Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “Reminds me of the time I played an angel in the Easter pageant,” Ellen said with a nervous laugh.

  “Except for the skull,” Bertie said. “I’m guessing your church did not have one of those.”

  At that moment, a panel in the wall behind the platform slid open, and an enormous, dark-skinned figure glided into the room.

  “I am Sister Destina,” the figure announced in a Jamaican-accented baritone. “Welcome.”

  The psychic wore a white sleeveless wedding gown, long kid gloves, and a shoulder-length blonde wig. Moving with the inexorable grace of a circus elephant, she ascended the two steps that led to the stage and settled herself on the throne.

  “I see that you have chosen to be read together,” she said.

  Feeling a bit like kids being called into the principal’s office, Bertie and Ellen nodded sheepishly.

  Sister Destina closed her eyes and took a deep breath. For a moment, the room was absolutely silent. Suddenly, she screamed and began to shake. Pushing herself to a standing position, the psychic pointed an accusatory finger in Ellen’s direction.

  “There is a dark entity attached to your aura,” she thundered. As Destina spoke, her massive jowls quivered like Jell-O. “If this condition is not treated immediately, your life is in serious danger.”

  Ellen’s eyes narrowed. “You’re telling me I’ve been cursed?”

  “Someone has placed a bondage hex on you,” Sister Destina said. “An exorcism must be performed tomorrow. Bring a fresh beef heart, a pinch of graveyard dust, and nine straight pins when you return.”

  “Hold on just a minute, there. I’m not doing anything till you tell me what’s up with this curse.” Ellen’s copper bracelets jangled as she made air quotes around the word curse. “How do I even know it exists? You got any proof?”

  “I do not engage in idle banter with skeptics,” Destina snapped. She pulled a bloodstained sword from a stand positioned next to her throne. Waving the two-foot steel blade with one hand, she tossed a black Raggedy Anne doll into the air above her head with the other. As Bertie and Ellen watched in amazement, Destina swung the blade, beheading the hapless doll in midair.

  “Begone, evil spirit,” Destina thundered. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Leave us!”

  “With pleasure,” Ellen said. “Let’s get the hell out of here, Bertie.”

  The two women were halfway across the room when the psychic said in a softer voice, “Stay with me a minute, Missus Bigelow. I have something important to tell you.”

  As Bertie hesitated, Ellen turned to face her.

  “Want me to stay with you, Bert?”

  “No,” Bertie said. “I’ll be fine. You go ahead.”

  “Just call out if old fatso here tries to start any funny stuff,” Ellen said in a stage whisper. “I’ll be right outside.”

  Once Ellen had left the room, Sister Destina returned the sword to its stand, lumbered off the dais, and lowered her massive bulk into the armchair chair next to Bertie. Although her immense weight, stage makeup, and outlandish costume made it difficult to tell, the psychic appeared to be in her early thirties.

  “You think I’m a fake, don’t you,” she said.

  “Let’s just say I’m a bit of a skeptic,” Bertie replied. “Either way, I can see you’re working hard keeping the people entertained.”

  “You have no idea,” Sister Destina said softly. The powder on the psychic’s dark, moon-shaped face was streaked with sweat, and circles lined her eyes. “But you didn’t come out here to listen to my problems. You came to learn about your own.”

  Sister Destina folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. For at least a minute, the psychic neither moved nor spoke, reminding Bertie of a massive obsidian Buddha she’d once seen at the Art Institute. Except that this Buddha was wearing false eyelashes, a blonde wig, and a wedding dress.

  “You have come through the valley of darkness, Bertie.” Sister Destina’s eyes remained closed, and she spoke gently, as if talking to a child. “The man you loved was taken from you swiftly and without warning nearly two years ago.”

  Bertie inhaled sharply but remained silent. Calm yourself, girlfriend. She probably looked you up on Google or something.

  “Delroy wants you to know he’s proud of the way you’ve handled yourself,” Destina continued. “But he says it’s time for you to move on with your life. He wants you to know it’s all right to see other men.”

  “How can you possibly know this?” Bertie said in a small, frightened voice.

  Ignoring Bertie’s question, the psychic began to sway rhythmically back and forth.

