“Maybe Peters is using the clinic as a front for gang activity,” Bertie said. “Before he was killed, LaShawn Thomas told the chemistry teacher at Metro College he’d found a case of isopropyl nitrite. I am betting that it came from Princeton Avenue Clinic.”
“I’ll check it out,” Kulicki said. “If Peters was selling the drug for recreational use, he could be arrested. Have you spoken to anyone at the clinic since your visit last week?”
Bertie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Now would be the time to tell Kulicki about the drunken message she’d left on Dr. Taylor’s answering machine the night before. Though Detective Kulicki waited patiently, Bertie said nothing. How could she admit to this world-weary policeman that she had done something so incredibly stupid? After a full minute of silence, Kulicki closed his notebook and stood up.
“I’ll have the division commander put an extra patrol car on your block,” he said. “Be vigilant, Mrs. Bigelow. Your life is in danger.”
After Detective Kulicki left, Bertie bolted the door, turned off all the lights, and climbed the stairs back to her bedroom. In spite of the fact that she had cranked the temperature in her house to nearly eighty degrees, she was shivering. Reaching up as high as she could, she felt along the back of her closet shelf. When she located the cardboard box containing her Smith & Wesson, she pulled it down and set it carefully on her bed. Her hands shook as she opened the box, extracted the gun, and shoved a round of bullets into the magazine. Years ago, her late husband had made her practice over and over until she could do it smoothly. Who would have thought she would ever have an occasion to load the gun again? Carefully, she slipped the loaded gun under her pillow before stripping off her clothes and climbing into bed.
For a few hours, she lay wide awake and stared at the ceiling while pictures of bandana-wearing youths raced through her mind. Finally, she swung her feet around and sat up. There was no way she was going to be able to sleep, at least not yet.
Ellen Simpson picked up the phone on the second ring. When Bertie told her that the O’Fallon sisters had seen kids wearing red bandanas in front of her house just before the fire, Ellen said, “If the Lions torched your house, they might come back to finish the job. You better stay at my place tonight.”
“I refuse to let a bunch of hoodlums run me out of my own home,” Bertie said. “I’ve got a gun under my pillow.”
“Say what? I hope you’re not seriously thinking about shooting somebody. Did you tell Detective Kulicki that you left a message on Taylor’s machine last night?”
“I sort of omitted that part,” Bertie said. “It makes me look like a complete idiot.”
“Of course it does,” Ellen said. “You should have told him anyway.” She paused a moment, then said, “Suppose whoever burned your house down wanted you to think it was the Lions so they wore red bandanas. Or suppose it was someone else? Someone like the Roselli brothers, for instance?”
Bertie was silent as she absorbed this new possibility.
“Think about it,” Ellen continued. “You’ve accused Charley Howard of murder twice. What if he didn’t want to harm you, just scare you a little so you’d shut up and leave him alone? He could have paid some black kids to dress up like Lions and torch your house. Something like that would be child’s play for mobsters like the Roselli brothers to arrange.”
“I suppose they could have set the fire. Or, perhaps, it was set by a bunch of random kids who just happened to be wearing red bandanas.”
“Perhaps,” Ellen said slowly.
“Yeah, perhaps. The truth is, I just don’t know.”
“You want me to ask Mervyn to look into it? He could use his FBI connections to check it out. Unofficially, of course.”
“No way,” Bertie said. “I already feel like a complete idiot for getting myself into this mess. The last thing I need is to show up in some database somewhere.”
“You sure? This is no time to be a hero, Bertie.”
“I’ll be fine,” Bertie said. “Stop worrying so much. I’m scared enough as it is.”
“That’s why I should call Mervyn. Get you some protection.”
“I’ve got protection,” Bertie said firmly. “Detective Kulicki’s putting an extra patrol car on my street.”
“If you say so. But just in case, I’m keeping the phone right by my bed,” Ellen said. “Call me if you need me, no matter what time it is.” After making Bertie promise to check in first thing the following morning, Ellen hung up.
Although it was now nearly midnight, Bertie felt even less like sleeping than before. She clicked on the television and cycled absentmindedly through the channels. An hour later, after sitting through back-to-back reruns of The Cosby Show, Bertie was still wide awake.
