*
At six forty‑five Bertha pulled on a pair of shorts and a T‑shirt and stepped onto the back porch. The rain was steady. A soft, cool wind blew droplets against the west side of the house. She tapped softly on the Greens’ back door. She doubted if Rhonda could hear her upstairs, but she didn’t want to wake the boys.
Bertha turned and looked across the backyard. The beginning of day had reduced night to a thin smokiness; a low hanging mist made the lot look like something from a horror movie. The tires of the Jeep, parked in the usual spot under the elm trees, were totally obscured. She heard the garbage truck before she saw it, inching its way through the narrow alley behind the lot.
Wednesday, she thought.
“Bertha?” Rhonda’s soft voice startled her.
“I got your note,” Bertha said.
“Can you come in?”
“Sure, I’ve got a few minutes.”
Rhonda opened the door wider and gestured for Bertha to follow her quietly.
“Want to talk in my kitchen?” Bertha asked.
Rhonda shook her head and whispered, “I don’t like to leave them alone.”
Toys were strewn across the tiny, dark living room. A soft light shone from the kitchen. Bertha followed Rhonda and sat down at the table.
“Want some coffee? I just put on a fresh pot.”
“Sure,” said Bertha. “Whenever it’s ready.”
“You’re up early.”
“I turned in early. I was tired last night.”
Rhonda set coffee mugs on the counter and pulled a chair next to Bertha.
Bertha waited.
Finally Rhonda said, “So, who was the ball-playing, white, middle-aged menace-to-society that you entertained last night?”
“An old acquaintance. I’m sorry he connected with Jerome. I wasn’t expecting him. I tried to contact him because something made me think he was connected to the Morescki murders. It was a mistake. I regret it.”
“That man could be a murderer?”
Bertha placed her elbows on the table for support and leaned toward Rhonda. “That man is a murderer. I’m not sure if he’s the Morescki murderer, but he’s connected somehow.”
Rhonda stood and crossed the small kitchen. She poured coffee in the waiting mugs and came back to the table, then spooned sugar into hers and stirred.
“I’m scared,” she said at last.
Bertha nodded.
Rhonda went on, “First you tell me there’s been a murder at your office. Then your apartment gets broken into while I’m home. Megan told me last night that this white man from hell was playing catch with my son. That was right after I saw something when I was coming in.”
“What?”
“Someone was across the street, watching the house in the rain. They didn’t even have an umbrella. It was creepy. I tried to knock at your back door but couldn’t wake you.”
“Can you describe him?”
Rhonda shook her head. “I just caught him in my headlights for a few seconds. He had on a dark raincoat and a hat of some kind. He stepped behind those bushes over there, and I turned into the driveway.”
“Big man? Small? White or black?”
“White, I think. Very big. That’s about all I could make out. It happened so fast.”
Bertha didn’t think Calvin would watch the house. If he wanted her, he knew where she was. Besides, Cal was fairly slim. What the hell was going on?
Rhonda’s hands trembled slightly as she brought the coffee mug to her lips and put it down. “I was shaking by the time I got in and locked the doors. I was afraid he’d come around the side of the house after me. I know I should have called the police. But my first instinct was to get out of the way. When he let me get in safely, I thought that he might be out there for you. I took the boys with me when I took Megan home. I didn’t see him anymore. Anyway, I tried to wake you, then left the note.”
When Rhonda mentioned the police, Bertha thought about Toni. Everything was a mess.
“How about calling them now?” Bertha asked.
“Do you think it’ll do any good?”
“They have a report about my break‑in. It won’t hurt for them to have a report on this. I doubt if they’ll catch the guy, but documentation is important.”
“I’ll call them soon as I’m dressed.”
Rhonda stood, stepped to the coffee pot, and picked it up. She topped off her own and poured Bertha another cup. She had her back to Bertha, sliding the coffee pot back on the warmer, when she said, “I been meaning to ask, do you want me to fix your hair?”
