Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  Jack Ivers, who had taught political science at Metro College since 1983, waved a dismissive hand.

  “Give me a break. What judge in his right mind would be friends with a kid like that?”

  With his rumpled suit and shaggy gray hair, Jack Ivers was idolized by many of the younger faculty for his outspoken opposition to Big Government. Ellen Simpson couldn’t stand him. Colorful as always in an orange-and-black dress from Ghana, she rolled her eyes at Bertie before wading into the conversation.

  “And why couldn’t LaShawn be telling the truth,” Ellen said. “What makes you such an expert on the boy’s behavior, Jack?”

  Jack Ivers fixed her with a baleful stare. “It doesn’t take an expert to see the kid’s a natural-born con man. I’ll grant you he’s intelligent, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

  “LaShawn is way too bright to commit such a stupid crime,” Maria Francione snapped. “He might talk someone to death, but he wouldn’t shoot him. What do you think, Bertie? You’re the one whose concert he ruined.”

  All eyes swiveled to Bertie, who’d been doing her best to stay out of the argument.

  “I have no idea why he wrecked the Christmas concert,” she said slowly. “All I know is LaShawn had tears in his eyes when he was finished.”

  “Real tears?” Maria Francione clapped her hands in mock applause. “What did I tell you? A first-rate dramatic talent.”

  Letitia Petrowski, the stout bottle blonde who taught chemistry, could hardly contain her irritation.

  “Sure, the boy is bright. Sure, he’s talented. But look what he comes from. His whole family’s either dead, on welfare, or in jail. Something was bound to go wrong sooner or later.”

  “That is exactly the problem,” Ellen said, shaking her head in disgust. “Teachers like you expect nothing, therefore, he thinks of himself as nothing and acts accordingly.”

  “I went out of my way to help that boy,” Petrowski said, her pale cheeks red with anger. “You people are all alike. Maybe it’s not ‘PC’ to say it, but our students have problems. Serious problems.”

  Among the faculty at Metro College, political debate had become something of a blood sport. If Petrowski, who’d been at Metro less than a year, had been to more of these bull sessions, she would probably have chosen her words more carefully.

  “Teachers like you have failed this community time and time again,” Ellen said, wagging her finger in Petrowski’s face. “Did you ever stop to think why our students are having problems?”

  “I don’t have to stop and think why,” Letitia fired back. “It’s because these people are beyond dysfunctional. Drug dealers. Gangbangers. Illiterate welfare queens with no ambition in life other than making babies and smoking crack.”

  Ellen’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned back, rocking slightly like a cobra getting ready to strike. Letitia doesn’t know it yet, but she’s about to be road kill, Bertie thought to herself.

  “Did you just use the term ‘illiterate welfare queen’? I have a strong suspicion our chancellor might consider your remarks to be racist. Certainly, they do not befit a person who has been entrusted with educating our city’s disadvantaged children.” Ellen stepped closer to the science teacher, her bracelets clanking menacingly as she delivered her coup de grâce. “Do you have tenure, Miss Petrowski?”

  Dumbfounded at the vitriol that had just flown out of Ellen’s mouth, the science teacher said nothing.

  Ellen gave a satisfied grunt. “No tenure? I thought so. Perhaps I should send Dr. Grant a memo describing our little conversation. I am sure he’d be happy to add a copy to your file.”

  “Leave her alone, Ellen,” Jack Ivers said, waving his coffee cup in mock benediction. “For once, let there be peace in our little refuge. Please?”

  But Letitia Petrowski, intent on clarifying her position, ignored him.

  “I didn’t mean anything racial, honest I didn’t. I love your people, Ellen. I voted for Obama.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ellen said, sucking her teeth.

  The science teacher turned to Bertie with tears in her eyes.

  “You know I didn’t mean anything by what I said, don’t you, Bertie?”

  Why do white people always look to me as their ally in these situations? Bertie thought to herself. Is it because they know I’m a forgiving kind of person, or is it simply that the color of my skin is closer to theirs? She gave Miss Petrowski an apologetic smile, rinsed her cup out in the sink, and hung it on the peg with her name on it next to the coffeemaker.

