Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  Almost immediately, a fireman carrying an axe blocked her way and gestured for her to turn around.

  “Stay on the other side of the street, ma’am,” he said. “It’s not safe here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2013—6:00 P.M.

  With a sinking heart, Bertie watched the water from the fire hoses arc through the frigid air and cascade through her basement window. When David Mackenzie took her gently by the arm, she stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll find out what’s going on.” He shouldered his way through the crowd of onlookers and disappeared.

  “Ah! Here ya are. At last!” Clad only in a housedress, a thick woolen sweater, and a pair of rubber galoshes, Pat O’Fallon materialized at her elbow. “Collie and I have been waitin’ for ya since the conflagration started.”

  As clouds of inky smoke billowed from her basement window, Bertie brushed away a tear.

  “She’s looking mighty peaked.” Colleen took hold of Bertie’s other elbow.

  “Of course she’s looking peaked, ya idjit,” Pat snapped. “Her house is burning down!”

  She reached into the pocket of her overcoat and produced a small silver flask.

  “Here luv,” Pat said, patting Bertie solicitously on the arm. “Have a little taste. ’Twill calm the nerves.”

  Numbly, Bertie took the flask and lifted it to her mouth. As the whiskey warmed her belly, she felt her strength returning. As minutes passed and it became apparent that the fire was not going to spread any further, the crowd of spectators began to disperse. Slowly, the flames turned to sizzling piles of ashes. Soon even Pat and Collie O’Fallon had retreated indoors.

  Once the fire was out, the men, spent from their battle, collected their tools and rolled up their hoses. Bertie and Mac were the only onlookers left when the fire captain approached.

  “We were able to confine the fire to the basement,” he said. “It could have been a whole lot worse.”

  “Do you have any idea how it started?” Mackenzie asked.

  “Not yet. Our investigator will contact Mrs. Bigelow in the next day or two.”

  Bertie had been standing outside in below zero weather for nearly two hours, dressed only in the fur coat and the thin silk dress she’d worn to LaShawn’s funeral. Her head was spinning, and the whole experience had a surreal quality. Perhaps, if she pinched herself hard, she’d wake to discover that this whole situation had been a dream. She rubbed her hand across her face and closed her eyes. But when she opened them, the fire captain was still standing in front of her.

  “How long will it be until Mrs. Bigelow can get inside her home?” Mackenzie said.

  “It’s going to take a while for us to finish up here,” the captain said. “When we’re sure the fire is completely out, I’ll have my men board up the basement window. She ought to be able to get in there tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Numb from the cold and from the shock, Bertie bit her lip and stared at the ground.

  “You need to get out of the cold,” Mackenzie said. “Let’s get some coffee while the men are finishing up here.” He took Bertie’s elbow and led her down the street.

  Ten minutes later, over coffee at a table in Valois Cafeteria on 53rd Street, Mac said, “I hate to be the bearer of more bad news, but there’s something we’ve got to talk about.”

  As she warmed her hands against her coffee cup, Bertie could feel herself coming back to life. Thank God the fire had been confined to the basement. Hopefully, her Steinway grand piano in the living room upstairs had not been damaged.

  “Charley Howard is coming to see me tomorrow morning. He’s hiring me to sue you for slander. If I can tell him you are sincerely sorry for any damage you may have done to his reputation, maybe I can convince him to drop the matter.” Mac paused and looked Bertie in the eye. “Of course, you’ll have to stop acting so foolish. What were you thinking, accusing him of murder like that?”

  If there was one thing Bertie hated, it was being called foolish.

  “You can tell Charley Howard to stick his stupid lawsuit where the sun doesn’t shine,” she said irritably. “The man is a bona fide murder suspect. He’s got an arrest record, a violent temper, and violent friends. I saw him get into a ferocious argument with Judge Green at the Octagon Gala. What’s more, he’s not telling the truth about where he went the night of the murder. How do I know this? Because LaShawn Thomas saw him outside the judge’s apartment at one thirty that morning.”

  When Bertie Bigelow finished, Mac took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair.

