There was a gray line in the eastern sky when Bertha went inside, locked the door, and climbed back in bed. She left her clothes on this time. Gradually, as the sky grew light, she settled into a fitful sleep.
Chapter Eleven
Rhonda Green came home from the hospital in an oversized T‑shirt and a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants Bertha loaned her. She now sat at the kitchen table in her housecoat, Bertha’s things folded neatly on the table. Rhonda lit a filtered cigarette and inhaled.
“Wouldn’t let me smoke in my room.” Rhonda coughed and fanned smoke away from her face.
“Can you manage? You know, with the kids?”
“I’m tired, but I’ll be fine. I appreciate you coming up here and helping yesterday. I’m sorry you got stuck with the boys. I know they’re a handful.”
Bertha watched Miguel toddle across the linoleum floor and lay his head on his mother’s lap. He pulled a ragged blanket to his cheek and put his thumb in his mouth. Rhonda stroked the boy’s dark curls and drew on the cigarette again.
“They weren’t any trouble,” Bertha lied.
Rhonda met her eyes and smiled weakly. “That’s good of you to say. We’re lucky to have you for a neighbor.” She patted the baby’s back. “Aren’t we, Miguel?”
Bertha didn’t want to get involved any further. After all, Rhonda had said they’d be fine. She was inching toward the door when a second offer sort of dropped out of her mouth. “Are you sure you’re all right? Is there anything you need?”
Rhonda tapped her cigarette on the metal ashtray. She wouldn’t meet Bertha’s eyes. “I guess you think I’m pretty stupid.”
“Well, no, I—”
Rhonda held up a hand. “A lot of things look easy from the outside. You don’t know what my life is like. You don’t know anything about me.”
Bertha touched the woman’s slender arm. “I’ve had a rough weekend. So have you. I figure we’re neighbors. We ought to stick together.”
Rhonda shook her head. “You’ve done enough.”
“Okay.” Bertha started to go.
“Where the hell am I supposed to come up with the cost of a legal abortion?” Rhonda said quickly. “I barely keep us going.”
Bertha tried to meet Rhonda’s eyes again, but the woman looked away. “Everyone makes mistakes.”
“Mistakes.” Rhonda’s voice rose in anger. “What mistakes did I make? I used protection and got pregnant anyway. There’s a midwife who does these things. You have to drive a hundred and fifty miles to get a legal abortion. This is local. It cost a lot less. I did what I had to do, and this is what happened.”
Bertha watched the child suck his thumb, clinging to his mother’s knees. The kitchen suddenly seemed too warm. She knelt down next to Rhonda, patted the baby’s back, and tilted her head at an odd angle to meet Rhonda’s eyes. Finally the woman looked at her.
“I agree. The system fails people more often than it helps. Black women raise their children in spite of it. They always have.”
Rhonda sighed and nodded. Cigarette smoke surrounded her head like a halo.
Bertha went on. “Our mothers and grandmothers worked as domestics so we could get an education. Now many of us are stuck working two or three part-time jobs that barely make ends meet because businessmen have found a new way to enslave people with under-employment. I don’t want to sound preachy, but I don’t know where I’d be without my family.” Bertha touched Rhonda’s arm lightly. “I want you to know that I’m downstairs, and I’ll help as much as I can.”
“Thanks.” The corners of Rhonda’s mouth turned up in a forced smile.
Bertha stood to go.
“So what happened?” Rhonda asked softly.
“Huh?”
“You said you had a rough weekend too. What happened?”
Bertha pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down hard. Her eyes were burning. She’d noticed this morning in Grandma’s bathroom mirror that they were bloodshot, probably a reaction to the smoke. She’d washed them out with the last drops of Grandma’s Murine, and they’d felt better for a few hours. She rubbed her eyes. “Friday night a man was murdered in the building where I have my office.”
“Someone you know?”
“Not really. I stumbled on the body myself.”
“God.”
“Then last night there was a fire in my grandma’s neighborhood. Too close for comfort. I spent the night over there.”
Rhonda laughed. “I thought you smelled a little sooty. Plus, your hair...”
“What about my hair?”
“Girl, I’ve seen ashes, and I’ve seen ashes.”
Bertha chuckled. “On top of everything else, I’m going to have to wash my hair, again.”
“I’m sorry about your grandma. She’s okay, isn’t she?”
“Yeah. Scared her a little. She’s pretty tough.”
“That’s good.” Rhonda stubbed out her cigarette. “It pays to be tough these days.”
Jerome approached his mother. “Mama.”
Bertha stood again. “I need to get going.”
“Maybe I should ask if there’s anything I can do for you.”
“Mama,” Jerome repeated more urgently.
“Hush now. Don’t interrupt.”
Bertha gathered her clothes from the table and backed away. “Take care of yourself. I’ll be downstairs if you need help.”
“When we gonna have lunch, Mama?” Jerome persisted. “I’m hungry.”
Rhonda reached for the boy affectionately and pulled him to her. “Today, just this one time,” she said, “we’re ordering lunch from the pizza place.”
Jerome threw both arms in the air and danced in a little circle.
Bertha reached the top of the stairs, stepped over the infant gate, and looked back.
