Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  About the Author

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  Bertha Brannon is a lawyer who takes care of her grandmother and is usually broke because the work she often takes is pro bono or sliding scale for the domestic violence shelter or the public defender for juvenile cases. She has eighteen months of sobriety from a cocaine addiction. Late Friday afternoon, she’s looking forward to a long and peaceful weekend, when a woman comes into her office who wants to retain her for a murder she hasn’t yet committed. Bertha needs the rent money. Thus begins a living roller-coaster ride that includes betrayal, arson, and murder. While making trips back to the drug-using haunts, Bertha meets a police woman who wants her, but she’s not sure for what. Is it just sex or is there something more?

  Prequel to Widow

  Nine Nights on the Windy Tree

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Nine Nights on the Windy Tree

  © 2000 By Martha Miller. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-179-6

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: November 2014

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Shelley Thrasher

  Production Design: Bold Strokes Books Graphics

  Cover Design By Gabrielle Pendergrast

  By the Author

  Retirement Plan: a Crime Novel

  Widow

  Nine Nights on the Windy Tree

  Acknowledgments

  The time and materials that went into this novel were partially funded by awards from the Illinois Arts Council and the Springfield Area Arts Council.

  Dedication

  For Terri Jewell

  Chapter One

  Bertha Brannon worked her Jeep into a tight parking spot and cut the ignition. Anxious to get out of the heat, hurrying toward the building, she checked her watch and thought about the coming weekend. For once there was nothing pressing. The two days off seemed to stretch out like an empty highway across the flat summer prairie.

  Bertha waved at the new woman with the dark crew cut who worked in Lilith’s Book Store and hurriedly pushed through the revolving doors into the Lambert Building, where the marble-floored lobby felt cool.

  On the third floor, in her own office, Bertha kicked off her black pumps and rubbed her nyloned calves. Despite a window air conditioner that worked day and night, her office was warm. An oscillating fan rattled on top of a four-drawer file cabinet in the corner. Late-afternoon sunlight filtered between the vertical blinds and fell across the disheveled desk. She rummaged through a stack of file folders looking for her appointment book. Alvin, her part-time secretary, had left early for a dentist’s appointment.

  Bertha was pretty sure the whole afternoon had been blocked out for court. If no one was scheduled at four, she would slide out of the panty hose too. Her six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame wasn’t meant for skirts and heels. She only had two court outfits, one for summer and one for winter. They usually hung on a coat rack that was obscured by a cluttered bookshelf in the corner. She had several packages of Queen-Tall panty hose—the damn things usually ripped when she was getting in or out of them. Bertha wore jeans and tennis shoes in the office—sometimes a blazer. She’d never be the cutthroat professional, African-American woman with a power wardrobe she used to admire. She had given up trying to fit into that mold after two years at the state’s attorney’s office. They had wanted her to stay. Women, especially black women, were more at ease with Bertha. They could tell her the ugly truths that would often make or break a case. Sometimes Bertha longed for the security and regular paycheck. But she didn’t miss the dress code.

  Several files slid to the floor when she pulled out the appointment book. There was no one scheduled that afternoon, but dinner with Alvin and Randy had been penciled in at seven. She was glad for the free time, but worried. There’d only been three new clients since Monday—two divorces, referred from the battered women’s shelter, and a wage assignment for child support. None of them had the fifty dollars for the first consultation. She had informed each of them that she took only so many cases on a sliding scale—then took them all.

  “Damn it, Bertha,” Alvin swore when she’d handed him the last file to type. “The rent’s due Monday. If you keep taking these cases, you won’t have time for the work that pays.”

  “As long as I have the contract with the public defender, the rent will be paid,” she’d said. Why was she explaining her decisions to the secretary anyway? She’d been in juvenile court all afternoon defending a fifteen-year-old boy who was charged with car theft. Jimmy Reed was a good-looking kid—tall, slim, blond hair, green eyes—with a brand-new Mickey Mouse tattoo. He’d “borrowed” his father’s car, stole the stereo and a couple of blank checks, then used the money and the transportation to get himself and a school friend tattooed. His dad pressed charges. The boy lived with his mother. Mr. Reed was remarried, behind on child support, and rarely saw the kid. Though it was a separate issue, Bertha had been allowed to mention the unpaid child support because they were in juvenile court. Judge Wallace sent everyone out of the room except Bertha.

  “Counselor, how long will it take you to produce a wage assignment?”

