She had no idea how long she’d been asleep when Jerome shook her shoulder.
“Bertha,” he whispered. “Wake up.”
She blinked and tried to focus. The room was dark except for the flickering TV. For a moment she wondered where she was.
“What?” she asked.
He held one finger in front of this lips and whispered, “Quiet.”
She sat up slowly and met Jerome’s round, dark eyes. “What is it?”
“There’s a man in the yard.”
Bertha pulled Jerome onto her lap and hugged him. “Did you have a bad dream?”
“No. I heard a noise down there, and I looked out.” Jerome took her hand and slid off her lap. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
He led her into his bedroom to the window that overlooked the front lawn. The bright moonlight cast long shadows on the empty yard. Bertha looked across the street to the spot where Rhonda Green claimed to have seen a stranger a couple of nights before. The bushes were waving in the wind. Leaves rustled; swaying gnarly branches seemed to have an arthritic stiffness. She looked up and down the street—no unfamiliar cars.
Jerome said, “He gone.”
“Maybe it was just somebody walking home late from a party or their night job.”
Jerome shook his head. “He was in our yard, looking at our house. I saw him.”
“You go back to bed. I’ll check the locks and make sure I don’t fall asleep again. We’re safe here inside.”
Jerome climbed back in his bed. “Why somebody want to be in our yard, anyhow?”
Bertha shrugged and pulled the sheet up to his shoulders. “He’s probably just lost. Don’t worry about it.”
Bertha went back into the living room and turned down the TV. At the bottom of the stairs, she made sure the door was locked, then looked out through the glass across the porch and the backyard. Nothing unusual. Back upstairs she carefully checked all the windows. Gradually, she convinced herself that Jerome had had a nightmare that unfortunately inflamed her own fears. Rhonda Green would be home in thirty or forty minutes. She sat down to wait.
Then she heard the sound of her own front door opening downstairs.
Chapter Thirty-one
The squad car pulled up in front the same time as Rhonda swung into the driveway. Bertha met the police officer and her frantic neighbor on the back porch.
Bertha held up a hand toward Rhonda and said, “Don’t worry, everything’s all right.”
“What you doing in my place?” Rhonda asked. “Where’s Megan?”
“Didn’t she call you?”
Rhonda shook her head no and glared at the white police officer behind Bertha.
“Megan was sick. I took her home and stayed with the boys for the last hour or so.”
“Which of you is Bertha Brannon?” the uniformed officer asked.
“I’m Bertha. I called.”
“What’s going on?” Rhonda asked anxiously.
“Jerome thought he saw someone in the yard. A few minutes later I heard a noise around my front door. I called the police.”
Rhonda put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God.”
“We’re okay. Go on upstairs. Jerome’s still awake.”
Rhonda nodded toward the policeman and said, “Be sure and tell them about the guy the other night.”
“I will,” Bertha said. “I want to check out my place now that the police are here.”
“Call me later,” Rhonda said over her shoulder.
The police officer was older than the one Bertha had seen earlier in the week. He had a large, rosy face and little hair, just a few thick, gray clumps drawn across his pink, freckled scalp.
He said, “My partner’s in front. I suggest you stay out here while we check it out.”
Bertha had her keys in her hand. “I’m going in with you.”
“Miss Brannon, I’m not fooling around. Do what I say, or I’ll cuff you.”
Bertha slid the key into the new dead-bolt lock and stepped back out of the way, though it wasn’t what she wanted to do.
The police officer unbuckled his holster and drew his weapon. He opened the door slowly and stood aside.
“Police,” he hollered. “Come out with your hands up.”
Nothing happened. The officer stepped into the dark kitchen. The light came on.
Bertha stood on the porch with her back against the house. Sweat trickled down her neck. She reached behind her, pulled her own gun, and tripped the safety. The clicking of the Smith and Wesson resounded through the stillness like a cannon. She waited, listening for sounds of a scuffle, voices, anything.
