Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  Bertie surveyed her own generous figure and sighed. Plus-sized divas were commonplace in the world of opera, but pop stars were expected to look like supermodels.

  “Do you know what’s in the pills?” Bertie said. “There’s a lot of stuff out there that’s really not healthy.”

  “You’re going to think I’m the dumbest bimbo on the planet, but no. Some kind of African formula Momo prescribed for me.” As she spoke, the diva paced nervously around the room, her tea forgotten on the coffee table. “The first week I took them, I lost twenty pounds. I didn’t even need to sleep. Girl, I’m telling you, the man’s an absolute genius.”

  Bertie wasn’t so sure about that. If the diva walked around this revved up all day, it was no wonder her voice was beginning to fail. The wobble Bertie had detected in Soule’s voice would only get worse when coupled with stimulants. If Taylor really cared about this girl, he should have stopped giving her diet pills long ago.

  “I don’t want to get in your business or anything, but these supplements, whatever they are, are not good for you. They’re drying out your vocal cords. If you don’t stop soon, you could damage your voice permanently.”

  Soule stopped dead in her tracks and glared.

  “I am the Illinois Idol. I don’t take orders from anybody. Certainly not from blimpy know-it-alls like you. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  The diva’s transformation from insecure child to vengeful she-devil was instantaneous. She strode across the room, pulled Bertie’s coat from its hanger in the closet, and threw it on the floor.

  “Get out!” she screamed at top volume. “This lesson is over. Now.”

  As Bertie watched in stunned silence, Patrice Soule burst into tears, ran into her bedroom, and slammed the door behind her.

  Ellen could not stop laughing when Bertie called to tell her what had happened.

  “Girl, they must be putting something funny in the water over there at the Jackson Towers,” Ellen said. “Those folks are crazy as bedbugs.”

  On one level, Bertie’s situation was darkly humorous. But viewed from another perspective, it was simply dark.

  “All I’ve done is make people angry,” Bertie moaned. “I promised LaShawn’s grandmother I’d protect him. I failed. I tried to see if I could turn up any information about the murders. Again, I failed.”

  “Have you talked to Mac about it?”

  “No, and I don’t intend to,” Bertie said. “I interrupted him in the middle of a meeting the other day.” She sighed heavily. “He probably thinks I’m a complete idiot. Or worse still, a lonely widow looking for a knight in shining armor.”

  “Don’t go there, Bertie. You are a strong, capable woman and, if I may say so, still in the prime of life. If you ask me, Big Mac would be more than happy to rescue you any time.”

  “Just not during a meeting,” Bertie said wryly. “If he goes to LaShawn’s funeral Monday afternoon, maybe I can talk to him there. Mrs. Petty has asked the choir to sing. Are you going?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Ellen said grimly. “Monday is President’s Day. But if Detective Kulicki is worth even half the money the city of Chicago pays him, he’ll be there, holiday or no holiday. Be sure you talk to him, Bertie.”

  As Ellen hung up the phone, Bertie heard a funny sound on the other end of the line, as if someone else were also disconnecting. Just my luck, she thought to herself. On top of everything else, my phone’s about to go on the blink.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 2013—8:30 A.M.

  Bertie arrived at work the next morning to find a heavyset young woman in her mid-twenties standing outside her office. Dressed in a bulky down parka, jeans, and a pair of no-nonsense Army boots, she leaned against the wall next to Bertie’s door with a surly expression on her face.

  “You Mrs. Bigelow?”

  “That’s right,” Bertie said. “And you are?”

  “Sherelle Davis, LaShawn’s sister. Grandma Petty sent me.”

  Bertie nodded and unlocked her office door. Had Mrs. Petty changed her mind about having the choir sing at the funeral? She had not heard a word from LaShawn’s formidable grandmother since the woman’s hysterical phone call Saturday morning. Bertie took off her coat, hung it carefully from the hook on the back of her door, and gestured for Sherelle to have a seat. But Sherelle shook her head and remained standing in the center of the room.

  “Grandma found this under LaShawn’s pillow.” She reached into her shoulder bag and extracted a battered spiral notebook. “She’s hoping you can figure out what it means. I’m not supposed to leave until you read it.”

