As Bertie stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, she wished she’d chosen to wear a less revealing outfit. Not only had she failed to win Peters over with her tight sweater and black leather pants, but she was now getting frank stares from the older boys in the room. She had almost decided to leave when a teenager in a maroon tracksuit entered and shut off the boom box.
“This meeting of the Upward Rise crew is now officially in session,” he said. Without a word, the teenagers found seats on the battered armchairs and sofas scattered about the room and focused their attention on the young man who was clearly their leader. Squat and thickly muscled, he appeared to be in his late teens.
“Ranaldo!” he snapped at a lanky kid sporting a do-rag and a diamond stud earring. “There’s a lady standing. Didn’t your mamma teach you no manners?”
If Bertie had spoken this sharply to her students, she would have had a mutiny on her hands. But Ranaldo simply mumbled, “Okay, Tayquan,” and stood up. With a grateful smile, Bertie sank into Ranaldo’s seat on the couch.
“This lady here is Mrs. Bigelow,” Tayquan continued. “She wants to talk about LaShawn.”
Bertie looked out at her audience. Dressed in baggy pants and hoodies, twelve boys ranging in age from fourteen to nineteen studied her with hardened eyes.
“LaShawn Thomas was my student,” Bertie began. As she spoke, Tayquan remained standing in the front of the room, his arms folded across his chest. “It’s true he was accused of murder. But I have chosen to remember LaShawn as a bright and talented young man with a lot to offer this community. It’s a crying shame he was taken away from us so young. I would like to start a scholarship at Metro College in LaShawn’s name.”
Though the teenagers’ faces remained impassive, Bertie detected a slight thaw in the atmosphere.
“The money would go to help a student, perhaps even one of you, buy the laptop they’ll need to succeed at Metro. Since Upward Rise was such an important part of LaShawn’s life, I was hoping you’d be willing to make a contribution.”
“We’ll talk it over and let Mr. Peters know in the morning,” Tayquan said. When Bertie didn’t move to leave, Tayquan spoke again. “Upward Rise meetings are private, Mrs. Bigelow. Members only. Mr. Peters will call you tomorrow.”
Bertie nodded and picked up her coat and purse. Apparently, Tayquan was throwing her out. Interesting. As Bertie left the room, she heard Tayquan lock the door behind her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 2013—6:00 P.M.
On the way home, Bertie mulled over what she had seen and heard at the clinic. Although she sympathized with Peters on the issue of discrimination, she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d played “the race card” to distract her. And what was up with the Upward Rise program? Why hadn’t she been allowed to stay for the meeting? What she needed was a fresh perspective. Fortunately, Ellen was home when she called.
“What’s up, girl?” Ellen said. “I was just about to call you. Raquib and I are going out to Charley Howard’s new Hot Link joint. Would you like to join us?”
When Bertie tried to beg off, citing her recent run-in with the Hot Sauce King, her best friend just laughed.
“Don’t be so paranoid, Bertie. The man’s probably forgotten all about you by now. We’ll pick you up at seven.”
When Ellen pulled her car in front of Bertie’s house half an hour later, she was alone and wearing a glum expression. In response to Bertie’s unspoken question, Ellen said, “Raquib couldn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry,” Bertie said. “Let’s just hang out some other time. I don’t want to mess up your love life.”
“Nonsense,” Ellen replied. “Raquib and I have been together exactly one week. In that time, he’s refused to meet any of my friends. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect he was up to something.”
“Maybe he is,” Bertie said. “I know he was the love of your life in college, but let’s face it, a person can change a lot in twenty years.”
“No way,” Ellen said firmly. “I can tell when a man is on the up-and-up. How else could he be so sweet to me?”
Bertie decided the best response to Ellen’s last statement was to change the subject for the rest of the drive.
Over steaming platters of soul food, she described her visit to the Princeton Natural Health Clinic. When Bertie was finished, Ellen sat lost in thought for several minutes.
