Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “I know you’re still missing Delroy,” Ellen said, giving Bertie’s arm a sympathetic squeeze. “But sooner or later you need to get back in circulation. And when you do, I think a certain ‘family friend’ might be interested in more than friendship, if you get my drift.”

  Bertie blushed beet red. “That does it,” she said firmly. “I’m not going to talk about this any more.” She took a sip of Merlot and fiddled absentmindedly with her fork.

  “Tell you something else I’m curious about. I didn’t say anything to the police about this, but the night Theophilous was killed, I saw LaShawn Thomas going into his apartment building.”

  “Jackson Towers is way out of his income bracket,” Ellen said. “I wonder what he was doing there.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Bertie said. “Since he ruined my Christmas concert, I haven’t heard a word from him. No explanation, no apology, nothing. I sure hope he didn’t have anything to do with this murder business. You think I should have told that detective about seeing him?”

  Ellen shook her head. “No way. You know how the cops are when it comes to our young men. They’ll lock his ass up and throw away the key on general principle.”

  “But what if LaShawn really is a murderer?”

  “Girl, please. Clearly, the boy has got some issues. But he’s not the kind of kid who would do something like this.”

  “True,” Bertie said slowly. “Then again, I would never have thought he’d go crazy in the middle of the Christmas concert either. Maybe I’m not as good a judge of character as I thought I was.”

  “You should call his grandmother. LaShawn and his sister have been living there since his father got himself killed trying to rob a liquor store last year.”

  “What about his mother?”

  “Also dead. AIDS, I believe. The kid’s come up the hard way, Bertie. His grandmother is the only stable thing in his life. If anyone knows what’s going on inside LaShawn’s mixed-up little head, Mrs. Petty would. You need to give her a call.”

  Bertie shook her head. “LaShawn’s the one who should reach out to me, not the other way round. Yelling and screaming about Alderman Clark like that. The little brat very nearly got me fired. That is, if I don’t get arrested for murder first.”

  Ellen tipped back her head and laughed. “Girl, please! You’re not going to get fired, and you’re not going to be arrested, either. I don’t disagree that LaShawn is way overdue for an ass-whuppin’, but at some level, he’s still your student. You need to find out what made him lose it like that.”

  As usual, Ellen was right.

  “I have Mrs. Petty’s number and address in my emergency contact files,” Bertie said. “I suppose I could at least talk to her.”

  Chapter Five

  SATURDAY, JANUARY 5, 2013—9:00 A.M.

  LaShawn answered the phone when Bertie called his grandmother’s house the next morning.

  “Don’t even think about hanging up,” she said. “I’m coming right over. We need to talk.”

  On an average day, it took twenty minutes to drive from Bertie’s house to the West Englewood neighborhood where Mrs. Petty lived. But today was not an average day. Bertie had done her best to help LaShawn Thomas succeed in life. In return, the boy had embarrassed her in front of her boss, her colleagues, and her students. As she sped west across Garfield Boulevard, she looked forward, with grim pleasure, to confronting the boy face to face.

  Fifteen minutes later, Bertie Bigelow pulled to the curb in front of 6729 Paulina Street. In a neighborhood that had clearly seen better days, Mrs. Petty’s well-kept, brick bungalow stood out like a beacon of hope. A brightly lit Christmas tree shone through the iron burglar bars covering the downstairs windows, and a small wreath had been hung inside the heavy security gate protecting Mrs. Petty’s front door.

  She ran up front steps and jabbed her finger impatiently at the doorbell. After several minutes, a small boy opened the door.

  “LaShawn’s not here,” he said.

  “Are you sure? I spoke to him on the telephone not twenty minutes ago.”

  Dressed in pajama pants and a sleeveless undershirt, the boy looked to be around seven years old. In response to Bertie’s question, he stuck a grape lollipop in his mouth and stared silently.

  “Is Mrs. Petty at home?”

  “Grandma’s at work. LaShawn’s s’posed to babysit, but he ain’t here, neither.”

  “My name is Mrs. Bigelow. I’m LaShawn’s music teacher. Do you mind if I wait for him a little while?”

