Nine Nights on the Windy Tree

by Martha Miller

  “What?”

  “Frank, Joe’s brother, broke it up. I think Jelly was surprised. But Frank hates drug dealers. I’ve heard that Cal, well, that he, sells drugs.”

  “You’ve heard right.”

  “Then you know him?”

  Bertha exhaled the words. “Yes, I know him.”

  “Six years ago Frank’s only son, only child, died of a drug overdose. It was an accident. Kids experimenting. Frankie, Jr. was only sixteen years old.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Bertha. And she was.

  “Frank was torn up. Something inside him changed. He’s never been the same. The boy’s death was harder on his mother, though. Two years later, almost to the day, Frank’s wife took too much of a prescription drug. She held on for two weeks. Kidney failure. Coma. Then she was gone too.”

  Bertha watched Sally for a moment as she tried to put this new information in context. Then she remembered. “He was here.”

  “Who?”

  “Your brother-in-law, I think. He came while you were out. Left when he didn’t find you.” Bertha wondered why the salesperson hadn’t told her.

  “I’ll call him when we’re through. Thanks.”

  Bertha tried to get back on the topic. “And in spite of everything Mossman worked for your husband?”

  “That’s right. Of course, the boundaries between the family’s businesses overlap.”

  “So it’s possible that Mossman has some dealings with your father-in-law?”

  “I’m sure he does.” Bertha sat up straight and took a deep breath. “Mrs. Morescki, I’ve interviewed Calvin Mossman. He claims that while he was acting as your driver, he took you to the tarot reader every week.”

  Sally’s dark-green eyes grew round.

  Bertha went on. “He told me that you had as much reason to kill your husband as anyone.”

  Sally stubbed out her cigarette with shaking hands. She licked her lips and swallowed. After a lengthy silence, she said, “Miss Brannon, would you like a drink?”

  “No, thanks. I quit.”

  “How admirable,” Sally said tersely. She stood and crossed the room, then opened a door that revealed a large closet. In one corner was a tabletop copy machine, and in the other were a coffee pot, sink, microwave, and a small refrigerator.

  Bertha wished she had something like that in her office and remembered her own supply closet.

  Sally pulled a paper cup from the overhead cabinet and a pint of apricot brandy from the refrigerator. Her hands were shaking as she broke the seal, and she spilled some on the counter as she poured. She turned and started back across the room, stopped, stepped back, and brought the bottle to the desk with her.

  Bertha let her get a couple of swallows down. Finally she asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I didn’t kill my husband, Miss Brannon. We had our problems. We fought that night over money. I was very angry. Did Mossman tell you that Joe struck me during that fight?”

  Bertha cocked her head and said nothing.

  “I thought not. If I wanted rid of my husband, I have my own money. I could have easily divorced him.”

  Bertha shifted in the plastic chair. “Then I just have one more question.”

  Sally took another drink and refilled the paper cup. “What’s that?”

  “How do you know my Aunt Lucy?”

  Sally Morescki set the paper cup on the antique table and leaned forward. “I beg your pardon?”

  “My father’s sister. Your lunch date. My Aunt Lucy.”

  “Lucille?”

  “Yes.”

  Sally pulled the gold cigarette case from her pocket, and her hands didn’t shake this time. Bertha had seen this phenomenon before. It used to happen with her father. Hell, it had happened to her. It was the alcohol.

  “She’s an old friend. We went to high school together, years ago. She lives in Chicago, you know?”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “I’m from Chicago.” Sally blew cigarette smoke upward. She picked up the paper cup and sipped.

  “My Aunt Lucy went to high school on the east end of town,” Bertha said. “Not Chicago.”

  “Well, yes, of course,” Sally Morescki stammered. “You know, Bertha, the world was spinning before you were born. It’s possible there are a lot of things you don’t know about your Aunt Lucy. We know each other from a long time ago. This morning she called me and said she’d be in town a few days.”

  “And how well do you know her brother Curtis?” Bertha asked.

