Bertha told Harris about the call and the interruption from Grandma. She described the trip across town and the fire at Latch’s store.
“I ended up not getting home until the next morning.”
“And you didn’t call him back?”
“No. I thought about it a time or two the next day. But it never seemed to be the right time. Then I found out he was dead.”
“Did he mention what he wanted to talk to you about?”
Bertha thought for a minute. She looked at the bulletin board on the wall behind the coffee pot. It was cluttered with time sheets, memos, newspaper clippings, and a couple of bar graphs. The walls of the little room were covered with framed certificates and awards. On a metal file cabinet to her right was a collage of Beetle Bailey from the funny papers.
There was a tap at the door, and Harris called, “It’s open.”
A heavy-set young woman with butterscotch skin and cornrows entered and tossed a stack of envelopes on Harris’s desk. She wore one of those brightly printed gauze skirts, and Bertha watched the designs on her big hips move, literally inches from her face.
The woman smiled at Bertha, then quickly looked away. She patted the ends of her tiny braids as she left through the open door. Bertha turned to Harris again. He hadn’t touched the new stack on his desk. It consisted of a large manila and two official-looking, windowed envelopes, some advertisements, and a catalog from Harriet Carter.
“Did he say what he wanted?” Harris repeated.
Bertha nodded, remembering. “The mailboxes.”
“What about them?”
“I don’t know.”
Harris watched her. Finally he said, “One of the boxes had been broken into. The lock was cut right out.”
“Which one?”
“Three‑ten,” Harris said slowly.
“Mine?”
Harris nodded. “You said you got a call that George Pickrell was dead? Who called you?”
Bertha met his eyes and shook her head. “I don’t remember.”
“I see.” Harris waited as if he was giving her a chance to think.
She changed the subject. “I have a couple of questions myself.”
“I’ll tell you what I can,” Harris said, spreading his hands.
“When can I get back into my office? I have a business to run. Every day I’m locked out, I lose money.”
“We’re finished. You have any plans about cleaning?”
Bertha hadn’t thought about it.
“Maids‑on‑Wheels do a pretty good crime scene,” Harris said. He thumbed through his Rolodex and passed her a business card.
“Thanks.”
Harris said, “You had two questions?”
“You know anything about the fire near my grandma’s house?”
“Just what I read in the papers. There was some talk of arson. One of the neighbors heard an explosion.”
“That’s it?”
“I’m not Arson. I’m Homicide. You think we all get together over coffee and doughnuts and exchange stories?”
“Don’t you?”
Harris threw his head back and laughed.
Bertha waited, then said, “Morescki Construction was in the process of purchasing the property that burned.”
Harris sat up straight. “How do you know that?”
“Mrs. Latch was a neighbor. I grew up next door to her. She’s my grandma’s closest friend. Mrs. Latch told us.”
“The old man buys lots of property.” Harris brushed it off. “There’s probably no connection.”
“One more thing. Someone’s been after my grandma. And if I catch them, I’ll kill them myself.”
She saw Harris glance at the tape recorder. She’d forgotten it was there. It was a ploy she often used herself.
She stood and said, “If you need anything else, you have my number. I’ve got to get to work.” Then she turned and left.
Chapter Twenty-one
The train station was almost empty. Sounds echoed in the long, narrow room where pay phones and lockers lined the marble walls. An old man in a porter’s uniform pushed a broom over the shiny hardwood floors. Bertha bought two Snickers bars and a cup of coffee from the vending machines and sat down to wait for the Chicago Amtrak. She’d slept too late for breakfast. The chocolate and sugar helped settle her nerves, but adding caffeine probably made it a wash. The snack would have to keep her hunger at bay until the train was in. Then she could have some lunch with Aunt Lucy before the trip across town to Grandma’s. Bertha sniffed, then drank the dark, searing coffee. It tasted like tar, but she was used to it by the third sip, and when the cup was empty, she wished she had enough change for another.