  “You must be the choir lady.” The boy giggled mischievously, opening the security gate to let her in. “LaShawn tole me you real mad at him. He gonna get a whuppin’?”

  “I just want to talk to him,” Bertie said with a grim smile.

  “Oh.” The boy looked disappointed, then brightened suddenly. “My name’s Benny,” he said, extending a small grimy hand. “Wanna see my new KittyKat piano?”

  Without waiting for an answer, the boy turned and ran down a long hallway. Bertie sighed, shut the front door, and followed him into the kitchen. A stack of dirty dishes waited on the sideboard next to the sink, and the odor of stale bacon grease hung in the air. Climbing onto one of the three mismatched plastic chairs arranged around the kitchen table, Benny pushed aside a half-eaten bowl of Lucky Charms and pulled out a toy piano shaped like a grinning Cheshire Cat. Placing his lollipop carefully to one side, he poked the instrument with sticky fingers. As if by magic, the device sprang to life, producing an elaborate version of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm,” complete with strings and a hip-hop drum beat. With a shout of joy, Benny jumped off the chair and began to improvise a harmony part.

  As the boy continued to sing in a clear, pitch-perfect voice, Bertie could not help but smile. LaShawn’s disappearing act had put her in a foul mood, but the music teacher in Bertie was intrigued.

  “Let’s play a game,” she said. “I’ll play a song, and then you sing it, okay?”

  Sure enough, Benny imitated each melody perfectly on the first repetition. Every time Bertie tried to stop, he begged her to play “just one more, please.” Finally, after Bertie was able to stump him with an intricate tune she was not sure she would have been able to sing back herself, she said, “You know, you’re a very good singer, young man.”

  The boy’s chubby brown face glowed with pride. “I love the singing game. LaShawn plays it with me all the time. Please don’t be mad at him, Miz Bigelow.”

  Bertie smiled. The kid’s impish charm was hard to resist.

  “You’re worried about your big brother?”

  “LaShawn ain’t my brother. He’s my uncle.” The boy frowned and sucked his lollipop thoughtfully. “What LaShawn do, Miz Bigelow? The man that came yesterday was mad at him, too.”

  “What man?” Bertie asked sharply.

  “The man in the fancy, black coat,” Benny said. “He wasn’t nice, like you. When I tried to touch his coat, he yelled at me. Said my hands were dirty.”

  “Did the man tell you his name?”

  Benny shook his head. “Nah. He waited around for a while, but when LaShawn didn’t come back, he left.”

  “Is LaShawn hiding in the house somewhere, Benny? If you know where he is, you need to tell me. It’s really important.”

  Benny giggled. “The fancy coat man said the same thing, only he was even madder than you.”

  Bertie shook her head in frustration. “This is no laughing matter, Benny. Didn’t your Mama tell you not to open the door to strangers?”

  The boy looked sheepishly at the floor.

  “What if a bad person came in? You could get hurt.”

  “Already got a whuppin’ for it,” Benny said, rubbing his behind. “But if I didn’t let you in, we wouldn’t have played the singing game. Can we play some more? Please?”

  “One more round, then I’ve got to go. When LaShawn gets home, tell him to call me right away.”

  For the rest of the weekend, Bertie’s thoughts chased the
mselves in futile circles. A month ago, she would have said she knew LaShawn Thomas well. She would have said the boy was blessed with a quick mind, a winning personality, and an abundance of musical talent. In May, he would have graduated from Metro College with honors. Instead, the boy had totaled his entire academic career with one grand and utterly inexplicable gesture.

  What’s more, LaShawn Thomas was now in hiding—not only from Bertie, but from some guy wearing a fancy, black coat. Who was this man? Why was he angry? Did it have anything to do with Judge Green’s murder? What had LaShawn been doing in the judge’s building, anyway? Bertie sighed. All this solitary speculation was beginning to give her a headache. Fortunately, Ellen Simpson was home when she called Sunday evening.

  “After all I’ve done for that kid, Ellen. I’ve written recommendation letters, given him hours of extra vocal coaching for free. I even helped him find an afterschool job. Now he won’t even talk to me.”

