MOJO FOR MURDER
~ A BERTIE BIGELOW MYSTERY ~
BY CAROLYN MARIE WILKINS
Copyright 2016 Carolyn Wilkins
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner,
including electronic storage and retrieval systems, except by explicit written permission
from the publisher. Brief passages excerpted for review purposes are excepted.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Though this is a work of fiction, many of
the stories and anecdotes included were inspired by actual events. Some names used in this book
are those of real people; however, any dialogue or activity presented is purely fictional.
ISBN: 978-1-68313-036-9
First Edition
Cover and interior design by Kelsey Rice
Books by Carolyn Wilkins
~ The Bertie Bigelow Mysteries ~
Melody for Murder
Mojo for Murder
~ Nonfiction ~
They Raised Me Up
Damn Near White
Tips for Singers
CHAPTER ONE
Friday, October 13—Noon
“Something terrible is going to happen,” Mabel Howard said. She slid into the red plastic booth across from Bertie Bigelow and frowned. “You’ve got to help me.”
“Take a deep breath,” Bertie replied. In her ten years running the music program at Metro Community College, Bertie had soothed more than her share of nervous people. “Slow down, and tell me the whole story from the beginning.”
“I don’t have time to go back to the beginning, Bertie! Charley’s restaurant has been hexed. Sister Destina says the curse will take effect in six hours.” Mabel Howard, a bone-thin woman with a nut-brown complexion, tore at her napkin with exquisitely manicured fingers.
Bertie sighed inwardly. Mabel was sharp as a tack, most of the time. But when it came to anything involving psychics, astrology, Tarot cards, or past lives, the woman was a total fanatic.
“Let me get this straight,” Bertie said. “You went to see a psychic, and now you think your husband’s restaurant has been cursed?”
“Sister Destina is not just any psychic. She’s a spiritual genius,” Mabel said. “Of course, she’s not really a woman. Technically speaking, Sister Destina is a man, but with a lot of yin energy. He was a woman in his last two lifetimes.”
Out of respect for her friend’s feelings, Bertie refrained from rolling her eyes.
“Sounds like a scam to me, girlfriend,” she said. Short and soft-spoken, Bertie Bigelow was just shy of forty with a full bosom, a light-beige complexion, and generous hips. “Did this Destina person give you any concrete information about the curse? Anything at all?”
Mabel glared at Bertie through tear-stained eyes. “I’m not stupid, you know. I would never have believed in the curse if my Grandma Hattie hadn’t come back from the dead to warn me. Sister Destina saw my grandmother in a vision—clear as I’m seeing you right now. No one can do that unless they have the gift.”
It was just after noon, and the TastyCakes Diner was packed. Bertie flagged down a harassed waitress and ordered a tuna sandwich. Too nervous to eat, Mabel ordered coffee.
“Unless a Black Star banishing ritual is performed in the next six hours, Charley and I are as good as dead,” Mabel said.
Bertie raised an eyebrow. “Have you talked to your husband about this?”
“I tried, Bertie. I tried.” Mabel upended the sugar dispenser and stirred a river of empty calories into her cup. “When I told him the ritual was going to cost two thousand dollars, Charley hit the ceiling. Said he’d see Sister Destina in hell before he gave her a single dime.”
Bertie suppressed a grin. Commonly known as the Hot Sauce King, Mabel’s husband was a garrulous, blue-black hulk of a man, whose down-home drawl and folksy manners belied a brilliant mind. Charley Howard’s Hot Links Emporium was one of the most popular BBQ restaurants on the South Side of Chicago. Bertie was certain he had not clawed his way to the top by gazing dreamily at the stars. Although he swore he’d turned over a new leaf, Charley was rumored to have gotten his start with some help from mob boss Tony Roselli.
“Two thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Bertie said. “How do you know Sister Destina didn’t make a mistake? Maybe she got her psychic wires crossed up or something.”
“No way,” Mabel said. “I’ve been getting chills all day. Something is out of balance in my psychic field, Bertie. I can feel it.”
