Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. B. I’m sorry about everything,” LaShawn said, his lower lip trembling. “But I didn’t kill the judge. I’m innocent. I can prove it.”

  Mac shook his head wearily. “Life is no video game, son. If you’ve got anything more to tell me, now’s the time.”

  “No, Mr. Mackenzie. You can’t help me.” LaShawn stood up and pulled on a battered Bulls jacket. “I’ve got to do this myself.” Without waiting for a reply, he ran out of the restaurant, banging the door behind him.

  “Looks like we’ve come to the end of the road,” Mrs. Petty said, gathering up her coat. “I know you’re tryin’ to help, Mrs. Bigelow. But the way I see it, your meddling has landed my boy in a world of trouble.”

  “LaShawn does a good job of finding trouble on his own,” Mac said drily. He signaled for the waiter to bring the check. “Whatever you do, don’t let him go back to school until this thing has been resolved. If he’s arrested for trespassing, Judge Drayton could decide to put him back in jail.”

  Mrs. Petty sighed heavily and sat back down. In that moment she looked old, frail, and very vulnerable.

  “I sure was looking forward to graduation this spring,” she said softly. “LaShawn was gonna be the first person in our family to ever finish college.”

  “It’s only January,” Bertie said. “If we can convince Dr. Grant of LaShawn’s innocence in the next few weeks, there’s a chance he could still graduate.”

  Mrs. Petty nodded glumly.

  “Now that LaShawn’s been released on bail, I’ll talk to Dr. Grant again. I will do what I can to help him get reinstated.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that promise, Mrs. Bigelow.”

  With a curt nod, Lurlean Petty stood up, wrapped a thick scarf tightly around her face, and walked out.

  Chapter Twelve

  MONDAY, JANUARY 28, 2013

  LaShawn’s suspension was the hot topic on campus when Bertie arrived at work. In the hallways, students clustered in little knots, arguing about whether Dr. Grant had done the right thing. Over coffee in the faculty lounge, Jack Ivers treated his colleagues to a blistering tirade. Although he detested LaShawn Thomas as a person, this was a matter of principle.

  “This is America, not Communist China. A man is presumed innocent until proven guilty,” Ivers thundered. “This college is in violation of fundamental constitutional principles.” In a rare moment of collegial unity, Ellen Simpson agreed.

  By Tuesday morning, the two teachers were circulating a petition demanding LaShawn’s reinstatement.

  “It’s important to be vigilant,” Ellen said, her eyes flashing. Perched on the corner of the desk in Bertie’s office, she waved her coffee cup to emphasize the point. “If we aren’t vigilant in the little things, the big things will catch us unawares. Take the Muslims, for example.”

  “I’d rather not,” Bertie said, sighing inwardly. When Ellen went off on a tear on a political issue like this, there was no stopping her.

  “Since 9/11 our government has been persecuting the Muslims relentlessly—tapping their phones, following them,” Ellen said. “All this despite overwhelming evidence that the vast majority of Muslims are law-abiding tax payers, just like the rest of us.”

  “True,” Bertie said. “But what does this have to do with LaShawn being kicked out of school?”

  “It’s a matter of principle, Bertie. Principle.” Ellen stood up and began pacing back and forth as her lecture gathered steam. “In America, every man is presumed innocent until a court of law finds him guilty. The first time this happened to someone I knew, I was too young to stop it. Things are different this time around.”

  “Sit down,” Bertie said. “You’re making me dizzy. What do you mean, this time around? Has LaShawn been kicked out of school before?”

  “I’m not talking about LaShawn, Bertie. I’m talking about Raquib Torrence. Didn’t I ever tell you about him?”

  After resuming her perch on the edge of Bertie’s desk, Ellen recounted the story of her long-ago romance with a tall, dark, and fiercely activist brother from Texas. During her sophomore year at Harvard, Raquib had wooed her with flowers, love songs, and rhetoric. The sex had been as hot as their politics, and for a while in the mid-nineties, Ellen had given serious thought to becoming Mrs. Raquib Torrence.

  “So what happened?” Bertie said. “Sounds like the two of you would have been quite the power couple.”

  “Raquib changed his last name to Kujamiiana.”

  “So?”