  “I’ve got a meeting with Chancellor Grant in five minutes,” she said. “See you guys later.”

  Maria Francione laughed and made the sign of the cross.

  “Blessings upon you, my poor child,” Francione said as Jack Ivers whistled a chorus of Chopin’s Funeral March. “May you still be among the gainfully employed when next we meet.”

  “Pray for me, Your Holiness,” Bertie said, not entirely in jest. “I could use all the good vibes I can get.”

  Walking briskly, Bertie took the elevator to the sixth floor and crossed a glass-enclosed bridge to the newer wing of the campus. Although the building where she taught was dark and smelled faintly of mildew, Metro’s new administrative wing was spacious and inviting. Sunlight streamed through the floor to ceiling windows that lined the south wall, and classical music tinkled softly from small speakers hidden discreetly in the ceiling. At an antique desk in the center of this magic kingdom sat Hedda Eberhardt, a.k.a. the Dragon of Doom. As usual, she wore a severe navy-blue suit and matching pumps. As Bertie approached, Eberhardt frowned and looked pointedly at her watch.

  “It’s three minutes after nine,” she said, pointing a perfectly manicured finger in the direction of the chancellor’s office. “He’s waiting for you inside.”

  Dr. Humbert Xavier Grant was a portly African American in his mid-sixties. His hair and mustache were gray, as was his suit. A cream-colored, silk handkerchief peeked discreetly from the upper pocket of his jacket. He was sitting at his desk when Bertie walked in. As usual, its surface was completely devoid of clutter. A portrait of Booker T. Washington hung on the wall behind him. Waving his hand imperiously, he gestured for Bertie to sit in the chair facing him.

  “You ruined this year’s Christmas concert.” Dr. Grant spoke in a lugubrious bass reminiscent of James Earl Jones. “You embarrassed the mayor. You embarrassed Alderman Clark. You embarrassed this college, and you embarrassed me. Unless you can provide a satisfactory explanation of this regrettable incident, I will convene a disciplinary hearing and have you censured for professional incompetence.”

  Fighting back tears, Bertie bit her lip. “I’m terribly sorry. I don’t know what got into LaShawn. I can promise you I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

  “It is way too late for that,” Grant snapped. “This boy is nothing but trouble. And now he’s been arrested for murder? This is not the kind of student we want here at Metro College.”

  “Please,” Bertie said, “this is not Harvard. It’s a community college. Don’t we have a mission to help this community? LaShawn is one of the brightest students I’ve ever had. With a little help, he could really make something of himself.”

  Dr. Grant raised an eyebrow. “Surely you don’t believe the boy is innocent. Not after all the trouble he’s caused.”

  “Of course, I don’t know for sure,” Bertie said, measuring her words carefully, “but I truly don’t believe he would ever shoot anyone.”

  “Your judgment has not been terribly reliable where this boy is concerned,” Grant said grimly. “LaShawn Thomas will be placed on suspension, effective immediately. Once I am satisfied that he poses no danger, he is welcome to return.” When Bertie opened her mouth to protest, Dr. Grant held up his hand. “There’s no use arguing about this. My decision is final.”

  He stood up and fixed Bertie with a gimlet eye. “If there is any rational explanation for the behavior of your student at the Christmas concert, you need to
get it to me in writing by the end of midterm week. You have sixty days, Professor Bigelow. Are we clear?”

  Chapter Eleven

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 22, 2013—9:30 A.M.

  Bertie paced the floor in her office like a trapped animal. Could Dr. Grant really have her reprimanded? She unearthed a dog-eared copy of the Metro College Faculty Handbook from beneath a pile of old papers at the bottom of her desk drawer and turned to page twenty-two:

  Termination or Suspension of Faculty for Cause: If the college believes that the behavior of a faculty member poses a sufficiently grave infraction of its code of professional conduct, a hearing of the disciplinary committee may be convened.

  In order to keep from going before the Disciplinary Committee, she was going to have to write the Mother of All Reports justifying her behavior. If she could prove that she had no way of anticipating LaShawn’s bizarre outburst, perhaps Dr. Grant would be satisfied to let the matter drop. What on earth had gotten into LaShawn that night? The boy was no murderer, but he had a hell of a lot of explaining to do. Assuming he was released on bond, that is. David Mackenzie had promised to call her the minute he had any news, but as the hours dragged on, Bertie grew more and more restless. It was nearly five o’clock before her phone rang.

