Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  Without another word, Alderman Steady Freddy Clark turned on his heel and walked out.

  Later that night, Bertie’s imitation of Steady Freddy singing “Just the Two of Us” had Ellen in stitches. As Bertie sat on her living room couch with a glass of Merlot in one hand and the telephone in the other, she pictured Ellen on the other end of the phone line, reclining in a similar fashion.

  “Girl, I have never heard such God-awful singing in my entire life,” Bertie said.

  “Didn’t you say anything?”

  “I tried, Ellen. Really I did. But the man is absolutely impervious to criticism. I don’t think he heard a single word I said.”

  “The secret of his political success, no doubt,” Ellen said, laughing.

  “He was on his way to meet Momolu Taylor at the clinic,” Bertie said. “Do you think he was going there to pick up some more Testemaxx?”

  “You know how men are. If Dr. Taylor’s dick stiffener is as good as advertised, I am sure our beloved alderman is stuffing his briefcase with it as we speak.”

  “LaShawn said as much at the Christmas concert,” Bertie said. “When I tried to ask Freddy about it, he laughed.”

  “What did you expect? The man’s a politician, Bert. Smooth as bacon grease and twice as slippery.”

  “Still, I think LaShawn was on to something. The alderman let his guard down for a split second just before he left, hinting he had the power to get LaShawn’s bond revoked. He acts all friendly and whatnot, but I’ll bet he’s furious inside.”

  “Quite naturally. If the little flake had called you a junkie in front of several hundred people, you’d be furious, too.”

  “When I went by LaShawn’s house last week, someone had already been by there looking for him.”

  “And you think that someone was our beloved Alderman Clark?”

  “Could have been,” Bertie said thoughtfully. “Some guy in a fancy coat, according to the little kid I talked to. Lord knows the Alderman fits into that category. Whoever it was, LaShawn snuck out of the house to avoid seeing him. I’m beginning to wonder if I did the right thing, getting Mac to bail him out.”

  “Are you kidding me? Of course you did the right thing. Everybody knows that lockup’s a hellhole.”

  “Then why hasn’t LaShawn called me? I’ve left him a million messages.”

  “That grandmother of his probably has him in church twenty-four-seven.”

  “I suppose,” Bertie said slowly, “but I’ll feel a lot better when the kid turns up, that’s all.”

  Ellen laughed. “Speaking of people turning up. Do you remember me talking about Raquib?”

  “Your old boyfriend from college? Of course I remember,” Bertie said.

  “He called me out of the blue last night. I just about fell over when I heard his voice. His ears must have been burning from us talking about him so bad the other day. He just moved to Chicago a couple months ago.” In response to Bertie’s unspoken question, Ellen said, “And yes. He’s single again.”

  “No more wives? You sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Ellen said. “We talked on the phone for hours last night.” Her voice turned soft and dreamy. “He called again this morning to say he missed me. Isn’t that sweet?”

  “Sounds obsessive to me,” Bertie said. “But yes. It’s sweet.”

  Ellen sighed. “I think I’m in love, Bert.”

  “What about Jerome? The two of you looked pretty into each other at The Loft Saturday night.”

  “Oh, Jerome’s okay in his way,” Ellen said. “But when Raquib and I were together? Girl, it’s like we were made for each other.”

  “Long as he’s not made for five other women at the same time,” Bertie said.

  “Trust me. The brother has really straightened up his act. He prays five times a day. Doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t drink. All that clean living clears a man’s head, Bert.”

  “Not to mention what it does for his stamina.”

  “Shut up,” Ellen said, giggling. “You’re making me blush.”

  Bertie felt a pang of envy as she hung up the phone. She and Delroy had been happily married for more than ten years—so much in harmony they’d finished each other’s sentences. But in the nine months since Delroy’s death, Bertie could not deny she was beginning to miss having a man in her life. If she’d been a more carefree type of person, Bertie would already have begun to date. But Bertie was not a carefree type of person. Not when it came to men, anyway. If she were going to be with someone again, it would have to be true love, the way it had been between her and Delroy. As she stared listlessly out her living room window, Bertie felt a single tear trickle down her cheek. In her heart of hearts, she knew she’d never find that kind of happiness again. Not now. Not ever.