“I’m a little embarrassed to tell you how I know this,” Ellen said. “But isopropyl nitrite is a sex drug. Although it’s illegal to sell it for that purpose, men take it to get hard. If Taylor’s putting isopropyl nitrite in that dick stiffener of his, he’d be putting his whole business at risk. Have you talked to Mackenzie?”
Bertie reddened and looked down at her plate. “Last time we spoke, Mac told me I should give the whole thing a rest. He said it was time to let the police take over.”
“Have you talked to the cops then?”
Bertie sighed. “I’ve called Detective Kulicki a few times, but he hasn’t gotten back to me.”
“He’s probably got his hands full. The way these fools are gangbanging over there, you might not hear from the man for months.”
“The clinic has got some kind of youth program going on in the basement. I got to meet some of the kids, and believe me, they were tough. Some of them could definitely be gang members. When I was done speaking, they threw me out of their meeting and locked the door. Do you think they had something to hide? They definitely did not want me hanging around.”
“Of course they didn’t want you around,” Ellen said. “They’re teenagers. When I was fifteen, I was positively allergic to adults.”
An eager young waiter materialized at Bertie’s elbow carrying a bottle of wine.
“Is your name Bertie Bigelow? Mr. Howard would like you to accept this bottle of French Champagne with his compliments.” As Bertie sat dumbfounded, the boy continued. “Mr. Howard also asked if you would be willing to speak privately with him in his office for a few minutes.”
“Mrs. Bigelow would be delighted,” Ellen said, her ever-present copper bracelets jangling emphatically. “Please tell the Hot Sauce King not to keep her too long, though. Otherwise, I might be forced to drink this whole bottle by myself.”
As Bertie followed the waiter through the swinging doors that led into the kitchen, her thoughts chased each other in frantic circles. Last time she’d talked to Charley Howard, Bertie had practically accused him of murder. Good thing Ellen’s with me, she thought grimly. If the Hot Sauce King has a Mafia hit man waiting for me back in his office, she can tell the police who did it.
Charley Howard’s office was at the bottom of a narrow flight of stairs. As offices go, it was considerably less than deluxe. Several cartons of Heavenly Hot Sauce lay piled against the wall on the left. Lining the right-hand wall were shelves containing oversized cans of condiments, industrial kitchen appliances, and sacks of flour. Smack in the middle of all this clutter, the Hot Sauce King sat smoking a cigar with his feet up at a small metal desk piled high with cookbooks.
“Have a seat,” he boomed. “Ever since we last met, I’ve been meaning to apologize for blowing my stack at you the way I did. I’m a big man with a big mouth and a big temper. Can you forgive me?”
“Of course, Charley. I’m sure we’ll be running into each other from time to time, what with you becoming an official member of the Octagon Society and all. No need to let bad feelings stand between us.”
The Hot Sauce King grinned. “Now that that’s settled, I’d like to ask you something. My wife wants to become cultured in the worst way. You know, the symphony, the art museum, high-class stuff like that. Personally, I could care less. I’m way too busy here at the restaurant for that kind of foolishness. Would you consider hanging out with her? I know she likes you, Bertie. What do you say?”
Bertie smiled. In spite of his bluster and violent reputation, Charley Howard apparently had a soft spot.
“Have her
give me a call. I’d be delighted to have some company. That reminds me, though. The night I saw her at the opera, Mabel said LaShawn Thomas came to see you last week.”
The Hot Sauce King scowled and stubbed out his cigar. “Yeah, that’s right. He wanted me to put him in touch with the Roselli mob.”
“And did you?”
“Of course not,” Howard snapped. “All that stuff is behind me now. I’m a respectable businessman with respectable associates. I’m a goddamn Octagon, for cryin’ out loud. The last thing in the world I need is to bring Tony Roselli back into my life. Believe me. I told the kid, in no uncertain terms, to take a hike.”
“Did LaShawn say why he wanted to meet Roselli?”
“How should I know? The little snot even tried to blackmail me. He said he’d tell the cops he saw me outside the judge’s apartment on New Year’s Eve if I didn’t do what he wanted.” Howard shook his head in disgust. “I just don’t know what’s wrong with these kids today, Bertie. They got no respect for anybody anymore.”