  Ellen shot her a pitying look. “You really need to brush up on your African phrases, Bertie. Kujamiiana means ‘virile’ in Swahili.”

  “Sounds like a good thing to me,” Bertie said.

  “Man was a bit too virile for his own good,” Ellen said. “He joined a Muslim splinter group and took on five common-law wives. Needless to say, we broke up. Rumor has it he moved back to Texas to start his own church—The Mosque of the Mighty Black Sword.”

  “Not hard to find the metaphor in that title,” Bertie said drily.

  “Hard was the operative term,” Ellen said. “The man was a sexist idiot—a Neanderthal, really. But one thing’s for sure. The brother could take care of business between the sheets.” She sighed. “You remember that song R. Kelly used to sing? ‘Bump N’ Grind’? Girl, we wore that record out.”

  “Ever thought about reconnecting? You could probably find him on Facebook or something.”

  “You know I’m computer phobic,” Ellen said, laughing.

  “You want me to look him up for you? I’m kind of curious what he looks like.”

  “Hell, no. It’s been nearly twenty years. Seeing him with a bald head and a potbelly is going to spoil the romance completely.” Ellen drained the last of her coffee and stood up. “Speaking of romance, I’m going to give you a little unsolicited advice, Bertie. It’s time you to started dating again. David Mackenzie’s got the hots for you.” She winked and ground her hips suggestively. “I know you had a rough go with Theophilous. But as the old saying goes, the best thing to do after you’ve fallen off a horse is to jump back on and ride.”

  As Bertie walked down the hall to her next class, she thought about Ellen’s comment. A shy and private person when she was not performing, Bertie envied Ellen’s confident sexuality. But Delroy had only been gone nine months. It was way too soon to even be thinking about kissing any other man. Still, if she was really honest with herself, Bertie could not deny the facts. Like it or not, her pulse had quickened when Big Mac had placed his hand over hers. It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell Ellen about the gesture, but she’d thought better of it in the nick of time. It had been over a decade since Bertie had flirted with a man. It was entirely possible she’d gotten her signals crossed. Most likely Mac had intended his touch to be purely platonic. Anyway, she reminded herself for the tenth time that day, David Mackenzie was a married man.

  Chapter Thirteen

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 2013—6:10 P.M.

  For the rest of the week, Bertie scoured ChicagoTribune.com for news of a breakthrough in the case. But there were no new developments, and by Thursday, Judge Green’s murder had faded from the headlines completely. In the midst of all this drama, an entire week of classes went by in a blur. Bertie had lesson plans to complete, exams to prepare, and essays to grade. The music theater club had decided to do The Wiz in the spring, and between holding tryouts for the lead roles and negotiating an affordable price for the performance rights, Bertie had her hands full. By the time she got home from work Friday afternoon, she was ready to relax in front of the TV with a glass of wine and a large bowl of popcorn.

  Five minutes after she walked in the door, her neighbor Colleen O’Fallon rang the doorbell.

  “You’ll be goin’ to the festivities, I’m assuming,” O’Fallon chirped, her pale cheeks flush with excitement.

  “What festivities?” Bertie gestured for the gnome-like woman to step inside. “I just this minute got home from work.”

&n
bsp; “A course ya did, dear. Me and Pat, we watched ya drive up. We’ve been waitin’ for hours.” Colleen O’Fallon pulled a shiny red piece of paper from her pocket and thrust it in Bertie’s face. “Will ya be attendin’?”

  Bertie took the paper and studied it:

  CHARLEY HOWARD’S HOT LINK EMPORIUM

  The Best in Southern Cuisine

  3473 South Prairie Avenue

  GRAND OPENING—TONIGHT ONLY

  PRIZES

  LIVE ENTERTAINMENT

  PATRONS WITH ORDERS OF $25 OR MORE WILL RECEIVE A FREE BOTTLE OF HOWARD’S HEAVENLY HOT SAUCE WITH OUR COMPLIMENTS

  “Pat said you’d be too worn ta go,” Colleen said. “I told her she was wrong, dead wrong. It’s concernin’ Bertie’s favorite food, I told her. A-course she’ll go, I said. It’s inevitable.”