  Bertie took the notebook from Sherelle’s outstretched hand. Scrawled across the cover in large capital letters were the words:

  REPORT BY AGENT 005 (LASHAWN N. THOMAS)

  to CONTROL (JUDGE TG)

  TOP SECRET

  Bertie turned the page and began to read.

  12/28/12 4PM CST—Followed Steady F to the Princeton C and observed him enter. After thirty minutes he left carrying a brown paper bag. I think its Testemaxx in there but don’t know for sure. Dr. T walked him out with a big smile on his face. Then I observed Clark cross the street where he engaged in friendly activity (slapping five and hanging out) with 2 suspicious white guys in suits. I never seen them before—bet they’re CIA. He handed them the bag, got in his car, and drove away.

  Time on the job: 1hr 15mins.—Total fee: $50

  Only one more page of the notebook had been filled in. It was dated December 30, the day before Judge Green was killed.

  10AM CST—PS leaves bldg. wearing a skintight black jogging suit, fur hat, and mittens. She doesn’t see me cause I am standing behind a tree. I follow her to The Bakery at 56th and Cornell Ave. where through the window I observe Dr. T waiting for her. Am not 100% but think he is angry at her. I didn’t want to get too close. But he had a mean face on and she was wiping her eyes. I leave before they come out so as not to blow my cover.

  Time on the job: 45mins—Total due: $35

  When Bertie had finished reading, Sherelle Davis cleared her throat.

  “There’s no way LaShawn was involved in any gang, Mrs. Bigelow. And I refuse to believe he just got shot by accident. Grandma thinks this notebook could be an important clue,” Sherelle said. “What do you think?”

  “Looks like Judge Green was paying your brother to follow people around,” Bertie said slowly. “The entry dated December thirtieth is about Patrice Soule.”

  “The Illinois Idol? That woman is a total speed freak,” Sherelle said. “LaShawn told me he used to drop a carton of diet pills by her house every couple of days.”

  “Judge Green was obsessed with her,” Bertie said. “He was following her himself, but after she threatened him with a gun, he must have asked LaShawn to do it.”

  “What about the ‘Steady F’ in the first entry? Who do you think that is?”

  “Alderman Clark, most likely.”

  Sherelle Davis scowled. “LaShawn ever tell you ’bout the time Steady Freddy called our daddy ‘worthless trash’ on the six o’clock news? I hope the CIA is involved, Mrs. Bigelow. Maybe they’ll waterboard Freddy’s sorry ass.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Bertie said drily, “but the whole CIA thing was probably a figment of Judge Green’s imagination. The man was a conspiracy nut, I’m afraid.”

  “Still. Grandma wants you and that fancy lawyer friend of yours to look into it.”

  “You should take this notebook to the police,” Bertie said. “I’m no detective, and neither is Mr. Mackenzie.”

  “Grandma knows that,” Sherelle said impatiently. “That’s exactly why she wants you to investigate. The police don’t give a rat’s ass about LaShawn. He’s just another statistic to them. But you were his teacher. You helped my brother when he needed it most.”

  “I tried to help him,” Bertie said. “But let’s face it, Sherelle. I failed big time.”

  “Just think how I feel,” Sherelle shot b
ack. “LaShawn would never have got arrested if I hadn’t let him keep that stupid gun in my car.”

  “Why did you let him keep it there? You must have known it was a bad idea. Bad for LaShawn, and bad for you.”

  “If I’d known it was going to be used to murder somebody, believe me, I’d have put the damn thing in the trash.” Sherelle dropped her gaze and bit her lip. “My husband’s a soldier in Afghanistan, Mrs. Bigelow. I know all about the harm that guns can do. LaShawn said the gun was a requirement for his job, so I told him to keep it in my car. I didn’t want the gun in the house where my seven year old could find it.”

  “You’re Benny’s mother?”

  “Yeah,” Sherelle said, fixing Bertie with a challenging stare. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Not at all,” Bertie said, smiling. “I met your son a few weeks ago when I came by the house looking for LaShawn. He’s a beautiful boy and quite talented. You should think about getting him some music lessons.”

