Nine Nights on the Windy Tree

by Martha Miller

  “I have a gun,” she said in what she hoped was an authoritative voice. “And I will use it. Come out of there now.”

  The shoe didn’t move. Bertha’s heart was pounding as she stepped across the room, yanked the door open, and screamed. The white man was tied to the folding chair that Sally Morescki had pulled near her desk earlier. His head and shoulders were slumped forward and covered with blood. In the distance she heard a bell, then a faint whirring. The order of the sounds told her that the elevator at the end of the dark hall was descending

  Chapter Three

  Without taking her eyes from the scene in the closet, Bertha stepped backward, shut the inner office door securely, and pushed the button to lock it. The twelve-by-thirteen-foot area felt suddenly small. She stepped over the mess on the floor, pulled the center drawer of her desk open, found the clip to the Lady Colt, and snapped it in place. Holding the gun she stooped, reached for the now silent telephone, hit the switch hook for a dial tone, and punched 9-1-1.

  A woman answered. “What is your emergency?”

  Bertha tried to keep her voice level and her information simple. “My name is Bertha Brannon. I am calling from the Lambert Building on the corner of Main and Adams. I am in my office on the third floor, number three-ten. There has been a break-in and a murder. A man is dead.” Her voice trembled with the last line.

  “How do you know the man is dead?” The woman’s question sounded flat and unaffected.

  “There’s blood all over him. He’s not moving.” Bertha made herself look closer, then whispered, “Will you please send someone? The murderer may still be in the building. I feel like a sitting duck.”

  “I’m dispatching the call,” the woman said. “Is the man breathing? Is there a pulse?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bertha moved slowly forward, the steak and sweet potato from dinner rising in her throat. Her head throbbed. She braced the phone on her shoulder and touched the man’s head. It easily moved to one side. She tried to find a spot on his neck for a pulse. Her fingers sank in warm goo. Blood was everywhere. She looked closer and moaned as she realized that his throat was cut and she’d stuck her fingers right into the deep, bloody gash. She heard the woman on the phone ask a question.

  “Huh?”

  “Are you injured?” the woman asked.

  “No.” The room was warm, but her forehead felt cold and damp. She wanted to wipe the sticky mess off her fingers. She turned to the window ledge but remembered she’d moved the box of tissues for Sally Morescki earlier.

  “Who is the injured man?” the dispatcher asked.

  “The dead man. I don’t know.”

  “Did you check for a pulse?”

  Bertha searched for a wrist, but his hands were behind him, a white cord coiled under the chair. No wonder the streetlights illuminated the office; the vertical blinds were on the floor.

  Bertha felt the room spin. The phone slid off her shoulder. She backed up a few steps and sat on the desktop. Still clutching the gun, she pulled up her knees and dropped her head. As the room spun, she tried to remember the last time she’d seen the desktop empty, maybe the day she moved in. Focus on that day—the used office furniture she’d bought for a hundred dollars, Grandma’s lecture, a list of “don’t” longer than the speech of Shakespeare’s Polonius. God, Grandma! She was supposed to take her to the grocery store in the morning.

  The 9-1-1 operator sounded far away.

  A long time passed before she heard sirens in the distance.

  *

  Bertha waited in the doorway to the front office and watched two police officers, followed by George, the white, seventy-year-old security guard, get off the elevator. George automatically reached for the light switch as the three came toward her.

  “Bertha,” said George. “What you doing here so late?”

  Bertha shook her head. She couldn’t remember why she’d come in.

  “What’s the problem?” It was Wilson, the beat cop. Most of the people Bertha knew called him Pop. He was probably in his fifties and weighed in at about two hundred and forty pounds, most of it in his belly. Pop Wilson had been one of the African-American officers hired in the first wave of affirmative action back in the early seventies. Patrolmen were generally promoted to suit jobs or desk jobs, but Pop preferred the beat and swore he’d retire from it.

  Bertha jerked her thumb toward the mess in her office.

  Wilson walked past her.