She checked her watch, then carried the second Snickers bar to a pay phone, unwrapping it as she walked. She’d already lost seventy cents on Alvin’s answering machine. She stuck the candy between her teeth, dropped in the last of her change, and dialed Alvin’s number again. She counted the rings, determined to hang up before the machine clicked on, but it picked up on the third instead of the fourth ring, and her money was gone. She sighed and listened to Randy’s recorded voice. She thought she might as well leave another message.
Suddenly she heard a loud, irritating tone and a soft male voice said, “Hello.”
Bertha shouted, “Hello? Hello?” The Snickers bar bounced off the top of her leather tennis shoe.
“Bertha?” It was Alvin.
“Where’ve you been? Did you get my messages?”
“Sorry, no,” Alvin said. “I just came in. Randy’s car overheated last night. I helped him take it to be looked at and ran him on to work. He had a perm scheduled at ten o’clock. What’s up?”
Bertha tried to reach for the Snickers, but the phone cord was too short. She asked Alvin to hold on and knelt to retrieve it. After she examined the chocolate carefully, she took a huge bite, then picked up the swinging receiver and mumbled while she chewed.
“What’s up is we can get into the office today.”
“Good. You going to meet me there?”
Bertha swallowed. “Later. I’m picking up my aunt at the train station and carrying her to Grandma’s.”
“Everything all right?”
“I just don’t want Grandma alone right now.”
“She sick?”
“No. Someone’s been snooping around her house.”
“Damn.”
“You go in when you can. I’ll meet you there.”
“Sure. I can start sorting things. I’ve been wanting to redo those files for a long time, honey.”
“One more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Call Maids‑on‑Wheels. I hear they do a helluva crime scene.”
Alvin hesitated, then chuckled. “What kind of a person would know a thing like that?”
“Well, we both know it now,” said Bertha, shoving the last of the nutty chocolate into her mouth.
The train from the north was twenty-seven minutes late. Bertha watched a family with several young children wait outside on the hot and windy platform. She stayed inside where it was cool and dark and quiet. The wind had been picking up all morning. The sun went in and out behind heavy, gray clouds. Bertha could see flashes of heat lightning in the west. Her eyelids grew heavy, but she didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until she heard someone saying her name.
“Bertha, honey. Is that you?”
She shook her head and opened her eyes. Aunt Lucy’s big-toothed smile was inches from her face. Bertha stood and pulled her father’s baby sister into her arms. Her aunt smelled of expensive cologne and cigarette smoke.
Aunt Lucy pushed Bertha an arm’s length away and studied her face. “God, girl. Are you still growing?”
“I’ll be forty-three in December. I think I’m done growing—up, anyway,” Bertha said.
“Where are your bags?”
Aunt Lucy turned toward the double doors and pointed. Bertha noticed white designer stitching around the back pocket of her au
nt’s tight stretch jeans. A bright-yellow blouse, tucked in and secured at the waist with a wide, gold belt seemed to accent Aunt Lucy’s large breasts and give her the appearance of perpetually falling over forward. Her strapless high heels made a hollow sound on the hardwood floor. Her short hair was salt-and-pepper gray, and she wore large pieces of gold jewelry, including big hoop earrings.
Bertha picked up both bags. “I hope you had a comfortable trip.”
“Damn train rode like a log wagon.” Aunt Lucy dug into her bag and pulled out a gold mesh cigarette case and a jeweled lighter. Her long, red fingernails were shaped and filed, a rhinestone set in the nail on her little finger.
As they walked slowly across the cool lobby toward the revolving doors that led to the parking lot, Bertha was quiet. She didn’t know where to start.
Outside Bertha squinted against the hot, dusty wind. She sat the two full travel bags in the back of her Jeep and turned to Aunt Lucy.
“Let’s go to the restaurant across the street and get some lunch. I can bring you up to date on things while we eat.”
Aunt Lucy nodded and took a long draw on her cigarette. “Looks like y’all are in for a storm.”
Bertha looked at the dark sky. “Been like this off and on since the weekend. Most of the time August is just the same every day. Hot and more hot.”
