Widow

By Martha Miller

County Judge Bertha Brannon’s life blows up when her partner of twelve years, police sergeant Toni Matulis, the love of her life, is killed during a domestic violence call gone bad. Bertha is still trying to accept what’s happened when she gets the first of several threatening phone calls. This is followed by one dangerous incident after the next, one dead body after the last. The police are no help, so Bertha starts her own investigation and learns that Toni was working on a case that no one wanted her to solve, a case of corruption that goes all the way to the top.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
• Release date: Nov 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781626392717

Martha Miller

Martha Miller is a former retail executive who had been downsized twice, and decided to take life into her own hands. She and her husband quit their “secure” jobs to move overseas, complete an education, experience another culture, and change the course of their lives. Martha began writing about the new life she was living in Italy, eventually becoming a frequent contributor to Wanted in Rome, an English-language magazine. Her work has also appeared in GoNOMAD.com, Transitions Abroad, Go World Travel, International Living, LifeinItaly.com, Family Circle, Parents, The Christian Science Monitor and The Writer. Her personal essays and syndicated columns, Living Greenly and Living Online, have been published in regional publications across the United States.

Book preview

Chapter One

The new red Jeep Rubicon sped up the horseshoe drive and squealed the tires as it came to rest half on and half off the curb of the emergency entrance. Bertha Brannon charged through whispering automatic doors, greeted by a curtain of cold air. The lobby was chaos. A line of people gathered at the admitting desk. She felt a tug on her shoulder, and then sixteen-year-old Doree stood in front of her. Panting, Bertha grabbed her daughter by the shoulders. Doree, what the fuck?

I was leaving the mall and got a call from Fred.

A vision of her own cell phone charging on the kitchen counter flashed in Bertha’s mind. She was trying to get used to her new phone, but she often either forgot to charge it or put it back in her bag. Toni insisted that she wasn’t highly evolved enough to carry a cell.

Doree rushed on. He said your phone went straight to voice mail. I couldn’t reach you either, so I came. Doree’s voice trembled. Mom’s been shot, and they won’t let me see her.

Where’s Fred?

I think he was hit too. They won’t tell me anything.

The fact that Fred Cook’d made the call suggested that he might not be as badly hurt as Toni. Bertha grabbed Doree’s hand and, in several long strides, pulled her past the admitting desk.

Ma’am, the girl, who couldn’t be more than twenty, called after them.

Bertha stopped. Are you talking to me?

You can’t go back there.

I have a family member back here.

I’m sorry. You need to check in here first.

Ignoring her, Bertha led Doree down a wide hallway. She heard the call for security just before she pushed open a door to several curtained-off treatment rooms. A woman in purple scrubs came toward her.

Judge Brannon?

Bertha recognized her as a nurse who’d taken care of her grandma a couple of years back. She skipped the pleasantries. Where’s Toni?

She’s in surgery.

Doree drew in a breath and exhaled. How bad is it?

Bertha squeezed the girl’s shoulder. It was all the comfort she had to give.

Purple Scrubs said, Too soon to tell. You won’t be able to see her until she’s in the recovery room.

How about Cook? Is he still around? Over the nurse’s shoulder Bertha saw an ancient security guard approaching them. A younger guy was a few feet behind him. What was Purple Scrubs’ name? Bertha drew a blank.

I’m here. Fred Cook, wheeling an I.V. pole, his right arm in a sling, stepped out from behind one of the curtains.

Bertha started toward him, but Purple Scrubs caught her arm. Can you fill out papers for Sergeant Matulis?

Yes.

Then I suggest you do that.

I will, Bertha said. Just as soon as I find out what happened. She walked toward Fred Cook. As he ducked back behind the curtain, his butt was exposed. Bertha stopped, and Doree bumped into her. Bertha opened her purse but found her car keys still clutched in her hand. She held them out. Move the Jeep for me, will you?

Me? Doree was currently grounded for coming in late, and that meant no car.

Please. Bertha softened her tone. It’s right outside the door. Put it in the parking lot somewhere and come find me.

Doree grabbed the key ring and hurried away. Purple Scrubs (was it Judy something?) stopped the security guards, and the three put their heads together.

Bertha ducked behind the curtain. Fred. What the hell happened?