“What?”
“Your hair,” Rhonda repeated. “I know you’re not happy with it. I think I could cut it short and make it look a little better.”
Bertha touched the ends of her dry blond hair, which needed fixing pretty badly. She said, “You can cut hair?”
“I went to cosmetology school. Still paying off the loans.”
“Then how come you’re working at the bank and that restaurant?”
Rhonda shrugged. “Takes money to get started. And clients. I tried for a while and finally gave it up. That was before Miguel was born.”
“When could you do it?”
“Now, if you want.”
“Just make it shorter?”
“I got a pair of Wahl hair clippers I use on Jerome. If I use a long setting, it’d look like one of those fashionable short, short cuts that sisters wear. Only yours would have a dusting of gold.”
“How long would it take?”
Rhonda looked at the clock on the stove. “You could get it done and still be on time for work.”
“Well, all right. But you call the police right after, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rhonda said, smiling.
Bertha watched Rhonda lay out the clippers and attachments and thought that whatever happened, her hair couldn’t look much worse than it already did. She’d wanted one of those short cuts, maybe a box cut, but Colleen had objected. There was no one to object now. Not even Toni Matulis. At the thought of Toni, Bertha felt a flicker of confusion. Toni had sounded angry last night on the machine. Bertha was afraid to call her back. She had enough to deal with without an angry girlfriend—if that’s what Toni was.
Rhonda turned on the clippers. At first they sounded loud and irritating, but gradually the constant buzzing lulled Bertha.
Jerome wandered out of his bedroom and into the bathroom still half asleep in only his underpants. He waved at Bertha. Moments later she heard the toilet flush and the child stumbled back to bed.
Bertha watched the yellow-orange hair fall into her lap and on the floor around her and decided that today had to be a better day.
Bertha waited until Rhonda Green had the police on the phone before she started down the stairs at just past seven thirty. Her haircut looked good, her stomach was full, and she felt rested. She couldn’t put her finger on what was wrong. Maybe it was something she’d forgotten. She needed to call Grandma and thought she should drop in on Madame Soccoro today as well as Sally Morescki. She’d avoid Toni as long as she could.
She came out of Rhonda’s back door and turned toward her own. She could hear the rain, softer now, falling on the roof. Suddenly there was a shadow in her peripheral vision. Bertha had been so lost in her thoughts she’d forgotten to look before she stepped out on the porch.
Adrenaline shot through her.
“That where you spent the night?” Toni Matulis said.
Bertha turned warily to face her.
“My, my,” said Toni, “you’ve had a makeover.”
“Look,” Bertha said. “I don’t know why you’re angry at me.”
“I’m not angry at you, Bertha. I guess I’m mad at myself. You weren’t ready, and I pushed you. But you didn’t have to say you’d call, when you didn’t plan on it.”
“I did plan on it.”
“You said you’d call me Monday night. For Christ sakes, Bertha, it’s Wednesday.”
“I’m
sorry. It’s just that—”
Toni held up both hands. “I know, I know. Something came up.”
“A lot of things came up. Why don’t you come in for coffee, and I can fill you in.”
Toni shook her head. “No, thanks.”
“If you don’t want to talk, then why did you come here?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you since dawn. We got a call at your grandma’s house early this morning.”
“Grandma? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. She thought she saw a prowler.”
Bertha held on to her back door for support, close to tears. “Please come in,” she said. “I’m not feeling so good.”
Chapter Twenty-four
“It was just sex,” Toni Matulis said. “No big deal.”
“It was a big deal to me.”
“I can tell.”
It seemed very strange to Bertha that Toni had stormed into the kitchen and started clearing her breakfast dishes. Toni had slammed cabinet doors and let a plate clatter in the sink. Bertha tried to come up behind her and put her hands on Toni’s shoulders.
Toni pulled away.
“I’m going to call my grandma. Then we’re going to talk about this.”