  “The supply closet,” she called after him.

  “Are you part of the cleaning crew, ma’am?” the younger officer asked.

  “This is my office.” Bertha saw that beneath the shiny black bill of the uniform hat was a slender white woman. “I’m B. Brannon, Attorney-At-Law.” She nodded toward the gold lettering on the door and squared her shoulders, standing a head taller than the young woman before her.

  Hearing a commotion in the next room, Bertha turned to see Pop Wilson almost run over George. “There a phone out here?”

  Bertha pointed to Alvin’s desk, then added, “I used the one in there. Whoever did this was still in the building. I locked myself in until I heard the sirens.”

  “Officer Matulis,” said Pop Wilson, “make a list of everything Miss Brannon touched in the crime scene.”

  “Yes, sir.” Matulis stopped herself short of saluting.

  George grabbed Alvin’s desk chair and shoved it toward Bertha. “You look like you better sit down,” the old guy said.

  Bertha collapsed.

  Officer Matulis produced a note pad. She sat in one of the red vinyl waiting chairs across from Bertha and said, “Miss Brannon, please tell me everything that happened tonight. Make it as detailed as you can.”

  Bertha started to speak, but Pop interrupted her. “How did you know the murderer was still in the building?”

  Bertha looked at George. “Where was the elevator when you got to work?”

  “First floor, like always. Why?”

  “While I was in my office I heard someone take it down,” Bertha said. “Someone was here. I probably walked past him in the dark.” She shivered at the thought.

  “Who’s the guy in there?” Pop asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Pop turned his attention to the phone, and Bertha heard him ask for homicide.

  “Miss Brannon.” Officer Matulis prodded her gently.

  Bertha tried to remember every detail and spoke slowly, noticing that Officer Matulis knew shorthand. Bertha herself could type seventy-five words a minute. High schools never gave up channeling girls into the clerical curriculum. “Even if you’re an astronaut, you’ll need to know your way around a keyboard,” her guidance counselor had told her. Bertha supposed her typing skills had helped in college and certainly in the lean months before she found a secretary. And Officer Matulis was using her shorthand.

  George pushed coffee under her nose. It was in the top of his thermos. “Take this,” he said. “You need it worse than me.”

  Bertha obediently took the cup. The coffee was lukewarm, some kind of French roast. She smiled faintly at the old man. “Thanks.”

  “Why did you come up here so late, Miss Brannon?” Officer Matulis asked with her pen poised.

  “To get a file. A new client. I wanted to look at it over the weekend.”

  Two more uniforms joined them. Bertha knew several people on the police force from her days at the state’s attorney’s office, and these two looked familiar. They walked past her.

  “You say the hall was dark when you got up here,” Matulis said. “Is that usual?”

  “I’m not here very often at night,” Bertha answered. “But I think the hall lights are always on.” She looked at George for confirmation.

  “That’s right,” he said. “There aren’t any windows. They burn day and night.”

  “So you knew something was wrong?”

  “I rationalized.” Be
rtha shrugged. “Told myself a bulb was burnt out. I had no reason to believe someone...”

  “When you got to your door, the light was on.” Officer Matulis was reading from her notes.

  Bertha nodded.

  “From this room you could see that something was wrong?”

  “Yeah, I could see the mess in there.” Bertha jerked her head toward the open door.

  “What made you go in?” Matulis asked.

  “Wasn’t anything behind me but a dark hallway. Plus, I was mad as hell.” Over the brim of the red thermos top Bertha saw Matulis smile.

  This your gun, Bertha?” Pop Wilson stood over her.

  “Yes.”

  “You got a FOID card?”

  “It’s in my Jeep. You can check.” Bertha felt uncomfortable. “I keep it here because a while back there were some threats.”

  Pop wiped sweat from his forehead and said to Officer Matulis, “Damn, it’s hot in here. Will you see if there’s a way to turn up the air?”

  Bertha watched Matulis leave the room. George followed her saying, “The window unit’s it. Gets hot as blue blazes during the day.”