Fred Cook was pale. His left arm and the side of his face were skinned up, and his right arm was covered by a brace and sling. He winced as he adjusted the IV pole and scooted himself back onto the narrow gurney. I don’t know who we’re dealing with. All I know is a domestic-violence call came from an address of a known drug house down on South Fifth. We were thinking this would give us a chance to go in there without a warrant.

DV calls were the worst. Police never knew what they’d walk into. Bertha said, Did you radio for backup?

We did, but the place looked quiet, so we went ahead to the front door. We didn’t even have time to identify ourselves before all hell broke loose. They had to know we were coming. The door flew open and two guys started shooting. I took the first bullet, a through and through, right shoulder. Knocked me on my ass.

They knew you—

What bothers me the most is they seemed to know it was me and Sarge.

What happened to Toni?

Looking at the floor, Cook slowly moved his head back and forth. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, and that bothered her.

This time venom crept into the question. What about Toni?

Cook shrugged. She must have been hit—grazed maybe. She was knocked off the porch, but it seemed like she started returning fire before she landed.

Bertha waited while Fred lay back on the gurney. She reached to adjust his pillow, though she felt like grabbing the front of his little hospital gown and baring her teeth. She managed to restrain herself, for now anyway.

He took a deep breath. It all happened so fast. They fired off six or seven rounds and slammed the door shut. A few seconds later we heard the side door crash open. Still no backup, but Sarge was on her feet and running, while I was still trying to find my weapon. Then I heard shots, five this time.

How many times was she hit? Did she shoot any of them?

I don’t know. Ambulance got there and I sent the paramedics to Toni. All this time our backup hadn’t come, but right after the paramedics got there, a black-and-white, with its lights off, rolled up, and then couple of uniforms helped me into their squad car and drove me to the hospital. They told me she’d stopped breathing, but the medics got her going. When I got here, the people tending to her were running around like crazy.

We had to stabilize her before we could take her to surgery. Purple Scrubs entered, not bothering to pretend she hadn’t been listening. So in a way, it’s good that she’s in surgery. Come on, Judge Brannon. I’ll take you up to the waiting room.

I have to stay. My daughter, remember?

How ’bout I ask security to watch for her and bring her up?

Bertha nodded. In the elevator, on her way up to nine, the surgical floor, her head pounded. She held onto the rail and breathed deeply. But all she could hear was a mantra. Five bullets, five bullets, five bullets.

*

Cold in appearance, but warm in fact, the room where Purple Scrubs—what was her damn name—left Bertha had at least two other families waiting. An old woman and a middle-aged man sat together. She clutched an unopened bible with both hands and he was engrossed in People Magazine. In another corner a group of Asians, with every living generation represented, talked in little bursts of a language she didn’t understand. Bertha paced back and forth in front of a vending machine. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Doree approached her. Mom’s in surgery?

Bertha sighed. She is.

Doree fell, rather than sat, on a nearby chair. She blinked back tears. What happened?

With her back to the other families, Bertha knelt beside the girl. A domestic-violence call went bad. She ended up in a foot chase and at some point took a bullet.

Is she going to be all right?

I think she will, Bertha lied. We’ll have to wait.

Doree grasped Bertha’s wrist and drew her close. I’m scared.

Me too, honey. But all we can do is wait. Bertha was amazed how this parenthood business worked. The day before she’d been so angry at Doree she didn’t want to be in the same room with her, but now she couldn’t imagine not having her here.

When she and Toni had met twelve years before, Toni, a single mother, made it clear she and the kid were a package deal. Doree had been a temper-tantrum-throwing preschooler, and Bertha was glad enough to escape to her own apartment. Then Grandma got sick and had to leave her home. The process of finding a place and getting her in had been so hard that Bertha’d cleared her calendar for a few weeks. Toni was with her most of the time, and with Toni came Doree. The kid was nine years old by then, and while Grandma was slow to warm to Toni, who was a redheaded white woman, Doree, Toni’s mixed-race daughter, fared only a little better. After Grandma was settled, one of the first things Bertha’d smiled about was Doree and a soccer game. Doree had grown into an athletic kid who ran circles around the other little girls. She scored the only point, and Bertha thought that of all the little kids from both teams and all the little kids she knew, she’d rather have Doree.