  “You will be approached by three men before the year is out,” she chanted in a singsong voice. “An old friend, a new friend, and a false friend. All three men will fall in love with you, but only one will bring you happiness.” The psychic’s eyes popped open. “You have a powerful talisman, Bertie. You must wear it at all times. I see danger around you.”

  “Danger? How can you say these things?” Bertie said. “And who are these three men you’re talking about? I haven’t dated anyone in years.”

  But Sister Destina merely shook her head.

  “Leave me now, Bertie. I’m tired.”

  Without another word, the psychic levered her massive bulk into a standing position and glided out of the room.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tuesday, October 17—7:00 PM

  After leaving Sister Destina’s house, Bertie found herself hungrier than she had ever been in her life. Ellen did not need much convincing when Bertie suggested they stop at Pizza Capri, an upscale Italian restaurant in Hyde Park, for a late dinner.

  “After the ridiculous gong show we just witnessed, I am going to need a drink,” Ellen said, waving imperiously in the direction of their waiter. “Do you know how much money that jive-ass psychic was going to charge to un-hex me?”

  Bertie shook her head and sipped her water absently.

  “Five hundred dollars. That’s right—five hundred American dollars.” Ellen snorted in disgust. “I told that little thug Jabarion Coutze I’d see him in hell first.” When the waiter reappeared with Ellen’s drink, she grabbed it off his tray and took a long swallow. “Girl, I have never heard so much pure-D horse manure in my entire life.”

  When Bertie continued to stare into space without replying, Ellen waved a hand in her face.

  “Earth to Bertie! Earth to Bertie! What the hell is the matter with you? You’ve hardly said a word since we got here. Did that phony psychic upset you?”

  “I guess you could say that,” Bertie said. She looked down and poked at a stray glob of pizza cheese on her plate.

  “Out with it, girlfriend.” Ellen’s copper bracelets clanked impatiently as she leaned forward in her seat. “She tell you you’d been cursed?”

  “Not exactly. In a way, it was even scarier. She knew all about Delroy, Ellen. That he had died young—everything. She mentioned him by name.”

  “Umph,” Ellen grunted. “Probably just looked you up on the internet.”

  Bertie continued to look down at her plate. “She said I need to start dating again.”

  “Well, duh,” Ellen said. “You don’t have to be psychic to figure that out. I’ve been telling you that for months.”

  “This was different,” Bertie said. “She told me that three men would fall in love with me before the end of the year—an old friend, a new friend, and a false friend.”

  Ellen shook her head impatiently. “It’s been damn near two years since you even looked at a man. No offense, but it seems unlikely that you’d suddenly turn into a femme fatale before December. It’s already the middle of October, for Pete’s sake.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Bertie said.

  But for the rest of the evening, she continued to brood about Destina’s prediction. Had it been a true message from the beyond? A lucky guess? Or was it merely a carefully planned hoax?

  ***

  As she lay in bed tha
t night, Bertie dreamed she was being carried out of a burning building by a young Denzel Washington. Depositing her gently on the ground, he leaned over and took her face in his hands. Denzel’s breath smelled faintly of mint. His soulful eyes spoke a message that needed no words. As their lips touched, Bertie felt her body melt in a moment of exquisite surrender and—

  Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-BEEP! The sound of her alarm clock intruded rudely into Bertie’s dream. She hit the snooze button immediately, but it was too late. Denzel had vanished into the ethereal haze from which he’d come, leaving Bertie feeling lonelier than ever.

  She dragged herself out of bed, splashed cold water on her face, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Enough of this foolishness. Denzel’s not coming to rescue you. Not in this lifetime, girlfriend. Stop daydreaming and get your sorry butt to work.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Wednesday, October 18—9:00 AM

  The phone on Bertie’s desk was ringing when she walked into her office.

  “All hell’s broken loose,” Hedda Eberhardt said. “Stop whatever you’re doing and get up here right away.”

  Bertie’s mind churned with anxiety as Metro’s slow-as-molasses elevator wheezed its way up to the sixth floor. An unexpected summons from the chancellor’s personal secretary at this hour of the morning could not possibly be a good thing. What could be so important that it had to be taken care of immediately? Ten minutes later and only slightly out of breath, Bertie stood in front of Eberhardt’s antique desk.

