“When was the first time he hit you?” Bertha asked.
Sally hung her head. “I don’t remember.”
In Bertha’s experience that was one thing a woman did remember. She might forget all the times in between, but she could remember the first time, and maybe the last.
“Where is your husband now, Mrs. Morescki?”
Sally shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“A week ago.”
Bertha felt a drop of sweat run down her spine. She discreetly checked her watch, then picked up the legal pad and fanned herself with it. “You want a divorce, Mrs. Morescki?”
“Would you take my case?”
“Any children?” Bertha asked.
“No.”
“Property?”
“We own our home together. Two cars,” said Sally, “the usual.”
“I would need six hundred dollars flat fee. If there are complications, there will be additional charges.”
Sally opened her purse and rummaged around. “According to Madam Soccoro, there will be complications. I’ll feel better knowing you’re on my team.”
Sally retrieved a business-size white envelope and opened the flap. It was full of money. She pulled out a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills and counted out six.
Bertha’s temple started a faint throbbing. She ignored it, took the money from Sally’s outstretched hand, and stifled a sigh of relief upon seeing the rent money in front of her, in cash. “What are your grounds?”
“Huh?”
“For the divorce. We could file no-fault, but with property involved, it might be best if you were the injured party. That is, unless he agrees with the divorce and our ideas about the settlement.”
“Is mental cruelty all right?” Sally asked.
Bertha shrugged. “Okay by me. Any special considerations on property? The usual fifty/fifty split?”
“I’d like for him to sell everything and split the money. I suppose he’ll want to keep his business. He can buy my stock.”
“We’ll try. Bring me a list. I’ll get the paperwork ready to file Monday afternoon.”
Bertha was writing on the legal pad again. She stopped, reached for the bottom drawer, and pulled it open. Her panty hose were in a heap on top of the bank bag. She tried to remember where Alvin kept the receipt book.
Sally looked at her watch. “God, I didn’t realize it was this late.” She reached across the desk and extended her hand. “Thank you for taking time to see me, Bertha.”
Bertha shook Sally’s thin, cool hand and said, “I’ll get you a receipt.”
“Can I get it Monday?” Sally was already stepping toward the door. “I have another appointment.”
“Sure. Sure.” Bertha waved her on, relieved to have the interview over. She turned and scraped her shin on the open desk drawer. She reached to close it, and when she looked up a second later, Sally Morescki was gone.
Bertha pulled a blank file folder from a box on the floor and wrote MORESCKI on the tab. She ripped two pages of notes from the legal pad and shoved them inside. She decided to make the deposit herself rather than leave it for Alvin on Monday. Until now there had only been four ten-dollar checks, sent by women who were paying their bills by the month, and one five-dollar check from a woman who couldn’t put together the ten. The cash made her nervous, and she didn’t want to leave it in the office all weekend.
Preparing the deposit took five minutes. She listed the check numbers, amounts, and client’s name in the A/R Ledger, added everything up twice, wrote six hundred and forty-five dollars on the deposit slip, and dropped the yellow bank bag in her briefcase.
From her office door, she took one last look at the mess on her desk and promised herself she’d definitely sort it out Monday and have Alvin file it away. With her inner door closed, the outer office looked immaculate.
The only things on Alvin’s desk were a plant and his phone. She closed the outer door and locked it.
When Bertha got off the elevator on the first floor, the lobby was empty. Her dress shoes made hollow sounds on the cool marble tiles. Passing the mailboxes, she thought she heard a soft scrape. She turned quickly but saw nothing. As she pushed through the revolving door out into the sultry air, she admonished herself for being so jumpy.
As bad as Sally Morescki, she thought.
Chapter Two
The restaurant was packed, smells of charcoal-cooked steaks and cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Though Bertha was comfortable in casual denim shorts and a T-shirt, the thirty-minute wait in the crowded bar was tiresome. Alvin was on his second beer. His boyfriend, Randy, was upset about Alvin’s drinking because they were both supposed to be on a diet. What seemed like hours had passed when Alvin’s name was called; by then, to appease Randy, he’d switched to lite beer.
