. Her mistake was trusting one of those cops to have her back.”

  “Fred Cook?”

  “He let her get shot down like a dog.”

  Bertha’s head hurt, her ears rang. This was something she needed to know. Why hadn’t Toni come to her?

  January touched Bertha’s arm. “You all right?”

  “I just need to get out for a minute.” Bertha opened the driver’s side door, leaned her head out, and vomited coffee and chocolate into the snow.

  January patted her back. “Let it go, honey. Just let it go.”

  Bertha spit a couple of times and found an open bottle of water in her right hand. She took a swig and rinsed her mouth and spit. She heaved again, but nothing was left. Stars swam in the dark corners of her vision. She rinsed and spit again, and then with a mumbled “Thanks” held the bottle out to January.

  “That’s okay, sweetie. You keep it. Need a tissue?”

  Pulling the car door closed, Bertha nodded.

  “There you go.”

  Bertha dabbed tears and blew her nose.

  In the rearview mirror, Bertha saw headlights. Her voice was raspy. “You expecting somebody?”

  “God damn. My keeper.” She pulled her fake fur around her. “You got a hundred bucks?”

  “Do I look like I drive around with that much money in my pocket?”

  “Fifty, then?”

  Bertha drew her cigarette case from her pocket. She pulled out some bills. She’d used her ones to pay for the chocolate that was puddling in the snow. She counted out loud. “Twenty. Thirty. Thirty-two dollars.”

  January snatched the bills from her. “I’m getting out the car and you need to leave. Now.” In a single movement she opened the passenger door, tucked the money between her breasts, and slid out of the car.

  A dark-colored SUV rolled to a stop behind the Honda. Bertha watched the black, blond-headed woman wade in the drift left by the snowplow toward the hulking vehicle; then she put the Honda in gear and pulled forward, drove to the end of the plowed section and turned the car back toward town. The snow-packed road unraveled into the dark ahead of her.

  That was the last time Bertha saw January Johnson alive.

  Chapter Twenty

  The next morning Bertha slept until nine thirty. As she heated coffee and poured Cheerios into a bowl, the events of the night before seemed impossible. What was she going to do about Fred Cook? What could she do? The implication that it was much bigger than a beat cop felt true to her. What the hell had Toni uncovered?

  Norman Bates sat on the kitchen table while the dog danced around Bertha’s feet, both waiting for the milk from her cereal. She ate and then divided the remainder between the two, who seemed to have worked out some kind of uneasy truce.

  Next she called Pop Wilson. When he answered, she skipped the formalities. “I’ve learned something, but this stays between you and me.”

  Of course, but—”

  Bertha forged ahead. “I got some information last night from January Johnson.”

  “Have you seen the paper?”

  “No. I don’t usually read it.” Bertha scanned the table and kitchen counters. She didn’t see it, but she wanted to tell him about the middle-of-the-night meeting. “I have enough to worry about without hunting down the newspaper for more.”

  “Mayor Dinwiddie is dead.”

  “Dead? When? How?”

  “Last night, a neighbor found him in his garage.”

  “Carbon monoxide?”

  “Gunshot wound. Sources speculate it was self-inflicted.”

  “Suicide? Why on earth would he do that?”

  “There’ve been rumors.”

  “What rumors?”

  “About his money management. Campaign funds, an inherited annuity he was supposed to share with his family. I think most figured it was all gossip.”

  “Oh my God.”

  Pop changed the subject. “So what were you saying about information?”

  “I talked to January Johnson last night.”

  “The hooker?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You saw her last night?”

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She told me that Toni had come across some information about police corruption. Extensive corruption.”

  “Big enough to get shot?”

  “You know as well as I do that criminals rarely murder police. The penalty is too high.” She paused. “I wonder if the mayor’s death is connected.”

  “I’ll check my sources at the station and see if they know anything.”

  “Be careful. Toni evidently trusted the wrong cop. You see where that got her.”

  “Same to you,” Pop said. “If some
one wants something from your house, stay away from it. So far we haven’t got anything worth getting hurt over.”

  “I’m meeting the insurance adjuster and a contractor over there this afternoon. I’m planning on staying there tonight.”

  “Are you comfortable with that? Sounds dangerous to me.”

  Bertha rubbed her forehead. “I’m not comfortable with much these days. I just want to sleep in my own bed.”