  “Melissa Jones’ mother stormed in here at eight o’clock this morning and has refused to leave,” Eberhardt said. The flat twang of her Chicago accent lent an additional edge to her voice. “The chancellor had no choice but to call an emergency meeting. Go on in. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

  Bertie Bigelow took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked into the executive conference room. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that lined the far wall, she could see that it was shaping up to be a fine October day. She only hoped she would still be among the gainfully employed when the sun went down

  Chancellor Humbert Xavier Grant, dressed in a gray Brooks Brothers suit, sat at the head of the oval shaped conference table that dominated the room. A blue silk handkerchief protruded from his breast pocket, and his few remaining strands of suspiciously black hair were pomaded firmly to the top of his dome-shaped head.

  “At last,” he exclaimed in a majestic baritone. “So glad you could join us, Professor Bigelow.”

  This does not sound good, Bertie thought to herself. Not at all. Was her boss implying that she had deliberately come late to the meeting?

  As Bertie stood awkwardly by the door, Terrance Witherspoon, Metro’s dean of students, caught her eye and smiled.

  “If you ask me, the professor looks a bit out of breath,” Witherspoon said easily. “I’m sure she got here as fast as she could.” He pulled out the chair next to him, gestured for Bertie to sit down, and rubbed his hands together. “Now that we’re all here, perhaps we should take a minute to compose ourselves before we proceed.”

  “An excellent idea,” Chancellor Grant said. “Can I offer anyone a cup of coffee?”

  As Bertie took her seat, she noticed a plus-sized woman sitting at the opposite end of the table. The woman wore a severe black suit, red lipstick, and a scowl.

  “What do you think this is, Grant ... a tea party?” The woman’s voice reminded Bertie of a buzz saw. “Quit waltzing around and get down to business.”

  Terrance Witherspoon coughed discreetly. “Professor Bigelow, this is Missus Fania Jones.”

  Melissa’s mother fixed Bertie with a pugnacious glare. “So you’re the she-devil who threw my daughter out of choir practice.”

  Groaning inwardly, Bertie nodded. With her overbearing manner and sarcastic delivery, Melissa’s mother reminded Bertie of Aunt Esther from the TV sitcom Sanford and Son. Except that this “Aunt Esther” articulated every syllable as though speaking to a room full of mentally challenged three year olds.

  “There’s no need for unpleasantness, Missus Jones,” Chancellor Grant said, spreading his hands in a placating gesture. “Surely this matter can be resolved amicably.”

  “I’m an attorney,” Mrs. Jones snapped. “I win arguments for a living. I couldn’t care less whether this matter is resolved amicably, as long as it is resolved in my favor.” As the chancellor opened his mouth to reply, Mrs. Jones held up her hand. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

  The chancellor nodded glumly. If there was one thing Humbert X. Grant hated, it was controversy.

  “You people have a problem with the fact that my daughter sent The Ace of Spades a text message. Is this correct?”

  “A text message filled with inappropriate content,” Bertie said tartly. She was not about to let this maltempered mountain of a woman intimidate her.

  “Appropriateness is in the eye of the beholder,” Mrs. Jones said. “The man on the receiving end of the messages had no complaints.”

  I’ll bet he didn’t, Bertie thought. “Your daughter sent naked pictures of herself to the guest artist for our upcoming concert,” Bertie said. “Doesn’t this bother you? She even bragged about it to the other students.”

  “This is a man’s world, Missus Bigelow. You, of all people, should know that. Having a good body is a huge asset in this business. There’s a lot of competition out there. My daughter was merely making the most of her natural abilities.”

  “We no longer live in the nineteen-fifties,” Bertie said, shaking her head in frustration. “It’s a new century, for crying out loud. Melissa is talented and intelligent. Don’t you think she could have gotten the part without resorting to nudity?”

  “What I think, Professor, is that Metro College has violated my daughter’s right to free speech. What’s more, you have grossly overstepped your authority.”

  Bertie crossed her arms in front of her chest and glowered. “No one has a right to disrupt my classroom, Missus Jones.”

