“I still can’t believe it’s true,” Sally said softly.
“How much do you know about your husband’s business?”
“Do you mean the architectural firm or the political side of things?”
Bertha reached for her briefcase, laid it down on the polished floor, and snapped it open. She’d been so worried about dressing properly that she’d forgotten her pencil. She could hear the rattle of ice from the kitchen, the clank of glasses.
“He works in an architectural firm?”
“He owns the firm.”
“And your father‑in‑law has a construction business?”
“Yes, it’s kind of a family thing. They work—worked together on several projects.” Sally hesitated, then added, “His father helped him get started. You know, seed money, jobs sent his way, that sort of thing.”
Carol set a silver tray containing a tall crystal pitcher and two matching glasses of ice on the table. The tea looked strong. Slices of lemon and packets of sweetener and sugar were in matching silver bowls. She set cloth napkins, long-handled spoons, and glasses in front of each of them and poured. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?” she asked, setting the beautiful pitcher down with a thud.
“Do you have a pen or something I could write with?” Bertha interjected.
This seemed to amuse Sally. “Carol, bring Miss Brannon a pen.”
Carol left the room and returned a moment later with a ballpoint pen.
“Thank you,” Bertha said, squeezing a wedge of lemon and dropping it into the tea. She picked up the pen, pulled a legal pad from her briefcase, and started taking notes.
“So,” said Sally Morescki, stirring sugar into her tea, “You’re an attorney?”
Bertha nodded.
“What kind of law do you practice?”
“Whatever I can get. I do a lot of divorce, some juvenile, a little criminal.”
“You’re not in a firm or with a partner?”
“I have my own office.”
“That’s very courageous of you. I know it can’t be easy—financially.”
Bertha was still taking notes and answered absently. “I contract with the public defender’s office. I do too much pro bono and sliding scale. It’s hard on everyone starting out, but I’ve managed to keep going.”
“The money with the big firms never tempted you?”
Bertha met Sally’s eyes and smiled. “I’m not exactly the big-firm type.”
“Yes. I can see that.”
Bertha felt she’d lost control of the interview. “How long were you and Mr. Morescki married?”
“Eighteen years.”
“Any children?”
Sally hesitated, then said, “This is the second marriage for both of us. He has two sons by his first wife. And I have a daughter. None of the children ever lived with us.”
“How old are the kids?”
“Oh, let me see. Joe Junior is thirty‑three, and Max is twenty-seven.”
“And your daughter?”
“She’s about your age.”
Bertha looked up from her notes. “You don’t look old enough to have a daughter my age.”
Sally folded her hands on the table. “Thank you.”
Bertha smiled nervously. The floors gleamed like the one in the high-school gym, and she wondered if her shoes were going to leave scuff marks. When she raised the iced-tea glass and put the cool crystal rim to her lips, several drops of condensation dripped in her lap. She quickly blotted them with the cloth napkin.
“Your office is at the Lambert Building?”
“That’s right. I’m sorry about your husband. It was a terrible thing.”
“Did you know my husband?”
“Not really.” Bertha shook her head. “I worked in the state’s attorney’s office for two years. I thought I knew all the aldermen.”
“Joe took Nathan King’s seat when he retired about a year and a half ago.” Sally refilled Bertha’s glass and topped off her own. “Nate had liver cancer, you know.”
Bertha calculated quickly. She’d been in a rehab center eighteen months ago. She certainly remembered Nathan King, Republican, very conservative. “I was away. How’s Nate doing?”
Sally was quiet for a moment. “Nate died three weeks after he retired.”
Bertha nodded wearily. She remembered very little of those early days. She hadn’t read a newspaper for months. Nothing outside herself had seemed important. After four weeks in-patient, she’d gone home to an empty apartment. All of Colleen’s things were gone. There had been large gaps on the bookshelves, pictures missing from the walls, a DVD player but no television—Colleen’s way of splitting things—light bulbs but no lamps. The first night home she burned candles and watched the snow fall. It had been early February; she barely remembered Christmas. Later, of course, she’d remember it all too well. The next day she’d called Grandma and gone there to stay for several weeks. If it hadn’t been for Grandma and the aftercare support group...
“Bertha.” Sally’s voice startled her. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I‑I guess I was away when all that happened.”
“Well, it was a shock. Joe was appointed by the mayor. A lot of King’s supporters were unhappy, but when he died all was forgotten. Now Joe’s gone.”
They were quiet for a moment. At last Bertha said, “Mrs. Morescki, a woman came to my office Friday afternoon claiming she was you.”
“So you say, but whatever for?”
“I don’t know. Her story seemed pretty strange. She was nervous, like she was afraid of something or someone. She told me Barry Levine had sent her.”
“Barry Levine?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
Sally shook her head. “I’ve heard Joe mention the name. He knows—knew—a lot of attorneys.”
“The woman was blond, maybe late twenties, slender.”
“Are you asking me if I know who it might have been?”
“Do you?”