  Bertha wanted to cooperate but pointed out, “Mrs. Reed is not my client, your Honor.”

  Judge Wallace’s voice softened. “If she had her child support, she could get some help for the boy. Most of the kids we see are too far gone. This one has a chance.”

  “I can have it in front of you Mo
nday.” Bertha had a form on the computer. Most of the time these days she slipped wage assignments in with divorce packages.

  Judge Wallace gave Jimmy three months of court supervision and the standard lecture.

  Bertha called his mother aside after the others were gone. Mrs. Reed was a thirty-something, plump, redheaded woman who looked as uncomfortable in her court clothes as Bertha felt.

  “How much is your ex-husband in arrears, Mrs. Reed?” Bertha asked.

  The woman said, “I don’t know. He hasn’t paid support for at least three years.”

  “You never tried to collect?”

  “I would stand a better chance if I were on welfare,” Mrs. Reed said. “I work. I make just enough that I can’t get assistance with legal fees. I signed up for the state program that tracks down deadbeat dads months ago.”

  “No luck?”

  Pat Reed sighed and shook her head. “It all takes so long. He knows it.”

  “Well, it looks like Jimmy has taken care of that for you,” said Bertha. “Add it up and call my office Monday with the total. Include medical costs or anything else your divorce agreement says he’s responsible for. Judge Wallace has instructed me to prepare a wage assignment. Mr. Reed does work, doesn’t he?”

  “For the state.”

  Bertha felt good about the whole thing. But payment for county contract work would take months and was irregular at best. She didn’t think she should have to explain that to Alvin. But the reminder about the rent did make her nervous. Running her own office, she didn’t have to worry about dress codes or billable hours. But she still had to worry about the bills.

  Bertha rubbed her right foot. Her toes were cramping. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her panty hose, stood slightly behind her desk, rolled the things down over her hips, and pulled first one foot, then the other, free. She picked up the damp nylons from the floor and tossed them into her bottom drawer.

  The air conditioner humming behind her was on high. She turned and let the cool air blow on her neck. She bent forward and felt the air beneath her blouse.

  Through the third-story window, she could see the street below. There was a line of cars at the drive-up bank on the corner. Heat waves rose from the sidewalk like an electric stove left on high. That and humidity rendered the few pedestrians walking like they were under water.

  Bertha wanted to get home and put some more Sulfur 8 on her itching scalp. She cursed Alvin and his hairdresser boyfriend for talking her into the blond hair. Not only did she look like Wesley Snipes in Demolition Man, but her hair was also drier and harder to manage than ever.

  “Excuse me.” A voice from behind Bertha cut through her thoughts. She turned to face a slender young white woman in a red sleeveless dress.

  Bertha quickly sat behind the desk, hoping it hid her bare legs.

  “I’d like to see Miss Brannon.”

  “I’m Bertha Brannon. Did you have an appointment?”

  The woman smiled apologetically. “Barry Levine, the attorney down the hall, told me you might be here. I had an appointment with him, but he couldn’t help me. The outer office was empty, but I saw you in here.”

  “Barry thought I could help you when he couldn’t?” Bertha was suspicious. Barry Levine never turned away a client.

  “Yes.” The woman glanced back over her shoulder as though someone was behind her.

  Bertha checked the empty doorway.

  The woman asked, “Do you have time to see me now?”

  “Well, actually...”

  “It’s very important,” the woman pleaded. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to wait all weekend. Please, Miss Brannon.”

  “Call me Bertha.” Bertha motioned to the folding chair next to the file cabinet. “I only have a few minutes. Now what is this about?”

  “My name is Sally Morescki.” The woman scooted the chair to the corner of the desk.

  Bertha pulled a pen from the center drawer and a legal pad from the bottom of one of the stacks on her desk. “Can you spell that for me, please?”

  Sally started to spell her last name slowly, then flinched and looked behind her. “Did you hear a noise?”

  “No.” Bertha sighed. “Look, if you need an order of protection, you can file for that yourself.”

  “I have one.”

  “Well, if he’s violated it, you can call the police yourself. Lawyers are expensive.” Bertha thought she knew exactly why Barry Levine had sent Sally Morescki down the hall.

  “Do you believe in the tarot?” Sally asked.

  Bertha wiped beads of sweat from her upper lip. The damn rayon blouse was soaked under her arms and around her waist. She wanted to go home, get out of the monkey suit, and put on a pair of cutoff jeans. “I know what it is. Cards, right?”

