Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  Bertie blushed and looked down. “Theophilous Green brought me,” she said. “I don’t know if I’d go so far as to call it a date, though.”

  “I would,” Angelique said. “Hope you’ve been brushing up on your Latin.”

  “Well, you know how it is,” Bertie replied. “If you study hard in school, you never know what heights you may reach—Labor omnia vincit, as they say.”

  “The man’s old enough to be your father,” Big Mac said. “At least you won’t have to worry about him making any sudden moves.”

  “Not unless I’m prepared to administer CPR afterwards,” Bertie grinned. “You haven’t seen the good judge lately, have you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. He’s over by the bar talking with Dr. Momolu Taylor. See?”

  The doctor was short, his dark skin highlighted by the flowing, purple robe and matching kufi hat he wore. As he stood across from Theophilous Green on the far side of the room, he leaned on a hand-carved ebony walking stick, his head bent to the side, as if listening intently.

  “Taylor?” Bertie laughed. “If I was worried about sudden moves, he’d be a man I’d want to keep away from.”

  Angelique rolled her eyes. “That man is trouble with a capital T. He’s got to be pushing fifty, and God knows he’s not the best looking man in the room, but he’s always got some pretty young thing panting after him.”

  “It’s that sexy African accent of his. He’s a distant cousin of some Liberian diamond billionaire. Women circle around him like moths to the flame,” Bertie said.

  “Delroy did some legal work for Dr. Taylor years ago,” Mackenzie said. “I always had the sense your husband hated his guts.”

  “No surprise there,” Angelique said. “Men are animals at heart, you know. Competitive as all get-out. Isn’t that right, baby?” She kissed Mac playfully on the cheek. “Rumor has it the doctor’s latest conquest is the girl who won the Illinois Idol contest last year. Can you imagine?”

  “Patrice Soule? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bertie said. “She’s a terrific singer. Great range and an unusual quality to her upper notes.”

  “I know you teach singers for a living, but you can spare me the professional assessment,” Angelique said. “Something tells me Dr. Momolu Taylor is more interested in her lower parts.”

  In spite of herself, Bertie burst out laughing. “I suppose I’d better go and rescue him from Theophilous’s clutches before he keels over from an overdose of pomposity.”

  Bertie headed across the lobby toward her date. But as she came closer, she realized that Theophilous and Dr. Taylor were involved in something more than idle chitchat. Though she couldn’t make out what was being said, the judge had leaned in close and was poking a bony finger into Taylor’s chest for emphasis.

  Just as Bertie was about to turn away, the doctor spotted her.

  “Come, Bertie. Join us,” he said, arranging his face into a welcoming smile. “Theophilous told me you were his date for the evening. You have no idea how jealous I am.”

  Taking her by the hand, Taylor pulled Bertie close and, holding on to her a full beat longer than the socially accepted norm, brushed his lips slowly across her cheek.

  “I shall never forget the work your late husband did for my clinic. He will be greatly missed.” The doctor’s lyrical African accent turned even the most mundane utterance into music. “If there is ever anything I can do for you, call on me. Any time, eh?” Although his words were conventional enough, the invitation in the doctor’s eyes was unmistakable.

  My, my, Bertie thought to herself. Just standing too close to Dr. Momolu Taylor could be hazardous to a lady’s virtue.

  Judge Green, his thin lips locked in a tight smile, took hold of Bertie’s elbow.

  “Doctor, I am adjourning our conversation for the present. If you wish to continue it at a more appropriate time, you know where to find me.”

  “I’ll be in touch, Judge Green,” the doctor said smoothly. With a nod to Bertie, he sauntered off in the direction of a voluptuous girl in a formfitting, backless evening gown. Approaching from behind, Taylor ran his hand lightly over her bare back and pulled her close. The high tinkle of the young girl’s startled laughter left no doubt that she was indeed Patrice Soule, the 2011 Illinois Idol winner and Chicago’s Next New Thing.

  “Disgusting,” Theophilous Green muttered, though Bertie was pretty sure she detected a note of envy in his voice. “I can’t imagine what Miss Soule sees in that man.”