“But you were outside the judge’s apartment that night. Mabel told me herself.”
Charley Howard’s feet hit the floor with a bang as he catapulted out of his desk chair.
“I went by to see the judge, I’ll admit it. But the man refused to open his door to me, and that’s the God’s honest truth. I was up there less than five minutes. You can ask my wife.”
“Five minutes is more than enough time to shoot someone,” Bertie said mildly.
“Out!” Charley Howard shouted. Veins pulsed in his massive neck. “Dammit, I try to be nice. I try to be friends. And what do you give me? Accusations and lies. Out!”
As Bertie scurried up the stairs and out into the restaurant, something told her she’d just had her last drink at Howard’s Hot Link Emporium.
“Girl, you must have a death wish,” Ellen said as she piloted her Volvo down Stoney Island Avenue. “In the past three weeks, you’ve accused Charley Howard of murder not once, but twice. Don’t you want to live?”
Bertie said nothing. Her teeth were chattering, and not from the cold. What on earth was the matter with her? Ever since she’d become a widow, she seemed unable to behave normally in social situations. Once again, she had allowed her big mouth and boundless curiosity to land her in trouble. If Charley Howard really did kill the judge on New Year’s Eve, he could have had his mob friends kill LaShawn when the boy tried to blackmail him. In which case, Bertie was likely to be Howard’s next victim. Bertie stared silently out the window as Ellen continued her lecture.
“The minute you walk in your front door, you are going to call Mackenzie. Do you hear me, Bertie? And right after that, you are going to call the cops. Any cop.” Pulling in front of Bertie’s house, Ellen took Bertie by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Promise me, okay? Someone out there is killing people. You could be next.”
Ellen was right. The idea that Bertie could solve two murders on her own was beyond ridiculous. What’s more, it was becoming downright dangerous. Locking her front door carefully behind her, Bertie pulled out her cell phone and punched in Big Mac’s number.
“You’ve reached the Mackenzie residence,” his voice sounded tired, even on his answering machine. “We can’t come to the phone right now, but please leave us a message. We’d love to hear from you.”
Without stopping to take off her coat, Bertie called Detective Kulicki’s office, hoping against hope that he would pick up the phone. But, as usual, the policeman was out. After leaving another message on the detective’s answering machine, Bertie took off her coat and sat down at the piano. For as long as she could remember, she had consoled herself with music. The night of her husband’s funeral, Bertie had gone home, taken the phone off the hook, and played for eight hours straight without stopping. Though her non-musician friends worried that her four-hour-a-day practice habit was becoming a dangerous obsession, her closest friends knew that practicing classical music was Bertie’s therapy. She was deep into the second movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata when the phone rang.
“I hope I’m not calling too late,” Patrice Soule said. Over the phone, the diva sounded like a breathless teenager. “Could you come by my place tomorrow evening? I know it’s short notice, but I’ve got a big show in two weeks. I really need some help getting my music together.”
As she got ready for bed that night, Bertie looked forward to doing something she knew she was good at. Tomorrow she would help Patrice Soule learn to read music. While she was at it, perhaps Bertie could give the diva some tips on resolving that mysterious wobble in her voice. And that, Bertie thought as she pulled up the covers, would provide her with all the excitement she would ever need.
Chapter Twenty-Three
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 2013—8:00 P.M.
“Come in, Bertie. Come in!” Dressed in a skintight pair of purple yoga pants and a Chicago Bulls T-shirt, Patrice Soule hopped from one foot to the other like an eager five year old. “I’m so glad you could come this evening. I know it’s late, but it was the only time I had free all day. My Pilates trainer comes in the morning, and then I meet with my manager every afternoon. So thanks, again, for coming. I’ve had lots of other tutors, but things just never work out. Sometimes I think I’m just too stupid to catch on.” The diva giggled nervously. “Sorry, Bertie. I’m babbling again, as usual. Here, let me take your coat.”
While Bertie removed her coat and boots, Soule kept up a steady stream of nervous chatter, barely pausing to breathe. Within five minutes, Bertie learned the names of all Soule’s previous vocal coaches, the name of her current accompanist, and the fact that the diva was seriously considering replacing him with a thinner man.