Aunt Lucy looked both directions and took quick little steps crossing the street behind Bertha.
“The wind’s starting to feel cool,” said Bertha. “It’s going to get a lot worse.”
She hadn’t been in this restaurant for a long time and had forgotten about the bar. She led Aunt Lucy to a booth as far away from the alcohol as she could get and sat with her back to the gleaming bottles, trying to block them out of her mind. She’d worked up a sweat running across the street, and the dim, air-conditioned room made her shiver. They gave sandwich orders to a waitress with dyed black hair that hung to the middle of her back. The place must have had a black light because Aunt Lucy’s white jeans were illuminated like neon. When the tall glasses of iced tea arrived, Bertha drained hers quickly and flagged down the waitress for a refill.
Aunt Lucy placed her brown hand over Bertha’s, the rhinestone on her crimson fingernail sparkling. She squeezed Bertha’s hand. “You don’t look so good, sweetie.”
“I’m tired. I haven’t slept right since the whole thing started.”
Aunt Lucy patted Bertha’s hand and in a deep, soothing voice said, “How ’bout you start at the beginning? And don’t leave out the part about that awful yellow hair.”
*
When they reached Grandma’s house, the male nurse was gone and the day girl was in the basement taking out a small load of laundry. Grandma fussed at Aunt Lucy for using too much makeup and wearing those “tight‑assed pants.” Bertha left them squabbling. She went out the front door and across the yard toward the corner. The wind blew ashes and dust. Particles stung her face and arms. The crime-scene tape was scattered on the ground like a long, yellow ribbon. The few charred beams that had been standing Sunday morning were lying in the rubble. Remnants of the brick chimney rose skyward, though several hundred black bricks were scattered in the ashes. From the corner, back toward Grandma’s house, Bertha saw the car. It slowed near her Jeep. She hurriedly stepped into the driveway next to Latch’s house and pressed her back flat against the smoke‑blackened side of the house.
Bertha peered around the front and shivered as she remembered the large green car from the night of the fire. This could be the same one. It was a dark-green, fairly new Lexus. By the time the car rolled past her, it was moving faster. Bertha read the license plate number “SM 1947.” She quickly looked at the driver. It was the same feminine figure. Except this time Bertha could see her clearer. It looked like Sally Morescki. The real Sally Morescki.
Bertha stared at the street for a long time after the car was out of sight. What the hell was going on? What did Sally Morescki have to do with Grandma? Was she involved in the renewal project with Joe? Bertha remembered the smooth, classy woman she’d met on Sunday. If anything, she’d seemed as scared and confused as Bertha had been.
Bertha walked back to Grandma’s porch and could hear Grandma and Aunt Lucy fussing at each other. It was almost three o’clock. Bertha opened the screened door and entered the living room. As usual it was darker and cooler than outside. Grandma was sitting on the sewing-machine stool and Aunt Lucy in the swivel rocker.
Bertha said, “I got to get moving. I can get into my office today, and I’ve got plenty of work to do there.”
“We’re fine,” Aunt Lucy said. “You go ahead.”
“You going back where that murder was?” asked Grandma.
“Yes, ma’am. The police are done there.”
“They clean up the blood?”
“No. I don’t suppose they did.”
Grandma slapped her knee. “Things is truly going to hell. Used to be somebody’s job to clean up messes like that.”
Aunt Lucy met Bertha’s eyes and said, “Let me walk you to your car.”
Grandma grabbed her walker and started to pull herself up.
Aunt Lucy said, “Mother, I’ll be right back in. You can stay put.”
Grandma opened her mouth to argue, hesitated, and then said, “I’ll see you later, baby.”
Bertha bent and kissed the old woman’s forehead. “See you, Grandma.”
Bertha stopped in front of the Jeep and turned to Aunt Lucy. “A car just drove past. It was the car I saw go by the night of the fire. I don’t know what’s going on, but be careful. Call the police if you even feel like something’s wrong.”