  “There’s just no accounting for taste, Theophilous,” Bertie said in as soothing a tone as she could muster. “Especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”

  As he continued to stare disapprovingly toward the laughing couple, the judge shook his head sadly.

  “Miss Soule lives in the apartment next door to me. We are old friends. One could even call us business partners. When her new music video is released, my name will be listed among the producers. Of course, I had to make a sizeable investment in the project, but that’s how it’s done in show business, or so they tell me.”

  “She’s a terrific performer,” Bertie said, smiling inwardly. With the cost of producing an eye-catching music video running in the thousands of dollars, she guessed the besotted old fool had given Soule at least ten grand. On the bright side, Patrice Soule just might be one of the tiny handful of diva wannabes to actually make it to the top.

  “I’d hoped Patrice might be willing to accompany me this evening, but she had already made other plans. Not that I am not perfectly thrilled to be here with you, Bertie,” the judge added hastily, his wrinkled, beige face flush with embarrassment.

  “Why don’t we go in the ballroom and see if the band has started playing,” Bertie said, tactfully changing the subject. “I’m in the mood to do a little dancing.”

  Taking the judge by the arm, Bertie walked into the main exposition hall where Count Basie’s Orchestra had just begun to play. At one end of the cavernous room, a series of model trains wound their way through an elaborate landscape of hills and valleys. Over their heads, fighter planes from World War I hung suspended from the ceiling. After filling their plates with prime rib and scalloped potatoes from the buffet, Bertie and Theophilous found a table on the edge of the dance floor. To Bertie’s ear, the band had never sounded better. The horns were brilliant, the saxes rich and sexy, and the man playing Basie’s signature licks on the piano didn’t miss a note. After a swinging rendition of “One O’clock Jump,” a gray-haired man cradling a trombone in the crook of his arm stepped up to the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very, very special treat for you this evening. Please give a warm welcome to Chicago’s own vocalist extraordinaire, Miss Patrice Soule!”

  As the crowd applauded, Patrice Soule stepped onstage and took a bow. Resplendent in a glittering, backless evening gown that complemented her generous build, tawny complexion, and shoulder length curls to perfection, Soule looked like a goddess. But something about the way she clutched at the microphone stand, something in the imploring look she gave the piano player, suggested otherwise.

  I bet Soule wasn’t planning on performing this evening, Bertie thought to herself. That’s the trouble with being a celebrity. Wherever you go, you’re always on display. And wherever you go, your adoring public expects you to perform.

  As the band eased into her song, Soule seemed to gain strength from its melancholy melody. Swaying her hips gently in time to the music, she leaned in close to the microphone and, somewhere between a sigh and a whisper, began to sing “My Funny Valentine.”

  Years ago, Sarah Vaughan had made this song famous. But as Soule’s voice floated high and free over the top of the band, it was clear that the 2011 Illinois Idol winner had something of her own to say. But just as the song was about to reach the peak of its emotional journey, Soule’s voice faltered. It was a tiny slip—a wobble on the G above middle C, undetectable to all but the most discerning of listeners. But Bertie Bigelow taught singers f
or a living. To her, the warning signs were clear. If Soule didn’t make some fundamental changes to her vocal technique, she would lose her beautiful voice within the year. When Soule had finished, the crowd clapped and shouted their approval.

  “Brava, bravissima,” Judge Green shouted, his watery hazel eyes sparkling with excitement. “A most spectacular performance. Ne plus ultra, wouldn’t you agree, Bertie?”

  As Bertie contemplated her reply, Charley Howard, a blue-black mountain of a man with a pugnacious jaw and a massive potbelly, approached their table. Ten years ago, Howard had quit his job as a forklift operator and started a business selling his wife’s homemade piccalilli over the Internet. Today, aided in part by his close friend-ship with reputed crime boss Tony Roselli, Charley Howard’s Hot Stuff Inc. was the tenth largest condiment company in America. For the past six months, Howard had been trying to penetrate the inner circle of Chicago’s African American elite. Despite never having attended college, he’d gotten himself accepted into the Kappa Alpha Psi fraternity and had even wangled an invitation to join the Boulé, the exclusive fraternity of African American overachievers. More than anything, however, Charley Howard wanted to join the Octagon Society.

