Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  Feeling somewhat at loose ends, she drifted back into the living room and sat down on the couch. Come on, Bertie. Use your noggin. Her late husband had loved that phrase. Whenever Delroy felt she was missing something, he’d teased her with it. Use your noggin, Bertie.

  Maybe she’d never be able to know for sure why Theophilous had kept the manuscript so long. But at least she could try to decipher the comments he’d written. The judge had been concerned about Delroy being sued for libel because of something in his manuscript. That’s what he’d meant by “actionable.” Okay, so far so good. What exactly had concerned the judge? The first thing he’d told Delroy to do was to “verify all docs.” That made sense. Although not meant as a muckraker, Delroy’s memoir would reveal the hidden sides of some of the most well-known African Americans in Chicago. To avoid a lawsuit, Delroy would have needed to back up every allegation with solid evidence.

  The judge’s injunction to “Re-depose before pub.” also began to make sense. He was suggesting Delroy question his subjects again, giving them each a chance to respond to what he’d written before publication. After all, Karen Phillips’s fudged birth dates, Charley Howard’s arrest record, Dr. Taylor’s questionable claim of kinship with the wealthy Henries family in Liberia, and Silas Blackstone’s illegitimate child would become public knowledge once the book was published.

  David Mackenzie had told her Audi alteram partem was Latin for “hear from the other side.” Had her late husband actually done this? The Lord had taken her Delroy away in the middle of a very busy life. His old study downstairs was filled with boxes of papers and files she had yet to sort through. Every weekend for the last couple of months, she had promised herself she would clean out the room, but every weekend she found an excuse not to. Sometimes she’d even get all the way down to the door before suddenly “remembering” an urgent appointment to do something else. Pensively, Bertie took another sip of tea. The snow outside continued to pile up. Not a single car was moving outside her window.

  I’ve been talking about going through that stuff downstairs for months. Now’s as good a time as any. Who knows? Maybe there’s a clue buried in Delroy’s papers somewhere.

  Delroy’s study was in the basement—more of a glorified closet than a room, really. Jammed against the back wall was a small desk piled high with papers. On the wall above the desk hung his African mask collection. Hand carved from ebony and decorated with raffia, beads, and cowrie shells, the masks had cost a small fortune. When Bertie had teased him about the expense, Delroy had grown uncharacteristically serious.

  “My Caucasian friends can trace their families back to England or Ireland or wherever. I will never know for sure exactly where I come from. I just need to own a little piece of my mother country.”

  Bookshelves lined the walls on each side of the room. Easy Rollins murder mysteries sat cheek to jowl with Plato’s Republic. Kevin Shillington’s three-volume Encyclopedia of African History, a signed copy of Roots, and a tattered paperback edition of The Souls of Black Folk by W.E. B. DuBois. Most of the available floor space was covered with boxes stacked in teetering piles. At the sight of all the clutter and confusion, it took all of Bertie’s willpower not to turn and run. The room even smelled faintly of the pipe her late husband had smoked in the evenings after dinner. Feeling her eyes begin to fill with tears, Bertie bit her lip hard. Now that she’d finally made herself come down here, Bertie was determined not to become sidetracked by grief. After two hours of determined digging, she uncovered a large cardboard box labeled BOOK RESEARCH.

  Clearing herself a space on the floor, Bertie removed the stack of manila file folders from the box and piled them up next to her. Contained in the files were photocopies of legal documents—birth and death certificates, incorporation papers, naturalization papers, motions filed and counter-filed. Was there anything in the files that might explain the judge’s cryptic comments? Though Bertie knew it wasn’t likely, anything was possible. Carefully gathering up all the papers, she returned them to the box and carried it back upstairs.

  When she returned to the living room, it was nearly six o’clock. She’d been down in the basement much longer than she’d realized. Fortunately, it had stopped snowing. The city looked deceptively peaceful in its blanket of white. The O’Fallon sisters were already out clearing their sidewalks, the scraping of their shovels strangely muffled by the snow.

  Looks like I’ll be snowed in this evening, Bertie said to herself. I’ll fix myself some dinner and then take a look at these files.

