“Are you sure?” Bertie said. She had never heard her friend so angry.
“Of course I’m sure,” Mabel said sharply. “I went by Destina’s house this morning. I didn’t have an appointment, but I figured maybe, if I got there early enough, she’d be able to squeeze me in. While I’m sitting in the waiting room, I can hear her talking to someone on the phone. ‘You used too damn much of that spoiled ham hock I gave you,’ she says. ‘Almost killed the commissioner.’ Then she laughs. ‘We sho’ nuff settled Charley Howard’s hash. That simple-ass wife of his is gonna think I walk on water.’
“I suppose I should have confronted Destina,” Mabel said. “But I was too shocked to think straight. The only thing I wanted to do was get out of there. I tiptoed out the front door, got in my car, and drove away.”
“Poor thing,” Bertie said. “Bet Charley blew his stack when you told him.”
“I didn’t tell him,” Mabel said sharply. “And I don’t want you telling him either. Ever since we’ve been married, Charley’s been looking after me, taking care of me. It’s about time I handled my own business, Bertie. I’m getting my money back from that phony psychic if it’s the last damn thing I do.”
“You should go to the police,” Bertie said. “Sister Destina probably has a rap sheet as long as your arm.”
“No need for that,” Mabel said. “I’ve got a plan.”
“What kind of plan?”
“That, my friend, is top secret.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re arranging some kind of confrontation,” Bertie said. “If what you’re saying is true, Sister Destina has already tried to poison somebody. You don’t want to get yourself hurt.”
“You worry too much,” Mabel said. “I refuse to waste another minute talking about this foolishness.”
“Come on, Mabel. Can’t you at least give me a hint about this plan of yours?”
“Leave it alone, girlfriend.” The edge in Mabel’s voice took Bertie by surprise.
“In that case, let me tell you why I called,” Bertie said in a lighter tone.
By the time she was finished telling Mabel about her morning’s adventures, her friend’s customary good nature had begun to return.
“Did you know The Ace is a Scorpio?” Mabel said. “That’s a water sign, you know—very intense. He was born on the same day as Drake. Drake is my absolute favorite rapper. Kinda figures, doesn’t it. Great artists tend to come from the fixed signs. That’s where they get their power. But there I go again, rambling on. Charley used to say I had a mind like a sieve, except for birthdays. I never forget a birthday.” After a nervous giggle, Mabel’s voice turned serious. “Just do me one favor, okay?”
“Anything,” Bertie said. “What do you need?”
“I know Charley’s paying you to investigate Sister Destina. I don’t even mind ’cause I know he’s been worried about me, poor thing. But please. Don’t say anything to Charley about this. At least not until tomorrow. Can you promise me that?”
“As long as you promise not to do anything rash,” Bertie said firmly. “Promise you won’t go off half-cocked on this thing.”
“Don’t worry, Bertie. What I’m planning is completely legal. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow when I see you.”
“It’s a deal,” Bertie said. “I’ll leave your backstage pass at the box office. See you after the show.”
***
Bertie kept her students at rehearsal until nearly eight o’clock that evening. She was determined to do whatever it took to make sure the choir’s performance at the next day’s rehearsal was as strong as possible. In her quest for perfection, she spared no one. By the time practice was over, both she and her students were exhausted.
When she finally got home that night, Bertie nuked a Weight Watchers veggie pizza in the microwave, poured herself a glass of Merlot, and watched a parade of meaningless TV programs until midnight.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Friday, October 20—5:50 AM
When Bertie’s cell phone rang the next morning at five fifty a.m., she thought it was part of her dream. Melissa Jones had been tap dancing naked down a golden staircase while the choir, dressed for some strange reason entirely in polka-dot pajamas, sang the chorus from “Pennies from Heaven.” In a tinny voice, Marvin Gaye kept repeating the same insistent phrase: “What’s Goin’ On, What’s Goin’ On, What’s ...”
Bertie grabbed the phone off her night table and mumbled a groggy hello.
“It’s Sister Destina,” the psychic said in her husky baritone. “Please don’t hang up.”
“Give me one good reason not to. First of all, it is not even six o’clock in the morning. Second, I know all about your sleazy little scam.”
“That’s why I’m calling you,” Sister Destina said, her voice beginning to tremble. “I want to clear my karma. To atone before it’s too late.”
“You should have thought about your karma before you started ripping people off,” Bertie said tartly.
“I admit I’ve done some terrible things, Bertie. And yes, I paid one of the commissioner’s interns to put rotten meat in his dinner. But please. Give me a chance to explain.”
“Why should I? Your phony prophecies have caused a lot of damage.”
“They’re not entirely fake,” Sister Destina said softly, then paused for a moment. “Met any interesting men lately?”
Bertie was silent. Between Terrance Witherspoon giving her the eye, The Ace asking her to meet his mama, and David Mackenzie calling in the middle of the night, she’d gotten more attention from men in the past two days then she’d had in the past year.
Sister Destina chuckled. “I told you there’d be three new men in your life. Which one came on to you yesterday, Bertie? Was it the old friend? The new friend? I sure hope it wasn’t the false friend.”