  “Know who that is in there?” Pop asked.

  “You mean who that was.” Bertha sighed. “I told you I don’t know.”

  “Alderman to the fifth ward. The mayor’s right-hand man,” Pop said. “Joe Morescki.”

  “Morescki?” Bertha’s mouth gaped open.

  “That’s right. I take it you know Sally.”

  “Why would you assume that?” Bertha didn’t know how much to say. Was it possible that the tarot cards were right, and Sally Morescki had murdered her husband? Joe Morescki was a big man. Sally couldn’t have overpowered him, tied him up, and cut his throat. She would have needed something or someone to make him sit still.

  Pop Wilson held a slip of bright-pink paper in front of her. “Found this in the guy’s shirt pocket.”

  Bertha took the slip of paper from Pop. It was a phone message. She read it out loud.

  For: J. M.

  Sally returned your call. Meet her at attorney’s office at nine p.m. The Lambert Building, Third and Adams. Room 310.

  Signed: K. Cornwell.

  The message was dated today, and the time was scrawled five pm.

  “Is Sally Morescki your client?” Pop asked.

  “Yes,” said Bertha.

  “Did you arrange a meeting with her and her husband this evening?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “In what capacity are you representing Mrs. Morescki, Counselor?” Pop Wilson’s formal tone was his way of telling her this was serious and for the record.

  Bertha lowered her voice. “We both know that I don’t have to tell you a thing. If my client and I are suspects, I suggest you inform me of that right now. If not, I’ve had a long day, court all afternoon, a big supper, and a helluva scare. On top of everything else, I have a dead white man in my supply closet, and I’m supposed to take my grandma to the grocery store early tomorrow morning.”

  Pop smiled. “How is your grandma, Bertha?”

  “She’s fine. Mean and stubborn as ever.”

  “Runs in the family.” Pop chuckled. “Do you know where Sally Morescki is right now?”

  Bertha shook her head. “Tell you the truth, I forgot to get her address.”

  Pop raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Take a look in the phone book. She’s listed.”

  Officer Matulis approached them. “There’s only that one window unit. It’s not going to get any cooler.”

  “Thanks.” Pop Wilson didn’t take his eyes off Bertha. The young white woman stood awkwardly holding her note pad. “Have you taken Miss Brannon’s statement?”

  “Yes, sir,” Officer Matulis said.

  “I guess you’re free to go then,” Pop said to Bertha.

  Bertha looked through the open door to her office. She could see her appointment book halfway under her desk. The phone had been put back on the receiver and sat on the windowsill. The Morescki file had to be on top of the mess, and Bertha wanted to look for it without drawing too much attention. George stood near the doorway, looking past the yellow crime-scene tape and talking to a detective in plain clothes who looked like he’d just gotten out of bed.

  “Can I get some things from my office?” Bertha asked.

  “Better let us finish up in there,” Pop answered. “This could take a while.”

  Bertha felt dismissed.” Are you sure I shouldn’t wait?”

  “Naw, go on. Say hello to your grandma for me.”

  Bertha nodded. “Thanks, I will.”

  “Toni,” Pop said, “see Miss Brannon to her car, will you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Matulis said.

  She and the officer took the elevator to the first floor in silence. Red and blue lights flashed against the front of the building, and an ambulance was pulling to the curb as they stepped into the warm night air.

  Matulis had taken off her hat during the wild-goose chase over the air conditioner. Her hair was auburn and wrapped in a French twist that was held in place with tortoise-shell combs. Several long strands had fallen out around her slender face. Most black women wouldn’t have that problem. Aunt Lucy wore her hair up, and it stayed in place until she took it down. Bertha touched her own hair. She’d been so upset she’d forgotten about the color.

  “I’ll bet you’re tired,” Matulis said.

  “What time is it?” Bertha asked.

  Officer Matulis looked at her watch. “Almost four.”