  As she pulled her Weight Watcher’s TV dinner out of the oven, the phone rang.

  “Hey, girl,” Ellen’s voice sounded unusually loud in Bertie’s ear after spending the day alone. “Aren’t you sick of being cooped up inside? My new friend Jerome and I are going to The Loft to hear some jazz. We’ll be in front of your house in an hour. Don’t even think about saying no.”

  Chapter Fifteen

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

  Despite the snow and the cold outside, The Loft was jumping. Patrons wearing everything from hoodies to full-length fur coats lined the large circular bar in the center of the club. At the opposite end of the room, Earl Mallory’s group was deep into their first set.

  “Guess we’re not the only people with cabin fever,” Ellen shouted over the din of the music. She tapped Jerome on the shoulder. “Bertie and I will go find a table while you get the drinks, okay, honey?”

  Jerome, a lean man in his early forties with a shaved head and a diamond stud in his left ear, nodded and waded into the crowd huddled around the bar.

  Fortunately for Bertie, there were still a couple of empty tables near the stage. Slipping out of her coat, she flashed Ellen an appreciative smile. What a blessing it is to have friends. If Ellen hadn’t called, I would have stayed home brooding all night, for sure. For the next several minutes, Bertie immersed herself in the music. Now in his mid-eighties, Earl Mallory was a Chicago legend who’d cut his teeth performing with the Count Basie Orchestra before going on to form his own group.

  Improbably, Mallory was playing better than ever. Energy poured from the bell of his tenor sax, challenging his audience to abandon their conversations and focus in on the music. Warming herself with an occasional sip from a shot of Hennessy, Bertie closed her eyes and listened, delighting in the complex interplay between Mallory’s horn and the guitar, bass, and drums that accompanied him. Geometric designs in bright colors flashed through her mind as she listened—each note a new shade of red, blue, purple, and orange. A beautiful mosaic of sights and sounds.

  “Bertie . . . Bertie!” The sharp sensation of Ellen’s elbow poking into her ribs jarred her from her reverie. “Don’t look now, but I think I just saw Patrice Soule.”

  “Who?” Intent on the rhythm unfolding in Mallory’s sax solo, Bertie barely acknowledged her friend’s comment.

  “Patrice Soule. You know, the hot new singer who won the Illinois Idol contest last year.” Ellen leaned closer so Bertie could hear her over the music. “And you’ll never guess who’s with her.”

  “Dr. Taylor,” Bertie said in a matter-of-fact tone. “They went to the Octagon Gala together. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “You most definitely did not, girlfriend. I would have remembered something like that. When Patrice Soule won the Idol contest, I cried my eyes out. Local girl makes good. Great stuff. Wonder what she sees in Dr. Taylor. The man’s old enough to be her father.”

  Eager to get back to the music, Bertie shrugged. Ellen, however, could not let the matter go.

  “That’s what’s wrong with our society today, Bert. A man can be old as Methuselah and still keep a beautiful woman on his arm. If a woman did that, everybody’d be talking ’bout how the dude was just a boy toy or, worse yet, a paid gigolo.”

  “What difference does it make?” Sneaking a glance to make sure Jerome wasn’t listening, Bertie leaned closer to Ellen and whispered, “After all, I see you’ve got yourself a fine young thing of yo
ur own. Where do you find them, Ellen? This is the handsomest one yet.”

  “My cousin Charles introduced us,” Ellen said. She clinked her glass against Bertie’s and winked. “Just don’t tell him my real age, okay?”

  Bertie giggled. “Mum’s the word, I promise.”

  Earl Mallory concluded his first set with a dazzling blues number that showcased each member of the band in turn. As the audience clapped and whistled their approval, Mallory smiled and took a bow.

  “We’re gonna take a brief pause for the cause,” he announced. “Don’t go nowhere, folks. We’re coming right back.”

  The minute the band stopped playing, Bertie went off in search of the ladies room only to discover that half the women in the audience had similar plans. The bathroom line stretched well past the bar and showed no sign of moving. Discouraged, she took a seat at the bar to wait. To keep herself company, Bertie ordered another brandy and swiveled her high-backed leather stool around for a better view of the club.

