I'm Glad I Did (16 page)

At five forty-five, I was just thinking about what kind of food to bring so I could work through dinner when Rona stuck her head in.

“JJ,” she announced in a dry voice, “your popularity is overwhelming. But getting calls here is not a good idea.”

“I wish I had a little phone I could carry around with me, but nobody's invented it yet,” I said, trying to make her laugh.

“Very funny,” she croaked. Rona was always hoarse by the end of the day. Snapping at people on the phone all day took it its toll. “I would yell at you, but I have no voice left,” she whispered as I picked up the phone at her desk.

“Hello?”

“I found Rosetta Brown,” Luke told me breathlessly.

I blinked. “Wow. Tell me the truth, you're really a detective. This writer-publisher thing is just a cover?”

He chuckled lightly. “Actually, I found out through Nick. Of course he knew Dulcie. He knows everyone who works in this building, so I asked if he knew anything about her daughter. Seems that Dulcie told him a few months ago that Rosetta was working as a waitress at Birdland. She never got up the guts to go and see her, Nick's words. So I called, and she's still there.”

My gaze turned to Rona, who was glaring at me. “Uh … wow,” I said.

“Turns out Thelonious Monk got Rosetta the job. Can you believe it?
The
Thelonius Monk. But we already knew he knew Dulcie from Rocky Mount—anyway, sometimes they let Rosetta sing. I think we should go there and talk to her.”

“Okay,” I said, but my voice was uncertain. I wasn't sure that popping in on the child Dulcie had abandoned was the best idea.

“Look, JJ, the book ended right when Dulcie got her job cleaning offices in the Brill Building a year ago. Doesn't it seem weird that she would end up in the building where her ex-managers worked? There's a year of her life we have to fill in. I want to talk to everyone we can find who
can help us do that, so I'm going to Birdland tonight. You don't have to go with me—”

“Like hell I don't,” I answered, before I could even formulate my thoughts. “If you're Sherlock, I wanna be Watson.”

Rona wrote a message she held up for me to read.
If you're role-playing with a boyfriend, my phone is not the place to do it
.

“Meet you at seven in front of Birdland,” Luke said, and I could almost hear his smile. “And Watson, don't be late.”

THE EVENING HAD TURNED
hot and sticky when I met Luke in front of the legendary club on 52nd Street, named for Charlie “Bird” Parker. Like so many others, he'd died too young, thanks to his addiction—but unlike most, his music was eternal. Entering the vast, dark, smoky room was like stepping into a time machine. It felt like the forties, the heyday of jazz.

Luke and I took a minute to breathe it all in. It wasn't very crowded; Birdland was more of a late-night spot. The empty stage glowed in a haze of cigarette smoke. The few men seated at the bar all looked like Bernie, slick and well dressed. Posters for jazz greats adorned the walls near the entrance: Dizzy Gillespie, John Coltrane, and Thelonious Monk himself.

The hostess, a beautiful dark-skinned woman in a black dress, approached us. “We don't serve minors,” she told us.

“We just want soft drinks,” Luke responded. “We'd like to talk to Rosetta Brown.”

“You some kind of junior reporters?” she asked suspiciously.

Luke shook his head. “No, we knew her mother.”

“You can sit there,” the hostess said, indicating a nearby table. “That's one of her tables.” Then she disappeared.

Luke avoided my eyes as we slid into our chairs. And then I realized something: Rosetta was his half-sister. This was far more complicated than anything I could ever imagine or understand. For once I promised myself I would try to keep quiet. I doubted it would work out. There was too much I needed to know.

I recognized Rosetta the moment she walked toward us. She had Dulcie's high cheekbones and skinny curves, but there was something more. She seemed familiar, as if I'd seen her before. But was that possible? Then as she moved closer, I gasped. Luke looked at me, and I pointed to my throat. Around Rosetta's neck was a gold note on a chain. Just like the one Dulcie always wore.

“I got a break coming right up,” she told us by way of hello. Her voice and eyes were cold. “I know you're too young to be reporters. After I bring your order, I can talk for a few minutes, and that's all the time I got to give. So what do you want?”

“Um … two Cokes, please,” Luke said. “And we won't take too much of your time.”

As she walked away, we followed her with our eyes. “Where did she get that necklace?” I muttered.

“Why does it matter?” Luke asked.

“Because Dulcie had one just like it, and it was missing the night she died.”

Luke's eyes widened a bit. We sat in silence for a minute or two. He finally opened his mouth to say something, but Rosetta had returned. She plunked our drinks down in front of us, sat down, and lit a cigarette. “Listen,” she said, “I've had all kinds of people droppin' in to talk to me since my mama's name was in the newspaper. None of them had anything good on their minds. Mostly they'd figured out all kinds of ways to use me and my mama's memory. So just tell me flat out what you want, and I'll tell you why you can't have it.”

I took a sip of my soda, mostly out of nervousness.

“I understand why you're suspicious,” Luke said sincerely. “But honestly, we don't want anything except to talk to you.”

“I met your mother and worked with her on a song,” I blurted out in spite of myself. “She sang the demo for me, and I really cared about her. I'm not sure that she killed herself. If she didn't, I want to find out what happened.”

“Well, if you find out, give me a call,” Rosetta said, staring right back at me. Her voice had an edge. She inhaled and blew out a cloud of smoke. “I spent a lot of years hating that woman. She dumped me twice. As far as I can tell, she was a crazy junkie, and the only person she cared about was herself. Funny how life works out, though. Some things run in the family.” She smiled mirthlessly and tapped her cigarette on the ashtray.