  “I didn’t think I’d be able to pull it off,” Mac shouted, his voice breathless with excitement. “For the first ten minutes of the hearing, Judge Dayton lectured me on the moral failings of today’s youth. I thought we were done for. But I didn’t give up. I argued LaShawn was a good student with no prior record and a grandmother to look after him. In the end, miracle of miracles, Drayton agreed with me.”

  “So LaShawn is free?” Bertie exhaled deeply for what felt like the first time in three days.

  “For the moment,” Mac said. “Can you meet us at the Medici in Hyde Park in half an hour? The kid’s got something to tell you.”

  The Medici was an upscale pizza joint popular with Hyde Park locals and students at the nearby University of Chicago. Thirty-five minutes later, Bertie angled her Prius into a semi-legal spot three blocks away from the restaurant. Bracing herself against the biting winter wind, she covered the distance from her car to the Medici in record time. As she walked into the restaurant, Bertie spotted Big Mac and LaShawn Thomas sitting at a table along the brick wall at the back. Sitting next to LaShawn was a stout, dark-skinned woman who was no doubt the boy’s grandmother. She wore a hand-knitted hat and a dour expression.

  As she approached their table, Mac stood up. “Bertie Bigelow, this is Lurlean Petty, LaShawn’s grandmother.”

  Bertie walked to the table and leaned over to shake the woman’s hand.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m the choir director at Metro College.”

  “I know who you are.” Mrs. Petty’s lips tightened in an angry line. “You’re the one who got my boy the job at that blasted clinic in the first place. If he’d been coming straight home after school like he should have, we wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

  It was true that Bertie had helped LaShawn get his job at the Princeton Natural Health Clinic. She had made similar phone calls on behalf of dozens of students over the years. But this was the first time her well-meaning assistance had ever landed a student in jail.

  “Grammie, please” LaShawn mumbled, glancing apologetically in Bertie’s direction. “Mrs. B. was just trying to help.”

  “Umph,” Lurlean Petty grunted and turned toward her grandson. “Fine mess of trouble she’s gotten you into, LaShawn.”

  Mac cleared his throat. “I hope you’re hungry, folks. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us a pizza—deep-dish with all the trimmings.”

  “I’m starving,” Bertie said. “How about you, LaShawn?”

  LaShawn shrugged and slouched lower in his seat. Dressed in a ragged black hoodie, baggy jeans, and a pair of unlaced Nikes, he looked like he had not bathed, slept, or eaten in days.

  David Mackenzie reached across the table and touched the boy’s arm.

  “LaShawn has something he wants to tell you. Isn’t that right, young man?”

  “Yessir,” LaShawn said softly, his eyes averted.

  “Come on, boy.” Lurlean Petty poked her grandson in the side with her elbow. “Out with it.”

  “I’m sorry about going off like that at the Christmas concert,” LaShawn said, continuing to stare down at the table. “I spoiled it for everyone. Like I said before, I’m really, really sorry. When I saw Steady Freddy in the front row, I just lost it, that’s all.” LaShawn’s mouth twisted in an ugly grimace. “Sittin’ there all high and mighty, like his shit don’t stink.”

  “What did Alderman Clark ever do to you, LaShawn?” Although Bertie felt her temper flare, she kept her voice gentle. LaShawn was clearly in a fragile state. If she got angry with him now, she’d never find out what had provoked him. “What could possibly justify spoiling the concert like that?”

  “He called my father ‘worthless trash.’ Said he was glad Daddy had been killed. Right on the six o’clock news. You know how many million people watch that stupid show? I know my father had problems, Mrs. B. He was killed in a liquor store hold-up last year. But Steady Freddy Clark had no right to diss him on the news like that. No right at all.” On the verge of tears, LaShawn bit his lip hard. “I promised myself I’d get even with that SOB one day. The bastard had it coming.”

  “As I recall, you called Alderman Clark a junkie,” Bertie said. “What was that all about?”