Bertha slid into a booth that looked like it could seat six and faced the fighting lovers. She slammed down a bucket of nuts she’d carried from the bar. “I don’t know why I always let you drag me to this place. How many black faces do you see here, anyway?”
“Come on, Bertha. I don’t walk into a room and count the African-Americans,” Alvin said. “I never notice those things.”
“That’s because there’s only one of us. Right here under this blond hair.” Searching the room, she saw a handsome light-skinned waiter over in the smoking section and a family with two little girls at a table by the ramp to the kitchen. Both were behind Alvin, and she let him remain unenlightened.
“You like this place,” Randy said. “You’re the one who usually suggests it.”
“I think she likes the way they dress the waitresses.” Alvin was clearly trying to get back in Randy’s good graces.
A young, dark-haired waitress in shorts and a red T-shirt appeared at the booth. “My name is Bonnie.” Beneath the brim of her cowgirl, Bonnie rolled her baby-blues toward Bertha. “Can I get you all something from the bar?”
Randy folded his hands on the table. “We’ve had enough to drink, thanks.”
Bonnie flashed a smile and readied her pencil. “I’ll take your order then, if you’re ready.”
Bertha self-consciously touched her hair, which felt dry and bushy. She remembered her first Monday as a blonde. Judge Carson had called her to the bench in the middle of an arraignment, and seeming sincere and concerned, he’d asked, “What happened to your hair, Counselor?”
“I’ll have the chicken kabob, ranch salad dressing,” Alvin said from across the table.
“Good choice.” Bonnie turned toward Randy. “And you?”
“The same, salad dressing on the side.”
Bertha ordered the rib eye medium, a baked sweet potato with cinnamon and butter, and another Pepsi. She blocked out Alvin and Randy as they squabbled about fat, calories, and alcohol.
The waitress was a nice distraction, but something else was bothering Bertha. It was the new divorce case, or whatever you wanted to call it. Sally Morescki, a woman who looked like she hadn’t seen a hundred dollars in one place for a long time, pulled out an envelope full of cash and paid the fee. She was very insistent on seeing a lawyer, then disappeared too quickly. She’d been nervous, constantly looking over her shoulder, jumping at the slightest sound. What was that about? Had someone been watching Bertha as she left the building, or was Sally’s paranoia contagious?
Bertha’d deposited the money, and on the drive home, she hadn’t been able to get the blond woman out of her mind. Who was this influential Mr. Morescki? Bertha realized that she didn’t even know his first name.
“Bertha?” Alvin said.
“Huh?”
“You’re watching the waitress’s ass, aren’t you?” Randy said as he brushed peanut shells onto the floor.
Bertha smiled. “Our waitress has one of the ten nicest backsides in this restaurant.”
The boys laughed together. Apparently they’d worked things out. The music changed to Patsy Cline; Randy excused himself and hea
ded for the men’s room. The waitress returned with their bread and salads. Bertha watched as she walked away.
“That woman is working on a big tip.” Alvin placed the napkin in his lap and picked up his fork. “She doesn’t know she’s waiting on a part-time secretary, an underpaid hairdresser, and the poorest attorney in town.”
“I got a new client today,” Bertha said.
Alvin rolled his eyes. “Another poverty-riddled divorce?”
“It’s a divorce. I’m not sure about the poverty yet. The way things have been going..”
“You can count on it.”
Bertha reached for the pepper mill. “You ever hear of the tarot?”
“Of course. Cards with pictures on them.”
“Right, the pictures can be interpreted to represent events in a person’s life or the future, answers to questions, that sort of thing. Some people believe a reading represents messages from goddesses, gods, spirits, or whatever. Did you ever hear of a Madame Soccoro?”
“Who hasn’t?” Randy slid into the booth across from her.
In the dim light of the dining room, Randy’s ponytail had a reddish cast. He’d probably used a new tint on his hair. Bertha thought about her own hair again.