  “If this stuff checks out, the Hot Sauce King should consider himself lucky not to have been arrested,” he said. “But you’ve got to stop poking around in this thing. How many times do I have to tell you? Let the police handle this.”

  “I was trying to get the police involved, Mac. I left Detective Kulicki several messages, but he never phoned back. What was I supposed to do?”

  “I spoke to the detective at the funeral this afternoon. He says he’s working on a new lead. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but the wheels of justice are grinding forward. In the meantime, please, stop meddling, and let the professionals do their job. You could be putting yourself in real danger. Has it occurred to you that someone may have set that fire on purpose?”

  As a matter of fact, it had. In the upside-down fantasy her life had become, anything was possible. Murder? Arson? Just one more day in the life of Bertie Bigelow, amateur detective. On the one hand, she was terrified. But at the same time, in a strange and totally inexplicable way, Bertie felt more alive than she had in years. While nothing would ever bring LaShawn back to life, she could at least bring LaShawn’s killer to justice. After all, she’d promised Mrs. Petty she’d look into things. Giving up now was just not an option.

  “Do you have a place to stay tonight?” Mac said. “You’re welcome to stay with Angelique and me. We’ve got a nice spare bedroom.”

  Bertie thanked him with a wan smile. “I’m a bit shell-shocked right now, but Ellen lives just ten minutes away. I’ll give her a call.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Mac said. He pushed aside his cup and touched her gently on the arm. “Sorry I snapped at you earlier. But you worry me, putting yourself in danger like this.”

  Bertie stared down at the table, hoping that Mac did not notice how red her cheeks had become.

  “No really, Mac. I’m fine. Go on home to your wife. She must be wondering where you are by now.”

  Mac sighed. “These days, I honestly don’t know what Angie’s thinking half the time.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “But that’s another story. The important thing at the moment is to keep you safe and sound.” He leaned down and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Promise me you’ll keep out of this, Bertie. If something ever happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do. I care a lot about you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2013—9:00 P.M.

  The minute Bertie walked into Ellen’s apartment, she was given a tall glass, filled to the brim with coconut rum.

  “Drink this straight down,” Ellen ordered. “It’ll settle your nerves.”

  Instructing Bertie to take a seat on the couch, Ellen turned up the heat full blast and bustled off to find sheets for the futon in her spare bedroom.

  “Tell me what happened,” Ellen hollered from the next room over the soft jazz playing on the stereo.

  “I don’t know what happened,” Bertie hollered back. “The good news is that the fire started in the basement and did not spread through the rest of the house. I’ll find out more tomorrow. Apparently, the fire department is still investigating.”

  Ellen, who had changed out of her black suit into an orange kente cloth muumuu, strode back into the living room and stood in front of Bertie with her hands on her hips.

  “What do you mean, investigating? Do they think it might be arson or something?”

 
Bertie shrugged. “All the man said is that they are investigating, and that I can’t go home until tomorrow.”

  “Seems like the universe has decided to turn our little world completely upside down,” Ellen said. She poured herself a double shot of rum and plopped down on the couch. “First, the judge gets killed. Then, LaShawn. And now this fire? I don’t want to think about what could happen next.”

  “Mac says the police have a new lead in the case. Personally, I’ll believe it when I see it.” Bertie sipped her drink slowly, allowing the warmth of the rum to flow through her body. “He read me the riot act tonight. Told me to stop meddling in police business and leave the whole thing alone. But I promised LaShawn’s grandmother I would try to find out what happened, and I am going to keep my word.”

  “Mac is one fine man, Bert.”

  “Reminds me of one of those Saint Bernard dogs,” Bertie said. Despite everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, she found herself smiling. “You know, the big fuzzy ones they use to rescue people?”

  “David Mackenzie can rescue me any time,” Ellen said.

  “He kissed my forehead and said he was worried about me.”

  “Bet he wanted to kiss more than that,” Ellen said. Bertie flushed but remained silent. “Come on, Bertie. You’re not a married woman anymore. It’s time to reawaken your natural feminine radar. Can’t you see the man’s got a thing for you?”