  Ellen grunted. “I better not run into LaShawn on campus. Might forget myself and slap the boy silly. Did you talk to his grandmother?”

  “No. She was at work. I did get to hang out with a delightful seven-year-old, though.”

  “LaShawn left a seven-year-old kid alone in the house?”

  “My guess is he was watching the house from somewhere nearby—a car or perhaps a neighbor’s house. He probably returned home the minute I drove away.” Bertie sighed. “The boy’s in real trouble, Ellen. Someone else is looking for him, too. A man in an expensive, black coat.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “None whatever,” Bertie said. “Do you think it might have something to do with the judge’s murder?”

  “I sincerely hope not. My best advice is to try his grandmother again. You can’t beat him. I can’t beat him, either. But she can.”

  “I don’t know if a beating is going solve anything at this point,” Bertie said, “but I’ll try calling Mrs. Petty again in a day or so.”

  “While I’m on a roll here, let me tell you something else you need to check into,” Ellen said. “Do you know what was in that briefcase Theophilous gave you?”

  “A manuscript,” Bertie said. “Apparently, Delroy was writing a book. Late at night, he’d lock himself away in the den for hours. When I asked what he was working on, he said it was a surprise. That I’d know when the time was right.”

  “Sounds just like a writer,” Ellen said. “When I’m working on a poem, I can stay by myself for days. Aren’t you dying to read it?”

  “Not really,” Bertie said slowly. “Opening that briefcase is going to remind me all over again that Delroy is gone. That he’s never ever coming back.”

  “Come on, Bert. Aren’t you even a little curious to read what he wrote?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Curiosity is good, Bert. Delroy thought that whatever was in there was important enough for Judge Green to take a look. That should tell you something right there.”

  Chapter Six

  MONDAY, JANUARY 7, 2013

  In all the excitement following Judge Green’s murder, Delroy’s briefcase had lain, forgotten, on the small chest of drawers by the front door. Slim and elegant, it was made of Italian leather and looked expensive—not at all like the squat, sturdy bag Bertie’s husband had used to haul his papers back and forth from the office. When had he purchased the thing, and why? That evening, armed with a tall glass of merlot and a box of chocolates, Bertie carried the briefcase up to the living room, laid it across her coffee table, and slid open the latch.

  Three yellow legal pads, filled out in Delroy’s loopy, semi-illegible handwriting, tumbled onto the coffee table. Long after everyone else had abandoned writing things out by hand in favor of Microsoft Word, Delroy had insisted on doing things the old-fashioned way. Looking at the legal pads, Bertie was overcome by a wave of longing so visceral she could taste it. The paper even smelled like Delroy. Steeling herself, she took a seat on the couch, picked up the legal pad closest to her, and began to read:

  THE CHICAGOAN—A LAWYER’S JOURNEY

  BY DELROY ANTHONY BIGELOW

  When I moved to Chicago in 1993, I never imagined I’d spend the rest of my life here. I was born and raised in Harlem and had just graduated from NYU. I was a cocky city kid and didn’t think there was anything that could keep me away from the Big Apple longer than the three years it would take me to finish law school at the University of Chicago. Even after I established a successful practice on the city’s vibrant South Side, I’d always planned to return to Harlem someday. But all that changed the day I met Bertie Henderson.

  Pausing only to wipe away her tears, Bertie read steadily for the next hour. It was just like Delroy to keep his book a secret. Most likely, he’d been planning to present it to her on their wedding anniversary. He’d written about everything—their courtship and marriage, his first job working for a large law firm in the Loop, and his decision to leave that firm to go into private practice.

  As she began to read the next yellow legal pad, Bertie understood why Delroy had asked Judge Green to review his manuscript. In Book Two—Significant Cases, Delroy discussed his biggest legal victories in vivid detail. The discrimination suit he won against a well-known hotel chain that somehow never managed to make rooms available for African American travelers. The libel suit he’d won after a local talk radio host repeatedly characterized Dr. Momolu Taylor as an “ignorant voodoo witchdoctor.” The wrongful death suit against Delvaine PharmaCorp that netted an impoverished South Side family nearly five million dollars. Now that the cases had been settled, Delroy pulled no punches. He named names and offered candid accounts of his many courtroom battles.