Bertie Bigelow chewed her sandwich thoughtfully. She didn’t for one moment believe that Charley Howard’s restaurant was in danger. But Mabel was her friend, and for Bertie, friends were everything. She had no children, and her husband Delroy had been killed in a hit-and-run accident eighteen months ago. Without the support of her friends, Bertie knew her own loneliness would have been unbearable.
She pushed her plate aside and leaned forward.
“Remember Francois Dumas?” she said. “The guy who owned the Club Creole on Ninety-Fifth Street?”
“Of course,” Mabel said. “Charley and I used to go dancing there.”
“Francois ran a great nightclub—fabulous food, live music. Only problem was, he didn’t believe in paying taxes. When the IRS threatened to put him in jail, Delroy negotiated his settlement.”
“I remember reading about that,” Mabel said. “The Chicago Defender called your husband the ‘African-American Perry Mason.’”
Bertie smiled. “Delroy was always a little embarrassed about that. You know what a modest person he was. The point is, after the trial, Francois gave my husband a small pouch to wear around his neck.”
Mabel’s eyes widened. “A mojo hand?”
“I guess so. The thing is supposed to keep away evil spirits. You can borrow it if you want.”
“Does it work?”
“Delroy carried it in his pocket for months, but on the day of the accident, he left it sitting on the dresser. Forgot it, I guess.”
Overcome by sad memories, Bertie fell silent.
“You keep it,” Mabel said. She reached across the table and squeezed her friend on the arm. “That mojo hand was made ’specially for Delroy. It wouldn’t work for me, anyway.”
“You sure?”
Mabel nodded. “Without Sister Destina’s Black Star banishing ritual, there’s nothing anyone can do.”
“Tell you what,” Bertie said briskly, “tonight, when I get home from work, I’ll dig out the mojo hand and light a candle. Who knows? The thing could still have some whammy left.”
“I could certainly use some good vibes,” Mabel said with a weak smile. “I know you think I’m crazy, but mark my words, Bertie. Something bad is going to happen tonight.”
CHAPTER TWO
Friday, October 13—4:00 PM
Bertie loved teaching at Metro Community College. Located in the heart of Chicago’s impoverished South Side, its bunker-like campus was surrounded by vacant lots and boarded-up homes. Occasionally she’d wonder what it would be like to teach full-time students—students who didn’t have to work three jobs to put themselves through school. But Metro’s campus hummed with the purposeful activity of young people determined to beat the odds. Deep down, Bertie knew it was the place where she was meant to be.
As Bertie poured herself a cup of coffee in the faculty lounge, Ellen Simpson tapped her on the shoulder.
“Can we talk in private, Bertie? I need your advice about something.”
Bertie nodded and led
the way to her tiny, windowless office at the end of the hall. Ellen had been her best friend since the two of them began teaching at Metro ten years ago. On the surface, Bertie thought, she and Ellen had very little in common. Bertie straightened her hair and wore suits to work. Ellen, on the other hand, sported a no-nonsense Afro and clothing that made her stand out among her colleagues in the English department like a tropical toucan in a pigeon coop.
“The College Events Committee has denied my proposal again,” Ellen said. She heaved a dramatic sigh and propped herself on the corner of Bertie’s desk. “Maybe I should just shoot myself.”
Bertie clucked sympathetically. “I know you had your heart set on hosting that conference on hip-hop poetry, but you must have known George Frayley wasn’t going to go for it.”
“The man is a dinosaur,” Ellen said. “He was Illinois Poet Laureate in 1990. But when it comes to the contemporary scene, Frayley hasn’t got a clue. Why they made him Events Committee chairman, I’ll never know.”
“Have you thought about negotiating a compromise?” Bertie said. “Make Frayley the featured poet at your conference. Bet he’d be happy to approve your event then.”
“Have you lost your natural mind?” Ellen’s voice rose an octave. “The students would hate it. The man’s poetry is completely abstract. Even I don’t understand it.”