  “Ev’nin’, folks,” Howard drawled. “Y’all enjoyin’ the party tonight?”

  “Very much,” Bertie said with a smile. “Though I did think the prime rib could have used a touch of Heavenly Hot Stuff to jazz it up a little.”

  Charley Howard’s raucous laughter was loud enough to turn heads at the surrounding tables.

  “You got that right! Think I’ll pay those white boys back in the kitchen a visit—set ’em straight ’bout who they be dealin’ with here.”

  Theophilous wrinkled his nose as though a mound of excrement had suddenly materialized in his martini.

  “With whom, Mr. Howard. Set them straight about the people with whom they are dealing.”

  Momentarily confused, Howard looked to Bertie for clarification.

  “Don’t mind Theophilous,” she said with an embarrassed smile. “He’s a bit of a stickler when it comes to grammar.”

  “I’ll be the first to admit I ain’t much of an expert when it comes to stuff like that,” the Hot Sauce King said with a smile.

  “Ignorantia neminem excusat,” Theophilous muttered, half under his breath.

  “Say what?” Charley Howard shrugged affably. “Never mind. Look here, Judge. My application for the Octagon Society has been under consideration since July. Since you’re on the membership committee, I was hopin’ perhaps you could give things a little push. You know, put in a word to Mrs. Leflore on my behalf?”

  “Absolutely not, Mr. Howard,” Theophilous said, his hands folded primly in his lap. “The Octagon Society has very strict criteria for membership.”

  Undeterred, the Hot Sauce King turned to Bertie and winked slyly.

  “Oh, I get it. I’m a big boy, Judge. Just tell me how much it’s going to take. Ten grand? Fifteen? How about this: Once I become a member, I’ll make a twenty thousand dollar donation to the Octagon Scholarship Fund.”

  Theophilous Green’s entire body quivered with indignation.

  “That kind of crude influence peddling may be the rule of law in your line of business, but it is entirely inappropriate here. As I just told you, the Octagon Society has standards.”

  “Standards, my black ass,” Charley Howard replied. “My hard-earned money’s not good enough for you? Just who the hell do you think you are, talkin’ to me like that?”

  Theophilous laughed—a dry, sandpapery cackle that took both Bertie and the Hot Sauce King by surprise.

  “An Illinois Supreme Court Justice, Mr. Howard. I have spent much of my life mediating disputes of a sordid nature. I have absolutely no intention of spending my free time socializing with criminals.”

  For a minute, Bertie thought the Hot Sauce King was about to explode.

  “Don’t mess with me, Green,” he hissed. “I’m gonna join this goddamn club, whether you like it or not.”

  “You will do so over my dead body,” Theophilous snapped. With a curt nod, the judge stood up and clasped Bertie by the elbow. “Shall we have a dance, my dear?”

  Embarrassed by the judge’s rudeness, Bertie shrugged helplessly and followed Theophilous onto the dance floor. She looked back over her shoulder to see Charley Howard still standing in front of their table, a look of naked hatred darkening his face.

  “Was it really necessary to bait the man like that, Theophilous? He seems nice enough, and Lord knows the scholarship fund could use some extra money.”

  “I don’t care how much money he’s got. The man’s a pretender—a parvenu who can’t even put a proper sentence together.”

  Bertie cringed inwardly. A parvenu? Who said things like that anymore? It was the twenty-first century, for crying out loud. If it hadn’t been for the Count Basie Orchestra, she’d have walked off the dance floor in a heartbeat. But at that very moment the drums were pounding, the trumpets were screeching, and her feet had developed an irresistible urge to move to the beat.

  For the next few hours, Bertie forgot her troubles and let the music carry her away. Theophilous turned out to be a surprisingly good dancer, in spite of his stuffy manner. When the band launched into “Auld Lang Syne” three hours later, she had to admit she was sorry to see the evening come to an end. She and the judge toasted in the New Year with a glass of vintage Champagne. Maybe it was the music—the thrill of dancing to such a good band—but in that moment, Bertie felt herself suffused with a rosy glow of pleasure she had not felt since before her husband, Delroy, had died.