  As she studied Charley Howard’s flyer, Bertie remembered the bitter argument she’d witnessed between Howard and Judge Green at the Octagon Ball. Could the Hot Sauce King have been angry enough with Theophilous to shoot him in cold blood?

  As Bertie continued to study the flyer, Colleen O’Fallon shifted from one foot to the other in a lather of excitement.

  “Now then,” she said. “Was I right? Will ya be attendin’?”

  “Definitely,” Bertie said with a smile. “You might say Charley Howard and I are friends.”

  “I knew it. Wait till I tell that know-it-all sister of mine.” Colleen O’Fallon lifted her clasped fists in triumph over her head. “Oh. And if it’s not a terrible bother, d’ya mind bringing me a bottle of that hot sauce? Grand stuff, that.”

  Twenty minutes later, Bertie was standing in front of Howard’s Hot Link Emporium. The worn brick tenement that housed the restaurant had been painted fire-engine red, and New Orleans jazz poured from two oversized speakers mounted over the entrance. On the sidewalk in front of the building, shivering waitresses dressed in sequined Mardi Gras outfits distributed bottles of Heavenly Hot Sauce to curious passersby. Taking her place at the end of the long line of customers waiting for a table, Bertie reviewed her hastily devised game plan. The goal was to find Charley Howard, chat him up a little, and get him to talk about the argument he’d had with Judge Green. Bertie figured the Hot Sauce King would be a lot more likely to let his guard down with her than with the police. With any luck, he’d slip up and say something incriminating. Once that happened, Bertie would inform Dr. Grant and voila! LaShawn would be in the clear. He’d be able to return to school, rejoin the choir, and graduate in the spring.

  When Bertie finally got to the head of the line, she spotted the Hot Sauce King mixing drinks at the bar. Squeezing quickly past a harried mother and her three hungry toddlers, Bertie made her way across the restaurant. Pasting a genial, nonthreatening expression on her face, Bertie slid onto an empty bar stool and waved until she caught Howard’s attention.

  “What a nice surprise!” the Hot Sauce King boomed. Resplendent in a pair of blue overalls, a red-and-white checked shirt, and a white chef’s hat, he wiped the bar down with a wet rag and slid a coaster in front of her. “What can I do ya for?”

  Bertie ordered a glass of merlot and congratulated Howard on the success of his new restaurant.

  “Tell you the truth, I’m right pleased.” Howard pulled a large, red handkerchief from the rear pocket of his overalls and mopped his brow. “Twenty thirteen is gonna be a banner year for me, Bertie. I’ve been accepted into the Octagon Society. Mrs. Leflore’s gonna send out the official announcement next week.”

  “Congratulations, Charley,” Bertie said, raising her glass. “Mind if I ask you what changed her mind? Last time I heard, you weren’t exactly a shoo-in.”

  Howard’s laugh was hearty. “You’re right about that, darlin’. Once Judge Green was out of the picture, Mrs. Leflore was quick to come ’round to my way of thinking. Not that I wished the old bastard any harm, of course.”

  “Of course not,” Bertie said. “You’ve got to admit it was convenient, though. Theophilous kicking the bucket the way he did.”

  “Damn convenient.” Placing both elbows on the bar, the Hot Sauce King leaned in close. “I know you think I’m some kind of thug, Bertie. But I didn’t kill that old man. And in case you’re wondering, I didn’t get the Roselli boys to knock him off, either. Truth is, I’m a peaceful man once you get to know me.”

  There was only one more piece of information Bertie hoped to acquire. To get it, she was going to have to catch Charley Howard by surprise.

  “I would hardly describe breaking someone’s nose as the actions of a peaceful man,” Bertie said, smiling her sweetest smile. “Would you?”

  Howard’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

  “I’m talking about Mr. Elmer Jones,” Bertie said, pleased she’d taken a minute to review the thumbnail sketch of Howard in Delroy’s manuscript before coming to the restaurant. “The chairman of the board at your condo, remember? He made fun of your down-home accent. He said his property values would go down if you moved in. According to the police, you weren’t too peaceful with him.”

  “That was nearly twenty years ago. It was a mistake. All the charges against me were dropped.” Howard spread his hands open on the bar and smiled through clenched teeth. “I’m telling you, I’m a peaceful man. Just ask anybody.”

