Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “Who’s back?” Bertie asked. She bent over and yanked an overpriced designer boot off her left foot.

  “You know, the man. The man that’s been following me.”

  “In the shoe section of Macy’s? I hope his credit card is paid up,” Bertie said, laughing.

  “Shh,” Ellen whispered urgently. “He was behind us in line at The Limited and in the next aisle when we went in The Body Shop.”

  “You serious?”

  Ellen nodded grimly.

  “I’ve got an idea. Let’s leave the mall and walk to the Starbucks on North Michigan Avenue. If he follows us all the way down there, we’ll know for sure it’s not a coincidence.”

  When the two women arrived at Starbucks ten minutes later, their cheeks were stinging from the cold. Bertie rubbed her hands together and stomped her feet as she contemplated the menu.

  “What do you think,” she said, taking her place in line. “Should I get a chai latte or a regular one?”

  But Ellen did not reply. Instead, she whirled abruptly to confront a nondescript black man wearing a North Face ski jacket.

  “What are you, some kind of pervert?” she said, wagging a finger in the man’s face. “If you don’t stop following me right now, I’m calling the police.”

  The man smiled thinly. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Professor Simpson.” He reached into his jacket pocket and flipped open his wallet. “Mervyn Tollis, FBI. Let’s sit down and talk, shall we?”

  “Hold on just a minute,” Bertie said. Whipping out her cell phone, she punched in Big Mac’s number, but no one picked up. Frustrated, she left a desperate message as Tollis took Ellen gently by the elbow and steered her to an empty table.

  “Your friend is not under suspicion for anything,” Tollis said. “I just want to ask her a few questions.” With exaggerated courtesy, he pulled out a chair and gestured for Ellen to sit down. But when Bertie moved to join them, he said, “This is just between Professor Simpson and myself. It won’t take long.”

  “Go on home, Bertie. I’ll take a cab. If I don’t talk now, this man will just keep following me.” As Bertie looked on helplessly, Ellen flashed Tollis a challenging glare, disdaining the chair the agent had selected, and sat down on the other side of the table. “Okay, hotshot. Let’s get this over with. You’ve got ten minutes.”

  For the next four hours, Bertie called Big Mac’s home number every five minutes, but there was no response. Nor did he answer the phone at his office. Frustrated, she fired him off an email and a pair of text messages. What on earth could the man be doing in the middle of the day? Wasn’t he checking his messages?

  Suddenly, a memory from her not-so-distant past hit her like a hammer. Around this time every Saturday, she and Delroy had locked the door, closed the curtains, and turned off the phone.

  “Mmm, baby,” he’d whisper, kissing the nape of her neck, “I got all afternoon. C’mon and give me some sugar.”

  The memory of her husband’s hands moving gently along her body was so visceral it hurt. For some strange reason, the idea of Mac and Angelique engaged in a similar activity was almost as painful. Try as she might, Bertie could not forget how comforting Mac’s hand had felt against her own. Almost against her will, she recalled how Mac’s eyes had gentled when he looked at her. What a beautiful man he was—strong, yet sweet at the same time. What would it be like to hear him say C’mon baby—give me some sugar?

  “Stop that this instant, Bertie Bigelow,” she said in a loud, firm voice.

  She stood up and put a fresh kettle of water on to boil, punching in Mackenzie’s number as she waited. When Mac did not pick up, she hung up without leaving a message and tried Ellen’s cell phone. It was nearly nine o’clock. Ellen should have finished her meeting with Agent Tollis hours ago.

  Normally, tea had a soothing effect on Bertie, but today, it did nothing but make her restless and irritable. Resolutely putting images of giving or receiving “sugar” out of her mind, she grabbed her coat and strode out the door. She should never have left Ellen alone with that FBI man. For all Bertie knew, the Feds could have stuffed her best friend into a helicopter and shipped her to Guantanamo. Not likely, but still.

  Thirty minutes later, she parked her car in the bus stop down the street from Starbucks and ran inside. But Ellen and Agent Tollis were nowhere to be seen. The barista at the counter remembered them, however.