  “He’s dead, I think.”

  The smell of the alcohol burned in Bertha’s nostrils. The cheeseburgers she’d wolfed down for lunch sat in her esophagus. Sally Morescki wouldn’t meet her eyes; she was lying. “Isn’t it a small world?” Bertha said.

  Sally Morescki turned the paper cup up and emptied it, then said. “Yes, indeed.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  When Bertha reached her office at two thirty, Alvin was at his desk, opening mail with the phone propped on his shoulder. “No,” he said, watching her come through the door. “Not yet.” His boyish face was pale under its sunburn. He put down the handful of envelopes, listened to the person on the line, and at the same time raised a single finger, indicating that Bertha should stop.

  She paused, meeting his eyes.

  He pointed to the far corner of the room.

  Bertha sucked in her breath quickly. The man must have weighed way over three hundred and fifty pounds. His thin, reddish hair was shoulder-length, receding and fuzzy on top. He wore a short-sleeved pink shirt and a paisley tie. His corpulent forearms were covered with several tattoos, the ones on his fingers crude—probably done in prison.

  He grabbed the arms of the chair and pushed himself to a standing position, his chest heaving from the exertion. He extended a soft, cool hand and in a deep voice that sounded good enough for a radio broadcast, he said, “Miss Brannon, I presume.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you have an appointment?” Bertha knew damn well he didn’t. No one had had a real appointment since Friday.

  “You asked to see me,” the man said. “I was in the neighborhood.” He shrugged and smiled.

  “I think I would remember—”

  “Mark Mossman,” the man said.

  At first the name didn’t register. Then it came to her; he had to be Cal’s brother. She heard herself say, “Please go into my office. I’ll be right there.”

  The big man moved past her.

  She turned to Alvin, who’d just hung up. “He been waiting long?”

  Alvin leaned toward her and whispered, “Long enough for me. I told him I wasn’t sure what time you’d be in. Actually, I expected you hours ago. Where you been?”

  “Long story,” Bertha said, brushing off the question.

  “Well, I thought this might be important. “After the stuff I dug up at City Contracts.”

  Bertha groaned. “You’re probably right. Give me fifteen minutes, then interrupt us.”

  “You’ve had some calls.”

  “Anything important?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait fifteen minutes. That last one was Pat Reed.”

  Bertha remembered the scene at the police station the previous morning. She didn’t really want to talk about throwing a client’s kid against the wall. “Did she sound upset?”

  Alvin shrugged. “Why should she be upset?”

  “Never mind. I’ll call her when I’m done here.”

  “Right. Who knows. We might actually generate some revenue this week.”

  “I doubt if we’ll make much from Pat Reed,” Bertha said, as she opened the inner-office door.

  Mark Mossman stood by the window, looking down at the street below. His huge body seemed to take up half the room. Bertha saw the problem. The folding chair was gone. The image of Joe Morescki, slumped over and covered with his own blood, flashed in her mind.

  She backed up and called to Alvin, “I’ll need the extra chair in here.”

  A moment later, whil
e the big man watched, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his black denim pants, Alvin half-carried, half-scooted a vinyl waiting-room chair into Bertha’s office. He pushed it into place, flashed a frustrated smile, and said, “Anything else, Ms. Brannon?”

  “No, thanks, Alvin.”

  Alvin shut the door a little too hard on the way out.

  Bertha gestured to the chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Mossman.”

  The chair seemed to groan as Mark Mossman settled his bulk on the vinyl seat. His sides ballooned out over the wooden chair arms. His expression was affable if a bit oily as he turned his sleek-eyed fat, smiling face on Bertha. His voice was a suave purr. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, Miss. Brannon. My brother called me this morning and told me you were looking into the Morescki affair. You asked to speak to me?”

  “You were employed by Joe Morescki?”

  Mossman stroked his tie with swollen hands. “Yes, that’s right. I started out doing various construction jobs. Mr. Morescki gave me a full-time position after I proved myself.”