  Sally nodded. “Each card means something—”

  “At the risk of sounding trite, can we cut to the chase? It’s been a long day.”

  “I just came from a reading. I was advised to get a lawyer.” Sally swallowed hard. “I was advised to get one today.”

  “Are you telling me that you had your fortune told—”

  “It was the tarot.”

  “Tarot, tea leaves, what difference does it make? You’re getting a lawyer on the advice of a gypsy?”

  “A witch.”

  “And what exactly are you employing a lawyer to do?” Bertha made a mental note to thank Barry Levine for this one.

  “Defend me,” Sally Morescki said. “I’m going to be charged with murder.”

  Bertha started scribbling on the legal pad. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said. “Who’s dead?”

  “No one.”

  Bertha threw the pen on her paper-laden desk a little too hard. She sat back in her chair and glared at the blond woman. “You’re going to be charged with murder, and no one is dead?”

  “I’m going to murder my husband.” Sally’s voice was soft, with a hint of excitement, as if she was really looking forward to it.

  “Mrs. Morescki, if you say the man deserves to die, I believe you. But I am required by law to report your intention to kill him.” Bertha spread her arms in a gesture to indicate the situation was out of her hands. “Maybe you shouldn’t say any more. When they arrest you, you’ll be allowed a phone call. Get in touch with me then.”

  “I don’t intend to kill him. But the cards—”

  “I know, the witch—”

  “Yes, she told me to find a lawyer today.”

  “Where did this witch study law?”

  Sally Morescki sighed, picked up her purse, and started rummaging through it. She looked as if she was going to cry.

  Bertha turned to the window ledge and picked up a box of Puffs. She offered them to Sally.

  “Thanks,” Sally muttered, and blew her nose.

  There was a long silence. Finally Bertha said, “Why don’t you tell me about him?”

  “My husband is a very influential man.” Sally leaned forward and spoke softly, as if someone in the empty outer office might hear. “We’ve been married for two years. I thought things were going fine until last February.”

  “What happened?” Bertha looked the woman over and tried to figure how well off this “influential” husband was. Sally didn’t really look rich. The red dress was a simple affair. The shoes could be from Payless. Her hair was cut short, in one of those white women’s shake-and-go cuts. Sally was a blonde too, although hers looked to be natural. There were subtle clues that things weren’t going well for her—the dark circles under her eyes, an ashen complexion. She looked like one of the women referred from the battered women’s shelter. Bertha had her own reasons for taking so many domestic-violence cases. And she knew she’d do what she could to help Sally Morescki.

  “He didn’t come home for a week,” Sally answered. “Afterward we quarreled.”

  “You two fight a lot?” Bertha thought she knew the answer.

  But Sally shook her head. “No, not until then. He seemed irritabl
e. I thought it might be pressure at his business or another problem with his ex-wife.”

  “So you’re the second wife?” Bertha was making notes again.

  Sally flushed. “I was his secretary. There was a messy divorce. I’m ashamed to admit when he disappeared for a week, I thought he was involved with Miss Cornwell, the new secretary. After I was sure he wasn’t dead, that is.”

  “Why be ashamed of that? It’s a natural assumption.” Bertha remembered her Aunt Lucy, who’d had five husbands, telling her that if you took a woman’s man, someday another woman would take him from you.

  Sally met Bertha’s eyes. “You’re very blunt, aren’t you?”

  “Blunt. Cynical.” Bertha sighed. “Also hot and my feet hurt.”

  “How much would it cost to retain you?” Sally asked.

  “As far as I can see you don’t have a need to retain me,” Bertha said. “I could take your money. But you don’t need an attorney. That’s probably why Barry Levine couldn’t help you. And it’s the reason I can’t either.”

  Sally’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. She appeared puzzled. “Do you know anything about criminal law?”

  “I worked for two years in the state’s attorney’s office. I handled my share of criminal cases there. As a prosecutor, of course.” Bertha leaned back in her chair. “There is one thing I know do for sure. And that is, you have to have a crime.”

  “But, Madame Soccoro—”

  “You’re not planning to murder your husband?”

  “Of course not.”

  But you have an order of protection?” Bertha didn’t really understand why she was continuing the conversation. Maybe because Sally kept sitting there, and Bertha couldn’t leave the room without exposing her bare legs.

  “When he finally came home last winter, we quarreled. He pushed me around.” Sally lowered her voice. “I went home to my mother’s for a while. He kept calling. Mom insisted I get the order of protection.”