  “I know Benny loves to sing, Mrs. Bigelow. But right now I’m having a hard enough time making sure he’s got food in his belly and a roof over his head.” Sherelle Davis sighed heavily. “Don’t seem like those music lessons ended up doing LaShawn much good, anyhow.”

  “Whatever happened to LaShawn had nothing to do with music, Sherelle.”

  “I suppose. My little brother never could keep his mouth shut. You saw the way he jumped all over Alderman Clark at the Christmas concert. Not that Steady Freddy didn’t have it coming, mind you.”

  “Shortly before he was killed, LaShawn told his chemistry teacher he’d found a crate of isopropyl nitrite.”

  “Poppers?” Sherelle whistled softly. “No wonder Peters wanted him to carry a gun.”

  “Any idea who could have stolen it?”

  Sherelle Davis shrugged. “In the last six months, three different gangs have moved into the neighborhood. Seems like every day there’s something new—a mugging, a robbery, a murder. Now with the Conquering Lions moving in, there’s no telling what will happen. I’ve really got to get going, Mrs. Bigelow. What should I tell my grandmother? You gonna help us or not?”

  Bertie sighed. “I never wanted to be a detective, but it looks like I’m turning into one. I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise you anything.”

  For the rest of the morning, Bertie thought about her conversation with Sherelle Davis. With her neighborhood in a state of virtual anarchy, LaShawn’s grandmother had lost confidence in the police’s ability to solve her grandson’s murder. In spite of the fact that Bertie had absolutely no experience as a detective, Mrs. Petty was asking for her help—a sad commentary on life in the Windy City. The least Bertie could do now was to figure out a way to uncover the boy’s killer.

  Admittedly, she had not had a lot of success recently. Detective Kulicki was not returning her phone calls, and Big Mac had told her, in no uncertain terms, to stay away from the case. Still, the “surveillance reports” in LaShawn’s notebook did seem like an important clue. Judge Green had been obsessed with Patrice Soule, a diet pill junkie with a volatile temper and a Smith & Wesson nine millimeter handgun. Could Soule have shot the judge in a fit of drug-induced pique? What exactly was Steady Freddy’s relationship to the Princeton Avenue Natural Health Clinic? Who were the two white men in suits he’d been talking to? LaShawn had seen the alderman hand over a brown paper bag. Could it have been a bribe? A drug transaction? As she finished her last class for the morning, Bertie made a mental note to dig a little deeper into Alderman Clark’s background. According to Delroy’s manuscript, Steady Freddy had been nearly kicked out of college for cheating. It was at least possible Steady Freddy had continued his dishonest ways.

  When Bertie walked into the faculty lounge at lunchtime, Maria Francione greeted her with a hug.

  “When I passed by your classroom this morning, the stirring tones of your lovely choir transported me to another realm,” the drama teacher gushed.

  Bertie would have hardly used the word “stirring” to describe the way her students had sounded, but a compliment was, after all, a compliment.

  “Glad you enjoyed it,” she said. She took her mug down from the peg over the sink and poured herself a cup of stale coffee.

  “You were singing ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,’ were you not?”

  “That’s right,” Bertie said.

  Maria patted Bertie on the back. “Bravo, Bertie. The Negro spiritual is a true American art form—a living demonstration of the power of art to transcend the pain of human existence.”

  “As you could probably tell, we still have a lot of work to do on the arrangement,” Bertie said. “But if we do it justice, there will not be a dry eye in the house when we’re done.”

  “Speaking of emotional things, I have a proposition for you.” Suddenly bashful, Francione cleared her throat and looked down at the ground. “I’ve got a script I’ve been working on. The story of a gutsy Italian girl who moves to Chicago and has a steamy affair with an African American actor. It’s my magnum opus, you might say.”

  As Bertie waited politely, Francione paused and took a deep breath before plunging ahead.

  “So here’s the thing. Since the story has a significant African American aspect to it, I thought it would benefit from some authentic African American music, you follow me? In fact, I’m thinking of adding a revival scene to the work—lots of hallelujahs, amens, and that sort of thing. Do you think your choir would be willing to lend their voices to my dramatic effort? I couldn’t pay them, of course. But it would still be an educational experience, don’t you think?”

  Bertie smiled. “This gutsy Italian girl wouldn’t just happen to be you, would it?”