On what seemed like her millionth trip to the bathroom that night, she peeked out of her bedroom window. Even though her rational mind told her it was unlikely the Lions would return, she could not stop herself from checking to see if anyone was lurking outside. When she saw a police cruiser drive slowly past the house, Bertie felt somewhat reassured and climbed back into bed. But despite the lateness of the hour, her body still refused to go to sleep. For the first time in her entire life, Bertie Bigelow was keeping a loaded gun under her pillow.
She kicked off the bedclothes and once again got out of bed. Since there was nothing on TV, maybe she’d be able to find a decent movie on Netflix. As she flipped open her laptop, Bertie got a devilish idea. Wouldn’t it be something if she could dig up this Tommy Ponder dude Ellen was always babbling about? It would be fun to poke around on Google and see what turned up. Ellen, bless her heart, was totally computer phobic. It would never occur to her to search out her boyhood crush on the net. If Ellen had had better Googling skills, perhaps she could have avoided her most recent romantic debacle entirely. A quick search on CertifiedBackground.com revealed that Raquib Torrence had already been busted on fraud charges. It was nearly three in the morning, and Bertie had never been more wide awake in her life. If nothing else, Googling Ponder would provide a welcome distraction from her own problems.
Bertie tapped Thomas Ponder and Mississippi into her browser window. Five names turned up—four white men and an African American in his sixties. But caught up in the thrill of the hunt, she was not ready to give up. For the next hour she tried different spellings and combinations of variables. It wasn’t until she added a “u” and “o” to Ponder’s name that Bertie hit pay dirt—three newspaper articles from the Woolworth Mississippi Tattler.
NEW CLINIC BRINGS HOPE FOR RESIDENTS OF WOOLWORTH
May 4, 1998. Woolworth, MS—A groundbreaking ceremony for the Woolworth Natural Health Clinic will be held this Saturday at noon. Located at the corner of Fourth and Broad Streets, the clinic will specialize in alternative treatments, such as acupuncture, chiropractic, naturopathic, and herbal remedies. This project is the brainchild of Thomas Poundor and his wife, Olivia. Mrs. Poundor is a nurse with deep roots in Mississippi. Her father, George F. Hale, was the pastor of Banks Street AME Church in Tunica from 1955 to 1980.
“This clinic represents a lifelong dream,” Mrs. Poundor told this reporter. “My husband and I intend to bring a new level of healthy living to this community.”
At the bottom of the page, a dark-skinned black man and a slim, coffee-colored woman smiled optimistically as they pictured Woolworth’s rosy future. The man in the photo bore a striking resemblance to Dr. Momolu Taylor. Of course, the man was younger and thinner, but in every other respect, the man could have been Taylor’s twin.
Bertie’s heart skipped several beats as she stared at the image before her. There was no way that a country doctor from Mississippi could resemble Momolu Taylor so closely unless the two men were the same. Eagerly, she scrolled down and clicked on the next article. It was dated June 15, 1999.
OLIVIA HALE POUNDOR, WIFE OF LOCAL DOCTOR, TAKES OWN LIFE
WOOLWORTH, MS—Mrs. Olivia Hale Poundor was pronounced dead at 2 p.m. yesterday afternoon at St. Dominic Hospital
in Jackson. According to a spokesman for the hospital, Mrs. Poundor was admitted earlier in the day after having taken an overdose of Klonopin, a sedative often prescribed for people suffering from anxiety. Poundor’s husband, Dr. Thomas Poundor, the director of the Woolworth Natural Health Clinic, stated that she had been taking the drug to treat an unspecified nervous condition for the past several months.
A memorial service for Mrs. Poundor will be held in Woolworth at St. Paul AME Church, 14 Gold Street, this Sunday at 3 p.m.
The third article was dated six months later.
NATURAL HEALTH CLINIC TO CLOSE
After numerous accusations of fraud and misman-agement, the Lincoln County Health Department has ordered the Woolworth Natural Health Clinic to close its doors pending an investigation into charges of fraud and mismanagement leveled against the clinic’s founder, Dr. Thomas Poundor. According to an anonymous inside source, Poundor may be indicted soon on charges ranging from embezzlement to drug trafficking.