Finally the back-porch light came on, and the uniformed officer called to her. “It’s all clear. Come on in and let us know if anything’s been disturbed.”
Bertha flipped the safety and returned her gun to its holster. She stepped into her kitchen and found the two policemen standing by a countertop, working on the report. The younger one was the officer who’d come the night of her first break-in.
“No one’s here now,” he said, holding out his hand. “The same MO as the other night.”
The object he held out to her was her front doorknob. “You think it was the same person?”
The officer pushed back his hat and shrugged. “It’s unusual. Most burglars wouldn’t take the time. Some of them use picklocks or an instrument that damages the doorframe. We get a lot of broken windows. This is the only time I’ve ever seen a burglar dismantle the whole assembly.”
The older policeman said, “Why don’t you take a look around and see if anything’s missing. The bedroom looks like it’s been tossed.”
The overhead light glared on a room in utter chaos. The bed was unmade, the mattress slightly askew, and the blankets were half way on the floor. The dresser drawers were open. Clean laundry in a basket still occupied one corner, with dirty clothes strewn around it. Boxes from the back of the closet were stacked along the wall with huge gobs of dust clinging to the corners; parts of their contents were on the floor in uneven stacks. The Tylenol bottle lay beside the bed, red-and-white gel caps scattered on the carpet next to a couple of used bath towels and the crow bar.
Bertha realized the younger policeman was standing beside her. She shook her head and said, “Nothing’s been disturbed in here.”
He was overly polite. “As you say, ma’am.”
Bertha checked the bathroom and living room. Even the computer was undisturbed. She turned to the officer. “This just doesn’t add up.”
“We probably interrupted him. We try to slide up as quietly as possible in cases like this. But if they’re watching, they have time to run. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it the first time. Maybe he found it this time and left before we got here.”
Bertha thought about Kim Cornwell. That’s who it had been the first time. Had she come back? Was she hanging around somewhere near, waiting for the police to leave? Bertha returned to the kitchen, where the three of them sat around the table completing the report.
“Your name is Brannon,” the older officer said. “Are you the one who found Joe Morescki the other night?”
“Yes.”
“What the hell’s going on?” he asked. “What are you involved in?”
“Nothing.” Anger clutched at Bertha. “Why don’t you guys figure out what’s going on so I can have my life back.”
The old guy stopped writing and glared at her. “You think there’s a connection to the Morescki thing?”
She said, “I’ve lived here a long time. No one ever bothered me before this week.”
The two officers looked at each other, then back at her. The older one said, “Maybe we should finish this report downtown.”
“I’ve spent enough time downtown today.” Bertha stubbornly folded her arms across her chest. She listened to the pen scratch on the paper, the compressor in the refrigerator clicked on, and a door slammed upstairs. When she was using drugs, insanity had been a way of life. She’d broken every
rule to feed her addiction. But now—why was this happening now?
The older policeman turned the clipboard toward her and handed her his pen. “Sign here, and we’ll be on our way.”
After Bertha let the officers out the front door, she shoved the couch up against it. She walked out to the back porch and sat there for a long time. The night air was warm and humid. Wind rustled the treetops, but close to the ground, the air barely moved. She listened to the sounds of insects. At last, pulling her knees to her chest, she broke down, her body trembling with ragged sobs.
*
In the dark, early morning Friday, a dream seized Bertha from sleep. Rolling over, she contemplated the illuminated digits on the alarm clock. Four fifty-eight. Her feet were cold, and her legs were tangled in the sheet that had come loose from the end of the bed. She lay awake staring at the stripes on her wall made by the streetlight. The question pounded in her mind. The police had asked it: Pop Wilson, James Harris, and the two officers last night. What had she done that connected her to one, maybe two murderers?