  Francione flushed. “Perhaps. But of course, a lot of dramatic license has been taken, Bertie. A lot.”

  “Tell you what. The choir is booked solid for the rest of the semester, but let’s talk more about this. Maybe we could put something together for the fall.” Bertie picked up her cup and turned away. A pile of Theory 101 papers lay uncorrected on her desk, and she was determined not to let herself get even further behind in her work.

  On the other side of the room, Ellen and Jack Ivers were involved in a heated political argument. Dressed in a vibrant-red pantsuit decorated with Ghanaian Adinkra symbols, Ellen had backed the gray-haired professor into a corner and was shaking a finger in his face. When she saw Bertie preparing to leave the room, however, Ellen conceded the argument and walked away, leaving Ivers open-mouthed in her wake.

  “Are you going to your office, Bertie?” she said. “I need to get your opinion on something.”

  After making sure the door to Bertie’s office was fully closed, Ellen assumed her customary perch on the edge of Bertie’s desk. “For the last three days, I’ve been getting these spooky vibes. You know, the kind you get when someone stares at you from across a room?”

  Bertie nodded.

  “Last night, Raquib took me out for Valentine’s Day.”

  “Sounds romantic,” Bertie said, hoping she didn’t sound too envious. While Ellen and Raquib shared a candlelight supper, she had spent the night alone with her TV and a large bowl of popcorn.

  “It was plenty romantic,” Ellen said. “But here’s the creepy part. We’re having fondue at Geja’s Café. All of a sudden this black guy sits down alone at the next table. When we get up to leave, he calls for his check. Even though he’s only halfway through eating. And I’m almost positive he followed us outside.”

  “Lots of people leave without finishing their dinner, Ellen. Most likely, he was late for an appointment or something.”

  “I don’t think so, Bert. The man was following us. Now that I think about it, I’m almost positive I saw that same Negro on the street outside my apartment Tuesday night.”

  “Why on earth would anybody want to follow you?”

  Ellen hopped off the desk, opened the door, and peered down the hallway in both directions. Satisfied that the coast was clear, she closed the door an
d whispered, “Raquib has a history, Bertie. Apparently, he said some things after 9/11 that put him on the FBI’s radar.”

  “Raquib disbanded his cult ten years ago,” Bertie said. “You told me so yourself. Most likely the FBI has figured that out by now. You sure you’re not just being paranoid?”

  “Raquib has been acting real nervous lately. Looking over his shoulder. Crossing in the middle of the street. It’s beginning to creep me out.”

  “Look, Ellen. I don’t want to tell you your business, but you’ve been seeing this guy for less than two weeks. He may have been the love of your life back in the day, but let’s face it, people change. Have you thought about backing off a little?”

  Ellen sighed. “Of course I have. It’s just that when we’re alone together, it’s just so perfect. When he puts R. Kelly on the stereo, girl, he moves me.”

  Bertie smiled. “Glad to see you have a grip on the really important things in life. But I still think you’re being melodramatic. Chances are everything is perfectly fine.”

  “Hope you’re right,” Ellen said. She climbed off the desk and smoothed down her pantsuit. “You free tomorrow? I think I need a little shopping therapy. Let’s run down to Water Tower Place and buy some new clothes.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 2013—NOON

  As Bertie took her place in the long line of cars waiting to enter the garage underneath Water Tower Place, Ellen shook her head in exasperation.

  “Holy crap, Bertie. What are all these people doing here?”

  “Shopping, I expect,” Bertie said mildly. “Same as us. It’s Saturday afternoon, after all.”

  Twenty minutes later, after locating a parking spot and walking the equivalent of five city blocks to the mall entrance, the two women stood in front of Armani Exchange, gazing at the new spring fashions. On the salary they made at Metro College, neither woman could afford to shop there, but it was always fun to look. Bertie, who kept a sharp eye out for off-season sales and specials, made a mental note of the items she’d come back for in April. For the next two hours, the women moved in a leisurely manner from store to store, peering in windows and occasionally venturing in to try something on. In the shoe section of Macy’s, Ellen sat next to Bertie, leaned over, and whispered, “Don’t look now, but he’s back.”