  “Look, Mrs. B.” The boy’s thin fingers drummed nervously on the table. “You’re a good person, but there’s a lotta stuff you don’t know nothin’ about.”

  David Mackenzie grunted. “I’ve had a very long day, LaShawn. If you don’t stop beating around the bush, I’m walking out of here right now.”

  LaShawn squirmed in his seat, clamped his mouth shut, and resumed his inspection of the tablecloth. Just as the situation appeared to have reached an impasse, their waiter arrived.

  “Here you are, people,” he said, setting their food on the table with a flourish. “Two large deep-dish pies with the works. Enjoy.”

  For the next few minutes, silence reigned. The pizza, so thick it had to be eaten with a knife and fork, was gooey, rich, and filling. Bertie, who had been doing her best to watch her diet, fell off the wagon in spectacular fashion, stuffing down two mouth-watering slices in fewer than ten minutes. LaShawn, his eyes fixed greedily on his plate, practically inhaled his pizza. Even Mrs. Petty seemed to unbend a little as she ate. After a suitable interval, Big Mac leaned forward in his seat.

  “Alright, LaShawn. Now’s the time. I need to know everything you can remember about what happened New Year’s Eve.”

  “Chill out, okay,” LaShawn said. “I’m getting to it.”

  “Mind your manners, boy.” Mrs. Petty shot her grandson a threatening glance.

  “Sorry, Grammie.” LaShawn’s angular face flushed deep red. “It’s true I went to the judge’s apartment that night, but only ’cause they asked me to.”

  “They?” Mrs. Petty barked. “What ‘they’ is this? Tell the man the truth, son.”

  “Mr. Peters at the clinic. He even gave me the gun so I could protect myself if I got held up.”

  Mac’s tone sharpened. “Peters gave you that gun?”

  “That’s right. Smith & Wesson nine mil.” At the look of alarm on his grandmother’s face, LaShawn continued hastily. “The cops say it’s the murder weapon. That my prints are on it. But I swear, I didn’t have the gun that night. Somehow or other I misplaced it.”

  “Misplaced? Don’t fool with me, LaShawn,” Big Mac snapped. “Judge Green was killed with a gun just like that. Did you or did you not take a gun with you to his apartment?”

  LaShawn, trembling and on the brink of tears, shook his head. “No! No! I never did that. The day before the shooting, I left my gun in my sister Sherelle’s glove compartment. Somebody broke into her car and stole it. I swear to God that’s the truth.”

  M
ac studied LaShawn appraisingly. “It better be, young man. What time was it when you went out to the judge’s apartment?”

  “Somewhere around one o’clock in the morning, I guess.”

  “Did anyone see you going in or out?”

  LaShawn shrugged. “A couple of people in the elevator, I guess. What difference does it make? I went to his apartment, I handed him the package, and then I left. End of story.”

  “Whoa. Hold on just a minute, young man.” Mac pushed his plate aside and leaned across the table. “There’s got to be more, and you know it. What were you doing delivering packages so late at night? What could possibly be so urgent on New Year’s Eve that it couldn’t wait till morning?”

  The minutes passed as LaShawn shifted silently in his seat and stared at the scraps of pizza crust on his plate.

  “There’s a lotta important people involved in this Testemaxx thing, Mr. Mackenzie. They don’t want to have to depend on the mailman, and they especially do not want anyone blabbing their business. I’ll be in big trouble if I tell.”

  “You’re already in big trouble,” Mac said grimly. “The police report says you delivered bottles of Testemaxx late at night on a regular basis to several city officials. Is this true?”

  LaShawn shook his head. “They must have misheard me. I never said nothing ’bout that.”

  “Is that why you called the Alderman a junkie at the Christmas concert?” Bertie said. “Because he was using Testemaxx?”

  LaShawn smirked. “The man’s a phony, Mrs. B. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  “This is no laughing matter,” Bertie snapped. “Dr. Grant has given me sixty days to explain what happened at the concert or else I’ll be officially censured. And if that doesn’t get your attention, think about this—the college has put you on suspension. You are not allowed to set one foot on campus until this is cleared up. Don’t you want to graduate?”