Randy stuffed a whole wedge of tomato into his mouth, then shoved the food to one side and, like a ball player with a wad of tobacco, said, “You thinking of having your fortune told?” He waved his hands over the bucket of nuts as if it were a crystal ball and deepened his voice, “I see a tall, dark stranger—”
“What about romance? Am I going to get laid in this decade?”
“Is everything all right here?” Bonnie was standing at the end of the table. “Can I get you anything? More bread?”
Bertha flushed. “No. No. We’re fine.”
When the waitress was gone, the boys exploded in laughter. Finally Randy said, “If you want your cards read, I hear Madame Soccoro is the best. You need an appointment weeks in advance.”
“Like the dentist?” Bertha asked.
“No,” said Randy. “Worse.”
“Hey,” Alvin said. “Wasn’t she the one who helped the police last winter when that Whitman kid disappeared?”
“She was.” Randy pushed his empty salad bowl to the edge of the table. “They found the body right where she told them to look.”
“God,” said Bertha. “So that was Madame Soccoro?”
Randy nodded.
“Tell me this.” Bertha asked, “You ever hear of the name Morescki?”
“You mean the local Moresckis?” asked Alvin.
Bonnie set a large round tray down and cleared their salad plates. She hummed with Roseanne Cash about a runaway train as she placed their dinners in front of them, stretching across the table so that her DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS T-shirt was an inch from Bertha’s nose. The waitress smelled of steak, cigarettes, and Poison—Aunt Lucy’s perfume, which Bertha recognized immediately. Bonnie made a special point of asking Bertha if she needed ketchup or steak sauce. Bertha asked for both, hoping to keep the dark-haired beauty around a little longer. But Bonnie took the bottles out of her short apron pocket and set them in front of Bertha with a smile. Alvin asked for extra sour cream, but the waitress was halfway across the dining room before he finished his request.
The three of them ate quietly. It was late, and the drinking crowd had replaced the family types. A muted baseball game was on the TV over the bar. Country-western music played above all the commotion.
“There’s a construction company,” Alvin finally said. “Morescki’s Roofing or something.”
“Concrete,” Randy said. “A family-owned business. The old man has a funny nickname. What is it? One of the boys is a politician.”
Alvin pointed into the air with his fork and said, “Jelly.”
“That’s right,” said Randy. “Jelly Morescki. Big-time gambler and owner of a half dozen concrete mixers and trucks.”
“Seems like a funny name for someone in the concrete business,” said Alvin. “Jelly. That’s not the new client, is it?”
“Not exactly,” Bertha said.
Alvin nodded. “Good.”
“Why do you say that?” Bertha asked.
Alvin shrugged. “I’ve heard rumors about that family. Not someone I’d care to mess with.”
“So, who is the client?” Randy demanded.
Alvin nudged Randy.
Randy caught on. “This one of those confidential attorney things?”
Bertha answered carefully. “A woman retained me. She’s probably married to one of the Morescki boys. Wants a divorce. She came in with a very strange story about a tarot reading.”
“You’re a sucker for a strange story,” Alvin pointed out.
“She paid in advance,” Bertha added.
“If it’s one of the Morescki boys, and he doesn’t want the divorce,” said Alvin, “you’ll probably earn that fee two or three times over.”
Bertha took a large bite of steak, nodded, and said, “Wonderful.”
*
At close to eleven thirty, the group finished after-dinner coffee and, in Alvin’s case, lite beer. They talked about going to the local gay bar, but Bertha said she had to get up early to take her grandmother to the grocery store, and Randy was sure that Alvin had had enough to drink. They stood in the parking lot for a few minutes saying good night. Then Randy and Alvin got into their Toyota, Randy driving, and Bertha climbed into her old Jeep Wrangler. She snapped Billie Holiday into the CD player, turned it up loud, and headed toward town.