“Stop talking nonsense,” Bertie said. “If you were a real psychic, you wouldn’t be out there scamming people.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Sister Destina said urgently. “It’s not what you think.”
“Why me, Destina? We barely know each other.”
“My spirit guides say you are the only person who can help me. Come to my house tonight. I promise I’ll explain everything. It’s a matter of life and death,” the psychic said and hung up.
Bertie sighed. Unlike Destina’s phony fortune-telling act, the terror and desperation in the psychic’s voice had been real. Of that, Bertie was certain. The psychic had run out of options and was about to suffer the inevitable consequences of her behavior. And although Bertie felt a small pang of sympathy for Destina’s predicament, she had more important things on her mind. At four o’clock today, after months of preparation, her students were going to perform onstage with The Ace of Spades. True, it was only a workshop and not the final performance. But still.
Bertie made a mental checklist of dos and don’ts for the day:
Make sure The Ace has bottled water and fresh fruit in his dressing room.
Remember to invite Dr. Grant and Terrance Witherspoon backstage.
Remember to spend extra time warming up the alto section.
Move on from the sexting incident. Tactfully remind The Ace to explain his reasons for choosing Melissa’s dance number.
Reserve a seat in the front row for Mabel Howard.
Take three deep breaths before going onstage.
Stay focused. Don’t think about anything else but the job at hand.
“And above all,” Bertie said to herself as she threaded her Honda through the traffic on Halsted Street, “be positive. It’s going to be a great day.”
***
The Metro College Performance Center was filled by the time Bertie’s students arrived. Bursting with nervous energy and turned out in their Sunday best, they milled restlessly around the auditorium. As Bertie corralled her choir in the dressing room backstage, they peppered her with questions.
“Have you seen The Ace?”
“What’s he lik
e? Is he nice?”
“Where is he? Shouldn’t he be here by now? You sure he’s coming?”
“Quiet, everyone,” Bertie said. “Let’s get warmed up so we’ll be ready to go when he gets here.”
Melissa Jones remained conspicuously absent. When Bertie asked if anyone had seen the girl, Nyala Clark shook her head.
“She hasn’t been to any of her classes this week,” Nyala said. “Word is, her mother’s keeping her out of school till the court case is settled.”
“Court case?” Maurice Green said sharply. “What court case?”
“Where you been, fool?” Nyala said, giving Maurice a pitying look. “Melissa’s mama is gonna sue the college for throwing her out of the choir.”
Bertie held up her hand for silence. “Now hold on one moment, Nyala. No one knows for certain exactly what Melissa’s mother is going to do. I have not received any official notification from the chancellor. In fact, I’m still hoping Melissa will do the right thing—apologize for her behavior and return to the choir.”
Nyala’s skeptical expression was mirrored on the faces of her classmates. “With all due respect, Missus B, I don’t see that happening. Today’s workshop is the biggest thing our choir has ever done. And Melissa didn’t even bother to show up.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that,” Bertie said, projecting what she hoped was a cheerful lack of concern. “We’ll cut Melissa’s number for now. After the workshop, I’ll ask the dean of students to find out what is going on. Right now, we’ve got more important things to worry about.” She sat down on the piano bench and plunked out an authoritative chord. “Arpeggios, ladies and gentlemen, on my downbeat.”
As the students continued to warm up their voices, Bertie stared anxiously at the clock on the wall in front of her. The Ace should have arrived an hour ago. If the singer didn’t turn up soon, she was going to have some very disappointed students on her hands.
Halfway through her fifth set of vocal exercises, the door to the dressing room burst open. The singing trailed off as the students craned their necks for a better look. Dressed from head to toe in black leather, The Ace of Spades swept into the room.
“Whazzup, Metro?!” he shouted, pumping his fists. His shirt was unbuttoned almost to his navel, and three enormous gold chains sparkled against his bare chest. “Let’s make some noise!”
Ten minutes later, the choir had taken their places onstage where The Ace tapped impatiently on a microphone and waved to the soundman in the balcony.
From her place in the wings, Bertie peered out into the auditorium. The house was full. Chancellor Grant and Terrance Witherspoon sat in the front row, while Ellen Simpson, unmistakable in a purple and gold African dress, sat next to Maria Francione in the balcony.
The only person Bertie did not see was Mabel Howard. She was not sitting in the front row seat Bertie had reserved for her. Nor did Mabel appear to be among the latecomers rushing to take their seats in the back of the house. But in that moment, Bertie Bigelow did not have time to worry about Mabel or anything else.
It was showtime.
As the house lights dimmed and the curtain went up, Bertie took three deep breaths, stepped onto the stage, and up to the microphone.
“Thanks for waiting, everyone,” she said. “Before we begin, I’d like to take a moment to introduce the clinician for today’s workshop. Sam Willis, known to you as The Ace of Spades, grew up on the South Side of Chicago and attended Metro Community College, or Metro Junior College, as it was known in those days. In 2000, Mister Willis signed a contract with Tone Def Records and moved to Los Angeles. And in 2004, he wrote his chart-topping song ‘Be Positive.’ The rest, as they say, is history.”
