With a giddy shriek of excitement, Patrice Soule tossed off the remainder of her drink, stood up, and launched into a pitch perfect imitation of Aretha Franklin’s “Dr. Feelgood.”
After finishing up with a soaring riff, Soule wrapped her arms around the doctor and planted a juicy kiss on his mouth. As the diva waved gaily to the growing crowd of people surrounding them, the doctor reddened and returned to his seat. When Soule launched into a second chorus of “Dr. Feelgood,” Taylor grabbed her roughly by the wrist and pulled her down.
“Shut up, Patrice,” he hissed. “You’re embarrassing me.”
Landing heavily in her seat, the diva bit her lip, grabbed her iPhone, and resumed tapping into it furiously. In the awkward silence that followed, Bertie pushed back her chair.
“My friends must be wondering what happened to me,” she said, extracting a business card from her purse. “Patrice, if you ever want me to help you with your music reading, give me a call.”
In the car on the way home, Bertie couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d stepped in the middle of something ugly between Patrice Soule and Dr. Taylor.
“The vibes at their table were really off-key,” she said. “You could cut the tension with a knife.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Ellen said. As Jerome shifted her aging Volvo into second gear, she leaned over and nibbled his ear. “The doctor is just your typical alpha male, obsessed with being in control of every situation. He got upset because Soule embarrassed him. You know how men are.”
“Not me, babe.” Jerome said, stroking Ellen’s cheek with his free hand. “Long as you keep givin’ me the love I need, you can embarrass me whenever you want.”
“Hey, baby,” Ellen said, resting her head on his shoulder, “let’s go home and put R. Kelly on the stereo.”
Feeling more than a little in the way, Bertie turned and looked out the window. Between the bumpy road, the overheated car, and all the brandy she’d consumed, her stomach felt decidedly woozy. After Ellen dropped her off, she barely made it into the living room before collapsing in a heap on the couch.
If Delroy had been with her, he would have picked her up and carried her upstairs. Of course, if Delroy had been with her, Bertie would not have drunk that much brandy in the first place. And certainly, if Delroy had been with her, she would never have sat at the doctor’s table and let him flirt with her like that.
But Delroy was not with her. Delroy would never be with her again. She was a widow now—destined to walk a treacherous path filled with unscripted social interactions and saturated with loneliness. Willing herself up the stairs, Bertie Bigelow stripped off her clothes, burrowed under the covers, and cried herself to sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 2013—8:15 A.M.
When Bertie arrived at work Monday morning, she found Hedda Eberhardt waiting in the hallway. Catching Bertie’s eye, the chancellor’s secretary waved imperiously and began walking toward the elevator.
“Hurry up,” Eberhardt said over her shoulder. “Dr. Grant is waiting upstairs. Alderman Clark wants to talk to you.”
As she struggled to keep up, Bertie’s thoughts whirled furiously. Why would Alderman Clark want to see her at eight thirty on a Monday morning? In fact, why would Alderman Clark want to see her at all?
As they entered the administrative wing, Bertie was surprised to see a small crowd of students standing in the reception area. Dressed identically in black jeans and hoodies, they stood silently, holding aloft homemade signs. Bring LaShawn Back! read one. More ominously, another proclaimed, Down with Dictators—Give Grant the Boot.
With an irritated shake of her head, Hedda Eberhardt pushed past the demonstrators and knocked on the door to Dr. Grant’s office. After a brief pause, she gestured for Bertie to go inside. Seated in the two leather armchairs facing Grant’s large picture window, Grant and Steady Freddy Clark were in the midst of what appeared to be an intense conversation. Alderman Clark’s handsome brown face was twisted in an uncharacteristic grimace, and his index finger was pointed straight at Dr. Grant’s face.
Uh-oh, Bertie thought to herself. Whatever is going on here does not look good, not at all. Taking a deep breath, she stepped farther into the room and cleared her throat.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Hedda Eberhardt said you wanted to see me, so I came right up. As you can see, I didn’t even stop in my office to hang up my coat.”
At the sound of Bertie’s voice, the two men stood up.