  “Then sleep with one eye open.”

  “I will.” With that Bertha heard a loud screech and the dog growling. “Got to go.”

  In the living room Norman Bates was on the dog’s pillow, swatting and hissing. The dachshund growled but kept a respectful distance. Bertha crossed the room to the pillow and stood over it with her hands on her hips. “Are you insane? Why can’t you get along with anybody? We’re guests here.” She bent and picked the cat up around his middle. He laid back his ears and hissed, but he didn’t struggle. She put him in the laundry room, refilled the food and water bowls, promised herself she’d clean the litter box later, and went to shower.

  *

  A white pickup truck with Smith and Son’s Construction on the doors was sitting in front of Bertha’s house. She pulled up behind it. Out of their cars, she shook hands with an overweight guy about her age. “I’m Butch Smith. I’m here to get an estimate for Allstate.”

  “An estimate? Does that mean you won’t be finished today?”

  Smith shook his head. “Not by a long shot. I turn in the estimate and then Allstate has to approve it and then we start.”

  The sunlight had warmed the snow on the roof, and heavy icicles dripped from the eaves. “I want to get back in my house and sleep in my own bed.”

  “Surely Allstate has made an arrangement for temporary housing.”

  Bertha nodded. “I’m staying with a friend. I have a cat and he has a dog…”

  “Well, it won’t be today or even this month, plus I don’t think you’ll want to sleep here. You’ll need new mattresses. But let’s see what we got.”

  Bertha swore as they crunched through the snow-covered driveway. She used the key to open the side door of the garage and they stepped inside. The garage was a mess but didn’t have any structural damage. She unlocked the kitchen door and swung it open. A smell like a charred, wet dog blanket hit her. The house was cold as death. Bertha moved into the kitchen, then knelt and picked up a dishtowel, thinking she could save this one thing.

  Smith walked around the room making notes on a clipboard, muttering to himself, “Drapes cleaned. Replace carpet. Lower cabinets and island.” He turned to Bertha. “Gonna need a dumpster to haul all this damaged stuff out of here. Got a couple of boards to replace, but it shouldn’t take too long. You want to change any colors, let me know. Otherwise I think we can match what’s here.”

  Bertha’s eyes burned. “What about the smell?”

  “Getting this wet stuff out of here should help a lot. We have professional cleaners to get in here after that. They’ll have the window coverings dry-cleaned. We have special laundry soap for clothes, bedding, and so on, that needs washed.” Smith pulled her scorched toaster from under the edge of some wet wallboard.

  Of all the things to feel personally violated over, it was the goddamn toaster. She turned away from him.

  He didn’t seem to notice. “Fire restoration will try to clean the furniture, but there’s always something the smell won’t come out of. We’ll know more about that later. Then you can go pick out replacements and present the receipts to Allstate.”

  She couldn’t even look at him, but she needed to know. Her voice quaked as she asked, “How long do you think this will take?”

  “Well, we got to get the wet stuff out of here soon because if it ain’t already, mold’s going to set in. Probably the cold is slowing it down a bit. Four or five weeks if all goes well. If you ain’t getting along where you’re staying, your insurance probably will put you in a furnished condo or something.”

  To avoid a scene, Bertha swallowed her disappointment and it burned all the way down. “I’m going to get some things while I’m here.”

  A second guy appeared in the kitchen—a young, white guy in an orange Illini sweatshirt that fit him well. He approached her with his hand out. “Judge Brannon, I’m your adjuster, Wayne McCoy. Butch and I are just going to put some figures together.”

  Bertha suffered the obligatory introduction and followed them around.

  Butch Smith said, “Things look tossed about more than usual. I noticed the plywood from the deck doors damaged. We’ll secure it again and make it harder for whomever to get inside—the honest ones anyway.”

  When the walk-through was finished, Bertha got out of their way. In the bedroom she decided she wasn’t going to stay off work for a couple of weeks, so she needed work clothes. She went into her bathroom and got some deodorant, her electric toothbrush, and toothpaste. She packed a suitcase with some underwear, work clothes, jeans, sweatshirts, and one dressy outfit—a silky, sapphire-blue blouse and black Levi Bendovers. She unplugged her alarm clock and tossed it in on top of her good clothes.

  The vibration of her cell phone startled her. She tossed the armload of stuff on her bed, dug it out of her pocket, and answered it.

