Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  As she described the details of her visit to the psychic’s home, the Hot Sauce King listened without comment. When she had finished her report, he chuckled softly.

  “Just what I thought, Bertie. Broad’s a friggin’ phony.”

  “Most likely,” Bertie said. “But she did tell me some things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Private things, actually.” She was glad Charley could not see her blushing. “I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind.”

  “Suit yourself. Based on what you’ve told me, there’s not a doubt in my mind. Sister Destina is a fake. Problem is, Mabel will probably divorce me if I call the bunko squad.”

  “How is she, Charley? She hasn’t returned my calls.”

  “Mabel isn’t returning anyone’s calls,” Charley said softly. “Mopes around the house all day. When I ask what’s wrong, she looks right through me.”

  “Mabel needs to get her mind off this thing,” Bertie said. “The Ace of Spades is coming to rehearse with my choir on Friday. Do you think she’d like me to get her a backstage pass?”

  “Is that the guy who sings ‘Be Positive’? Mabel’s crazy about him. If he can’t cheer her up, nothing will.”

  Bertie hung up the phone and left Mabel a message. Then, exhausted but somewhat pleased with herself, she popped a bowl of popcorn and stretched out on the couch to watch TV.

  When she finally crawled into bed, however, Bertie was unable to sleep. Was Sister Destina really a fraud? It seemed likely, but then what about her prediction regarding the men in Bertie’s life? Visions of strolling hand in hand with her “new friend” Denzel Washington whirled through Bertie’s mind, alternating with images of having to testify in court. Could Fania Jones really sue the college because Melissa had been kicked out of the choir?

  After a frustrating hour spent tossing and turning, Bertie rolled out of bed. As far as she could tell, there was nothing she could do to ascertain the truth of Destina’s prediction except to wait and see what happened next. But Melissa’s mother was another matter.

  David Mackenzie had worked as a Cook County prosecutor before opening his lucrative private practice. In addition, Mackenzie was a close friend—full of optimism, good will, and boundless energy. Surely he would be able to put her mind at ease regarding the litigious Fania Jones.

  She picked up her phone and tapped out a text message:

  Hey, Mac. It’s Bertie. Please call when you get a minute.

  Bertie heaved a sigh of relief and crawled back under the covers. When her phone rang an hour later, it woke her from a sound sleep.

  “I didn’t realize how late it was,” David Mackenzie said. “Should I call back tomorrow?”

  “That’s okay, Mac.” Rubbing her eyes, Bertie sat up and pulled the covers around her. “I’ve run into a bit of a legal problem at work. I was hoping you could tell me what to do.”

  When she mentioned that her problem involved Fania Jones, Mac burst out laughing.

  “That ambulance chaser wouldn’t know a constitutional issue if it jumped up and smacked her in the face,” he said. “But she’s right about one thing. Sexting between consenting adults is perfectly legal.”

  “So she could actually sue the college?”

  “She could,” Mac admitted. “But it’s not likely she’d get very far. As long as you could prove that Melissa was disrupting your classroom, you’d be home free.”

  “Thanks, Mac.” Bertie stifled a yawn. “It was really sweet of you to call me back right away.”

  “I woke you up, didn’t I?” he said sheepishly. “Sorry about that. I haven’t been quite myself since Angelique left.”

  Suddenly, Bertie was no longer sleepy. She threw off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “What do you mean since Angelique left?”

  Angelique Mackenzie had never been high on Bertie’s list of favorite people. The woman had an inferiority complex the size of Texas and a mouth to match. Though she’d never said so, Bertie had always felt Mac was way too good for her.

  “Angie’s been seeing someone else for months. I’m surprised you didn’t know. Everyone else did. Everyone but me, that is.”

  “How awful for you,” Bertie said softly. “How are you coping?”

  “Okay, I suppose. Been nursing my wounds since she moved out six weeks ago.”

  “I know what it’s like to find yourself alone in an empty house,” Bertie said. “If you need a shoulder to cry on, call me.”