“Of course not. But I’d like to. Why would the woman impersonate me?”
“Her visit may be connected to your husband’s murder. Now that I’m sure she wasn’t who she claimed to be, I’ll report the incident to the police.”
“That sounds wise.” Sally quickly checked her watch and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Brannon, my father‑in‑law will be here any minute.”
Bertha put the tablet back in her briefcase, snapped the case shut, and stood. She laid a business card on the table. “If you think of anything that might help me locate the woman, would you please call?”
Sally seemed to relax a little. “What was this woman’s strange story?”
They were walking through the dining room toward the foyer, and Bertha laughed a little. “She told me she’d had a tarot reading, and Madame Soccoro instructed her to hire an attorney because she would be arrested for murder.”
“Madame Soccoro. The psychic?”
Bertha stopped and faced Sally. The woman was as tall as she—unusual, for a woman. “Do you know Madame Soccoro?”
“I’ve heard of her. She’s supposed to be good. Why don’t you talk to her?”
“I will.”
The doorbell startled them. “That will be my father‑in‑law.”
“Good. I’d like to meet him.”
Sally hesitated. “This isn’t really the best time.”
Carol must have gone through the living room. Suddenly she was in front of them opening the door. A short, stocky man walked into the dining room.
“Who is this?” he demanded.
Sally made hasty introductions. “Bertha Brannon, Magellan Morescki.”
Bertha extended her hand. “Mr. Morescki.”
The old man hesitated long enough to make Bertha feel uncomfortable; then he shook her hand firmly.
“I’m sorry about your loss.”
Morescki grunted.
Bertha turned to Sally. “Thanks for your time. I won’t keep you any longer.”
Sally walked to the door with Bertha and held it open. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”
Again Bertha was struck by the woman’s icy fingers. She fought the urge to offer to help Sally Morescki, though she wasn’t in any position to help anyone.
“I know I said it once already, but I’m sorry about your husband. I’m sure the police will do their best on this.”
“Good‑bye, Bertha.” Sally backed into the house and closed the door.
Bertha slung her briefcase in the passenger seat and walked around the Jeep to get in. She heard the front door slam and watched Jelly Morescki hurry toward her.
“Wait a minute,” he called.
Bertha waited. She wanted to talk to this guy. She found herself looking down on his tan bald head. He wore a white golf shirt, with a thick, herringbone, gold chain. Bertha could clearly see the line at the base of his thick neck where he stopped shaving. Gray chest hair curled there like a mat. His fists were clenched, his face flushed and sweaty.
He shook his finger at her, punctuating every other word. “What the hell you comin’ round my family for?”
“Mr. Morescki, I just wanted to ask some questions. I meant no harm.”
“Nobody here is answering questions.” He raised his voice, “Have some respect, for Christ sakes!”
“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but I didn’t ask to be involved in this business. I didn’t even know your son. I’m trying to find out why he was in my office and if I might be in danger myself. Whoever killed him is still loose.”
Jelly Morescki frowned and considered this. At last he said slowly, “I don’t want you or your kind around here. The police will take care of everything.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You stay away from my daughter‑in‑law.”
That’s right, thought Bertha, he doesn’t want her kind around his family, but he certainly didn’t mind buying property from her kind to develop over on the east side. Despite the fact that she towered over Jelly Morescki, Bertha felt uncomfortable. His calm tone was much more frightening than his anger.
She backed up a step. “Just what are you afraid of, Mr. Morescki?”
“I ain’t afraid of nothing. It’s you who better watch your step.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Honey, I don’t need to threaten you.” He met her eyes. “Do I?”
Bertha swallowed hard. “Good‑bye, Mr. Morescki. I’ll see you later.”
She opened the door of the Jeep and turned to get in, then pulled away from the curb slowly, careful not to show her fear. She checked the rearview mirror. He stood there in the same spot, his arms still folded across his chest, watching her leave.
Chapter Thirteen
Late-afternoon shadows fell across the supermarket parking lot. Though it was still in the mid-eighties, the air seemed cooler. Bertha knew from previous experience that shopping when she was hungry was a mistake, but she didn’t have any food at home and decided to take the risk.
As she drove across town, Bertha had mentally continued the conversation with Jelly Morescki. She told him just what she thought of his racist attitudes. She told him that since his son had been murdered, other members of his family might be in danger. After all, Sally’s name was the first one Bertha had heard in connection with the case. She told Jelly Morescki that Latch’s Grocery was torched last night and she knew about his impending purchase of the property. She implied that his connection was suspicious. She was so involved in bringing home her point that she drove past the store and had to turn around and go back.
Bertha was in the process of untangling a grocery cart when she remembered Toni Matulis. She patted her jeans and shirt pocket and wondered if she’d put the business card in the washing machine or left it at Grandma’s. She pulled her wallet from her back pocket and found the card stuck down in the slot in front of her driver’s license. Standing before the pay phone, Bertha changed her mind several times before she dropped money into the phone and dialed.
“Toni, it’s Bertha Brannon.”