The Chicago White Sox game had been the turning point for the two. Bertha had bought the kid a ball cap, a hotdog, and lemonade. The cap went down over the kid’s forehead, but she wouldn’t take it off. In the eighth inning, a home run brought two runners in, and Doree threw both arms up. Bertha and the guy next to her were drenched in lemonade. Toni laughed and the guy next to her laughed and Bertha finally laughed with them. Relieved, Doree folded into Bertha’s arms. Bertha decided that she could love this kid. After they bought the house, she learned what most parents know—kids can be different every day—every hour. By then Bertha’d sold Grandma’s house, putting only her most precious items in a storage locker the size of a small garage, and Toni’d sold her trailer, then took what furniture they could use from both places and added some new. Their bed was new; no one had slept in it but them. Living in the same house, Doree started following Bertha everywhere.

As Bertha waited for news, she searched her purse for a tissue. She rarely used the things, but she’d bought a little travel-size pack during pollen and cottonwood season. She said to Doree, Dry up those tears now. You hungry? Thirsty?

I could drink a soda.

Bertha heard her knees pop as she stood. Doree would want the real stuff, no diet for her. She bought two Pepsis. She’d drink the real stuff tonight too. Passing Doree a bottle, Bertha pulled her chair closer to her.

A man came through the door and looked at the three groups. Bertha’s heart lurched, but he said, Hudson?

An older woman, with what might be her son, stood. The man pulled off his scrubs cap and approached them. He said, The laparoscopy didn’t get us to the problem, so we did the traditional cut. He’s a big man. But he came through the surgery fine and he’s headed for recovery. We’ll need to keep him a couple of extra days—

Doree’s voice startled her. Will that family be next, or will we?

They were here when I got here, but I don’t think that means much.

Well, no news is good news, right?

Bertha nodded. Right.

Doree stretched her long legs out and crossed them at her ankles. She raised both fists, stretched, and yawned. At first Grandma, a dark-skinned old woman who’d been as racist as Simon Legree, had called her high yellow—or yeller—before she came to love her. But Doree’s mixed race wasn’t yellow—her skin was rather beautiful. Bertha and the kid both had white mothers, but of the two, Bertha’s skin was darker.

Bertha said, Why don’t you lie down on the couch over there? We could be in for a long wait.

No. I want to wait next to you.

Bertha put her arm around Doree. Soon the kid rested her head on Bertha’s shoulder and slept.

Bertha closed her eyes, but she couldn’t rest. She was going over the conversation with Fred Cook. Something was wrong. A lot of something. Toni knew that even if she got into the house, she wouldn’t be able to do anything about the drugs. She needed a warrant unless the stuff was right out in the open, and she could easily get one since she was close to a member of the bench. So why go to the door unless someone was in danger? Why wouldn’t Fred look her in the eye? He was lying about something and that made her angry. Why did Purple Scrubs want her out of the way down there? Bertha couldn’t even wait for Doree. Why would the guys come to the door with their weapons drawn? Even the most crazed criminal had an aversion to shooting a cop. Most houses in that neighborhood had iron bars on the windows and doors. If the door opened outward, as most storm doors did, how were the shooters able to get into a position to fire, unless they fired through the screen? Why would Toni leave a wounded partner for a dangerous foot chase?

A blue light near the ceiling started flashing. A cart rattled and rubber-soled shoes pounded on the speckled marble floor as several people ran toward the surgical door.

Doree sat up straight and said, This doesn’t look good.

Bertha fished for the girl’s hand. Don’t even think that business is for your mother. Let’s muster some sympathy and compassion for that worried-looking family over there. When things were scary or difficult, Bertha always tried to see beyond them. She would stay the night, in Toni’s room or in a waiting room if necessary. She would call her secretary, Alvin, in the morning and have him reschedule tomorrow’s cases. She would be with Toni and she’d make her get better. She had no life without her. Doree needed her mother. They’d have to rearrange their lives until Toni was better, but she would get better. This was just one of those hard things that life threw at you now and then. Maybe in the long run, this was for the best. Bertha had wanted Toni on a desk since they’d moved in together. She would be safer than working on the streets.

The room grew quiet again. Even the Asian family, whose bird-like voices had risen to a crescendo, seemed to relax.