  “Thanks,” Mackenzie said. After a pause, he added softly, “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Thursday, October 19—7:00 AM

  When her alarm went off at seven the next morning, Bertie was tempted to ignore it and sleep for another hour. Her life had been crazy for the past five days. Charley’s restaurant had been hexed. Melissa’s mother had threatened to sue her. And now, on top of everything else, David and Angelique Mackenzie were breaking up. Bertie craved a drama-free day more than anything—twenty-four mundane hours where absolutely nothing out of the ordinary occurred.

  But today was not going to be that day.

  Today, Sam Willis, a.k.a. The Ace of Spades, was flying in from LA to rehearse with the Metro College Singers. And today, Bertie Bigelow was going to pick him up at the airport. To add to the drama, Hedda Eberhardt had informed her late yesterday afternoon that The Ace would be not be flying into nearby Midway Airport. Instead, he would be arriving at O’Hare International Airport, a forty-mile drive from Bertie’s South Side home.

  Ellen Simpson had offered to act as a chaperone during the long trip. “That man is sexual dynamite, Bertie. You sure you can handle him all by yourself?”

  “Our relationship is strictly professional,” Bertie told her. “I don’t intend to flirt, and I don’t intend to fawn over him either.”

  “Don’t you read People magazine? The Ace has got a serious reputation where women are concerned. His former backup singer is suing him for child support right now.”

  “Come on, Ellen. What’s he going to do? Molest me on the way home from the airport?”

  “You never know,” Ellen said darkly. “And I’m not necessarily saying it would be a bad thing if he did. But if he does make a play, you want to be in complete control, if you get my drift.” She extracted a small black canister from her handbag and placed it in Bertie’s hand. “Here. Take my pepper spray. Just in case.”

  Although Bertie had dutifully placed the canister in her purse, she felt confident that everything was going to turn out just fine. Though she hadn’t wanted to make a big deal out of it, she was a huge fan of The Ace’s 2004 hit song “Be Positive.”

  Dressed with casual elegance in a tight-fitting pair of Calvin Klein jeans, knee-high boots, and a gray cashmere turtleneck, Bertie hummed a few bars of the tune while checking her reflection in the mirror. Its catchy melody put Bertie in such a good mood that she continued to sing as she walked outside.

  No matter what you’re goin’ through

  Be positive. Keep it positive.

  Life is tough, but so are you.

  Be positive. Keep it positive.

  As she warbled her way down the driveway, Pat O’Fallon called to her from the other side of the fence.

  “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, Bertie.”

  As Bertie waved back, she smiled to herself. When she was a child, almost all of Chicago’s neighborhoods had been segregated. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined she would one day live next door to a pair of Irish ladies. But things had changed. If not everywhere, at least in Bertie’s tiny corner of the city. Pat O’Fallon and her sister Colleen were retired teachers who looked to be in their early eighties. Small and frail, the two sisters sported identical halos of wispy white hair and watery blue eyes that did not miss a trick.

  “Is that Bertie?” Colleen said, poking her head out the front window.

  “The very same,” Pat said. “Sportin’ a pair of skintigh
t jeans and singin’ to beat the band.”

  “Where ya off to, Bertie?” Dressed in a faded gingham housedress and a pair of run-down mules, Colleen stepped onto her front porch to have a better look. “Must be somethin’ grand to get ya singin’ at this hour.”

  Striking identical poses with their hands on their hips and their heads cocked to the left, the O’Fallon sisters waited expectantly. Unless Bertie was prepared to be outright rude, she would not be able to leave the driveway until she told the sisters where she was going.

  “I’m on my way out to O’Hare to pick up The Ace of Spades,” Bertie said. “You’ve probably never heard of him, but he’s a famous singer.”

  Colleen O’Fallon clapped her hands in excitement. “The boy who sings ‘Be Positive’?”

  “Of course,” Pat said, shooting her sister a derogatory glare. “Why else would Bertie be singin’ his song?”

  “You don’t have to snap at me,” Colleen said. “I was just tryin’ ta make sure.”