  “I was there when you got into it with Judge Green at the gala,” Bertie persisted. “I would hardly describe your demeanor as peace-ful. Did you stop by the judge’s place later that night to continue the discussion?”

  “Out!” the Hot Sauce King growled. “If it’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a busybody.”

  He snatched Bertie’s half-full glass of merlot off the bar and emptied it into the sink. As she stood up to leave, Bertie could not resist a parting shot.

  “Have you something to hide, Charley? Why won’t you tell me where you went after the gala?”

  “I don’t have to say a goddamn thing,” Howard said. “But just to keep you from spreading false rumors, I will. After the gala, my wife and I went to see Mrs. Leflore.”

  Bertie raised her eyebrows. “Doesn’t she live in Jackson Towers?”

  “Shaw ’nuff, Miz Nosey Parker,” Charley Howard drawled sarcastically. “While Judge Green was getting himself shot, the wife and I were sitting two floors up, discussing my contribution to the Scholarship Fund.” He looked at Bertie and flashed a nasty grin. “Satisfied?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 2013—9:00 A.M.

  Bertie awoke the next morning with a churning stomach and a head full of worries. What had she been thinking, baiting Charley Howard like that? If the Hot Sauce King was half as dangerous as he was reputed to be, he could be ordering her execution this very minute. Who the hell did she think she was, anyway? That crazy white woman on Murder, She Wrote?

  Bertie draped a pink cotton bathrobe over her shoulders, padded into the kitchen, and brewed herself a strong cup of tea. It was snowing, and from the looks of things, there would be at least four more inches of the white stuff on the ground by midafternoon. Cup in hand, she leafed idly through the music books piled precariously next to the baby grand piano that dominated her living room. Digging the music for Bach’s Partitas for Solo Piano out of the pile, Bertie sat down at the piano bench, lifted the instrument’s wooden cover, and ran her fingers gently over the keys. Almost instantly, Bertie felt the worries and irritations of the past few days dissolve. Soon there was only music—a universe where every note, no matter how dissonant, found its resolution in an orderly architecture of sound and silence, tension and release.

  But halfway through the second movement of the Partita in D minor, a voice nagged at the back of Bertie’s mind. What on earth was the matter with LaShawn, storming out of the restaurant like that? With renewed determination, Bertie plunged into her practice routine, working through the difficult passages slowly, one hand at a time. Once all the details were mastered, the Partita would become as easy to play as “Chop
sticks.” But try as she might, speculations about the murder continued to intrude.

  I’m innocent, the boy said. And I can prove it.

  Bertie got up from the piano bench, closed the lid, and plopped down on her living room couch in a funk. Before his meltdown at the Christmas concert, LaShawn Thomas had been her most promising student. It would be a terrible shame if he had to leave Metro just one semester shy of graduation. Still, the police had found his prints on the murder weapon. Was she being foolish to believe in his innocence?

  Wonder what Delroy would say about all this, she thought to herself. As she glanced around the room, her eye fell on the three yellow legal pads on the coffee table in front of her. Though Delroy was gone, he had left her this manuscript. She’d already gleaned some valuable clues from it. Alderman Clark cheating on a test in college. Charley Howard’s arrest record. Dr. Taylor’s African harem. Maybe if she read it again, Bertie thought to herself, maybe she would spot something she’d missed the first time around. Something that would help her identify the real killer and clear LaShawn’s name.

  While she ate breakfast, she idly flipped through the legal pad that contained the third section of her husband’s memoir until she came to Judge Green’s comments on the last page.

  Re: Actionable nature of MS: Verify all docs—birth certs., crim. hist., citizenshp papers, etc. Re-depose before pub.—audi alteram partem!

  Why couldn’t Judge Green have written his thoughts in plain English? What’s more, why hadn’t he returned the manuscript to her immediately after her husband’s death? Had Theophilous just forgotten about it, or had he held onto the manuscript because of something Delroy had written? Frustrated, Bertie pushed the legal pads aside and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. As she sipped her tea, she watched the snow pile up on the street outside. A thick, heavy blanket of the white stuff covered the cars, the street, and the sidewalk in front of her house. Although it was normally fairly busy on Harper Avenue, not a soul passed in front of her window.