“A pleasure to meet you, Professor Bigelow.” As usual, the alderman exuded an air of confidence. If the discussion he and Grant had been having had rattled Steady Freddy, he didn’t show it. Nor did he make any reference to the protest taking place outside the office. As usual, the alderman was well dressed, this time in a charcoal Brooks Brothers suit. A faint hint of expensive cologne emanated from his body.
“I so enjoyed the music your choir performed at the Christmas concert,” he said, taking Bertie’s hand and pressing it between his own. “Dr. Grant assures me that you were as surprised as the rest of us when the unfortunate incident occurred.”
“Absolutely,” Bertie said, shaking the alderman’s manicured hand vigorously. “On behalf of all my students, I would like to apologize for LaShawn’s remarks. The whole situation has been a terrible embarrassment.”
The alderman’s booming laugh filled the room. “When you’ve been on the campaign trail as often as I have, you learn that there’s just no predicting what some people will do to get attention. Isn’t that right, Humbert?”
“Have a seat, Professor Bigelow,” Dr. Grant said. “We were just about to have coffee.”
Dutifully, Bertie took a seat on the black leather couch facing the two men. Moments later, Hedda Eberhardt appeared, carrying a tray of small breakfast pastries and a large metal coffee pot. Once the coffee had been poured and the pastries distributed, she withdrew, her feet soundless on the plush, beige carpet.
“The alderman would like your choir to perform at his campaign rally next month,” Dr. Grant said, wiping his hands delicately with a paper napkin.
“We’d be happy to do that,” Bertie said.
Steady Freddy Clark rubbed his hands together and exchanged a look with the chancellor.
“I had hoped that LaShawn Thomas would be able to participate, but I’ve been informed he’s been placed on suspension.”
“You wanted LaShawn to sing?” Suddenly flustered, Bertie groped to find the right words. “We both saw what happened the last time he got near a microphone.”
“That’s exactly my point,” Steady Freddy said, beaming his fifty-megawatt smile. “Nearly half the voters in my district are under thirty. To them, LaShawn has become something of a celebrity. Now that he’s suspected of murder, sad to say, his popularity with the hip-hop crowd has actually increased.”
Unsure where the conversation was going, Bertie nodded her head slowly.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” the alderman continued, “But not everyone is given a second chance to repair the damage. I’m a generous man, Professor Bigelow. I’d like to offer LaShawn Thomas an opportunity to redeem himself.”
Chancellor Grant frowned. “You know my position on this, Fred. LaShawn Thomas is persona non grata on this campus.”
The alderman’s smile remained in place as he set his coffee cup deliberately on the end table next to him.
“Surely you can bend the rules a little. I’d hate to see your funding cut when the finance committee reviews Metro’s budget next year.”
As Bertie watched silently, Dr. Grant coughed and shifted in his seat.
“Your point is well taken,” the chancellor intoned gravely. “However, I have the safety of the entire Metro community to consider. I cannot have dangerous criminals waltzing around the premises.”
“Nobody’s talking about bringing LaShawn on campus,” Steady Freddy said, laughing. “My rally is going to be at the Masonic Lodge on Western Avenue.”
�
�I see.” Dr. Grant paused and looked out the window. “I suppose there’s no harm in him performing alone, without the choir.”
“As long as he’s up on stage, I’m happy,” the alderman said, smiling more broadly than ever. “In fact, I thought we could sing a little duet together. ‘Just the Two of Us’ would be appropriate, don’t you think?”
“I believe we have reached a consensus,” Dr. Grant said. He shifted his gaze to Bertie. “Does this arrangement work for you, Professor Bigelow?”
“Of course,” Bertie said. Anything that would burnish LaShawn’s image in Dr. Grant’s eyes was bound to be a plus. If she could get the boy to act responsibly at the rally, it would also help her in case she ended up appearing before the disciplinary committee. “LaShawn will be singing at the rally if I have to drive him there myself.”
The alderman beamed. “I knew you’d understand my position, Professor. May I ask you another small favor?”
“Certainly,” Bertie said.