Luke and I exchanged a quick glance across the table. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I didn't know what to do to kill the hurt she left inside
of me, so I did what she did. I started takin' stuff to make me feel better. Trouble is, it only made me feel worse.”

“Listen to me, Rosetta,” Luke said, leaning toward her. “There's something you should read. Your mother wrote a book about her life. She wrote about you and her feelings for you. If you want to see the pages about you, I'll make a copy and drop them off for you. I know she hurt you, but she never meant to.”

Rosetta peered at Luke through the fog of cigarette smoke that surrounded her. “How did
you
get my mama's book?”

I stiffened, holding my breath.

Without missing a beat, Luke replied, “My dad managed Dulcie with her uncle”—he jerked his head toward me—“and she dedicated it to my dad. When the landlord found it, after she died, he gave it to me.”

“Smart man,” Rosetta snapped sarcastically. “Didn't he know managers always steal from their clients? Especially when they're uneducated colored women. So this dude decides to give her book to the son of the guy who ripped her off and left her broke.”

I concentrated on my soda again, stewing with questions. So Rosetta knew Dulcie had been ripped off. Was she just hipper than Dulcie? Or had Dulcie chosen to forgive George?

“I didn't know about any of that until now,” Luke answered. He held Rosetta's gaze. “Believe me, I'm embarrassed and shocked by what he did. I'm going to find a way to repay the artists who were cheated.”

Rosetta snickered. “Yeah, I know. The check is in
the mail. Look here, you two. I've been clean for seven months. I'm tryin' not to hate on my mother. Tryin' to forgive her for what she did. It's part of the twelve steps to recovery.” She took a final drag and stubbed out her cigarette. “I wanted to see her, but I never got to. That's all I got to say.”

The hostess came over and tapped Rosetta on the shoulder. She looked up and nodded. “You know where you can find me,” she said as she got up. “If you find out anything new, let me know. I'd be curious to find out what happened.”

She vanished through a door near the side of the stage.

“What do you think?” I asked Luke. “Do you believe she's clean?”

“I don't know,” he mused. He took a sip of his drink and leaned back in his chair. “There's always that old question: How do you know an addict is lying? The answer: their lips are moving.”

I nodded, then shook my head. “I can't figure out why she looks so familiar. It's not just that she looks like Dulcie. Where have I seen her before?”

Luke shrugged. His eyes wandered back to the closed stage door.

“Listen, I need to ask you something,” I said. “Why didn't you tell her you two are related?”

His jaw flickered. “I'm not ready yet,” he whispered.

“I get it. I shouldn't have asked.”

“No, it's okay,” he said. But his voice was hollow.

For a few minutes, we sat in silence and finished our drinks. He didn't seem in a hurry to leave, and I didn't
want to push him. I was just reaching in my purse for money to settle the bill when the house lights dimmed. A silky baritone boomed from the speaker system. “And now Mr. Thelonious Monk would like you to meet a special young lady with a great voice, Miss Rosetta Brown.”

Luke shot a glance at me. The sparse crowd offered some quiet applause. I stared as Rosetta stepped up to the mic, glowing in a spotlight. Before I could fully grasp what was happening, she'd begun to sing “Good Love Gone Bad.”

It was clear from the first few notes that she was her mother's daughter. She had Dulcie's throaty voice—that same quirky blues phrasing, the same ability to turn a song into something more, into a dramatic experience. Like Dulcie, she sang from her soul. By the end of the song, tears were rolling down her cheeks.

The applause was much louder now. She tried to smile and nod. That's when it hit me. It was like a flashback. That face … the tears.

“Luke,” I whispered, clutching his arm, “now I know where I saw her before. It was in the crowd, on the street, that night Dulcie died. Rosetta was there. And she was crying then, too.”

The next morning, Jules had a 7:30
A.M
. “meeting in chambers.” If one of his cases could be resolved before trial, it provided one of the very few legitimate reasons for him to violate Green Rule Number One. I wished I could have gotten my mother alone without my “I can never mind my own business” brother, but this was as good as it was going to get, and the timing was crucial. The moment Janny put down her newspaper and Juana left to refill her coffee cup, I asked the question that had been burning inside me since last night.

“Mom, do you consider yourself someone who knows a lot about suicide and murder?”

“And good morning to you, too, dear,” she answered dryly.

“Wow, Irving,” my brother the jerk declared, “which one are you considering?”

“Probably murder if you keep sticking your nose into everything,” I grumbled.

“Please, kids,” Janny breathed, throwing Jeff a look. “The answer to your question, JJ, is that being a criminal attorney, I know more than the average person. But you know that already. Why do you ask?”

I shoved my muffin aside. “I'm interested in knowing how often the police make an assumption that a death is suicide when, in fact, it might be murder.”

Janny's face brightened. “So glad to see you taking an interest in criminal matters, Justice. In my opinion, the police often go into ‘suicide mode' and make careless assumptions if a case appears open and shut.” She smiled as Juana placed a fresh cup of coffee in front of her, and she took a sip. “It depends on the victim, of course. Sometimes the police get caught when the medical examiner's findings prove that it's a homicide. But very occasionally, if there is no autopsy, someone can literally get away with murder.”

“If I'm found dead,” Jeff chimed in, “the first person to suspect is my sister.”

“Shouldn't all deaths be considered homicide until the facts rule it out?” I asked, ignoring him.

“Of course they should,” Janny said. “But that isn't always the way it works with an understaffed police department in a big city. It often depends on the victim. For instance, if a vagrant is found dead, there's not going to be an intense search for his killer. On the other hand, a dead politician might cause a lot of hoopla and a big investigation.”

I nodded, processing her words in terms of what it might mean for Dulcie. “Who'd be in charge of the investigation?”