The court system had taught her that murders usually weren’t mysterious. Many of them were gang related these days. In almost all the other cases, the victim and the killer knew each other well—domestic violence, broken love affairs, marriage on the rocks, that kind of thing. Taking that logic and applying it to the Morescki thing would make the killer someone close to him—unless he’d been involved in organized crime. She could believe that about the old man because he looked like the crime leaders in the movies, but what did any of that have to do with her?
The whole thing didn’t add up. Either her premises were faulty or her reasoning flawed. Something was missing, and not knowing was dangerous.
The sky was turning gray when she rose, started a fresh pot of coffee, and showered. If today was as eventful as days had been the past week, it could be a long one. She’d awakened with muscle pain in her neck and shoulders, so she stood in the shower and let the warm water soothe her aching body.
She pulled on a pair of shorts and her last clean T-shirt and walked barefoot out to the back porch. In the east the sky was pinking over; the sun was masked in thin clouds, and the air was cool. She finished the coffee and set the mug on the weather-beaten porch. Toni Matulis would have heard about the break-in on the police radio. Bertha looked forward to her call. She remembered the night before, lovemaking that took every other thought away. She blushed at her own uninhibited behavior. She leaned against the porch rail and watched the sun rise. At length she sighed, went in, and got ready to pick up Aunt Lucy.
*
A baby was wailing. Two boys about Jerome’s age chased each other up and down the aisles laughing. A group of teenagers stood just inside the row of doors smoking, dropping ashes and cigarette butts on the marble floor. They were dressed in jeans that hung on their hip bones and baseball caps that slanted sideways. Their shirts were the same color. A porter pushing a luggage truck full of mail passed outside, doing his best to ignore them.
Aunt Lucy was annoyed, waving her hand in front of her face. “That porter should say something to those kids.”
Just then, the two little boys ran past. One kicked an old man’s cane.
Bertha reached to retrieve it and said, “I’m glad I’m not traveling with this bunch.”
“At least I have my choice of cars on the train.”
“If it’s not too crowded before it gets here,” Bertha added.
“You trying to cheer me up?”
“Sorry.”
The porter walked back the opposite direction.
“Your grandpa worked here when I was young,” said Aunt Lucy. “He was a porter.”
Bertha looked at her and said, “I know. Grandma loves to tell stories.”
Aunt Lucy laughed. “She tells them from her slant. Sometimes she leaves out very important events.”
Bertha nodded. The train was already twenty minutes late.
Aunt Lucy placed her hand on Bertha’s wrist. “There’s something we need to talk about.”
Bertha lifted her head. “What do we need to talk about?” she asked, thinking it was probably the care of Grandma.
“I talked to Mom about this last night. She really doesn’t want you to know. I told her I was going to tell you anyway. Now I don’t know where to start.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My relationship to Sally Morescki.”
“You were lying,” Bertha said flatly. She’d known, of course.
Aunt Lucy let out her breath slowly. “Yes.”
Bertha could hear the bells from the crossing. People were moving out to the platform. Very quickly they were alone on the gleaming wooden bench.
“Well?” she said.
“I don’t know where to start.” Aunt Lucy stammered, “Sally Morescki didn’t just know your father. She was married to him. Her real name is Sarah. Sarah Brannon, before she married Morescki.”
The train hissed to a stop. Bertha felt like an anvil had been dropped on her guts. “What are you saying? Sally Morescki’s white.”
“Mixed,” Aunt Lucy said. “She’s your mother.”
“You’re going to just tell me this and get on a train?” Bertha’s voice rose. “I don’t believe you.”
“Believe me.”
“What? Why?”
“Look, there was an awful scandal.” Aunt Lucy stood and moved toward the station doors.
Bertha stared, letting her mouth hang open. She was too numb to form words.
Aunt Lucy, gathering her luggage, said, “At least I told you. That’s more than anyone else would do.”
Bertha picked up her aunt’s traveling case and walked with her to the platform in stunned silence. At the bottom of the steps that led to a car, Aunt Lucy turned to her. “Don’t blame Sally for this, Bertha. At least not too much. She wanted to tell you a long time ago. Mama told her she’d better stay away.”
