*
Sun glinted off the white fiberglass Sunnyvale sign as Bertha turned the Jeep off the main road and drove into the trailer park. She followed the winding gravel road, white dust kicking up under her tires. The place looked different, and she made a wrong turn that took her back to the entrance. She started again and finally found the corner lot and Toni Matulis’s trailer. Toni’s gold car was parked in the drive.
Bertha swung out of the Jeep and hurried up the aluminum steps. She pressed the doorbell, heard nothing, and knocked. She watched the knob jiggle and the door open about six inches. A little girl was looking up at her.
“Is your momma home?” Bertha asked.
“Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of hers.”
The child drew herself up tall, stuck out her chin, and said, “Then how come I don’t know you?”
“I’m her new friend. Are you Doree?”
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” the child said, and shut the door.
Bertha knocked again, harder. “Toni,” she hollered. “Open the door. Toni.”
After several minutes had passed, Bertha gave up and started down the trailer steps. She heard the door open behind her and looked back.
Toni stood there in an oversized T-shirt, a towel wrapped around her head. “I was in the shower,” she said breathlessly.
“I said we’d talk. Why did you leave?”
Toni flushed and stepped backward. “Come on in then.”
The child sat at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of Froot Loops. Her hair had a reddish cast—the texture of her father’s hair and the color of her mother’s. Her face was narrow, and her eyes were coal black with long dark lashes. Her skin was light, but there was no mistaking her mixed features.
Bertha smiled at the child and said, “Hello.”
“Doree,” Toni said, “this is Bertha Brannon. She’s a lawyer. Bertha, my daughter.”
Doree shoved a spoonful of cereal into her mouth, and milk trailed down her chin. Bertha waved at her awkwardly. Doree ducked her head.
“She’s shy,” Toni explained.
Bertha turned to her and asked softly, “Why did you leave?”
“I thought I wasn’t wanted. I didn’t want to be a bother. Besides, I had to relieve the sitter.”
“Well, you are wanted,” Bertha heard herself say. “What I don’t want is all the rest of the stuff that’s going on right now. If we’d met under better circumstances, I’d have sent you roses by Monday and tried for an encore performance Tuesday. Who knows, we may have been picking out china patterns by now.”
Toni searched Bertha’s face skeptically. At length she said, “Is your grandma all right?”
“She’s fine, scared, tired, but unharmed. I went up to the neighbor’s place this morning because she saw a man watching the house when she came in from work last night.”
“You just figured you’d get a haircut while you were up there?”
Bertha touched the ends of her hair. She’d forgotten about the cut.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s an improvement. Looks real butch.”
“Mommy, I need more milk,” Doree said from the kitchen.
“Excuse me.” Toni went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
Bertha looked at the narrow living room. There were toys on the floor, an unfinished dinosaur puzzle on the coffee table, and a box of fat crayons on the arm of the sofa. She thought about Rhonda Green and her children. For the first time Bertha saw Toni in that context. The picture was unsettling.
Toni was beside her again. “Doree’s daycare bus picks her up in about five minutes. How about I get you a cup of coffee? We can talk after she’s gone.”
Bertha glanced at her watch. She needed to get to the office. She needed to return Sally Morescki’s call. “Sure, no problem.”
“Have a seat then.” Toni motioned toward the living room.
Doree said, “I ain’t going to Peter Panda today.”
Toni poured a cup of coffee and brought it to Bertha. She went back in the kitchen and picked up the box of Froot Loops. “Today’s swimming,” she said to the little girl.
“Is my suit ready?”
Toni pointed to a grocery bag, sitting just inside the front door. “Right there.”
“Will Bertha be here when I come home?”
“No. Now get your shoes on.”
The child climbed out of her chair, scampered into the living room, stopped in front of Bertha, and said, “Don’t you bother my puzzle.” Then she ran down the hallway.
“Cute kid,” Bertha said.
Toni pointed her finger at Bertha and shook it. “You are not off the hook.”
Bertha spread her hands. “I came to make this right if I can.”
Toni turned and glared out the narrow glass in the trailer door. Doree’s footsteps pounded in the hall. “Tie them, Mommy. The bus is here.”
Toni squatted before the impatient child’s red tennis shoes. She pulled the front door open, grabbed the paper grocery bag, swooped the child up in her arms, and was gone.
Bertha waited, absently sipping coffee and arranging the puzzle pieces. The front door slammed. She looked up in time to see Toni unwind the towel from her head, bend, and shake her dark hair lose.
“Want a drink?” Toni asked.
Bertha stared at her warily.
“Oh. I forgot. You don’t drink.”
Bertha looked at her watch. “It’s five till ten in the morning.”
“Bedtime for me.” Toni went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “How about some juice? I have tomato, grape, or cranberry.”
“Just water, thanks. I still have half a cup of coffee.”
Toni returned to the living room with two wineglasses. She set the one with ice water on the coffee table in front of Bertha, collapsed into the rocking chair, drew her feet up, and sipped a burgundy-colored liquid.
After a moment, she said, “So someone was outside your place last night too?”
“Yes. In fact, a lot has happened since I last saw you.”