“I was hoping you could give me a few singing lessons. I wouldn’t need much, you understand. I was the tenor soloist in my college glee club.” The alderman puffed out his chest and bellowed “My Country ’Tis of Thee” in a grating monotone. “As you can see, I’ve got a pretty good voice. It just needs a little touching-up before LaShawn and I appear onstage together.”
“Metro College is at your disposal,” Dr. Grant interjected smoothly, ignoring the panicked expression on Bertie’s face. “I’m sure the professor will be delighted to help you.”
“Here’s my card,” Bertie added with a weak smile. “Call me any time.”
As she left the meeting, Bertie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. You have to hand it to Steady Freddy. He’s got more tricks up his sleeve than Houdini. Once LaShawn sang a duet with Steady Freddy onstage, everyone would assume the two had become the best of friends. Of course they weren’t—and probably never would be—but in the shadowy world of politics, appearance was far more important than reality. The real question was whether Bertie would be able to convince LaShawn to perform at all, given his grudge against the Alderman.
Back in her office, she dug through her files until she found LaShawn’s contact information. The only number he’d listed was that of his grandmother. When Mrs. Petty did not answer her phone, she remembered that LaShawn had said his grandmother worked two jobs and attended church six nights a week. Over the next two days, Bertie tried Mrs. Petty’s number several times. But the woman never picked up her phone, nor did she seem to have an answering machine.
By Wednesday afternoon, Bertie was completely frustrated. Despite several more attempts, she had been not been able to reach Mrs. Petty. What was worse, Alderman Clark had left her two messages checking to see if she’d spoken to LaShawn. Worse still, the tryouts for the spring musical had been terrible. Without LaShawn to bolster the cast, it was likely the show would be a flop. The madrigal singers were also floundering. For the third time in as many weeks, her piano students came to class unprepared. When the lead soprano failed to show up for concert choir, Bertie was at her wit’s end. Though she was only three weeks into her semester, she felt exhausted, out of sorts, and desperate for musical inspiration.
When the alderman called for a third time that evening, Bertie promised she would have an answer by the weekend, even if she had to camp on Mrs. Petty’s doorstep.
“I like your attitude, Professor,” Steady Freddy said. “I have an appointment near Metro College in the afternoon tomorrow. How about giving me that singing lesson you promised?”
“Of course,” Bertie said, cringing inwardly. From the little snippet of singing he’d treated her to in Dr. Grant’s office, the alderman was less musical than a sack of bricks. On the other hand, if giving him vocal coaching would improve her standing with Dr. Grant, she was glad to do it. “My last class finishes at six. I’ll wait for you in the music room.”
Chapter Seventeen
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 2013—6:00 P.M.
As usual in Chicago at this time of year, it was bitter cold. As Bertie finished up for the day, sheets of snow angled down from the sky, piling up in ominous drifts on the street outside her classroom window. Students scurried to their cars with lowered heads to avoid the slap of the wind howling down Halsted Street. In weather like this, it seemed unlikely that Steady Freddy Clark would actually show up for his first—and hopefully only—singing lesson.
But sure enough, at six o’clock on the dot, the alderman, dressed in a five hundred dollar cashmere overcoat and broadbrim leather hat, strolled into the music room. In his hand was a battered copy of the sheet music for “Just the Two of Us.”
“Now, I want you to treat me the same way you’d treat any other student,” he said. He took off his coat and hat and positioned himself in front of the piano. “As I told you, I was quite a singer back in college. But it’s been a while.”
Bertie nodded. She took a seat behind the piano and ran her fingers over the keys.
“Let’s get your voice warmed up, shall we?” She struck a C major chord and began to lead him through a series of simple three-note scales. By the time she’d finished the first exercise, Bertie had confirmed her worst suspicions. Steady Freddy Clark might be a smooth politician and a brilliant tactician, but where music was concerned, the man was dumb as a post. No matter what note she played on the piano, Steady Freddy produced the same tune-less monotone.
“How’d I do?” His face glowed with the joy of singing. “Not too bad for an old guy, if I do say so myself.”
“You certainly have a strong voice, Alderman Clark,” Bertie said.
“Call me Freddy, please. I’ve always prided myself on the strength of my vocal power. It’s a bit of a requirement in my business, you know.”