  Bertha’s eyes were drawn to the supply closet door. It was closed, and the yellow-crime tape had been removed. She checked the floor for dark stains. They were faint but still there, waiting for Friday and Maids-on-Wheels. She realized that Mark Mossman had said something. “I’m sorry. What did you do for Joe Morescki?”

  “I was a bodyguard of sorts.” The pink flesh on Mossman’s forehead crawled into a frown. He lowered his head, mashing his chins together over his collar, and asked, “Is this where it happened?”

  Bertha nodded.

  With an abruptness that set all his fat quivering, Mark Mossman raised his head and laughed. “He should’ve never fired me.”

  “Who would want him dead?”

  Mossman leaned toward her and said, “The question is, Madame, who wouldn’t?”

  Bertha settled back. The room was too warm, and her clothes were still moist from sitting in the hot car, waiting for Sally Morescki. Her damp bra cut into her side. “Are you saying that Joe Morescki had several enemies?”

  Mossman tilted his head to the left and considered the question. “He was a man who took what he wanted. That pissed people off.”

  “Anyone who would be capable of murder?”

  The big man interlaced his fingers over his belly and leaned back. “I tend to think philosophically about murder. The most threatening people generally don’t kill, you know. It’s the little guys you got to watch out for. Not a lot of things scare me, Miss Brannon, but weakness is one of them. Murder is a last resort. A vulnerable person will reach that option much quicker.”

  “Does anyone come to mind?” Bertha was afraid she was getting nowhere.

  Mark Mossman looked in the direction of the supply closet. “I heard he had his throat slit. Very messy. Very amateur. See, if it was business, the killer woulda just popped him. Maybe took him for a long ride. Nice and clean. What you got here, Miss Brannon, is someone who’s out of control.” He faked a shiver and then added, “Very scary stuff.”

  “How well do you know Mrs. Morescki?”

  “Sally?” Mossman grinned. He pressed two big fingers together. “We’re like that.”

  “Cal indicated they didn’t always get along.”

  “Fought like cats and dogs.”

  “Do you think she’s capable of murder?”

  Mossman shook his head so that his round cheeks wobbled. He shifted his bulk in the chair and smiled. “Joe was a womanizer, always had one or two on the string. Set em up in condos, gave ’em jobs with the firm. He and his wife fought about it. That was no secret, but I think she handled it pretty well. She’s a class act, you know? A recent development deal over on the east end had her pretty shook up. I heard her threaten to kill him. Several people did. They were arguing, and the asshole took a swing at her. She threw a drink in his face. Then she said it, calm as could be; she told him if he didn’t shut up about the money, she’d kill him, and she turned around and walked out. Joe sent me after her to give her a ride home.”

  “Money?”

  Mossman nodded. “I’m sure that’s what she said.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  Mossman leaned forward, and the chair beneath him made a cracking sound. His voice, like his smile, was suave. “Why not let sleeping dogs lie, Miss Brannon? I know you had a bad experience, finding the body and all. But it’s over. The Moresckis are nothing to you. Why not just clean up the mess over there and go on with your life? The police will handle this. They’ll either put it down or put it on the shelf. You keep nosing around and you could get hurt.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “You misunderstand me.” Mossman held up a thick hand and cleared his throat. “If Sally killed Joe, he pushed her to it. Now, I love women. I been married five times, and by God, every time my wife ditched me, I had it coming. Women usually get the short end of the stick in matrimony. I love Sally, and I personally wouldn’t want to see anything bad happen to her. You might say I’d go out of my way to see that nothing bad did happen to her.”

  Bertha watched his unblinking, eyes. He was a smooth bastard.

  “I mean no harm to Mrs. Morescki, but I’m afraid I can’t just drop it,” she said. “Someone has threatened my grandma. I think it has to do with that development deal the Moresckis quarreled about. Somehow the murder and my family are connected. I’m trying to get to the bottom of this before one of us gets hurt. If you’re a family man, I’m sure you understand.”