  On the last legal pad, Delroy had started work on a new section called Book Three—Making a Difference. Unlike the polished prose of the first two sections, Book Three consisted largely of sentence fragments. As she skimmed over the pages, Bertie smiled and blew her nose for what seemed like the millionth time that night. How many times had she teased Delroy about his obsession with collecting things? African masks, Civil War memorabilia, first editions by black authors—anything connected with African American history drew Delroy like a moth to the flame. From what Bertie could surmise, Book Three had been Delroy’s people collection. Although clearly unfinished, it contained thumbnail biographies of community leaders: Alderman Fred Clark; Silas Blackstone, the founder of Chicago’s largest African American bank; Charley Howard, the Hot Sauce King; Dr. Momolu Taylor at the Princeton Avenue Natural Health Clinic; and Karen Phillips, the “teacher’s teacher” who, frustrated with the poor quality of Chicago’s public school system, started an afterschool program that now serves more than a thousand teenagers.

  Under each person’s name, Delroy had compiled a list of facts. When and where born, colleges attended, marriages, awards, and honorary degrees. With a smile, Bertie noted that her husband had already managed to amass a few surprising biographical tidbits. While at college, “Steady Freddy” Clark had nearly been expelled for cheating on a history test. Karen Phillips was ten years older than she let on, according to the date of birth Delroy had placed beside her name. His notes also revealed that the dynamic school reformer had been married twice before moving to the South Side in 1990. Dr. Momolu Taylor claimed to be related to Togar Henries, the Liberian diamond magnate. According to Delroy’s notes, the Henries family had never heard of him. Next to the doctor’s entry, Delroy had made a note to Check with USICS in red ink.

  Though Bertie knew that Charley Howard had had a rough life before becoming the Hot Sauce King, she had no idea he had been arrested for assault and battery. According to Delroy’s notes, Howard was suspected of beating up the chairman of his condo association, a Mr. Elmer Jones. The case had been dropped when Mr. Jones decided not to press charges. Nor had she been aware that the cautious banker Silas Blackstone had sired an illegitimate child during the flamboyantly bohemian summer he’d spent in Morocco after his first year in business school. Once again, Delroy had added a note
to himself next to Blackstone’s entry—Child still living? Regrets?

  On the very last page, Theophilous Green had written his critique in a crisp, precise hand. Re: Actionable nature of MS: Verify all docs—birth certs., crim. hist., citizenshp papers, etc. Re-depose before pub.—audi alteram partem!

  Audi alteram partem. Although she’d picked up a smattering of Latin phrases from Delroy over the years, Bertie had never heard this one before. Trust Theophilous to come up with something obscure, she thought to herself. Poor old fool. Wonder what it means? If anyone would know arcane legal terminology, it was her late husband’s colleague David Mackenzie.

  She picked up her cell phone and punched in the lawyer’s number.

  When he answered, Mac’s voice, although friendly enough, lacked its customary enthusiasm.

  “I just had a quick question,” Bertie said. “If this is a bad time, I can call back later.”

  “Nonsense,” Mackenzie said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was just wondering if you know what audi alteram partem means. Is it a legal term?”

  “What on earth makes you want to know about that?”

  “It would take too long to explain over the phone,” Bertie said. “Please. Can you tell me what it means?”

  “Literally it means ‘to hear from the other side.’ It reminds the judge to hear from both parties before making a final decision. What’s going on here, Bertie?” Mackenzie teased. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to study for the bar.”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that,” Bertie said hastily. “I’ll tell you all about it some other time.”

  “What about Friday?” Mackenzie suggested. “Come to the house for dinner. I’m curious what’s got you speaking Latin all of a sudden.”

  “I don’t want to impose. I’m probably interrupting you as it is.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mackenzie said. “Angie and I would love to see you. I’ll ask her to make us all some gumbo.”