Bertha couldn’t hear what the woman said. She tried to focus.

Doree touched her arm. She said Matulis.

Bertha stood and together they waited as the woman, whose nametag said Doctor, approached.

You’re here for Sergeant Matulis?

Bertha smiled as if winning her over would ensure a good result. This is her daughter and I’m, well…I’m…

Doree saved her. This is Judge Brannon, my other mother.

They both beamed at the doctor.

I’m sorry, the woman said, We did all we could. Her wounds were just too serious.

She’s dead? Doree whispered.

Bertha just stared at the woman dumbly. Toni couldn’t be dead—she hadn’t filled out the paperwork yet.

Chapter Two

Bertha had first met Toni Matulis when she was fresh out of detox, trying to get a private law practice started, still working on and off for the county, still taking work from the battered-woman’s shelter, for which she was paid five or ten dollars a month. She hadn’t been ready for a new relationship, but one came to her anyway. Toni, a slender redhead with wide hips, had answered a police call at Bertha’s office.

In the beginning, Bertha saw Toni as a rigid, uptight straight woman who enjoyed the power her uniform afforded. She was efficient as a police officer, impressive really, but Bertha’d been focused on her own problems when one morning Toni, who was supposed to be waiting in the kitchen for Bertha to get dressed, blindsided Bertha by opening the shower curtain and stepping in. Since that day, Bertha saw the image of Toni looking up at her as the shower beat down on both of them, then Toni pulling her into a wet kiss. The image was ingrained in her memory. Putting her arms around the wet policewoman sent a thrill through her, and she was amazed at the immediate and intense feelings she had for Toni, who was better than Bertha in so many ways.

Toni was self-assured, had a good heart, and was patient and strong. Bertha soon learned that even though Toni was the smaller of the two of them, she had a deep well of courage and fearlessness that she drew on. She backed Bertha up on all things—okay, most things. They didn’t always see things the same, especially parenting. Bertha wanted to spoil the kid, so Toni was often the bad guy. But by the time Doree was thirteen, Bertha saw the necessity of a firm hand. Last July, they’d been together exclusively for twelve years.

Now Toni, whose presence was connected to Bertha’s life in uncounted ways, was dead. She’d always held her cards close to her chest and played them with skill, so what the hell went wrong? If only Bertha’d had some warning, she would have said and done a thousand things differently. The suddenness left Bertha spiraling. She wasn’t ready to be a widow. Toni had been ripped away from her, and all she could think about was that damn shower. Her pain was all-consuming; she walked through the funeral and the days that followed numb. She tried, but she couldn’t stop saying We. As family and friends came to help her, Bertha only wanted to curl up under the blankets.

*

Bertha woke before sunrise and felt a warm body curled up beside her. For an instant she forgot that it wasn’t Toni, but her Aunt Lucy’s snoring registered. Once again the reality knocked the wind out of her. Once again she wanted to go back before the shooting and put Toni on a different path. The room was still in shadows. A night table stood next to the bed. She knew the surface by heart: alarm clock, lamp, phone, and her blood-pressure pills. A matching bureau and an antique Singer sewing machine table, which had belonged to Grandma, each supported a vase of dying flowers.

To steady herself, she organized a mental list of all the things that’d happened since Toni was killed: Bertha’s Aunt Lucy and Doree’s Aunt Anne, who was a sort of sister-in-law to Bertha, had descended upon them, and next was the funeral with full honors and a house full of people. Now only the two aunts remained.

Mornings were the hardest. During the day an unrelenting internal voice scolded her for overreacting to Toni’s death. In spite of what Aunt Lucy and others said, Bertha sometimes asked herself: How big was a grief that was too big? Why was everything so damn hard? She no longer felt like herself. She’d turned into someone she didn’t recognize. Life went on for others, but Bertha seemed stuck.

When Aunt Lucy had come from Chicago to help, she couldn’t sleep in the spare room because Doree’s Aunt Anne, Toni’s only sister, who worked in a lab and had the personality of a test tube, had come from Indiana and was sleeping there. So Aunt Lucy stayed in Bertha’s room and slept in Toni’s spot. Sometimes she was glad her aunt was there, but at other times—when she woke and found a warm body next to her, then remembered all over again that Toni was gone—she wanted to die too. Which was worse, she wondered, taking life from someone who didn’t want to die or taking death from someone who did want to die?