Bertha wanted to stop by the office and get the file she’d started on Sally Morescki. Something was bothering her. She wasn’t sure quite what, but she thought looking at her notes might help. The hour was late, and she promised herself she’d take the file home and look at it tomorrow.
The Lambert Building was a four-story concrete-and-marble affair, two blocks from the heart of town. On the first floor were a book and card shop and a small tobacco store, both dark and empty. Bertha punched the cipher-lock combination to the lock and entered the dimly lit hallway that led to the elevators.
The cleaning crew always went home by ten.
After a bomb threat at Lilith’s Book Store over a year ago when an African-American, lesbian poet was giving a reading, the tenants had pooled their money and hired a couple of security guards. Bertha even bought a gun and kept it in her office. After all, she was a black lesbian, and you couldn’t tell she wasn’t a poet just by looking. When there hadn’t been any further trouble for several months, the tenants let one of the guards go and reduced the other’s hours to weekends.
Bertha kept the gun in the bottom drawer of her file cabinet. She couldn’t use that drawer for files anyway because it stuck if she filled it too full. She kept the clip and bullets in her desk drawer, just in case. The security guard didn’t come on duty until midnight on Friday. Bertha checked her watch. He’d be there in ten minutes, if he was on time. Levine had complained that the old guy was often late. The sound of her footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. The elevator light indicated that the noise was on the third floor. Maybe security was here already. Bertha punched the “up” arrow and waited.
The elevator doors opened on the third floor to a dark hall. The lights were normally on in the corridor. Maybe a lightbulb was out. The security guard had replaced the things before. He might be up here fixing them.
“Hey, George,” Bertha called out. “It’s me.”
She stood there for a moment, thinking she should probably leave. The only light came from the elevator and one of the offices at the end of the hall. The elevator door started to close. She stepped into the hallway and plunged into the darkness, running her hands along the wall, first to her left and then to her right. She didn’t know where the switch was because she’d never used it. When her eyes adjusted she gave up the search and headed toward her own office. She knew the layout in there.
The dark corridor was warm, and sweat trickled down the side of her fa
ce. The wooden floor creaked beneath her. She stopped for a moment and looked toward the end of the hall. The only light on the third floor was shining through the opaque glass on her door. Had she left it on? With summer and the large front windows, she rarely needed a light until eight or nine at night. She tried to remember if she’d locked the door. Security had a master key anyway.
“George,” she called out, softer this time.
Maybe she ought to backtrack, hit that elevator button and leave. She took another step forward, patting her pocket. The key-ring mace Aunt Lucy had given her for Christmas didn’t seem like much of a weapon against the darkness. She felt her way along the wall toward the lighted office, her heart pounding. She swallowed and took a deep breath. What on earth would anyone want in her office? Most of her files weren’t even locked. Hell, most of them were stacked on her desk. Except for the bomb threat and a few homeless people in the alley who lived off the scraps from the Greek restaurant next door, there hadn’t been any problems.
The door to three-ten was ajar, and she pushed it open. The overhead light was on, and the plant on Alvin’s desk had been knocked over. Everything else was in place in the tiny outer office. Her own office door was open, and the room was dark. She could see a crack of light falling across her desk, probably a streetlight. Something was wrong. Her desktop was bare.
Anger compelled her forward. She stormed into her office and hit the switch. The fluorescent light fixture hummed; then the room was bathed in light. Papers and file folders were strewn in all directions on the floor. Her chair had been turned over. She heard an electronic sound. The phone was on its side in the middle of the mess, and the receiver was off the hook. She sometimes left the phone off the hook at home when she wanted to sleep. She knew that noise only lasted for a minute or two. She stepped backward. The door to the supply closet was cracked open, and she could see the tip of a man’s shoe.
The thought of fleeing into the dark hallway wasn’t appealing. She remembered the gun in the file cabinet and moved across the room slowly, not taking her eyes off the protruding shoe. She reached for the bottom drawer and tugged, but it was stuck. She pulled harder, and with a loud squeak it opened. She pulled out the gun and turned toward the closet, aiming with both hands.
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 2