“Yes, well. Tell you the truth, I hardly know where to begin,” Bertie said. Which was true. The man was a walking compendium of vocal problems—a singing teacher’s worst nightmare.
“In that case, let’s begin with my song,” Steady Freddy said. “As you know, I intend to sing this with LaShawn Thomas at my campaign rally next week. Show of unity and all. Speaking of which, have you spoken to the young man recently?”
“Not yet,” Bertie said. As she saw the alderman’s face darken, she added hastily, “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to perform with you. If I’m not mistaken, he sang ‘Just the Two of Us’ for the spring concert last year.” Bertie had read somewhere that big lies were often more believable than small ones. If Bertie had been Pinocchio, her nose would have grown a foot behind the whopper she’d just told.
“Really? In that case, I’d better step up my game.” Steady Freddy laughed. “Wouldn’t want to embarrass myself in front of my public.”
For the next half hour, the Alderman bleated like an ailing billy goat as Bertie accompanied him on the piano. From time to time, she interjected what she hoped were tactful suggestions to help him remain on pitch. These comments Freddy brushed aside impatiently, insisting that his college choir director had given him all the technical instruction he would ever need.
“I’m just rusty,” he insisted. “Let me do it again. This time I’ll add more feeling.” With his chest puffed out and his feet planted wide, he raised his arms and brayed with vigor, “Just the two of us. Ooh yeah! Sock it to me, baby! Talkin’ ’bout the two of us.”
Keeping her head down, Bertie applied herself to the piano. As long as she didn’t look up, there was hope that she could avoid bursting out in laughter.
After three more run-throughs, each more off-key than the last, Steady Freddy glanced at his Rolex.
“Seven o’clock already. My goodness, where has the time gone?”
Bertie could have given him a very precise answer to that question, but she restrained herself. If Steady Freddy was happy, Dr. Grant would be happy. And if Dr. Grant was happy, perhaps she would still have a job when the disciplinary committee met to discuss her case. As the alderman collected his sheet music and put on his coat, she said,
“Glad you could stop by today, Alderman Clark. I don’t think you’ll be needing any more lessons before the rally next week, though. I think your voice has reached its full potential.”
“When ya got it, ya got it.” Steady Freddy’s face glowed with pride. “Told you I was the soloist with my college glee club.”
“That must have been some choir,” Bertie said drily. Fortunately for her, the alderman had absolutely no sense of irony.
“Gotta run,” he said. “I’m meeting Momolu Taylor at the Princeton Natural Health Clinic in twenty minutes.” He picked up his cashmere coat from its resting place on the chair in front of him and brushed it down carefully. “The man has worked wonders in this community. That Upward Rise Program he’s created is outstanding. Not many men would be willing to invest so much time and effort to help our troubled youth the way he does. I’m thinking about nominating him for the Englewood Neighborhood Hero award this year.”
Bertie nodded. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask the Alderman whether Dr. Taylor’s testosterone supplement was also “working wonders.” Instead, she smiled blandly and said nothing.
“Shame about Judge Green passing like that,” the alderman said. “Humbert tells me the two of you were close?”
“Not really,” Bertie said. When she didn’t elaborate, Steady Freddy continued.
“That old buzzard was quite a character. Used to get the strangest notions into his head, always dreaming up one conspiracy theory or another. He even accused me of drug running. Can you imagine?”
“Funny you should say that,” Bertie said. “Seems to me LaShawn said something similar at the Christmas concert.”
If she’d thought she would be able to unsettle Steady Freddy Clark, Bertie had been seriously mistaken. Without missing a beat, the Alderman burst out laughing.
“So he did, Professor. So he did. Got a great imagination, that boy.” He put on his coat and positioned his leather hat at a jaunty angle on his head. “Be sure you speak to LaShawn, Professor Bigelow. He’s out on bond now, enjoying his freedom, but Judge Drayton is a close personal friend.” Taking hold of Bertie’s arm, his jovial expression vanished in an instant. “I’d hate to see LaShawn’s bond revoked, wouldn’t you? Cook County Jail is no place for a sensitive young man like that.”
Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery Page 10