Jerome called to her, “Bye, Bertha.”
She made a sort of salute and descended the stairs.
When Bertha entered her own apartment she saw the answering machine blinking. Her bedroom was the mess she’d left the night before. The bed was unmade, and the phone sat in the middle of it. She pushed the button on the machine and waited.
“Miss Brannon,” said a soft woman’s voice. “This is Sally Morescki returning your call. You probably won’t be able to reach me by phone. I will try you again later this afternoon.”
Bertha slumped on the edge of the bed in a mixture of frustration and rage, her lips drawn tight. She reached for the phone and dialed.
Alvin answered.
“Hey,” Bertha said. “It’s me.”
“So, how’d it go with Madame Soccoro?”
“I got nothing.”
“I’m surprised. She’s the best.”
“Well, I do have another appointment to see her tonight. It’s a long story. I need your help with something.”
“Sure,” Alvin said quickly. “What is it?”
“Find out what you can for me on Jelly Morescki. The other night you said he owned a concrete business. Start there. Since the late Joe Morescki was on the city council and tight with the mayor, look at City Contracts.”
“It’s Sunday, Bertha.”
“So?”
“It may be public information, but every place that would have that kind of information is closed.”
“You got a computer? A modem?”
Alvin sighed. “Contracts aren’t on computer. I know because my ex‑husband Bob works in city purchasing. I’ll call him tomorrow.”
“Bob, is that the one Randy foams at the mouth over?”
“I was living with Bob when I met Randy, if that’s what you mean.”
“This is the guy who tried to run over Randy with his GEO?”
“No. That was Elliot. Bob’s the one who took a carving knife to the waterbed.”
“With you in it?”
“Both of us. Bob came home from work early. We’re all friends now, though.”
Bertha kicked off her tennis shoes without untying them and rubbed her sock-covered t
oes. “Well, take a shot at it, will you? Maybe Bob can tell us something. I think Morescki’s somehow connected to a fire last night over by my grandma’s house.”
“Fire? How?”
“His company was in the process of purchasing the property that burned. Grandma insists someone set the fire.”
“Contracts are public information. I’m sure Bob can point me in the right direction. Save me a lot of time finding what I need.” Alvin hesitated. “Exactly what do I need, Bertha?”
“I’m not sure. Look for anything unusual. I feel like, whatever’s going on, it’s not over.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll try. Have you seen the paper yet?”
“No.” Bertha thought it might still be on the front porch. “Anything new?”
“Nothing. A small article on page five says an investigation of a suspicious death is underway. The whole thing is played down.”
“They release the name yet?”
“There’s an obituary. That’s it.”
“Man,” Bertha said. “This family has influence.”
“I told you.”
“Yeah. Yeah. You told me.” Bertha ran her fingers through her hair. Her bedside clock registered two fifteen. “I’m going to take a shower and get something to eat. I had another long night.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I was all night with Grandma. Plus the lady upstairs had some problems...”
“Bertha, you got to stop butting into people’s personal business.”
“Did you see anything about the fire in the paper?”
“Uh‑huh. Your Grandma all right?”
“Shook her up a little. She gave the police some problems. Refused to cooperate.”
Alvin chuckled. “So it’s a family thing.”
“Don’t be a wiseass. See what you can find out. I’ll be home for a few hours if you turn up anything. Otherwise, I’ll see you at work tomorrow afternoon.”
“Do you think we can get into the office? It’s a crime scene.”
“I have a wage assignment before Judge Wallace tomorrow. I’ve got to get in.”
“So you’ve talked to the police?”
“I’m going to. I’ll take care of it first thing in the morning.”
“Right. See you then.”
Bertha hung up, reached to the floor, picked up three extra‑strength Tylenols, plucked carpet fuzz off the red and white gel‑caps, and headed for the bathroom to get some water. She showered quickly, working up a lather in her short, dry hair.
Her own bottle of Murine was full, and the clear drops plunked into the corner of her eyes, momentarily blinding her. Gradually, the bathroom came back into focus. She wiped the steamed mirror on the medicine cabinet and studied her soft-brown features. She blinked several times and blew her nose.
Back in her bedroom, Bertha pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a black polo shirt.
In the kitchen she made a fresh pot of coffee and checked the cabinets for a likely lunch. She pulled an almost-empty carton of ice cream from the freezer and scraped the bottom with a spoon. There was one can of tuna and some raw carrots. She was standing at the kitchen window, crunching on a carrot, when the pizza truck pulled into the driveway.
Should’ve called in an order with Rhonda Green, she thought.
The Sunday paper had landed on the welcome mat that was still wet from the rain the night before, so one side was soggy pulp. Bertha opened it and spread it across the kitchen table in a patch of sunlight. Carrying a mug of coffee around the apartment, she sorted the mail, stacked old newspapers, and tried to gather up all of the laundry.
Bertha called and checked with Grandma around three thirty. After she hung up, she passed through the bedroom, hit the play button on the answering machine, and listened to Sally Morescki’s message again. Was this the woman who’d come to her office Friday afternoon? She tried to remember exactly how the woman looked and sounded.