  “C’mon, folks,” Terrance Witherspoon said. In spite of the obvious tension in the room, his delivery was as relaxed as a summer Sunday. “Let’s dial it back a notch, shall we? Missus Jones just wants to see her little girl up there singing and dancing her heart out. Isn’t that right?”

  Fania Jones grunted in assent.

  “And Professor Bigelow just wants to make sure her authority in the classroom is respected,” Witherspoon said. “Am I right, Bertie?”

  Bertie nodded grimly.

  “Now that it’s clear what everyone wants, I am sure we can work out a win-win solution.” Witherspoon leaned back in his chair, stretched his long legs in front of him, and stared at the ceiling.

  “I’ve got it,” he said suddenly. “Melissa will be allowed to participate fully in all Metro Choir activities—”

  “That’s more like it,” Mrs. Jones said, shooting a smug look in Bertie’s direction.

  “If, and only if, she apologizes to her classmates and to Professor Bigelow for the disruption she has caused.”

  Fania Jones sucked her teeth and rocked back and forth in her chair—an oversized cobra preparing to strike. “That’s ridiculous! What’s more, it’s illegal, coercive, and blatantly unconstitutional.”

  “Then sue us, Missus Jones,” Chancellor Grant said sharply. Bertie’s boss hated controversy with a purple passion, but he disliked being bullied even more. “Metro College is an educational institution, not a strip club. I will not have students behaving in a lewd and lascivious manner on campus.”

  “Melissa was not on campus,” Mrs. Jones fired back. “What’s more, she is over eighteen. Once she leaves this building, she has the legal right to send whatever she wishes to whomever she wishes, whenever she wishes.”

  “Nonetheless, I have made up my mind,” Chancellor Grant said. “If your daughter wishes to participate in this concert, she has exactly one week to apologize. And if she ever engages in this kind of conduct again, she will be expelled.”
<
br />   “In that case, I will see you in court,” Mrs. Jones said coolly. With a curt nod, she picked up her briefcase and stalked out of the room.

  After a moment of silence, the chancellor sighed heavily. “Guess I’d better put a call in to Abraham & Abraham. Find out whether this woman has a case or not.”

  When Chancellor Grant had left the room, Terrance Witherspoon shook his head ruefully. “My Lord, what a morning,” he said. “The rest of the day has got to be an improvement.”

  Taking a quick peek to make sure her boss was out of earshot, Bertie took a deep breath and began to sing:

  My Lord, What A Morning

  My Lord, What A Morning

  My Lord, What A Morning

  When the stars begin to fall.

  “That song is one of my favorite spirituals,” she said. “It’s about the Last Judgment, you know.”

  Witherspoon smiled. “This morning was bad, but it wasn’t that bad.” He squeezed Bertie lightly on the arm. “I like the way you handled this situation. You’ve got a nice way about yourself.”

  “Thanks,” Bertie said. “But you’re the one with the people skills. You even got that horrible woman to stop yelling for a few seconds.”

  “Would have been better if I’d gotten her to stay that way a bit longer,” Witherspoon said wryly. His laugh reminded Bertie of the caramel sauce she’d poured over her ice cream as a child. All of a sudden she was very, very aware that Terrance Witherspoon was still holding on to her arm.

  “Call me if you run into any more trouble,” Witherspoon said and stood up. “In fact, call me any time, Bertie. I have a feeling we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  On the way the back to her office, Bertie turned Witherspoon’s words over and over in her mind. Call me any time, he’d said. Had Terrance Witherspoon just made a pass at her?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wednesday, October 18—7:00 PM

  Bertie was bone tired by the time she got home from work that evening. As she popped a Lean Cuisine chicken dinner into the microwave and prepared to sink into the soft embrace of her living room couch, she suddenly realized she’d forgotten to call Charley Howard. At that moment, the last thing Bertie needed was another high-voltage conversation. Still, she had promised Charley she’d report back after she had seen Sister Destina. Knowing how worried he was about his wife, it didn’t seem right to make him sit on pins and needles waiting for her call. With a weary sigh, Bertie pulled out her phone and punched in his number.