  “They left here about three hours ago,” she said.

  “Together?”

  “Definitely,” the girl replied. “Your friend waited while the man came over and gave me a big tip.”

  Stumped, Bertie ran back to her car, pulling it out just as a meter maid, dressed to withstand the biting Chicago wind in multiple layers of heavy clothing, lumbered purposefully in her direction. Bertie tried Ellen’s number four more times on her way back to the South Side, but there was no answer. What on earth could have happened?

  On a whim, she turned off Outer Drive at 31st Street. Ellen’s apartment was right on Bertie’s way home. The least she could do was to check to see if Ellen was okay. It was entirely possible Ellen had been so traumatized by her FBI interview that she was brooding alone in her apartment this very minute. Unlike the North Side, where parking spaces were at a premium, there was plenty of space in front of Ellen’s Bronzeville apartment building. Built at the turn of the last century, the venerable stone building had once been the home of a wealthy Chicago hog butcher before being purchased by an African American real estate mogul in the 1940s. While the fortunes of the surrounding neighborhood had waxed and waned, Ellen’s building had remained solidly middle class—a haven for teachers, doctors, and, lately, young white couples looking for affordable real estate.

  She parked her car and ran up the steps. Fortunately for Bertie, someone—undoubtedly a yuppie unacquainted with the rigors of inner city living—had left the door to the building’s elegant foyer propped open. Visions of her friend alone and immobilized by depression flashed through Bertie’s mind as she ran up the three flights of stairs leading to Ellen’s apartment. She was just about to bang on the door when she heard laughter coming from inside.

  “You are too much, Mervyn. Can I get you another rum and Coke?” Ellen’s voice was unmistakable, and far from sounding traumatized, she was clearly enjoying herself.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Bertie heard the FBI agent reply. “Can’t have my prime suspect out-drinking me, can I?”

  As Bertie tiptoed back down the stairs, she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scream. She’d been in a lather of worry, picturing Ellen in jail or worse. Instead, her best friend had managed to get along just fine without her.

  As usual.

  When Ellen called the next morning to recount her adventures, Bertie pretended to be surprised.

  “Turns out Mervyn’s a real sweetheart, Bert. He’s from Mississippi, just like me, only he’s from way down in Biloxi—a real down-home Southern gentleman, smooth as velvet.”

  “So I take it you are no longer under suspicion of whatever it was he was following you for?”

  “Of course not,” Ellen said. “Raquib, however, is in deep doo-doo.”

  After leaving Starbucks, Mervyn Tollis had taken Ellen to a scandalously expensive dinner at Alinea Restaurant on his FBI expense account. Over dessert and brandy, he’d shown her surveillance photos of Raquib selling fake passports to an under-cover agent.

  “The only reason the FBI hasn’t busted him yet is they want to see if there are any other conspirators,” Ellen said. “That’s why Mervyn was following me. But once we got that mess sorted out, we had a lovely evening.”

  “I thought Raquib was the love of your life.”

  “True,” Ellen said. “But that was before I found out about his criminal activities. In retrospect, I should have figured he was up to something sketchy. One minute, he’d be all lovey and romantic. The next minute, he’d clam up tighter than a tick in January. He got dozens of phone calls every day, yet when I’d a
sk to meet his friends, he’d put me off with some lame excuse or other.”

  “So you dumped him?”

  “No need. By tomorrow he’ll be in Federal custody.”

  “And you’re okay with this? I thought you hated all Feds on general principle.”

  “Well, you know how it is, Bertie. There are exceptions to every rule, especially where love is concerned.”

  “Love? Don’t tell me you’ve hooked up with this Mervyn character already.”

  “Of course not,” Ellen said haughtily. “My mama raised me better than that. However, I am considering it. If Mervyn plays his cards right, that is. But enough about me. You heard anything new from the police about LaShawn’s case?”

  Bertie told Ellen about the entries she’d read in LaShawn’s notebook.