  Bertha sighed. “I’m not really that tired. It’s just that I hadn’t planned on being up this late. I’ve got to—”

  “I know. You’ve got to take your grandma to the store.” The redheaded woman laughed softly.

  Bertha smiled. “She likes to be at the store when they open the doors. She hates it when people stop in the aisle in front of her. She gets the same things every week. She complains to the girls at the checkout about the prices, then gives me hell because I won’t take a dollar for gas. Grandma lives for Saturday mornings.”

  “What time does the store open?”

  “Seven,” Bertha said, stifling a yawn.

  “You better sleep fast.” They stopped next to Bertha’s Jeep. “Is there anything else you need, Miss Brannon?”

  “Call me Bertha.”

  “Toni,” the woman said sympathetically. “Are you all right, Bertha? Should I get someone to see you home?”

  “I’m fine.” Bertha shoved her hand in the pocket of her cutoff jeans and found her keys.

  “I’ll get back then.” Toni Matulis checked her watch again. “We’ll be the rest of the night on this.”

  Bertha watched the woman in the dark uniform walk away.

  Toni stopped near the ambulance and spoke with the attendants, who were pulling a gurney out of the back. They walked slowly toward the building, and Toni held the door for them. There was no hurry.

  Bertha slid behind the steering wheel and started the Jeep. The stereo surprised her as Billie Holiday’s voice filled the air. She looked over her shoulder one last time, then reached to put the Jeep in gear and noticed a manila folder tucked under the wiper blade.

  Bertha leaned out the window and reached for it. After she hit the overhead light and turned the folder over in her hands, she recognized her own scrawl on the tab. “Morescki.”

  The folder was empty.

  Chapter Four

  Bertha lived on the first floor of a hundred-year-old house that had been turned into a duplex. Her apartment consisted of four rooms: one bedroom; a long, narrow kitchen; a dining room that doubled as an office, where her computer and a file cabinet were in one corner blocked off by a screen and a table stacked with books; and a small living room with a fireplace. Through an arched doorway from her bedroom was a bathroom with a cast-iron tub on legs. Bertha had installed the shower ring. She liked long, luxurious baths, but she rarely had the time. Bertha and the woman upstairs shared the basement, as well as the washer a
nd dryer.

  Bertha’s neighbor, Rhonda Green, was in her mid-twenties and had two little boys. She worked for a bank, running a proof machine in the afternoons during the week, and waited tables on weekends in one of the more exclusive restaurants. She was an attractive woman with ebony skin and a slender build.

  Bertha knew the little family intimately from the sounds they made. Rhonda sometimes did housework when she came home from waiting tables in the early morning hours. During her last pregnancy, she’d gotten a bad case of bronchitis. Bertha had listened to the woman’s deep, gravelly cough wrack the night, rendering both of them sleepless. The boys were well-mannered in what Bertha thought of as an old-fashioned way, though the little one never walked when he could run. They both liked Saturday-morning cartoons and had some kind of video game that beeped for hours on end. In the summer, window air conditioners hummed in both apartments, drowning out a lot of the noise. There was seldom a man around, and Bertha suspected that Rhonda’s lover might be married—maybe someone at the bank. Whoever the boys’ father was, he didn’t see much of his kids.

  When the phone rang early Saturday morning, Bertha squinted at the clock on the nightstand and forced her eyes to focus. It was six fifteen.

  “Grandma, that you?” Bertha said.

  “Bertha. Bertha!” Grandma’s voice sounded far away.

  Bertha looked at the phone, turned it over, and said again, “Grandma?”

  “Honey,” Grandma said. “Have you seen the newspaper?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “There was a man murdered at your office building. It’s on the front page.”

  Bertha rolled to a sitting position and felt with her toes for her slippers. “It was in my office, Grandma.”

  “Oh, my God!” The old woman gasped. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Bertha tried to force a calm tone. “I got home late because I had to talk to the police. I’ll tell you all about it when I pick you up.” Bertha’s head throbbed. Her eyes burned and her mouth was dry. “Grandma, would it be all right if we went to the store a little later this morning?”