  Pat O’Fallon snorted. “Ya was hornin’ in on the conversation. Just like ya always do.”

  Bertie sighed inwardly. As far as she could tell, Pat and Colleen O’Fallon had been having the same argument every day for as long as she’d known them. Stealing a quick glance at her watch, Bertie decided to change the subject.

  “I didn’t know you ladies liked pop music,” she said.

  “Are you kidding?” Pat said. “A course we do.” She began to sing in a high, reedy voice: “Be positive, whoa whoa. Positive.”

  “Keep it positive,” Colleen chimed in. “The Ace is tops in my book, Bertie. Be sure to bring us back an autograph.”

  ***

  The traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway was terrible. Despite the fair weather outside, Bertie rolled up the window of her Honda in a vain attempt to shut out the noise and fumes from the fourteen lanes of traffic crawling toward the center of the city. After inching at an agonizing pace past the downtown skyscrapers, Bertie got stuck for thirty minutes behind a large tractor-trailer waiting to merge onto I-290.

  By the time she parked her car in the garage and sprinted for what seemed like ten miles to the baggage claim area, Bertie was nearly an hour late. If she’d had The Ace’s cell number, she could have called. But for some reason, Hedda Eberhardt had neglected to give it to her.

  A large white man stopped her as she ran toward the baggage carousel.

  “You Bigelow?” he said curtly.

  Tall and heavily muscled, his arms were covered with tattoos. Silver rings hung from his nose and both earlobes.

  Bertie nodded glumly.

  “About freakin’ time,” the man snapped. “I told Ace we should have chartered a limo.” He turned his back on Bertie and hollered: “Yo, Ace. Our ride’s here. Finally.”

  As The Ace of Spades approached them, he looked older than Bertie had imagined. He wore a nondescript black T-shirt, wrinkled jeans, and a pair of unlaced Timberlands. The sultry bedroom eyes, for which he was famous, were hidden behind a pair of dark aviator glasses, and his trademark curls had been stuffed under a White Sox baseball cap. A small potbelly protruded above the waistband of his jeans.

  “I’m Sam Willis, otherwise known as The Ace of Spades,” he said. He grinned and stuck out his hand. “This here’s Bulldog, my chief of security.”

  “Sorry about being late,” Bertie said as she shook his hand. “The traffic was terrible.”

  “Water under the bridge, Missus Bigelow. Never worry about the things you can’t change.” The Ace turned to Bulldog and pointed to the jumble of suitcases scattered at his feet. “I’m gonna go straight to my mama’s place. Make sure my stuff gets to the hotel in one piece.”

  “Maybe I should come with you,” Bulldog said. “You remember what happened in Detroit when you went off on your own.”

  “Yeah, but that was Motown. I’m on my home turf now. Anyway, nobody’s gonna recognize me in this raggedy get-up.” Without another word, The Ace ambled off in the direction of the parking garage.

  ***

  The Dan Ryan was even more crowded than it had been an hour ago. However, The Ace didn’t seem to mind. The singer stared pensively at the passing scenery as Bertie piloted her Honda through the massive snarl of traffic.

  “Chi-town,” he said softly. “Fifteen years ago, I never thought I’d make it out of here.”

  “It must feel good to know how far you’ve come,” Bertie said.

  “I s’pose,” The Ace said. “My mama taught math at Englewood High back in the day. Bet you didn’t know that.”

  “Actually, I did,” Bertie said. “I’ve been following your career for years.”

  The Ace shrugged dismissively and continued staring out the window. “If I got below ninety on a test, Mama would whup my behind. To this day, I can tell you all the prime numbers up to one hundred.”

  “I know what you mean,” Bertie said with a smile. “I was not allowed to leave the house until Dad checked over my homework. Sounds pretty corny, but that’s how it was.”

  “Corny is good sometimes,” The Ace said. “My mama didn’t take no stuff. She was a great teacher too. Always pushed me to do my best.”