  Bertie drew herself erect. “I may not be married, but Mac sure is.” She polished off the rum in her glass and set it decisively on the table. “I’ll admit I’m lonely. But I’ll never be any good at flirting, reading signals, all that crap.”

  “Baby, these are skills you can learn,” Ellen said. “And lucky for you, you are in the presence of a master. Here. Have another drink while I school you.”

  “Gonna tell me how you seduced that FBI agent?” Bertie giggled wickedly. “And speaking of seduction, how are things with Raquib? Has he called you from jail?”

  “I thought Raquib was going to be The One.” Ellen sighed and took another long swallow from her glass. “We had history, Raquib and I. Shared memories of a golden time in my life. But the man is a hardened criminal. I’ve got to admit, he fooled me, Bertie.”

  Bertie sipped her drink in silence. She saw no use in pointing out that Ellen’s vaunted feminine radar had clearly failed in this instance.

  “Fate has a way of evening things out, though,” Ellen continued. “If it hadn’t been for Raquib, there would never have been Mervyn.” She splashed another shot of rum into her glass and smacked her lips lasciviously. “The man doesn’t talk much, but when I finally let him in my bed, I just know he’s gonna sing me a pretty song.”

  “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Bertie said. “I could never in my wildest dreams imagine dealing with that many men in the space of a single week.”

  “I’m not suggesting you try,” Ellen said. “Got to walk before you can run. I was simply pointing out that David Mackenzie—an attractive, intelligent, and honorable man—has the hots for you.”

  “Mac is attractive, intelligent, and honorable. But he’s also married, Ellen.”

  “For the moment, my friend. For the moment.” Ellen’s bracelets jingled merrily as she picked up her glass and took a long swallow. “My girlfriend Kathy saw Angelique Mackenzie getting pretty cozy with one of the musicians at The Loft last weekend. Kathy says the girl was drunk as a skunk to boot. Something tells me the sanctity of marriage may not be at the top of her priority list.”

  “Poor Mac,” Bertie said softly. “No wonder he looked so tired.”

  “All the man needs is a little lovin’ to put him right. And you are just the person to do it.”

  Bertie flushed deep red. Tears stung her eyes as she glared across the coffee table at her best friend.

  “That’s enough, Ellen. Enough. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I am just not in the mood, okay?”

  Ellen held up her hands in surrender. “I was only teasing, Bertie. Trying to cheer you up a little. But you’re right, let’s change the subject.” She lifted the bottle of coconut rum off the coffee table in front of her and splashed another shot into their glasses. “Does it seem like we’re living in the middle of a Miss Marple episode lately?”

  As Bertie smiled wanly, Ellen crossed her legs primly.

  “So tell me, Miss Detective,” she said in an absurdly aristocratic English accent. “Who really killed Judge Theophilous Green?”

  Bertie giggled and took another sip of rum. “I’m no Miss Marple, girlfriend. I’m just trying to figure out what happened. I promised LaShawn’s grandmother I would look into it.”

  “I know,” Ellen said in her regular voice. “So seriously. If LaShawn didn’t do it, the killer is probably someone else we know. Was it Charley Howard?”

  “Could have been. Charley was at the Jackson Towers the night Judge Green was killed. LaShawn saw him there. He threatened to tell the cops he’d seen Charley outside the Judge’s apartment unless Charley got him an appointment with Tony Roselli.”

  “But LaShawn was no hoodlum,” Ellen said. “Why would he want to meet with a Mob boss?”

  “No one knows for sure, of course. But I think LaShawn stumbled onto something big the night he was killed. That’s what he told Letitia Petrowski just hours before his death.”

  Ellen grunted. “Don’t tell me Petrowski killed him. I’ll slap the handcuffs on the dilly heifer myself.”

  For the first time all day, Bertie burst out laughing. What a blessing it was to have a friend she could tell her troubles to. Sure, Ellen teased her a bit too much. But even this was probably a good thing. The last person Bertie wanted to become was a humorless stick-in-the-mud.