Toni glared at her. “Whatever.”
“And stop doing my dishes.”
“Go make your damn call,” Toni said without looking up.
Bertha glanced at the kitchen wall phone. She started to reach for it when Toni slammed the cast-iron skillet down on the counter. Bertha decided to make the call from the living room.
Aunt Lucy answered.
“I heard you had some trouble over there,” Bertha said.
Aunt Lucy sighed. “Mama has this idea that someone’s watching her from Edith’s house. She got up to go to the toilet this morning and came in to wake me up. She insisted that somebody was in Edith’s house, looking right into our kitchen window. She made such a fuss I called the police.”
“Did you see anything?”
“I didn’t see a light over there. Course it was early sunrise by then, dark inside but getting light outside. You know how spooky an empty house can seem. I swear, Bertha, I’ve never seen Mom this nervous and agitated. You’d think we had King Tut’s treasure in the basement or something.”
“Is it possible she didn’t imagine it?”
“I suppose anything’s possible,” said Aunt Lucy. “The police checked everything out. They couldn’t find anything. I don’t see why anyone would need to watch two old ladies.”
“Don’t discount it so fast. My neighbor told me someone was across the street from here last night when she came in from work. She was sure a man was watching the house.”
Aunt Lucy hesitated, then said, “I’d like to know what the hell’s going on.”
“I’m going to find out, one way or another.”
“You going to work today, honey?”
“Yes, I have one more thing I need to do. Then I’m going in. You can reach me there if you need me. I’ll stop by this afternoon after work. But call me if anything comes up.”
Aunt Lucy said, “How’d you know what’s going on over here? Who told you about our phantom prowler?”
Bertha could hear the water running in the kitchen. “I have a close friend on the police force.”
“Well, we’re all right. Mom and I are going to take a nap after breakfast. We’re both worn out.”
“You do that. Bertha’s eyes rested on the flashing answering machine. There was no way she could play it with Toni in the kitchen. How could she have forgotten to call her? Why did she screw up? Bertha decided to throw herself at the angry little woman’s mercy. She’d beg for forgiveness or at least apologize. Bertha wasn’t sure what sleeping with Toni meant. If this was the start of a relationship, then she was off to a rough start. If they were two women who just got caught up in the moment, then a little distance wouldn’t hurt. Bertha didn’t even know what she wanted. There was too much going on.
Bertha rose slowly and walked into the kitchen. The dishes were stacked in the rack and draining. The table and counter had been wiped clean. Toni Matulis was gone.
Bertha rushed to the kitchen door and swung it open. The backyard was empty. She ran through the house, ramming her shin against the corner of the coffee table again as she passed, and pulled the front door open just in time to see Toni’s Escort pull away from the curb and do a rolling stop at the corner.
Bertha stood there, stupidly watching the empty street and rubbing her throbbing shin for a moment. Finally, she went back inside to the answering machine. She hit the “play” button and listened.
The first message was a hang-up. The second was Toni.
Bertha, haven’t heard from you, and I’m feeling nervous. Can you call me and give me some reassurance? It’s Monday night. Eight o’clock. I’ll be home until time to go to work.
The third message was Toni again:
Bertha, it’s Tuesday afternoon. I thought we could get together for dinner. Left-over spaghetti. What do you think? Call me.
The machine beeped again and the fourth message was a woman’s soft voice.
Miss Brannon, this is Sally Morescki. Please call me.
She left her home number and the one at the shop. The fifth beep was followed by a long silence.
Okay, Bertha. I get the picture.