“Drug trafficking? Lord, have mercy,” Bertie whispered as she read and reread the articles. Wrapping a quilt around her still shivering body, she reviewed the events of the last several days. Had Jawann Peters sent the Conquering Lions to burn her house down? Or had Charley Howard given up on his libel suit and decided to scare her into silence instead? What were the chances that Thomas Poundor and Momolu Taylor were actually the same man? Poundor’s wife had died of a drug overdose. Had her death been an accident or a murder?
It was now nearly 5 a.m., too late to even think about going back to bed. Heaving a sigh, Bertie stumbled out of bed and into the shower. She’d taken yesterday off because of the fire, and as a result, two stacks of music history papers and last week’s music appreciation listening exams sat ungraded on the battered metal desk in her office. The College would be quiet at this hour and she would be able to work without interruption. If she got started right away, she might even get her papers graded in time for her first class.
Thirty minutes later, Bertie Bigelow climbed into her Honda, popped a Stevie Wonder disc into the CD player, and headed along the dark and snow-covered Chicago streets toward Metro Community College.
Chapter Thirty-One
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 2013—6:00 A.M.
The campus was deserted. Bertie locked her car, wrapped a scarf around her neck, and zipped up her coat. As she strode briskly across the dark and deserted parking lot, it occurred to her that she probably should have waited for daylight before going out. But, of course, it was too late to worry about that now. She picked up her pace, singing the chorus of Stevie Wonder’s “Livin’ for the City” to bolster her courage. Once inside the building, she’d be perfectly safe. Every door except the main entrance was always kept locked. No one could gain access without swiping a college ID over the sensor by the door.
A sharp gust of wind raked Bertie across the face as she fumbled through her bag. Mittens are probably not the ideal item to wear when searching for one’s ID card, she thought. Hunched against the cold, she continued to sing under her breath: “Livin’ just enough, I’m livin’ for the city . . .”
She was not aware of the man behind her until he grabbed her by the arm.
“I have a gun,” he said. He poked her in the ribs with something sharp. “Keep walking, and act natural.”
Bertie’s first instinct was to scream. In a self-defense class she’d taken long ago, she’d learned that predators shy away from women that don’t appear to be easy targets. But as she opened her mouth, the man clapped his hand over it.
“Shut up, bitch.” The man twisted her arm behind her back and jammed the gun against her ribs. “Turn around and start walking.”
The only sound Bertie could hear in the deserted parking lot was the crunch of their feet on the snow.
A large, black SUV with tinted windows rolled into the parking lot and glided to a stop in front of them. For a fleeting moment, Bertie thought someone, perhaps a campus security guard, was coming to investigate. But as she and her captor approached, two men in black pants, hoods, and ski masks jumped out of the car, tied her arms behind her back, and shoved her roughly onto the back seat. In a matter of seconds, Bertie was wedged next to the man with the gun.
“Who are you? Where are you taking me?” Her voice sounded tiny and very far away, as if it was coming from a small, wounded animal.
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” The man slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. He leaned forward and spoke to one of the men seated in the front seat of the car. “Pass me that bottle of knock-out stuff, Damon. This bitch is getting on my last nerve.”
With terrified eyes, Bertie watched as Damon leaned across the front seat to hand the man with the gun a small glass bottle and a towel.
“Give me the gun, OJ. I’ll cover her while you take care of bizness.”
OJ laughed roughly. “One hit of this shit and she ain’t gonna need coverin’.” He handed the gun to Damon, dumped the bottle’s contents onto the towel, and shoved it over Bertie’s face. The last thing she remembered before losing consciousness was OJ’s twisted grin and the cloying scent of chloroform in her nostrils.
Chapter Thirty-Two
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 2013—5:00 P.M.
Bright light jolted Bertie Bigelow back to consciousness. As she twisted her head to avoid what felt like red pins exploding inside her eyeballs, she realized that she could neither scream nor move. Strips of duct tape sealed her mouth and bound her hands and feet. The harder she squirmed to try to free herself, the more tightly the tape bit into her wrists and ankles, while the unforgiving light continued to sear her eyeballs. As far as she could tell, she had been tied down to what felt like a metal operating table. The only sound in the room was the terrified pounding of her own heart.