  Impulsively, she picked up the phone and dug out her credit card. Ten minutes later, Bertie Bigelow was the proud owner of a front row ticket to the following night’s performance of Porgy and Bess at the Lyric Opera. The cost of the ticket was scandalous—nearly a week’s pay—but it would be worth it to see the amazing Audra McDonald perform. Bertie might never again experience true love, but for the moment, she still had a job. And what was the use of having a job if you couldn’t treat yourself to a show from time to time?

  Chapter Eighteen

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013—NOON

  In the faculty lounge the next morning, Bertie treated her surprised colleagues to an impromptu rendition of “I’ve Got Plenty of Nothin’,” embellishing her voice with a few choice dance steps. Not to be outdone, Maria Francione jumped off the battered couch in the corner and joined Bertie in jitterbugging around the room.

  “The student activities center is down the hall,” Jack Ivers groused, ostentatiously moving his chair into a corner out of harm’s way. “This place is supposed to be for grown-ups. What in the world has gotten into you, Bertie?”

  “I’m seeing Porgy and Bess at the Opera House tonight,” Bertie said, her face radiant with excitement.

  “Porgy is one of my favorite shows,” Francione chimed in. “There’s more bad behavior on display than your average Jerry Springer episode. You’ve got pimps and drug addicts, gambling and knife fights, a murder, a noble cripple, and a young girl headed for trouble. What more could anyone want?”

  For the rest of the day, Bertie whistled Gershwin tunes as she walked around campus. The minute she got home from work, she intended to soak herself in a scented bubble bath and spend the next two hours dressing up. A black Jovani gown with a lace top hung in readiness at the front of her closet, along with the mink stole Delroy had given her for her birthday.

  But as Bertie approached her office at the end of the day, Bree Harris and a delegation of students from the music theater club were waiting for her.

  “We thought you’d never get here,” Harris said peevishly. With her bronze complexion, high cheekbones, and elegant diction, the girl was a dead ringer for Diana Ross. The only thing Bree Harris lacked was talent. However, the fact that she could not carry a tune in a bucket hadn’t stopped the girl from electing herself the de facto authority regarding all things musical on campus.

  “How nice to see you, Bree,” Bertie said, pasting a smile on her face. In as cheerful a voice as she could muster, Bertie invited the students in. For the next forty-five minutes, she listened to their complaints about the future of the new Music Theater Society. Apparently, two competing factions were vying for the presidency. In the middle of what was becoming a very heated conversation, Bertie’s extension rang.

  “Mrs. B? It’s me, LaShawn.”

  Bertie’s relief at hearing from the boy was quickly overcome by irritation.

  “Where on earth have you been, LaShawn? I’ve been calling your grandmother all week trying to find you.”

  LaShawn did not reply. Putting her hand over the receiver, Bertie gestured for Brie and her friends to continue their discussion with-out her.

  “LaShawn? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”<
br />
  “Listen,” Bertie said. “I need you to perform in a special concert next week.”

  Instead of being excited or even curious, the boy was silent. After a long pause, he said, “I’ve had a couple things come up, Mrs. B. Can we talk?”

  “I’m in the middle of a meeting right now.” Bertie stole a glance at her watch. “Can you call back in an hour?”

  “That’ll be too late,” LaShawn mumbled softly. “Never mind. I’ll give you a call Monday.”

  “Make sure you do, LaShawn. You and I have got to talk. Nine a.m. sharp, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, Mrs. B. No problem.” LaShawn’s voice was definitely softer than usual. “Can you give me Miss Petrowski’s extension? I need to ask her something.”

  Cradling the phone on her shoulder, Bertie pulled a battered copy of the Metro College directory from her desk drawer.

  “She’s probably already gone for the weekend, but you can leave her a message. Her extension is 2363. Call me Monday morning, LaShawn. Don’t forget.”