“Appearance is everything in this business,” she said, hanging Bertie’s jacket in a closet by the door. “When I’m up on stage, everything has to be perfect, and that includes my band.”
Striding into the living room, she gestured for Bertie to follow. A nine-foot Steinway grand piano, covered with photos of Soule in performance, dominated the room. Holding pride of place among the photographs was an eight by ten color photo of Soule receiving the Illinois Idol trophy from R&B diva Chaka Khan.
“That must have been a proud moment,” Bertie said, pointing to the picture.
Soule frowned. “I hate that stupid picture, but Momolu won’t let me get rid of it. I look like a blimp in that dress.”
“I think you look lovely. Dr. Taylor must be very proud of you.”
“Momo is an African aristocrat, you know. He’s promised someday he’ll take me to sing for Togar Henris, the Liberian millionaire.” Soule giggled. “Momo says if Mr. Henries likes my singing, he’ll probably give me a present—a gold necklace or maybe one of those sexy Mercedes convertibles to drive.”
Bertie smiled. In his manuscript, Delroy had questioned Taylor’s claims to royal ancestry. But if Soule wanted to believe her lover was descended from the great Fulani kings of Africa, Bertie was not going to spoil her fantasy. She pulled out the piano bench and sat down.
“Have you done any vocal warmups today?”
“Oh, my God. Should I have done them? I just get so anxious about little things that I forget to do the big things. You know what I mean?” The look of panic in the diva’s eyes was unmistakable. “I didn’t even offer you a cup of tea. What an idiot I am. Would you like one?”
Without waiting for a reply, Soule bolted into the kitchen, continuing to talk nonstop as she did so.
“Isn’t it a shame about LaShawn what’s his name getting shot, Bertie?”
Taking a seat on the large, white sofa facing the piano, Bertie agreed that yes, LaShawn’s murder was a terrible shame. Today Bertie was determined to stick to the business at hand. She did not intend to take any more diversionary trips into dangerous waters, and she was definitely not going to ask any more nosy questions.
Over the sound of running water and the clatter of pots and pans, Soule continued her rapid-fire monologue.
“Bee
n a lot of people getting themselves killed lately. ’Course, some folks deserve it. Theophilous Green, for instance. He was a very bad man.” Without waiting for Bertie to reply, Soule rattled on. “The judge had the hots for me, you know. Every time I left the apartment, the crazy old fart would make some excuse to get me alone in the elevator. When Momolu started seeing me, the judge got crazy jealous. He even threatened to go after Momo with judicial action.” Soule cackled viciously. “Judicial action, my black behind. The only action that Theophilous Green wanted was the action between my legs.”
Bertie had promised herself she’d stop letting her curiosity get the better of her. But as Soule continued to chatter on, the temptation to ask a few questions was too strong to resist.
“Is that when you showed the judge your gun?”
“That’s right.” At last Soule emerged from the kitchen. Two cups of steaming hot tea clattered in their saucers as she set them down on the coffee table. “I’m glad Theophilous is dead. The old bastard had it coming to him. But LaShawn? That’s a different story.”
“I didn’t realize you knew LaShawn,” Bertie said. “He was my student, you know. The kid had a wonderful voice.”
Soule smiled. “Yeah. He used to sing to me. Usher, of course. Made Momo a little jealous, actually. Whenever I needed to refill my supplements, LaShawn would bring them over from the clinic, special delivery. Now that he’s dead, I’ve got to wait for Momo to bring them.” Soule plopped down next to Bertie on the couch. “In fact, I’m waiting for my refill right now. Damn, I wish he’d hurry up.”
Bertie took a sip of tea. “What kind of pills are you taking?”
“Weight loss pills, of course. Oops. Forgot the lemon.” Soule bounced up off the couch and raced into the kitchen, returning minutes later with a bottle of lemon juice. “Like I told you, I’ve got a big show coming up. Can’t afford to gain a pound.”
Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery Page 13