  “Would you like to come up to my apartment for a brandy?” Having fetched Bertie’s mink from the hatcheck girl, Theophilous held it for her gallantly as he spoke. “It is the New Year, after all.”

  Bertie replied with as much tact as she could muster. “I’m still trying to get my bearings, Theophilous. I’m not ready to be anything more than friends with any man yet.”

  The judge pulled himself erect. “Of course, my dear, of course. Nothing untoward, I assure you. I was simply inviting you out of friendship.”

  An awkward silence followed as the couple stepped into the elevator that led to the basement parking garage. It was stupid to let the judge drive me to the dance, Bertie thought. If I’d driven my own car, I wouldn’t be stuck in this awkward situation.

  “I hold your late husband in the highest esteem,” the judge continued, waving imperiously to summon the parking attendant. “Would you reconsider if I told you I had some papers Delroy left in my care?”

  “What kind of papers? Delroy never mentioned he’d left anything with you.”

  “If you’ll do me the honor of gracing my humble abode with the briefest of visits, I’ll be happy to show the documents to you.”

  As the judge’s black Lincoln Town Car glided up to the curb in front of them, he opened the passenger door with a flourish and gestured for Bertie to climb in.

  “My building is just around the corner. Just a quick stop, and then I’ll take you right home.”

  Chapter Three

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 1, 2013—12:30 A.M.

  As the elevator whisked her up to the judge’s apartment, Bertie began to have second thoughts. All of this was so unfamiliar—uncharted territory, really. It had been more than ten years since she’d been alone with a man in his apartment. In the fall of 2000, she’d spent the night with a handsome lawyer named Delroy Bigelow. Despite the fact that he was fifteen years her senior, Bertie had known the minute she kissed him that Delroy was the man for her. The rest had been history. Ten years of the best marriage any woman could hope for. Of course, all that was over now. Nine months ago, as Delroy was on his way to work, some drunk had run a stop sign and hit him head on. Two hours later, he was dead.

  Placing a protective hand under Bertie’s elbow, Theophilous guided her off the elevator and unlocked the door to his apartment.

  “Here we are,” he said. “Chez moi, as t
he French say.”

  With its plush shag carpet, leather couch, and track lighting, the place reminded Bertie of the kind of bachelor pad James Bond might have brought a lady home to in the 1960s. A small bar, complete with a Pernod sign, a mirror, and two bar stools, stood against the wall. Tasteful paintings of voluptuous black women in various states of undress decorated the wall on the opposite side of the room. From the large picture window on the far wall, Bertie could see the lights of the Museum of Science and Industry twinkling on the other side of Jackson Park.

  After hanging his own coat and Bertie’s mink in the closet by the door, the judge went to the bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

  “Can I offer you a libation of some kind? A martini or a glass of sherry, perhaps?”

  “No, nothing for me, Theophilous. I’ve had enough Champagne to last me till next year. You said you had something you wanted to show me? Something that belonged to Delroy?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Have a seat, my dear. I’ll just be a moment.” Setting his whiskey glass on the coffee table, the judge glided across the shag carpet into what Bertie presumed was his bedroom and closed the door softly behind him.

  Torn between curiosity and the increasing suspicion that she should never have come here in the first place, Bertie perched gingerly at the end of the black leather couch. Positioned on the wall across from her was the largest flat-screen TV she had ever seen. Five minutes later, Theophilous Green emerged from his bedroom wearing a maroon smoking jacket and looking remarkably like a wizened, café au lait Rex Harrison.

  “Your late husband was working on a memoir when he died. A behind-the-scenes look at some of his most famous cases—you know the sort of thing,” Theophilous said. “There are lots of well-known Chicagoans in this manuscript. Delroy asked me to read it through to see whether there was anything in it he might get sued for writing about.”

  Theophilous produced a slim leather briefcase from behind his back and waved it in front of her. But when she reached out her hand, he snatched it away, giggling coyly.