Almost as if her thoughts had summoned the call, the phone rang. Startled, Bertha reached for it. “Hello?”
“Miss Brannon?” The woman’s voice was cool and businesslike.
“This is Bertha Brannon.”
“Sally Morescki. I’m returning you call. I believe you said it was urgent.”
“How are you? Are you all right?”
“I’m as well as can be expected,” the woman said. “What can I do for you, Miss Brannon?”
“I was wondering what I could do for you.” Something was wrong. Bertha had an uneasy feeling.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand?” the woman said.
“I am an attorney, Mrs. Morescki,” Bertha said firmly. “Your attorney.”
“There must be some mistake. I’ve never...” There was a short silence. “Bertha Brannon?”
“That’s right.”
“The Lambert Building Bertha Brannon?”
“Yes.”
The woman was quiet.
Bertha waited.
Sally Morescki said flatly, “What do you want with me?”
“I don’t understand. Friday afternoon a woman came into my office and told me her name was Sally Morescki. She retained me to represent her in a divorce proceeding.”
“Miss Brannon, I assure you that I am Sally Morescki, the only Sally Morescki that I know of. I have never been to your office.”
Bertha’s head throbbed. Her palms were sweating.
“Mrs. Morescki, can we meet?” she said at last. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’d like to get to the bottom of it.”
“I’ve talked to the police. I don’t think it would be a good idea for us to meet. My husband’s family wants to keep this whole thing as quiet as possible. I’m sure you understand. We are,” Sally hesitated, “business people.”
“Please, Mrs. Morescki. I could come right now. I want to know who got me involved in this, and why.”
Sally Morescki sighed. “There’s nothing I can tell you that I haven’t already told the police. I’ve been through a lot this weekend.”
“Well, I doubt if you understand, but I have too.”
“Oh. Your office and all—”
“Yes, that and more. Please, Mrs. Morescki. I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”
“Oh, very well. I’m at home right now. I have an appointment with the funeral director at five. My father‑in‑law will be picking me up before then. That gives us a little time if you can get here very soon.”
Bertha looked at her watch and calculated. It was three forty‑five. “Give me the address,” she said.
Bertha’s immediate problem was clothes. Her hair was wet and uncombed. She didn’t have time for the power suit that her intuition told her would be the right move. She patted her hair into place, shoved her bare feet into a pair of leather sandals, and then stood in front of her opened closet door staring. At last she changed the polo shirt for a short‑sleeved blouse and grabbed a white linen jacket on the way out the door.
Chapter Twelve
Before Bertha left her Jeep at the curb, she shoved empty snack containers under the seat, tugged at the back of her linen jacket, slung the leather strap of her briefcase over her shoulder, and tried to look as professional as possible. She felt out of place. In this neighborhood, even the lawn jockeys were white.
Bertha rang the bell and waited. A short, round white woman whose gray maid’s uniform matched her frizzy hair opened the door.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Morescki,” Bertha said, looking down at the shorter woman.
“Miss Brannon?” the maid asked.
“Yes.” Bertha patted her hair, which was drying and felt bushy.
The door swung open, and Bertha stepped into a cool foyer with air that smelled of sweet furniture polish. A wide stairway rose directly in front of her. The banisters were gleaming wood. To her left was a dining room. Light from several tall windows was softened by white lace curtains that matched the cloth on the table. The centerpiece was made of long‑stemmed, lavender flowers; several da
rk straight‑backed chairs stood in uniform rows. To her right was a living room, pale blue and white. The drapes were closed, and the area was dim and shadowed.
“Mrs. Morescki is in the breakfast nook. Come this way, please.” The maid led her through the long dining room to a smaller room, where a round table and three chairs sat in front of a bay window.
Sally Morescki stood there looking out to the side yard. She was a tall, slender woman with short, stylish dark hair. She wore pale, loose-fitting blue jeans and a yellow blouse tucked in at the waist. Her profile was firm. It was hard to tell her age—a well-kept forty- or fifty-something, maybe more. She turned and Bertha was struck by her eyes. Her lashes were long and black. Her eyes were deep green.
Bertha remembered the pale, nervous young woman who’d come to her office Friday afternoon. This woman who stood before her wasn’t even close enough in appearance to be her stepsister.
“Miss Brannon.” Sally Morescki extended her hand and Bertha shook it. Her fingers were cold. Bertha wondered if she was nervous. “Please have a seat. Would you like something to drink? Some iced tea?”
Bertha’s throat was dry. “Yes, thank you,” She sat down at the little table, sliding the strap of her briefcase off her shoulder. She started to cross her legs, realized there wasn’t enough room, and put both feet flat on the polished hardwood floor.
Sally turned to the maid. “Carol, please bring us two glasses of tea.”
Carol nodded and went toward what Bertha guessed was the kitchen.
Sally sat down, crossed her legs comfortably, and said, “So, Miss Brannon. Here we are.”
“Please call me Bertha.”
“What did you need to see me about, Bertha?”
“I’m sorry. I know this is a bad time.” Actually, Bertha wasn’t sure what to ask her. She’d wanted to see for herself that this wasn’t the woman who’d come to her office.
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 10