Progressively the four women, counting Doree, settled into a patched-up kind of routine. The two aunts cooked and put nutritious food on the table. They ate their way through the funeral food while trying to figure out a life without Toni.

Doree got her assignments from school and worked a couple of hours in the afternoon on them. After two weeks she went back to school without objection. Bertha read through the New Yorkers that lay all over the house, the magazines Bertha and Toni had always meant to keep up with but never could.

Bertha replayed what little she knew about the killing over and over in her head. Each time she checked, the police had nothing. Finding the killers wouldn’t bring Toni back. It wouldn’t lessen the pain. Not knowing was like listening to a ticking clock with no hands. Fred Cook had gone on leave until he participated in the mandated counseling that followed each shooting. Bertha couldn’t, and probably shouldn’t, reach him at home. Shortly after the first week, she remembered Scottie, a diesel dyke who used to hang out at the Crones Nest. As a paramedic, she might have been working the night they transported Toni.

Bertha checked the phone book and couldn’t find her. She wasn’t sure of her real first name, plus most people didn’t have landlines anymore. If you had a number, it was because it was given to you. Bertha flipped to the Yellow Pages and found the name of the Midwest Ambulance Service. When she called, Scottie was out on a run. Without a lot of hope, Bertha left a message.

Scottie returned the call during dinner. Bertha grabbed a piece of freshly buttered garlic bread and headed into her room with her cell.

Scottie started. I am so sorry about your loss. Toni was a loss to all of us.

Thanks, Scottie. Then moving on quickly before she lost her nerve, Bertha said, I don’t know you very well, but I hope it’s all right that I called.

Of course it is, Scottie said. What can I do to help?

Were you there that night?

Sounding cautious, Scottie said, I was.

Bertha pressed on. I have some questions.

You know I’m not supposed to talk about it?

I understand that.

Honey, Scottie said, are you sure you want to know?

Bertha sighed. I have to. It’s only a few questions.

Geez. I’m at work right now. I can’t talk from here.

When does your shift end?

Seven, seven thirty, give or take.

Can we meet after you get off work?

Sure. Where?

Bertha thought about it. Where did people who went out in the evenings go? She’d forgotten. I don’t know. Have you had dinner?

No. I usually eat pretty late. Wanna meet for pizza?

That sounds good, Bertha said, shoving the last of the garlic bread in her mouth and cursing herself for not inviting her out for coffee. Dinner took too long. Besides Toni, what did they have to talk about?

How about that little place across from the Crones Nest?

Was that place still there? Bertha was amazed that she’d forgotten so much of her single routines. That sounds great. Eight o’clock, then?

I’ll see you there.

*

Rita’s Pizzeria was a little hole in the wall. A porthole in the door, the only window in the place, reduced the view of the world outside. Inside, the furniture was old and the walls were covered with autographed pictures of movie stars. Scottie sat in a booth when Bertha got there. Her short-cropped gray hair was styled a little like Fonzie, from Happy Days reruns. It had been that style since the days when it was dark brown. Bertha imagined her standing before the mirror combing it back.

What are you drinking? Scottie asked, as Bertha slid into the booth across from her. They have a cheap pitcher of beer.

Bertha shook her head. I quit. Remember?

Scottie’s metallic-blue eyes widened. All this time?

Bertha nodded and asked if Scottie would like to split a cheese pizza.

Sounds good. I think I’ll have that pitcher for myself. Want me to order?

Rita’s had a counter because the waitress worked only on Saturday nights. When Scottie stood to go to the counter, Bertha said, I’ll have a large diet drink.

Got it.

When the order was up, Bertha took her wallet to the counter and paid the old woman. She thought Scottie might object, but she didn’t.

Half a pitcher of beer later, Bertha was still listening to Scottie talk

Reviews for Widow

[amcheri-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

If there had been fewer typos and errors that should have been caught by a proofreader, I'd have probably given it a 5-star rating.

I loved the story and the characters and definitely recommend it to other fans of mysteries. Ok, maybe 4.5 and not 5. But still, I really enjoyed this one and will certainly seek out other offerings from the author.