  “Sounds like kid fantasy stuff to me, Bert. Secret Agent 005, my black behind. Crazy old Theophilous just roped the kid in to his loony, paranoid head trip. Have you talked to anybody else about this?”

  “I’ve been blocked at every turn,” Bertie said. “Detective Kulicki hasn’t returned my calls, and neither has Mac. When I thought you’d been kidnapped by the FBI, I emailed, texted, and left a bunch of messages, but he still hasn’t gotten back. Mac must still be mad at me for bothering him at work the other day.” Bertie sighed. “Still, I promised Mrs. Petty I would do what I could. The choir is singing at LaShawn’s funeral tomorrow. If Mac is there, I’ll try to talk to him again.”

  “Be sure you talk to both him and Detective Kulicki.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2013—3:00 P.M.

  Rock of Ages Pentecostal Tabernacle was located in a brick storefront at the corner of 71st and Ashland Avenue, not far from where LaShawn had lived with his grandmother. Purple velvet drapes covered the two large plate-glass windows facing the street. A large neon cross hung over the entrance, casting a pale radiance over the stream of mourners entering the building.

  At the front of the church, LaShawn’s casket sat on a small platform, surrounded by a bevy of flowers. As a wizened usher in a threadbare black suit led Bertie and her choir to a row of folding chairs just behind the casket, she spotted several familiar faces. Metro College was closed for the President’s Day holiday, and a large contingent of students and faculty had turned out to honor LaShawn’s memory. Uncharacteristically attired in a conservative black suit and matching pumps, Ellen waved discreetly as Bertie passed by. Maria Francione, decked out in a flamboyant red hat, sat next to Letitia Petrowski in the third row. This was probably the first time the chemistry teacher had ever been in a room with this many black people. She sat on the edge of her chair, as if ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. Next to her, Jack Ivers, rumpled as always in an ancient tweed sports jacket, stared stoically into the distance.

  At the back of the church, Dr. Humbert Grant and Alderman Steady Freddy Clark stood alongside Bishop Morris Norwood, the pastor of the church. All three men wore somber faces and black suits. As Bertie and her choir took their seats, Dr. Grant caught her eye. Although he said nothing, Bertie knew what he was thinking. If anything out of line happened during this performance, contract or no contract, she’d be out of a job before morning. She nodded crisply in his direction and sat down.

  To Bertie’s great relief, Patrice Soule and Charley Howard were nowhere to be seen. Bertie was even more relieved when she spotted David Mackenzie in the corner, huddled in conversation with Detective Kulicki. As soon as the service was over, she planned to corral the two men and dig out some more information.

  In the last row, Dr. Momolu Taylor, dressed in an embroidered, purple robe and gold kufi hat, sat talking to Jawann Peters, who wore a black gabardine suit. When the two men looked at their funeral programs, Bertie covertly studied their faces to gauge their reaction to the full-page advertisement she’d taken out on the clinic’s behalf:

  IN LOVING MEMORY OF

  LASHAWN VICTOR THOMAS

  FROM HIS FRIENDS AT

  THE PRINCETON AVENUE

  NATURAL HEALTH CLINIC

  AND

  UPWARD RISE YOUTH SERVICES

  Our joys will be greater

  Our love will be deeper

  Our lives will be fuller

  Because we shared your moment

  To the right of LaShawn’s casket, an elderly man picked up a battered electric guitar and began to play. He was soon joined by an equally elderly woman who slapped a tambourine rhythmically against her thigh as she sang.

  By and by, by and by

  I’m gonna lay down

  This heavy load

  I know my robe’s gonna fit me well

  I tried it on at the gates of hell

  By and by, by and by

  I’m gonna lay down this heavy load

  When the woman finished singing, she sat down to a chorus of amens from the congregation, and after a lengthy prayer, the minister invited Dr. Humbert Grant to come to the pulpit. As Grant addressed the congregation in his usual ponderous style, LaShawn’s grandmother, attired in a shapeless black dress, watched bleakly from her seat in the first row. Although a large black hat covered most of her face, Mrs. Petty’s cheeks were wet with tears. It had been barely a year since LaShawn’s father had been killed attempting to rob a liquor store. Bertie could not even begin to imagine how hard it would be to lose a second family member to violence in such a short span of time. LaShawn’s sister, Sherelle, sat next to Mrs. Petty. Unlike her grandmother, Sherelle was casually dressed in a pair of tightfitting pants and a black pullover.