  It was nearly six thirty by the time Bree Harris and her friends left Bertie’s office. There was no time to change or even to eat dinner, but if she hurried, Bertie might make it to the Opera House on time. Fortunately, traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway was relatively light, and she was able to find a parking spot along Wacker Drive. Out of breath and severely underdressed for the occasion, Bertie slid into her seat just as the house lights went down. But as soon as the conductor stepped onto the podium, her troubles slipped away. The sets, costumes, and orchestra were first-rate, the supporting cast terrific, and Audra McDonald was every bit as fabulous as Bertie had hoped.

  Somewhere in the middle of Act One, Bertie’s growling stomach reminded her that she had not eaten since breakfast that morning. Normally, her inner economist flinched at spending $15 for a tuna melt, but tonight she felt like treating herself. Leaving just as the curtain came down for intermission, Bertie walked briskly to the mezzanine level, snagging one of the last available tables in the elegantly decorated snack bar.

  As Bertie took her seat, a tiny, sparrow-like woman waved to her from the end of the long line of people waiting to get into the restaurant.

  “Yoo hoo, Bertie! It’s me, Mabel Howard. Mind if I join you?”

  Without waiting for an answer, the Hot Sauce King’s wife scooted under the velvet rope that marked off the entrance to the dining area and plopped herself down at Bertie’s table.

  “Phew,” she said, daubing her brow with an elegant lace handkerchief. “A body could die from hunger waiting in that line out there. Who’d have thought so many folks would want to eat a fifteen dollar sandwich in the middle of the night.” Like her husband, Mabel Howard hailed from a small town in rural Georgia. Unlike her husband, Mabel Howard was a chatterbox who wore her heart guilelessly on her sleeve. “For the kind of money they’re charging, they oughta be throwing down with some ribs in this joint.”

  “I doubt if it would go over with the clientele,” Bertie said with a smile. “Do you come here often?”

  Mabel Howard leaned in closer. “This is my very first time,” she whispered. “I’m tryin’ to look like I fit in. How’m I doin’ so far?”

  Bertie made an “o” with her thumb and forefinger for the okay sign.

  “Perfect, Mabel. I’d have never guessed. That’s a fabulous gown you’re wearing? Is it a Versace?”

  “Actually, it’s a copy, but don’t tell my husband. He gave it to me for my birthday last year. Paid a fortune for the damn thing. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d been overcharged.”

  “Well, copy or no, it’s dazzling. That red velvet brings out the highlights in your hair.”

  “Thanks, Bertie. My husband, bless his heart, never notices a thing I wear. He knows I like to dress up, so he buys me things. But he’d probably be just as happy to see me in overalls and a dirty T-shirt.”

  “So how is Mr. Howard? Is he here with you tonight?” Ever since her run-in with the Hot Sauce King the week before, Bertie had dreaded the inevitable occasion when their paths would cross.

  “He was supposed to come,” Mabel said, shaking her head. “Would you believe it’s our anniversary tonight? Charley promised he’d take me some place grand to celebrate. We bought these tickets months ago, but at the last minute something came up. Business, he said. I pitched a fit, of course, but he wouldn’t budge.”

  Bertie smiled sympathetically. “I imagine your husband’s new restaurant must be keeping him pretty busy.”

  “Long as it’s the restaurant and not some gold-digging young heifer, I sp’ose it’s okay,” Mabel said, twirling her fork thought-fully. After a pause, she brightened. “Charley interviewed one of your students for a job yesterday. A tall, skinny kid with his hair in cornrows.”

  “LaShawn Thomas?” Bertie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I didn’t know he was interested in restaurant work.”

  “Yep, that’s the one. When Charley described the kid to me, I remembered we’d already met him. In an elevator at the Jackson Towers, of all the ridiculous places.”

  Bertie lost all interest in her tuna sandwich. “How unusual,” she said in what she hoped was a light conversational tone. “How long ago was this?”