  It was a typical South Side crowd—hardworking black folks determined to squeeze the last drop of pleasure from the weekend before returning to work on Monday. Women strutted their stuff in tightfitting dresses and heels while the men enjoyed the show, gazing in frank appreciation as the ladies shimmied by. From atop her barstool, Bertie watched as Jerome slipped his arm around Ellen’s shoulders and pulled her close. It would be nice if this man were serious about Ellen, she thought. Though she missed Delroy terribly, at least they’d had ten wonderful years together. Everybody deserved to enjoy true love at least once in his life.

  “Bertie Bigelow. What a pleasant surprise.” Placing a hand on her shoulder, Dr. Momolu Taylor bent down and kissed her cheek. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be out on such a foul night.”

  “I have to say, I’m somewhat surprised myself,” Bertie said. “My friend Ellen is entirely responsible for getting me out of the house.” Taylor turned his head to look as Bertie pointed to where Ellen sat, gazing soulfully into Jerome’s eyes.

  “Your friend looks a bit busy at the moment,” Taylor said. “Perhaps you’d like to join my friends and me for a quick drink?”

  After gesturing to the bartender to bring another round of drinks to his table, the doctor offered Bertie his arm. Perhaps it was the two shots of Hennessy she’d consumed, but Bertie had the distinct feeling of being weightless, disconnected from gravity as she floated across the room toward Taylor’s table. As she approached, she could see Patrice Soule—stunning in a low-cut silk blouse, formfitting red miniskirt, and expensive Italian boots—fiddle restlessly with her iPhone.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Soule,” Bertie said. “I heard you sing at the Octagon Gala.”

  With a tiny frown, Soule put down her phone.

  “I hadn’t planned on doing anything, but Mrs. Leflore asked me. What else could I do?” Clearly the diva was a bit put off at being approached by yet another fan. It probably happened all the time, especially since winning the Illinois Idol contest two years ago. On the other hand, there was nothing any diva loved better than flattery.

  “You handled the situation beautifully,” Bertie said. “I loved the way you reworked the original melody.”

  “Did I change it?” Soule giggled. “I just sing the song how I feel it, so it’s different every time. I can’t read a note of music, you know. Drives my piano players nuts.”

  “Reading music is a lot easier than it looks,” Bertie said. “I’ve taught hundreds of people how to do it. I could probably show you in a couple of hours.”

  “Really?” Trembling with excitement, Soule clapped her hands together like a small child. “Did you hear that? Professor Bigelow is going to tutor me.”

  Dr. Taylor raised an eyebrow. “You’ll need a lot of patience, eh? Patrice’s last tutor didn’t last a single week.”

  “Momo, please!”

  Ignoring Soule, Taylor gestured toward the bald, heavyset man sitting on the other side of the table. “Bertie, this is Jawann Peters, the assistant director at my clinic.”

  When she shook his hand, Bertie couldn’t help thinking that Peters, dressed in a black-and-red track suit and sporting a diamond pinkie ring, looked a lot more like a hoodlum than a medical administrator.

  “Seriously, Momo. My last tutor treated me like I was some kind of idiot,” Patrice cut in, her voice rising. “I may not be able to read music, but I’m no moron.”

  “Of course not, darling,” Taylor said. He looked over at Peters and winked. “Any man with a pulse can see you’re a young woman overflowing with talent.”

  Patrice Soule stuck out her tongue, lifted her glass, and emptied it in one long swallow.

  “Would you mind fetching me another rum and Coke, Jawann dear? I’m feeling awful thirsty tonight.”

  After the tiniest of nods from the doctor, Peters pushed back from the table and lumbered off toward the bar. Taylor gestured for Bertie to take a seat in the chair next to his.

  “Your late husband was somewhat of a mentor to me,” he said. “I admired him deeply, at least in part because he had the good fortune to be married to such a beautiful woman.” Leaning so close Bertie could smell the musk in his aftershave, Taylor whispered, “Now that you’re single, perhaps we could spend some time together.”