“Perhaps,” Bertie said mildly. “But at least you’d get the event funded.”
Ellen burst out laughing. “Beneath that placid exterior lurks an evil genius worthy of Machiavelli,” she said. “Speaking of devious acts, where did you scurry off to after class this morning?”
“Had a very interesting lunch with Mabel Howard.”
As Bertie described the encounter, she braced herself in anticipation of a sarcastic response. Ellen was famous for her incisive mind and relentless logic. It seemed unlikely she’d have anything good to say about hoodoo, hexes, or the Black Star banishing ritual.
But Ellen surprised Bertie by nodding thoughtfully.
“It’s probably a scam, Bertie, but you never know. The universe is full of mysteries.” She lifted herself off the edge of Bertie’s desk and readjusted her African head wrap. “Light a candle for your friend. Just in case.”
“Maybe I should wave that mojo hand over my choir while I’m at it,” Bertie said. “In less than a week, The Ace of Spades will be here to rehearse with us.”
“An event I do not intend to miss,” Ellen said. “The Ace is one fine-looking man. He hasn’t had a hit song in ten years. But when he sings those high notes? My, my, my!”
Bertie grinned. “You sure it’s the singing you’re interested in?”
“Can’t say I mind the part where he takes his shirt off and throws it into the audience,” Ellen said. “Man’s got the best six-pack on the South Side. That’s the kind of event we need at Metro. How on earth did you get the Events Committee to approve it?”
“I didn’t,” Bertie said. “Chancellor Grant asked me to do a jazz history concert featuring the music of the singers who grew up in our neighborhood. Chaka Khan, Dinah Washington, Nat King Cole, that sort of thing. Since most folks under thirty have no idea who those people are, Chancellor Grant asked The Ace to lend his star power to the show.”
“I’d forgotten he went to school here,” Ellen said.
Bertie nodded. “Class of 2000. Graduated just before I got here. He’s doing our concert as a special favor to the chancellor. If my kids are not at the top of their game next week, I am toast.”
***
In the middle of choir practice later that afternoon, Bertie threw her music to the floor in disgust.
“Sopranos! We’ve been over this passage at least ten times. If this is the best you can do, I’m going to tell The Ace to stay home. Are you listening to me?” Bertie shot a penetrating glance at a lanky kid sporting a do-rag in the back row. “Maurice Green. Is that chewing gum I see in your mouth?”
“No, ma’am,” Green said. “I was just swallowing.”
The boy next to him snickered until Bertie speared him with a glare.
“This is no joke, people,” she said. “If we mess this concert up, it will be the last time Chancellor Grant ever takes a chance on us. Is that really what you want, Maurice?”
“No, ma’am,” the boy muttered. With an awkward shrug, he walked to the front of the room, spat a wad of gum into the wastebasket, and returned to his position in the tenor section.
“All right then,” Bertie said. She took a deep breath, retrieved her sheet music from the floor, and nodded to the pianist. “One more time, from the second verse.”
***
Bertie was exhausted when she got home from work that night. She threw off her coat, stuck a Lean Cuisine chicken dinner into the microwave, poured herself a glass of red wine, and pointed her remote at the TV. Like a zombie, she cycled through the channels while she waited for her dinner to heat up. Although her cable package contained at least five hundred channels, Bertie could not find anything even remotely worth watching. Tired reruns of ’60s sitcoms competed with reality TV shows highlighting every form of human frailty. If these offerings didn’t tickle Bertie’s fancy, she had her choice of televangelists preaching in Spanish, English, and Portuguese. Or if she were really looking for a miracle, she could check out the Fast Track Weight Loss infomercial. After all, who didn’t want to lose fifty pounds in three weeks?
Bertie was just about to turn off the television when the red brick façade of Charley Howard’s Hot Links Emporium flashed across the screen. Channel Four News reporter Lana Ventura stood in front of the building wearing a crisp, navy power suit and a concerned expression.