Steady, girl. She forced herself to take a deep breath through her nose. At least I’m still alive. If the man with the gun had wanted to kill me, I’d already be dead. There was clearly no use struggling now. She would just have to wait and bide her time and be alert for a chance to escape. The cold metal table sent a chill up her spine, but Bertie forced herself to lie still. Breathe in, breathe out.
How long had she been lying there? Bertie fought through her clouded brain in an attempt to remember what had happened. Why would anyone want to kidnap her? She had no money to speak of, and she couldn’t think of a single soul who would put up a significant amount of money for her ransom. As far as she knew, she had no enemies—except, of course, for whomever had torched her house. No enemies except for the cold-blooded killers who had murdered Theophilous Green and LaShawn Thomas. As Bertie turned her head to the other side in an attempt to avoid the light’s relentless glare, she realized that her kidnapping was, in some bizarre way, proof that these three events were related. The trouble was, everything that was happening seemed so surreal. Perhaps, in fact, she was simply dreaming. The pain behind her eyes made her doubt it.
Suddenly, Bertie heard footsteps coming closer and then the sound of a door opening.
“Good evening, Mrs. Bigelow,” Dr. Momolu Taylor purred in a lilting baritone. Dressed in a set of blue surgical scrubs and cap, the doctor rubbed his hands together and smiled. “I trust my associates have made you comfortable?”
Bertie’s heart rattled inside her chest. Why had she been brought here? She wanted to question the doctor, but the large strip of duct tape across her mouth made speech impossible. Instead, she turned her head and watched as Taylor wheeled a small metal stool up to the table where she lay.
Taking a seat, he called out, “Fetch me the bottle of J&B from my desk, Jawann. I believe this moment calls for a toast.”
“Sure thing, boss.” Although the doctor’s assistant was out of her range of vision, Bertie recognized his gravelly voice immediately. Footsteps crossed the room, and the door opened then closed again. Although she was now beyond terrified, Bertie took a deep breath and willed herself to lie still. Whatever happened, she would not give Momolu Taylor t
he additional satisfaction of seeing her shake with fear. The door swung open a minute later.
“J&B, just like you wanted,” Jawann Peters said. “Only brought glasses for you and me, though. Mrs. Bigelow looks a bit tied up at the moment.”
Taylor laughed. “Fix me a drink, Jawann. Fix one for yourself, too, while you’re at it. Tonight is a very special night.”
From her position on the table, Bertie watched Peters fill a glass with whiskey and hand it to the doctor. After pouring a shot for himself, Peters said, “Want me to get Tayquan? He’s waiting upstairs with the rest of the guys, in case you need them.”
Taylor took a sip from his glass and studied Bertie thoughtfully.
“No, Jawann. Tell them all to go home. I don’t think Mrs. Bigelow will be giving us any more trouble. Besides, I’d like to sit and chat with her a while.”
As Jawann Peters lumbered out the door and closed it behind him, Taylor leaned over Bertie and grinned. The smell of his musk-scented cologne was overpowering.
“Now what do you have to say for yourself, Miss High and Mighty?” Roughly, he grabbed the strip of duct tape that covered her mouth and ripped it away in one fluid motion.
“Help!” Bertie screamed. “Help! Someone help me!”
As Bertie continued to scream at the top of her lungs, Taylor sipped his whiskey and studied her silently. When at last she fell silent, the doctor grinned.
“The room is soundproof, my dear. No one but me will hear your pathetic little cries.”
“My friends know I’m here.” Bertie said. “The police will come looking for me soon.” It was a lie, of course, but if Taylor believed her, he might let her go.
“I thoroughly doubt it, my dear. Love your spunk, though. Always have. Almost as much as I hated that do-gooding husband of yours. The day Delroy Bigelow died, I toasted the drunken driver who wiped his sorry ass off this planet.” Taylor’s face twisted in bitterness.
Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery Page 18