Bertha reset the machine and quickly headed for the bedroom. The laundry basket from Saturday afternoon still sat inside the bedroom door. She rummaged through it, extracting a clean pair of faded jeans. She pulled a white blouse from her closet. It was clean because, though it was perma press, it always needed ironing so she never wore it. She stripped off her shorts and T-shirt and pulled on the jeans, tucking the shirttail in as she looked for her good shoes. She finally settled on her scuffed white running shoes and promised herself she’d clean the bedroom up tonight after work. She retrieved her white linen jacket from a stack of dirty laundry in the corner and examined the spaghetti stain. If the spot was going to come out, Bertha needed to soak the jacket. She should have taken care of it Sunday night, but she’d come home to the break-in. Monday night she’d been searching for Cal Mossman in Fat Lady’s Projects, and Tuesday she’d had to deal with Mossman in her home. If the linen jacket was ruined, if Toni Matulis never spoke to her again, at least Bertha had her reasons.
Bertha took the jacket into the kitchen, ran cold water in the sink, added some dish detergent, and started to stuff the jacket in the water. Absently she checked the pockets. One was empty, and in the other she found a neatly folded piece of steno-pad paper. As she unfolded it, she realized that it contained her notes from her last interview with Madame Soccoro.
Bertha read her own scribbles: Mailbox. Tributaries. Secrets. Truth guarded by a small dark figure. Northeast. Across the bottom of the paper she’d scrawled, Don’t forget to transfer $50. From the business account.
She hadn’t done that yet. She needed to or the tarot reader’s check would bounce.
“All tributaries lead to the same river,” Madame Soccoro had said. What did that mean? What were the secrets? Detective Harris told her the mailbox at the Lambert Building had been broken into. Drilled professionally. She’d forgotten to check it yesterday. Alvin usually got the mail. Maybe he thought she knew about it.
Bertha went into the dining room and sat down at the computer. While she waited for it to boot, she stared out the side window at the driveway. She remembered swinging in, Jerome’s rubber baseball bouncing across in front of her, the prickle up her spine as Cal Mossman approached.
Bertha entered notes from the Madame Soccoro, Detective Harris, and Cal Mossman encounters. She picked up a pen and started a list of things she needed to do that morning. At the top she wrote “Call B-2 Lock Company about the back door.” She had to get to the office and start putting the place back together. She needed to transfer money into her checking account and either get her gun back from the police or buy a new one. She wanted to find out mo
re about Madam Soccoro. Did she have a standing appointment with Sally on Wednesday? She had to return to Sally Morescki’s call and try to find Kim Cornwell.
Bertha put the list along with the printed notes from her meetings with Cal Mossman and Madame Soccoro in her briefcase. She pushed a kitchen table against the back door and went out the front. After tossing her morning newspaper into the living room and locking up, then descending the front steps, she looked across the street at a clump of tall lilac bushes. Could someone have been watching her last night? Had Cal Mossman hung around after he left? Bertha didn’t recall him being the type to hang around in bushes. He had people who did that sort of thing for him. If it had been him, what was he waiting for? He’d been in her apartment, had his opportunity.
Bertha walked down the sidewalk, hesitated only a moment at the curb, then crossed the street. She poked around in the bushes and stepped behind them. There were a few candy wrappers, a torn-up paper cup that looked like it had been there for a while, and an empty half-pint bottle of bourbon that could have been tossed from a passing car. She turned and looked back. There was a good view of the house, her living-room and bathroom windows, both of which had the blinds closed. She looked up toward Rhonda Green’s apartment. People who lived on the second floor didn’t have to be as careful about window blinds. She could see Rhonda’s bedroom windows and actually saw Rhonda walk past one of them holding what looked like an armload of laundry. Was it possible the man in the bushes was watching Rhonda? What did that mean about the problem at Grandma’s?
Bertha walked back across the street and went around the house and strode to her Jeep. The trees were dripping with morning dew. The grass was wet. The sun was getting higher and hotter. She tossed her briefcase in the passenger seat and started the Jeep, and while adjusting the ancient air conditioner, she went over the list in her mind. Where should she start? She put the Jeep in gear, drove around the house, and turned at the end of the driveway toward Sunnyvale Trailer Park and Toni Matulis.
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 20