  “We met on New Year’s Eve. Isn’t that wild? While Charley and I were in the elevator on our way down from Mrs. Leflore’s penthouse, my husband decided to drop in on Judge Green.” Mabel frowned. “Can I tell you something in confidence? I know it’s not right to speak ill of the dead, but the judge was a very unpleasant man, always looking for the worst in people. When Charley said he wanted to visit the judge, I said I’d take the elevator on down and wait in the lobby. And that is where I met your student, Bertie.”

  “In the elevator?”

  “Well, sort of. When the elevator opened on the judge’s floor, Charley got off and LaShawn got on. Do you know he sang me a song? Right there in the elevator. What a beautiful voice. I swear to God, he sounds just like Usher. Absolutely amazing. It was definitely meant to be that he showed up at the Hot Link Emporium looking for a job. Do you follow the stars, Bertie? I do. ’Course I’m a Pisces, which is a water sign. That naturally makes me a dreamer.”

  Normally, Mabel’s aimless prattle would have irritated Bertie. But at the moment, she was grateful for the woman’s nonstop monologue. It gave her time to think. Charley Howard had said he was in Mrs. Leflore’s penthouse when the judge was shot. Apparently, he’d lied. More intriguing still, LaShawn had seen the Hot Sauce King get out of the elevator on the judge’s floor the night of the murder. As Mabel blathered on about her rising sign and its effect on her moon sign, Bertie pondered her next move. Whatever she said, she must not let Mabel realize she was destroying her husband’s alibi for the murder of Theophilus Green.

  “I don’t know a lot about astrology, but isn’t the time of day an important factor?” Bertie said. “You don’t happen to remember what time it was when you saw LaShawn do you? His stars and your stars must have been in alignment at the exact same moment.” Mabel responded to the question without a hint of suspicion, just as Bertie had hoped.

  “Gee, you know, you’re right,” Mabel said. “I’ll have Sister Destina do a reading when I see her next week. It could be very important. Fortunately, I know exactly what time it was when I met the boy. It was one fifty-two a.m. precisely.”

  “How on earth can you possibly be so exact?”

  “When we were leaving Mrs. Leflore’s apartment, Charley and I got into this big argument about whether it was 2013 on the West Coast yet. Our daughter lives in California, and I wanted to wish her a Happy New Year. He kept saying they were three hours behind. I knew it was only two, and I was right. I made him look it up on his phone before we got on the elevator.”

  Bertie nodded absently. As Mabel chattered on, it was obvious she had no idea the police considered LaShawn a suspect in Judge Green’s murder. Apparently, Mabel was more interested in the activities of the stars than she was in the activities
of her fellow humans. Charley Howard was not likely to have been so oblivious. What had he and LaShawn talked about yesterday? Was it really a job interview, or had it been something more?

  When the bell announcing the end of intermission rang, Bertie paid the tab.

  “Just think of it as an anniversary gift,” she said, giving Mabel Howard a hug and a peck on the cheek.

  All through the second half of the performance, Bertie found it hard to concentrate on the action unfolding onstage. If Charley Howard had seen the judge that night, he would be able to give LaShawn an alibi for the murder. Of course, if Howard had visited the judge after LaShawn left, he could very well be the murderer himself.

  Chapter Nineteen

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013—11:54 P.M.

  It was nearly midnight by the time Bertie returned home. She changed into her nightgown and wandered into the kitchen to fix herself a late-night cup of cocoa. After pouring some milk and a generous spoonful of cocoa powder into the pan to heat, Bertie sat down at the kitchen table to think. Should she confront LaShawn about his visit to the Hot Sauce King when she talked to him Monday morning? Or should she play her cards closer to her chest and see what explanation LaShawn provided for his behavior?

  Should she tell David Mackenzie? He was a close friend and a former prosecutor. Surely he could help her decide what to do. But it was nearly one a.m. What if his wife were to answer the phone? The two women had not spoken since Angelique’s meltdown at the dinner party two weeks ago. Much as Bertie would like to talk things over with Mac, it would have to wait for a more appropriate time.