  “Clearly, it worked,” Bertie said. “You’re Metro’s most famous graduate—a role model for thousands of kids. My students are beyond thrilled to be performing with you.” She paused. “One of them may have gotten a little too thrilled, if you catch my drift.”

  The Ace burst out laughing. “I think I know where you’re going with this one, Missus Bigelow.”

  “I don’t want to sound like a prude or anything, but this whole sexting business has put my classroom in an uproar.” Bertie hadn’t planned to discuss the incident, but now that she’d started, she was determined to get her point across. “The word on campus is that Melissa only got to dance in the show because of the naked pictures she sent.”

  The Ace turned away from the window and leaned forward. “I’ve been on the road for fifteen years, Missus Bigelow. After ‘Be Positive’ came out, girls used to line up outside my hotel room every night. Things got so crazy, Bulldog had to guard my door so I could get some privacy.”

  “So you didn’t give Melissa a bigger part in the show because she sexted you?”

  The Ace grunted. “I’m a professional, Missus Bigelow. You think I’d jeopardize the quality of my show over a pair of tits? I chose Melissa because of the YouTube clip she sent me of her dancing to ‘Be Positive.’ The girl’s got some really nice moves.”

  Bertie smiled. “If you could take a minute before tomorrow’s rehearsal to repeat what you just said to my choir, it would solve a lot of problems.”

  “I’d be glad to, Missus Bigelow,” The Ace said.

  “Call me Bertie. Missus Bigelow makes me feel like an old lady.”

  “You sure don’t look like one,” he said. “Say, listen, you’ve been so nice, picking me up and driving me around like this. Why don’t you join me and my mama for lunch? She’s hardly left the house since she had her heart attack last month. I know she’d love to talk shop with another teacher.”

  “Wish I could,” Bertie said, “but I’ve got to teach this afternoon. Thanks for the offer, though.”

  “Some other time?”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Bertie said, hoping The Ace hadn’t noticed the sudden flush in her cheeks. “I know you’re busy.”

  “Never too busy for pleasant conversation,” he said. “I like you, Bertie. Next time I’m in town, I’m not gonna take no for an answer.”

  Ten minutes later, Bertie pulled onto Throop Street and parked in front of a small brick house in the middle of the block.

  “I’ve been all over the world—Rome, Paris, LA, you name it,” the singer said. “But I was born and raised in Englewood. And when the time comes for me to settle down, I’m gonna come right back.” Flashing his trademark grin, The Ace stepped out of the car. “Like Diana Ross says in The Wiz, there’s no place like home.”

  As she piloted
her car eastward along Seventy-First Street past a vacant lot and a row of boarded-up buildings, Bertie found herself smiling despite the bleakness of her surroundings. The airport pick-up had gotten off on the wrong foot. But in the end, things had not turned out too badly. It was a relief to learn that The Ace was not as difficult as she’d feared. Despite his reputation as a womanizer, the man seemed thoughtful and intelligent. Not to mention that sexy smile of his.

  Wait till I tell Ellen he asked me to his mama’s house for lunch. And Mabel Howard? The poor thing is going to be green with envy.

  In the midst of this pleasant reverie, it suddenly occurred to Bertie that Mabel had not actually confirmed that she would be coming to the workshop. In order to meet The Ace in person, Mabel was going to need to pick up a backstage pass. Bertie flipped on her turn signal, pulled her Honda to the curb, and punched Mabel’s number into her cell phone.

  “Hey, Bertie,” Mabel said and sighed glumly.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?” Bertie said. “I have something exciting to tell you, but I can call back later.”

  “Might as well tell me now and get it over with.”

  “You okay? You sound depressed.”

  “I am most definitely NOT okay,” Mabel replied with sudden vigor. “I’ve been duped. Punk’d. Taken advantage of. What’s worse, I’ve dragged my husband’s business into the mud.”

  “You talking about Sister Destina?”

  “Who else?” Mabel said bitterly. “There was never a hex on Charley’s restaurant. Commissioner Jefferson got sick because Destina paid someone to sprinkle rotten meat in his food.”