“Bertha, how are you?”
“Good. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, I’ve been up for a couple of hours.”
Bertha hesitated. “I-I know this is short notice, but how about dinner?”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. I could pick you up at seven.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Well, I thought I’d take a shot. Maybe another time.”
“I’m making spaghetti sauce,” Toni said as if she hadn’t heard. “Why don’t you come over here?”
“Really?”
“Sure, I got plenty. I’d love the company.”
“What should I bring?”
“I have everything I need.”
“I’m at the store right now. Let me pick up something for you. I’ll get whatever you want.”
“Okay. Get some coffee, and whatever kind of salad dressing you like.”
“You’ve got it. What time is dinner?”
“The longer this sauce cooks, the better it gets. Whenever you’re ready is fine. I live in the Sunnyvale Trailer Park. Number 161. Go north on Ninth Street—”
“I know where it is. I need to run my groceries home and put away the perishables. I think I can be there in about an hour.”
At almost six thirty Bertha pulled off the main road and drove under the white arched Sunnyvale sign. She wasn’t sure what to do about her appointment with Madame Soccoro. The tarot reader seemed to be another in a series of dead ends. She decided that if things went well with Toni, she’d call Madame Soccoro and cancel.
She saw half a dozen double-wides near the main entrance, but the farther into the park Bertha drove, the smaller the units got. Number 161 was on a corner lot. There was a small tree in the yard and a deck with a green fiberglass awning. She could smell garlic and Italian seasoning before she was out of the Jeep.
Toni pulled the door open. Her hair hung in soft curls around her shoulders. She wore denim shorts and a wide-necked black T-shirt.
“Come in,” Toni said. “Come in.” She stepped aside, and Bertha walked into the air-conditioned trailer.
The open living room-kitchen area was small and neat. Bertha carried the grocery bag to the counter that divided the two rooms and set it down.
“You come from church?” Toni asked, smiling.
Bertha looked at her, confused.
“You didn’t put on that white jacket to come here, did you?”
“No, I had an appointment earlier, but it’s all right if you’re impressed.”
Toni went to the stove, took the lid off a large pot, and stirred the sauce. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved. What can I do to help?”
“Make yourself at home. I got everything under control.”
Bertha reached in the paper bag nervously. She’d bought the flowers on impulse and, after considering the gesture, had almost left them in the Jeep. Now they were here in the top of the bag, and she had to take them out. They were little yellow and red carnations, with some green stuff Bertha didn’t recognize wrapped in cellophane. In a white bucket of water near the checkout counter they’d cost $4.99.
She thrust them toward Toni. “I brought these for the table.”
Toni turned, and her eyes went wide. “God. Thank you.”
Bertha smiled, relieved that Toni hadn’t scolded her with an “Oh, you shouldn’t have.” She noticed the kitchen table was already set for two. Toni handed her a vase, and Bertha went to the sink to unwrap the flowers.
As Bertha placed the flowers in the center of the table, Toni said, “It’s ready. Get your plate and fill it over here.”
Bertha was so hungry it was hard to wait until Toni picked up her fork. They ate in silence for a while.
At last Toni said, “How’s your grandma?”
“Better today. I stopped and checked on her before I came here. The fire has her p
retty excited. The building belonged to her best friend.”
“Mrs. Latch,” Toni said. “So I gathered. Your grandma sure is a character.”
Bertha nodded. “Thanks again for your help.”
“I’m glad I was there. The funny thing is that neighborhood isn’t my beat.”
Bertha stopped, her fork in midair. Latch’s Grocery Store was a long way from the Lambert Building.
“Did they rotate you?”
Toni shook her head. “The car assigned to that area was staking out a pizza place. We had a tip there would be a burglary.”
“So was there?”
“No.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“If the fire was arson, there might be a connection.”
Bertha leaned forward. “My grandmother said she heard an explosion.”
Toni shrugged. “I believe her. But there are a lot of noises connected to a fire that size. She might have heard a wall falling or aerosol cans.”
“There’s more. I don’t know if they’ve put it together yet or not, but I’m sure they will. Mrs. Latch was in the process of selling the property. The buyer is Morescki Construction.”
“The father of the late Joe Morescki?”
“It’s a family business.”
“‘Could be a coincidence,” Toni said doubtfully.
“Yeah. A helluva coincidence.” Bertha twirled several strands of pasta on her fork and asked, “Do you think I’ll be able to get into my office tomorrow?”
Toni shrugged. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“If they got everything they need out of there. Have you talked to homicide yet?”
“No.”
Toni rolled her eyes. “Someone should have interviewed you by now. That could hold things up.”
“I have to work tomorrow. I’m going before a judge.”
Toni nodded. “But it’s a crime scene. They’ll need to photograph everything and talk to everyone, especially you, before the tape comes down.”
“It’s not like I want to tamper with evidence. What about the statement I gave you?”
“They’ll need more. I’ll talk to Pop tonight. Maybe between us we can think of something to speed up the process.”
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 11