“Sounds like it.” Toni’s voice sounded chilly.
Bertha slid off the couch and knelt in front of Toni. “What can I do to make this up to you?”
“Talk to me. Don’t lie to me. And don’t put your hands on me until I’ve heard it all.”
Bertha didn’t know what to do with her hands. She felt an emotional tug, and she started talking.
“Monday morning after you left, Alvin told me it was possible an old acquaintance of mine was connected to the Morescki murder.” Bertha placed her hands on the arms of the chair.
Toni sipped the wine and watched her.
Bertha hesitated.
Toni said, “Go on.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Bertha Brannon bit into her second cheeseburger. According to the clock on the bank across the street, it was 1:37. A diet soda was balanced on the dashboard of the Jeep. She was parked in the shade with the windows rolled down but was still too warm. The morning was shot. She’d stuck around long enough to convince Toni Matulis of her sincerity, if not long enough to totally convince herself. They’d taken time neither of them had to spare and made love. Afterward, Bertha had tucked Toni in and kissed her forehead.
“I’ll call you later,” Bertha said.
“Like last time?”
Bertha kissed her lips, shoved her tongue against her teeth. She pulled away, making a growling sound, and said, “I promise, I’ll do better. Now, get some sleep,” then started to walk away.
Toni caught her hand. Bertha turned and knelt down.
“What are we doing?” Toni asked.
Bertha shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. But we’ll figure it out.”
Toni smiled. “Okay.”
“I need to use your phone,” Bertha said. “Then I’ll head to the office.”
Toni yawned. “Lock up when you go out, please.”
“Will do
.”
Bertha’d called Sally Morescki’s home number. The maid told her that Sally would be at the boutique all day. Bertha then phoned the shop, and the clerk told her that Sally was across the street making the bank deposit. That’s when Bertha decided to go to the shop and meet with Sally in person. But when she got there, the clerk explained that a friend had come, and Mrs. Morescki had gone to lunch with her.
*
Bertha looked around uncomfortably at the two arrangements of fresh flowers and a cappuccino machine next to a plate of dainty cookies, several valuable-looking figurines displayed throughout the shop, and the pale-peach, lush carpet. Narrowed mirrored strips connected wide panels of silky champagne-colored wallpaper. She absently fingered skirts on a circular rack. The largest size was a ten. She caught her reflection in a full-length mirror. The haircut was an improvement.
“Do you have a restroom?”
The young woman frowned at her. “There’s no public restroom in here. Perhaps you want to try the Bar and Grill across the street.”
“Is that where Mrs. Morescki is having lunch?”
The clerk wrinkled her nose distastefully. “I doubt it.”
Bertha was happy to leave the woman to herself. She crossed the street and entered the Bar and Grill, which was crowded with lunch-hour patrons. She ordered two cheeseburgers and a soft drink at the counter and then used the restroom while she waited.
She came out of the diner carrying her lunch and found the parking meter had expired. She’d pulled the Jeep into the lot next to the Bar and Grill, facing the boutique, to wait forty minutes ago.
The shop hadn’t been busy. A couple of women on their lunch hour from the bank had stopped in front of the display window, looked in longingly, and walked on. At one fifteen a police car pulled into the twenty-minute parking place in front. A uniformed officer got out, ignored the expired parking meter, and went into the shop. He looked familiar in a thick-necked, heavy-jawed, red-faced way. His hair was trimmed close, graying on the sides and thinning on top. For a bulky guy, he moved with grace. He looked like a younger, taller version of Jelly Morescki, and Bertha guessed he was the brother of the deceased. He came out of the shop a few minutes later and paced back and forth, checking his watch several times. Finally he got back in the blue-and-white and left.
Bertha drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She considered leaving—connecting with Sally another time. She took the last bite of her cheeseburger, wiped her fingers on a napkin, wadded it up, and tossed it in the backseat. She folded the carryout bag and fanned herself. The heat was getting worse. She wouldn’t make a good detective. Her stomach was full, her bladder was full, and she was sleepy. She yawned, checked the time, and considered going back into the Bar and Grill.
That’s when she saw them. They were a block away, walking on the opposite side of the street. Crossing the intersection. Talking and laughing. There was no mistaking Sally, her short, dark hair curling around her slender face. She wore matching pastel pants and a jacket that screamed “Dry clean only.” The woman she was with was shorter, rounder, browner, dressed in tight white pants and a pale-pink sweater that contrasted with her dark-brown skin. Her gold bracelets flashed in the sun. There was something familiar about the way the woman strutted in her high heels, the way she gestured with her long fingers and bent over laughing.
Bertha craned her neck, leaning forward over the steering wheel. The woman with Sally Morescki was Aunt Lucy.
They approached the shop, and Sally held the door while Aunt Lucy went in. Bertha, who had been holding her breath, exhaled slowly.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Do you have some identification?”
In her periphery, Bertha saw a uniform. She turned and forced a smile. “What’s the problem, Officer?”
“Some identification, ma’am.”