  Mossman was quiet for a moment. Bertha could still hear his heavy breathing. She ran her hands over the desktop, not used to it being empty.

  Finally Mossman said, “I always got the feeling that the east-side development deal was more than a strip mall in a bad neighborhood. In fact, I doubt if those stores ever get built.”

  Bertha’s tried to keep her voice level. “Why else would the firm want the land?”

  Mossman shrugged. “To resell at a profit.”

  “To whom?”

  “I don’t know. You’d have to get next to the old man for that information. This kind of thing went on all the time. Joe was in a position to know which property would be valuable. He’d buy it up, sometimes develop it, sometimes let it sit and then resell it. But, you see, this has nothing to do with Sally.”

  “As Joe’s bodyguard, did he ever ask you to get tough with people?”

  “You mean frighten them?”

  “Or more.”

  Mossman spread his huge hands. “I have to plead the fifth on that question, Counselor.”

  “We’re not in court, Mr. Mossman. I don’t care who you pushed around as long as it’s not a relative of mine.”

  There was a tapping on the office door, and Alvin stuck his head inside. “Mrs. Reed on the phone, Bertha. You want to take it?”

  “We’re almost done. Have her hold on.”

  Alvin nodded and closed the door.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about this business, Mark?”

  Mossman shifted his bulk in the chair again. He swiped beads of sweat from his forehead and exhaled slowly. “Talk to Jelly. The old man will have the answers you want.” He stood then, and the vinyl chair seemed to sigh with relief. He extended his meaty paw and Bertha shook it. At the door he turned back to her and said, “Have you heard from Kim Cornwell, Bertha?”

  “What?”

  “Kim Cornwell. I wondered if she’s contacted you.”

  “Why should she?”

  Mark Mossman chuckled, shaking his head. “If you see her, tell her I’m looking for her.” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled the door open and left.

  Bertha collapsed in her chair and stared after him.

  Alvin poked his head through the door. “Line two.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Patricia Reed is on line two,” Alvin repeated.

  “I thought you were helping me get rid of him,” Bertha said, looking at the lighted button on the phone.


  “No, honey. You really have a call.” Alvin hesitated. “Haircut’s an improvement.”

  “Thanks,” Bertha said, reaching for the phone. “Bertha Brannon here.”

  “Bertha? This is Jimmy Reed’s mom.”

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Reed?”

  “I want to talk to you about yesterday. The business at the police station.”

  Bertha braced herself. She figured the woman was going to let her have it. “I lost my temper,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. He had it coming. Someone needs to get tough with him before he totally self-destructs. The police, the courts, Child and Family Services, they all got bigger problems. They have kids who’re committing armed robbery or being seriously abused. I honestly think Jimmy will keep upping the ante until somebody pays attention—until somebody draws a line in the sand.”

  Bertha remembered the smell of alcohol on the boy’s breath. “How can I help?” she asked.

  “There’s a treatment center for teens in Halfort, just an hour away. I already talked to them. They have an opening. The thing is, my insurance won’t pay for it. My ex says he doesn’t have the means. Hell, when he finds out about the wage assignment, he’ll go nuts. But if I could get what he owes me, lump sum, I could afford the treatment.”

  “Does your ex have the money?”

  “I think so. The worst that could happen would be that he’d have to sell one of his cars or get a loan.”

  “We might be able to slide it past a juvenile judge,” Bertha said, thinking out loud. “Wallace was certainly on our side.”

  “I can’t afford to pay for your services,” Mrs. Reed said. “I know that court time is expensive. I wondered if we could barter a retainer and get fees and court costs slapped on to what my ex owes?”

  Bertha considered this. Once again, she’d be working on speculation. If the judge didn’t go for it, she’d have to let Pat Reed make payments. Small payments.

  “I got the idea yesterday, when you confronted the boy, that you understood,” said Pat Reed. “Jimmy’s at a place in his life that could make or break him. He needs help. This treatment center could turn his life around.”