  Bertie felt her skin flush. Did the doctor flirt like this with every woman he met? I really ought to get up and walk away, she told herself. Instead, her senses dulled by the lateness of the hour and the liquor she’d consumed, Bertie merely smiled.

  “Oh, I’m sure we’re both too busy for anything like that, Dr. Taylor,” she said, taking a covert look toward Patrice Soule to see whether the diva had noticed Taylor coming on to her. Fortunately, Soule was once again tapping into her phone, oblivious to the world around her. Probably chatting with her fans on Twitter, Bertie thought to herself.

  “When I was trying to open my clinic five years ago, Bill Hedgegrave called me an ‘ignorant voodoo witch doctor’ on WLS radio.” Edging his chair closer, Taylor squeezed Bertie on the arm. “The city did not want to grant me a license, but your husband sued the station for libel and won.”

  “I know,” Bertie said. “Delroy wrote a chapter in his memoir about it.”

  “Really? I had no idea he’d written anything.” Bertie couldn’t be completely sure, but she thought she felt Taylor’s grip on her arm tighten.

  “Neither did I until Judge Green showed me the manuscript. I’m thinking of trying to find a publisher for the thing.”

  “How interesting,” Taylor purred. Though his voice remained as smooth as ever, Bertie was absolutely certain Taylor was squeezing her arm harder than before.

  “I need to clear up a few loose ends before it can be published,” she said. “I don’t know why, but Judge Green wanted Delroy to recheck all his documentation.”

  A strange expression flitted across the doctor’s face. But before Bertie could figure out what it meant, he was smiling again.

  “That sounds like Theophilous. Not to speak ill of the dead, but the old man was a bit off his rocker, I’m afraid.” Releasing his grip on Bertie’s arm, the doctor lifted his highball and nodded in Soule’s direction. “Baby, tell Bertie what Judge Green said to you.”

  “Which time? The man was completely paranoid. One time, he told me Charley Howard was part of a Mafia plot to destroy the Octagon Society. Another time, he told me Steady Freddy Clark was selling drugs for the CIA.” Soule laughed and twirled an elegantly manicured index finger in circles around her ear. “The man was a total fruitcake. I didn’t mind the paranoia so much until he started following me around the building. One night when I was in the laundry room alone, he even tried to kiss me.”

  Bertie raised an eyebrow. “Did he do that sort of thing a lot?”

  “Not after I showed him my gun. Smith & Wesson nine mil. Told him if he ever did it again, I’d blow his ass to kingdom come.”

  “Looks like somebody else had the same idea. Unless, of course, it was you.�
��

  Soule’s face reddened. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Taylor laughed and squeezed Soule’s thigh. “Of course she is, sugar. For the record, I was with Ms. Soule on the night the judge was killed, Miss Prosecutor. Just the two of us, alone in her apartment. And a magnum of Champagne to keep us company.”

  Jawann Peters had been knocking back shots of Johnnie Walker Black as he followed the conversation.

  “With all due respect, Bertie,” he said in a gravelly voice. “You of all people should know who really shot the judge. You’re the one who suggested I hire LaShawn Thomas in the first place.”

  Bertie’s face reddened. “I thought LaShawn was a good kid when I wrote his reference letter, and I still think so now. You’re the one who gave him that gun. Don’t you feel any responsibility for what happened?”

  “I certainly didn’t expect him to kill innocent people with it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Jawann was just trying to help the boy,” Taylor interjected smoothly. “Englewood’s a tough neighborhood.”

  “What was in those packages, anyway? LaShawn says it was some kind of hormone enhancer,” Bertie said. “Is that true?”

  The doctor’s laugh was as melodious as his speaking voice.

  “I’d asked him to not to tell anyone. But since you already know my little secret, I’ll explain.” His eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’ve invented a new formula for improving male sexual performance. Testamaxx contains an herbal aphrodisiac that men in Liberia have been using successfully for hundreds of years. My grandfather, Togar Momolu Henries, was a Mandinka chief. With the help of this formula, the man produced thirty-one children.” Standing up, Taylor spread his arms wide in a grand gesture and intoned, “Testemaxx—the perfect marriage of African wisdom and Western science. It will revolutionize the world!”