Bertha reached for her briefcase, found her driver’s license, and passed it through the open Jeep window. She checked the rearview mirror. The blue-and-white was behind her, blocking her in.
“I don’t understand,” Bertha said. “Have I done something wrong?”
“Wait here, please.” The officer was polite but firm. He walked back to the blue-and-white and got in.
Bertha waited, watched the boutique, fanned herself with the paper bag, and shifted in the seat uncomfortably. Several minutes later she saw the uniform approaching. He stopped by her car window, pushed his hat back, and leaned down. “Miss. Brannon, this is a private parking lot. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to move on.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, ma’am.”
“It belongs to the Bar and Grill, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I was having my lunch.” Bertha hit the word lunch a little too hard.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable inside?” the officer asked.
“I suppose.” Bertha swung the door of the Jeep open and stepped out. “Are we through?”
“You’re going in?”
“Yes.”
The officer held her driver’s license out to her.
Bertha snatched it from him and wondered if the management of the restaurant had called the police. She went into the dark, cool bar, and no one paid attention to her. She walked through, straight to the restroom. When she emerged several minutes later, the blue-and-white was gone. She pushed her way through the door and into the warm sunlight in time to see a cab pull up in front of the boutique and Aunt Lucy get in. She checked her watch: after two o’clock.
Bertha got into her Jeep and circled the block, looking for another parking space. She found one and put the last of her change in the meter.
Sweat ran down the side of Bertha’s face. Her clothes were soaked. She entered the boutique, and the door hissed shut behind her. At first she didn’t see the clerk, who was behind a rack of dresses. Then their eyes met.
The clerk dropped a dress across a chair and hurried down a hallway. Bertha heard her say, “That woman is back.”
A moment later Sally Morescki pushed aside the pale drapes.
“Miss. Brannon,” Sally said, coming toward her with an outstretched hand. “How good of you to come by.”
“You know her?” the clerk asked from behind Sally.
“Yes, Brigit. Miss. Brannon and I are old friends.”
Brigit’s mouth puckered like she’d tasted something sour. “I see,” she said.
Suddenly Bertha knew who had called the police. She looked from Brigit to Sally suspiciously and said, “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
“No, no,” Sally said. “Please follow me. Would you like some cappuccino?”
“No, thanks.” Bertha followed Mrs. Morescki down a narrow hallway, past two changing areas and a restroom to an office.
Sally motioned for Bertha to have a seat in one of two chairs that sat facing an antique table. Once a friend, who had an MBA, told Bertha that the higher paying the job was, the fewer drawers the executive had in his desk. The highest paid executives simply used a table; the only thing higher than that was a glass-topped table. Bertha remembered this as she looked at Sally’s table. The top was clean. A telephone with two lines sat on one corner, a gold lamp on the other. Bertha didn’t even see an ink pen. She looked around the well-lit room. A couple of small paintings hung on the wall behind Sally’s chair, and a healthy-looking palm stood near the window. The pale carpet was thick beneath Bertha’s scuffed New Balance tennis shoes.
Sally gracefully sat behind the desk, crossed her legs, and smiled. “There was really no need to come in, Miss Brannon. We could have talked over the phone.”
“I was downtown anyway.”
Sally nodded. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
Bertha shook her head.
Sally pulled a gold cigarette case from the pocket of her blazer, placed a non-filtered cigarette between her lips, and offered the case to Bertha.
“I quit a year ago.”
“Good for you,” Sally said, holding a gol
d lighter to the tip of the cigarette. Her hand trembled slightly.
Sally inhaled, leaned her head back, and slowly blew the smoke upward. At length she said, “Our last conversation was cut rather short.”
Bertha nodded. “Understandable. I knew you were busy. I appreciated what little time you could spare.”
“I’m afraid my father-in-law made an ass of himself.”
“I’m sure he has a lot on his mind.”
“Yes.” Sally opened the center drawer in the table and pulled out a clean ashtray. “I suppose you’re wondering why I called.”
“I’m hoping,” Bertha said, “you’ve remembered something that will help me.”
“I thought a lot about our conversation. I tried to make sense of it, but I can’t.”
“Then why did you call?”
Sally took a deep breath and exhaled the words: “The woman you’re looking for may have been at my husband’s funeral.” The glowing end of Sally’s cigarette grew brighter as she drew on it. Sally’s hands shook a little as she tapped the end of the smoldering cylinder on the clean ashtray.
“Who is she?”
“Mind you, I’m not sure.” Sally leaned forward, meeting Bertha’s eyes. “I don’t remember her name, but I know she used to work at my husband’s firm. I remember when he fired her.”
“Why do you think this woman is the one who impersonated you?”
“Well, she fits the description you gave.” Sally shrugged. “That’s the only reason. Except that she seems to have befriended that horrible man, Calvin Mossman.”
Bertha’s temperature rose. Her chest was tight and didn’t seem to quite accommodate her breathing. “How well do you know Cal Mossman?”
Sally Morescki spat the words. “Too well.”
“This woman came to the funeral with Mossman?”
“That’s right. As we left for the cemetery, I saw them engaged in a conversation with my father-in-law. Then something strange happened.”
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 21