  Pop Wilson’s voice crackled over a bad connection. “How’s it going?”

  “I won’t be able to move back here for a while. I’m gathering some things to take with me and wash at Alvin’s.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Like a bomb went off.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” It was his sympathy that did it. Tears stung her eyes.

  “I called because I have news.”

  Bertha sniffed. “About the mayor?”

  “No. It’s the Jeep explosion.”

  “Jesus H Christ. I’ve got so many problems, I’m going to have to make a chart. What about the Jeep?”

  “Remember the one person who was killed that night? They finally identified the body. Stumpy got this from a friend in the coroner’s office. They’re saying it was a nineteen-year-old kid named Nathan Somers. He’s been arrested for stealing cars since he was old enough to reach the pedals. Went through drug treatment a few months back, but it looks like he slipped.”

  “Aw, damn.” Bertha couldn’t think of anymore to say. Some screwed-up teenager with his life ahead of him was dead because somebody wanted to kill her.

  “The three of us are meeting in the morning to go over what little we’ve learned. Say the IHOP, at ten?”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  As Bertha was about to leave, the phone rang and vibrated again. She snatched it from her pocket. Toni’s name again—that meant Grandma. Had she learned about the fire? “Hi, Grandma.”

  “Bertha,” she said, “can you take me out later today?”

  “I suppose so. You need something from the store?”

  “It’s a wake.”

  “I’m sorry. Is it a close friend?”

  “It’s Charlie. I don’t think you knew him.”

  “I did see him last time I was out there. Remember, I brought you underpants?”

  “They won’t let me call a cab. Here I got my hair done and all. The boss, that DON nurse, told me I couldn’t go. She thinks I’d upset his wife. See, we had a little thing—he died in my arms.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, he wasn’t feeling good. Had the shivers and I just laid down in his bed to get him warmed up. One thing led to another—his lung collapsed.”

  Bertha wondered how Grandma still had the desire for sex; of course, she wouldn’t ask because she didn’t want to go there. Once Bertha’d had a case of constipation and mentioned it to Grandma. For a solid year she was treated, in gruesome detail, to Grandma’s experiences with bowel problems. Bertha tried to change the direction of the conversation. “Is a collapsed lung fatal?”

  “Everything’s fatal when you’re over ninety.”

  “What
time should I pick you up?”

  “I think dinnertime would be best. Things get a little confusing here at around five thirty. I’ll need the wheelchair, so you have to come in. Meet me in the dayroom.”

  “See you at five thirty then.”

  As Bertha hung up she told herself that she didn’t have time to have a migraine; she had time to take another shower and lie down for a couple of hours before picking up Grandma. Would Toni’s Honda have enough room for the chair? Maybe Alvin would lend her his SUV for the evening. She called him and arranged to switch cars, leaving him Toni’s Honda to drive home.

  Back at Alvin’s she no longer had time to nap. She showered, stretched across the bed for about ten minutes, then proceeded to dress in smoky-smelling sapphire and black.

  The Tucson reminded Bertha of her Jeep. Every time she thought she had nothing more to lose, she lost something more: her Jeep, her house, and Toni. Of course the Jeep and house were replaceable. The Tucson handled better than the Honda on what was left of the ice and packed snow. The nursing home’s lot had been plowed and salted; there were only a few cars, and she managed to get a parking spot not too far from the entrance. Opening the door to the smell of cooking food, she went directly to the dayroom and found it empty. She headed to Grandma’s room.

  Grandma was next to the bed in her wheelchair her head hanging forward, asleep. She was clearly dressed to go out, wearing her best lavender dress beneath her purple faux-fur coat. She’d owned that dress since Bertha could remember, although she hadn’t seen it for a while. Bertha approached her slowly so as not to startle her. That’s when she noticed the old woman’s hair. It was lavender with sparkle dust. Bertha smiled, warmed by love. Grandma was a special person.

  “Grandma?”

  Grandma jumped a little and sucked in her breath.

  “Sorry. You okay?”

  “What time is it?”

  Bertha checked her watch. “’Bout five thirty.”

  “How we going get out of here without them knowing?”

  “We could go to the dayroom. Nobody’s in there, and a door opens into the garden.”

  “It’ll be locked. How about walking out the front? If anybody asks, you can tell them we’re going out to the garden so you can smoke.”