“A health scare has diners at a popular South Side restaurant fearing for their lives,” Ventura announced solemnly. As she spoke, the camera zoomed in on the dancing pigs stenciled on the Emporium’s door, giving them a faintly sinister aspect. “Leroy Jefferson, chairman of the Chicago Zoning Board, collapsed during dinner at Howard’s Hot Links Emporium earlier this evening. Doctors at Mercy Hospital have confirmed that the commissioner is being treated for a rare form of bacterial food poisoning. Staphylococcus aureus is an unusually fast-acting toxin that can take effect in as little as thirty minutes. At a press conference earlier this evening, the owner of the Hot Links Emporium issued the following statement.”
Bertie stared in stunned disbelief as the scene shifted to reveal Charley Howard, standing behind the bar in his restaurant. Sweating profusely, Howard was dressed in his trademark down-home overalls, checked flannel shirt, and white chef’s hat. Although Mabel’s husband was six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than most of reporters in the room, he appeared uncharacteristically vulnerable—a bear that had inadvertently stepped on a hornet’s nest.
“All our food is prepared to the highest standard,” Howard insisted. “You can ask anybody. That’s why they call me the Hot Sauce King.”
As the reporters continued to pepper him with questions, Howard lifted his hands in supplication.
“Please, fellas,” he hollered into the din. “I haven’t got a single notion how bacteria got into the commissioner’s Soul Food Special. I’m as poleaxed by this situation as the rest of you guys.”
But the Hot Sauce King’s placating expression soured abruptly when a reporter from the Chicago Sun-Times asked if Howard had discussed the situation with mob boss Tony Roselli.
“Roselli’s got nothin’ to do with this,” the Hot Sauce King replied.
“That’s not what I heard,” the reporter insisted. He stepped forward and stuck his microphone under Howard’s nose. “Word is, you and Roselli are old friends. Care to comment?”
“I oughta break your neck,” Howard growled. His massive fists clenched and unclenched as he struggled to maintain his temper. “Folks, this here powwow is concluded. Immediately. Y’all got two minutes to clear the hell off my property before I phone the law.”
Abruptly, the scene shifted to the exterior of the restaurant.
/> “There you have it, ladies and gentlemen,” Lana Ventura said with a sad shake of her head. “Charley Howard threatening reporters while Commissioner Jefferson hovers between life and death. In a related story, the Board of Health has ordered Howard’s Hot Links Emporium shut down pending an official investigation. Back to you, Jack.”
Bertie Bigelow snapped off her TV, grabbed her cell phone, and punched in Mabel Howard’s number. When Mabel did not answer, Bertie fired off a text message.
Just heard the news. Call me anytime.
It was after midnight by the time Bertie crawled into bed. She was nearly asleep when she realized she’d forgotten to light Mabel’s candle. Should she get up and dig out the mojo hand? As she wrestled with her conscience, Bertie snuggled deeper under the covers. There was no way that lighting a candle could have prevented this evening’s unfortunate incident. She’d only made the offer in a desperate attempt to soothe Mabel’s fears. No, Bertie told herself as she drifted off to sleep, this whole sad business was simply a bizarre coincidence.
CHAPTER THREE
Saturday, October 14—8:00 AM
The telephone rang as Bertie sat down to breakfast the next morning.
“Got a minute?” Charley Howard’s Southern drawl was unmistakable.
“Of course,” Bertie said. “I heard about what happened at the restaurant. You guys okay?”
“It’s been hell,” the Hot Sauce King said bleakly. “I need you to help me fix this thing.”
“Fix it? I’m not a health inspector, and Lord knows I’m no public relations specialist.”
“I’ve got a passel full of suits to do my PR,” Charley said impatiently. “I need you to do something special. Something no one else can do.”
“Okay, Charley, I’ll bite. What is it?”
The Hot Sauce King lowered his customarily booming baritone to a whisper. “You know my wife’s been seeing this psychic, right?”
Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery Page 1