  “Remember the isopropyl nitrite I told you about?” Bertie continued between giggles. “LaShawn called Petrowski because he wanted to find out if the drug was legal. I’m thinking LaShawn found that stuff at the clinic and didn’t know what to do with it.”

  Ellen whistled softly. “A cache of illegal drugs at the Princeton Avenue Natural Health Clinic. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “It would indeed. I know it sounds farfetched, but Dr. Taylor likes to push the rules. He’s got Patrice Soule so hopped up on diet pills she’s damn near lost her mind.” Bertie picked up the bottle of rum from the coffee table and refilled her glass. “And as long as we’re talking murder suspects, let’s not omit Patrice Soule, Chicago’s Next New Thing. She told me herself that she owns a nine millimeter handgun. And when the judge tried to get frisky with her, she threatened him with it.”

  “Sick of having the old creep follow her around, no doubt,” Ellen said. “Did you ever think that the judge’s murder could have been an accident? Soule might have been so revved up on speed that her trigger finger just slipped.”

  Bertie shook her head. “If Patrice is the killer, I’m guessing she knew what she was doing. The woman’s got a temper on her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s pulled that gun on Dr. Taylor a time or two.”

  Ellen, who’d gone into the kitchen to forage for more solid food to balance the bottle of rum they were working themselves through, returned with a bag of taco chips and a jar of salsa.

  “It’s funny, though,” Ellen said as she poured them each another drink. “I keep thinking how much the doctor resembles this guy I had a crush on back in Jackson.”

  “Have you always had boys on the brain?”

  “So it would seem,” Ellen replied merrily. “Just the way I’m built, I guess. This was pure puppy love, though. I was ten, and he was already in high school. Tommy Ponder. I’m sure he didn’t even know I existed. I don’t know why, but every time I see Momolu Taylor, I think about him.”

  “Maybe the doctor’s got relatives in Jackson. Did you ever ask him?”

  “Nah,” Ellen said, shaking her head. “When I get around Momolu Taylor, I lose my train of thought completely. That is a man with a lot of animal magnetism. Don’t tell me your heart d
oesn’t flutter a little when he stands too close. The man may sell a dick stiffener, but something tells me he doesn’t need one, if you get my drift.”

  “If anyone should know about these kind of things, I guess it would be you,” Bertie said, laughing. “You might be right about the virility thing, though. Before he moved to the States, the doctor kept a harem of four teenaged wives. Says he’s related to Togar Henries, the Liberian diamond magnate.”

  “Get outta here. Where on earth did you dig that up?”

  “Delroy wrote about it in his manuscript.” Bertie dug a taco chip out of the bag and popped it into her mouth. “I don’t know if it’s really true, though. Judge Green told Delroy to re-check Taylor’s citizenship papers. I was going to ask the doctor about it when I saw him at the Loft.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Bertie blushed. “I guess I forgot. Tell you the truth, I was having a hard time concentrating.”

  “See what I mean?” Ellen cackled. “That man could charm the drawers off Mother Theresa.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. No man is going to pull the wool over my eyes like that.” As Ellen collapsed on the couch in a heap of giggles, Bertie picked up the bottle of rum and waved it in the air to emphasize her point. “You think I’m lying? Just watch me. I’m going to call him up right now and ask him.”

  Shaking with laughter, Ellen grabbed the bottle out of Bertie’s hand.

  “No more rum for you, my sister.”

  Maybe Ellen was right. Bertie did notice the room was beginning to spin. Still, the thought that she had allowed herself to be flummoxed by the doctor’s charms irritated her.

  “The doctor could be hiding something. I could feel him tense up when I told him about Delroy’s memoir.”

  Ellen slapped her thighs and howled with laughter. She lurched to her feet and wobbled on unsteady legs into the spare room. After several minutes of banging and clattering sounds, she emerged triumphantly, carrying her cell phone.

  “You think Taylor is hiding something? Why don’t we call the brother and ask him?”