Aunt Lucy touched Bertha’s arm. “Now, we’re going to be fine. I’m going to order some groceries and cook Mother a pot of stew with some greens, if I can get ’em. All she got is a refrigerator full of cold pizza.”
“She talked me into that last night.”
Aunt Lucy smiled. “I’ll take good care of her. You get some rest. Take care of yourself.”
Bertha gave Aunt Lucy a long hug. Then she got into the Jeep and headed toward the Lambert Building.
*
Bertha opened the door to three‑ten and bumped Alvin’s leg. He was down on his knees with file folders in several rows across the floor. Papers were stacked on his desk in three separate piles. He was crawling from one folder to the next, filing copies of old bills.
“Looks like you’ve been busy,” Bertha said, stepping between the rows
Alvin pointed to the trashcan. “I got a new box of folders and replaced the ones with bloodstains.”
“Good. Where should I start?”
“Better let me do this. You got mail and phone messages to deal with.”
Bertha looked at her office door and her stomach tightened. After all of the trouble she’d had getting access to her office, she didn’t want to go in there.
“Go ahead,” she heard Alvin say. “I straightened stuff up and closed the closet door. I always hated that mess on your desk, but they must have shoved it all onto the floor before they killed him, and all that mess kind of saved the floor.”
“You call the cleaners?”
Alvin nodded. “They can’t get to us until Friday. I made the appointment, but maybe I should tackle it.”
Bertha considered his offer, but at last she said, “No. You’ve got enough to do.”
Alvin sighed. “Good.”
Bertha’s office looked empty with the stacks of files gone. The desk was cleaned and polished. The phone sat in its center, along with a legal pad covered with phone messages. Like having money left the day after payday, it looked unnatural. The air conditioner hummed, and the bare windows looked as if they’d been washed. She crossed the room and gazed out at the gray sky. Without looking, she felt the presence of the supply closet on her right. She imagined a spreading pool of black blood creeping across the floor toward her, then forced herself to look. A mop bucket sat in the corner of the room; the hardwood floor had been scru
bbed. The room smelled of pine. She could see dried footprints around the closet door. Probably from the emergency team and police, maybe some were her own. Blood-splattered files had protected a large portion of the floor, or it would have been worse. So Alvin, or the building cleaning crew, had gotten some of the mess up. It was probably Alvin, as the janitors were outsourced by the bank that owned the building, and they rarely went out of their way to do anything extra.
She sorted the mail, threw away several ads, set the bills aside, and made a small stack of what might be payments. She returned all the phone calls, leaving messages on several voice mails. The two people she did reach wanted to collect money.
Bertha was in the office less than an hour when she decided she couldn’t take any more. She was tired. It was close to four thirty. She told Alvin to call it a day soon and lock up when he left. She wished she had a way of reaching Toni Matulis. She wished she hadn’t missed her AA meeting on Monday night. She was determined to call her sponsor again the minute she got home.
The wind had picked up when she pulled into her own driveway. As she drove around the house, a ball bounced in front of her and into the neighbor’s bushes. She hit the brakes, almost setting the Jeep on its nose as Jerome ran in front of her. She leaned her head on the cool steering wheel and trembled. She had to get some sleep.
Jerome waved, the ball he’d retrieved from the bushes in his hand. He gave her a toothy smile. He was shirtless, barefoot, and in a hurry to get back to his game. She inched the Jeep forward and, as she rounded the corner, saw that Jerome wasn’t alone. He was playing catch with a slender white man. Bertha recognized the high forehead and the shoulder-length white hair. Faded jeans hung on his slender hips. His T‑shirt barely covered several tattoos. He saw the Jeep and waved. Bertha coasted into her parking space. Her head was throbbing and her mouth was dry as she opened the door and turned to face Cal Mossman.
Chapter Twenty-two
“You been looking for me?” Cal Mossman asked.
Bertha opened the door to the Jeep, slid out, and looked down at Jerome, who was still holding his rubber ball.
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 18