“But what...?” She didn’t have enough time to think of all the questions and prioritize them.
Aunt Lucy grabbed her then, applying a quick hug. “Talk to your grandma, honey.”
Bertha’s arms came together slowly but never touched Aunt Lucy before she was gone, leaving the embrace unreciprocated.
Chapter Thirty-two
The Jeep thudded to a stop, wrenching Bertha’s neck and throwing the contents of the passenger seat to the floorboard. The alley that ran alongside the Lambert Building was lined with parked cars. There was rarely a space this late in the day, but Levine had been out all week, and Lilith’s Book Store didn’t open until after noon on Fridays.
Bertha got out of the Jeep and examined the damage. The front wheel on the passenger side was completely over the high cement log that marked the spaces. She could probably rock it and pull back over the marker, provided she didn’t blow a tire, of course. She’d been thinking about her mother, the picture of the young woman next to Aunt Lucy, holding her windblown hat with one hand and Bertha on her hip. Her mother’s face had never been clear. That hadn’t bothered Bertha—until now. Over the years she’d imagined it like her own: strong chin, broad nose, and a high forehead. She remembered the day she first met Sally Morescki, the awkwardness, the sweating glass of iced tea. “I have a daughter about your age,” she’d said, and the Jeep jolted to a stop.
A gold Camry was parked too close on her left. Bertha decided to rock the Jeep off the abutment at the end of the day when there would be more room for error. She gathered her things from the floorboard and started into the building.
As she entered the office, Alvin, his back to her at his computer, glanced around and said, “Good morning. Mail is on your desk, a couple of days’ worth—phone messages are in your chair.”
It was procedure to put anything important on Bertha’s chair since her desk was usually in layers. She put her hand on the inner-office doorknob and stopped.
“Maids-on-Wheels?” she asked.
“Were here this morning for a couple of hours.
Damn it, Bertha. It’s eleven thirty.”
“Sorry. Aunt Lucy’s train was late.”
Alvin’s expression was dubious. “I pulled two checks out of yesterday’s mail. If you find anything else to go in the deposit, get it out here. I’ll swing by the bank on my lunch hour.”
“Right,” said Bertha, opening the door to the murder scene.
She walked into a curtain of warm, floral-smelling air. The window air conditioner hummed. The supply closet door was opened slightly, the floor still damp in spots. Several files were stacked neatly on the corner of her desk. The mail was in the center. She left the door to the reception area open and threw her briefcase and papers on the bookshelf.
Bertha started with the phone messages and made three appointments for next week. Business was booming, which was fortunate since two other calls were from bill collectors. She didn’t return those. There was a message from her AA sponsor. She looked at it for several minutes, then pulled the wastebasket between her knees and watched the yellow paper float to the bottom.
She turned to the mail. Her membership had lapsed in the National Organization for Women, Publisher’s Clearing House wanted her to know that she could already have won a million dollars, and Weight Watchers missed her—they were having a one-time reentry promotion. A loan company sent her a check for five thousand dollars—all she had to do was cash it to sign up for time payments with twenty-six percent interest. She’d have the same mail at home. She wasn’t quite sure how the senders got both her addresses. There was an ad for a new practice manual and a legal seminar. She pulled a ten-dollar check from a crinkled envelope and set it aside.
A large package was on the bottom of the stack in a bubble-wrap envelope postmarked almost two weeks ago with no return address. Packages like this weren’t unusual; she frequently ordered legal as well as lesbian books directly from publishers. It was about time for the Women In Law seminars; they usually sent a packet outlining workshops on trial practice, criminal law, how to generate business, and so forth. She’d gone to one right after treatment, told herself she’d benefit from it as she was starting her own practice, but had holed up in her motel room alone every evening, miserable. Bertha turned the envelope over and examined it. She heard the phone ring faintly out front; then Alvin was standing in the doorway.
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 26