  As Dr. Grant continued to speak, she wept copiously, daubing her eyes and blowing her nose with a balled-up Kleenex. Sherelle had put the gun LaShawn had gotten from Peters in the glove compartment of her SUV. When the police went to look for the gun, however, it had mysteriously disappeared. Had this been the gun that killed Judge Green? LaShawn had insisted that Sherelle’s car had been burglarized and the gun stolen. Remembering the promise she’d made to Mrs. Petty, Bertie prayed that LaShawn had in fact been telling the truth. The boy was innocent—he just had to be. No one as sweet, smart, and talented as LaShawn Thomas could actually shoot another human being in cold blood. Could they?

  After Dr. Grant’s eulogy, it was time for Bertie’s choir to perform. Solemn and somber in their blue choir robes, the Metro Community College Singers formed two rows in front of LaShawn’s casket. When her students were all in position, Bertie stood in front of them and raised her arms. As she brought them down, the choir began to sing:

  Deep river

  My home is over Jordan

  Deep river

  I want to cross over into campground

  As the last mournful tones of the song faded away, there was a moment of silence. With a lump in her throat, Bertie signaled for the group, many of whom were now sobbing, to file back to their seats.

  Two hours later, Lashawn Thomas’s casket was carried out of the church by Tayquan, Ranaldo, and four other young men from the Englewood Upward Rise Program. They slid the coffin carefully into a long black hearse and stood silently at attention as the car drove off in the direction of the funeral home. The cremation that followed would be a private ceremony for just the family.

  As Bertie stood on the sidewalk in front of the church, she spotted Dr. Momolu Taylor and Steady Freddy Clark huddled in conversation on the other side of the street. Oblivious of the frigid winter cold, the two men stood inches apart, engaged in what looked like an intense argument. As Bertie continued to observe them, the alderman suddenly shook his head, whirled on his heel, and strode off in the opposite direction. Interesting, Bertie thought to herself. Steady Freddy had nothing but praise for Dr. Momolu Taylor ten days ago. But it appeared that the two men had come to a distinct parting of the ways. As she pondered this new development, David Mackenzie appeared at her side.

  “Didn’t I tell you to stop meddling?” Big Mac took Bertie firmly by the elbow and led her away from the crowd. “My answering service got a call from
the Hot Sauce King this morning. He wants me to help him sue you for defamation of character. He says you’ve accused him of murder twice this month. What the hell have you been up to?”

  “If you follow me back to my place I can explain everything,” Bertie said.

  “Can you at least give me a hint?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Bertie caught Jawann Peters watching from across the street.

  “I don’t feel comfortable talking in the street like this. It won’t take too long, I promise.”

  Mac studied her silently for a full minute before responding.

  “You’d better have a damn good explanation ready. I’ll meet you at your place in twenty minutes.”

  When Bertie was three blocks from home, she noticed a phalanx of emergency lights flashing at the corner of 57th and Harper. As she got closer, she began to smell smoke. One of the buildings on her block was on fire. Had something happened to the O’Fallon sisters? The two women were in their eighties. Perhaps they’d inadvertently left a space heater running too long. During Chicago’s brutal winter season, these things happened all the time.

  Bertie pulled her car to the curb and got out. Oblivious to the wind and the cold, she ran down Harper Avenue and pushed her way through the crowd of spectators lined up across the street from the burning building. Only then did she realize that it was not the O’Fallon’s home that was burning.

  “Oh my God,” Bertie screamed and ran across the street toward the fire. “That’s my house!”