“Yo, Ace,” a female voice sang out in the darkness. “We love you!”
When the whistling and clapping had died down, Bertie continued. “What you are about to see is a workshop. Mister Willis will be stopping the choir frequently to make corrections and to share his musical expertise. To repeat, this is a workshop, not a performance, so please bear with us. Finally, I will ask that you turn off your cell phones. Anyone caught recording or photographing The Ace without his permission will be asked to leave the auditorium.”
Bulldog, The Ace’s bodyguard, stepped up to the edge of the stage and surveyed the crowd menacingly.
“Listen up,” he shouted. “I catch you recording the show today, I will personally throw both you and your phone outta here. Got it?”
For the next two hours, Bertie watched appreciatively as The Ace of Spades put the Metro College Singers through their paces. Once in front of the students, the singer shed his laid-back demeanor. He stopped the group frequently and made corrections in a crisp, no-nonsense manner. Fascinated, the audience hung on every word.
“Never forget that music is a discipline,” The Ace said, shaking his finger at the alto section. “It isn’t enough just to sing your heart out. You gotta work at it every single day. Y’all need to work on your intonation here. It’s out of tune because you are not supporting your notes. Bet Missus Bigelow has told you that a million times.”
“Yeah,” Nyala Clark said sheepishly. “When you come back next time, we’re gonna have it. You’ll see.”
The Ace nodded. “You better. I am not getting up on stage with a bunch of raggedy-ass amateurs.” The students stared, crestfallen, at the floor until The Ace waved his hand dismissively. “Based on what you’ve shown me today, I know you guys are capable. You work hard for the next three weeks, and we are gonna have one hell of a show.”
At the end of the rehearsal, Bulldog stood guard as a crowd of eager students clustered around The Ace, snapping photos and asking him for autographs. When the final “#selfiew/Ace” had been taken, Bertie shook the singer’s hand warmly.
“Thanks again for doing this,” she said. “It has meant the world to my students.”
“My pleasure,” he said. He bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek. “When I come back next time, I want you to meet my mama. No excuses, all right?”
Bertie turned beet red. As she fumbled for a reply, Bulldog walked toward them and tapped The Ace on the shoulder.
“Time to go,” he said. “Our show in Gary starts at eight. The limo’s waiting.”
Long after The Ace had said goodbye, the students milled around the stage, excitedly reviewing the day’s events. Even Chancellor Grant was pleased.
“Congratulations, Professor Bigelow,” he said. “Your students did a fine job.” Lowering his voice, he took a step closer. “I notice Melissa Jones didn’t sing with the group. Have you heard from her?”
“Not a peep,” Bertie said.
“Oh dear. I suppose I’d better have Doctor Witherspoon give her mother a call.” As the chancellor turned away, Ellen rushed onstage to give Bertie a hug.
“The Ace may be a bit fatter than he was ten years ago,” she said. “But my, oh my, that man is fine.”
“Don’t I know it,” Bertie said. “He kissed me. Right here on the cheek. Told me he wants to introduce me to his mama the next time he’s in town.”
Ellen grinned. “Bet he uses that line at least ten times a day. Still. If he makes a serious play for you, I want to be the first to know.”
“Girl, you are too crazy,” Bertie said, laughing. “By the way, have you seen Mabel Howard? We were supposed to meet up after the show.”
“Nope. Maybe she had to leave early or something. If I see her, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.”
By this point, the auditorium was nearly empty. Mabel had promised to meet her after the rehearsal, and it was not like Mabel to break a promise. Bertie checked her phone for messages. Nothing. Worse still, Mabel was not answering her cell phone.
It had been a long and event-filled day, and now that it was nearly over, Bertie was ready to go home and put her feet up. Whatever was going on with Mabel Howard would just have to wait until the next day.
Bertie was halfway home when she remembered her conversatio
n with Sister Destina that morning. The psychic had asked her to stop by, but it had been a long day. In Bertie’s mind nothing Destina could say could possibly justify the way she’d treated Mabel Howard. Which led Bertie to wonder, not for the first time, where Mabel was. Why hadn’t she shown up for The Ace’s clinic? Mabel had been hopping mad the last time they’d spoken—furious, in fact. Could she have ignored Bertie’s advice and taken matters into her own hands?
As Bertie approached the corner of Sixty-Third and Cottage Grove, she had an unsettling thought. Mabel Howard could very well be sitting in Destina’s living room at this very moment.
Heaving a sigh, Bertie made a U-turn in the middle of Sixty-Third Street and headed back toward the Dan Ryan Expressway.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Friday, October 20—8:00 PM
Music blared through Sister Destina’s open window as Bertie pulled her car to the curb. Certainly, it was not unusual to hear loud music wafting through open windows in Morgan Park. Not at all. But instead of Nicki Minaj, Kanye West, or Jay Z, Sister Destina was listening to the blues. Accompanied by the old-fashioned beat of an out-of-tune ragtime piano, Bessie Smith’s voice was unmistakable:
Gee, but it’s hard to love someone
When that someone don’t love you.
I’m so disgusted,
Heartbroken, too ...
It seemed an odd choice for background music. Odder still was the fact that Sister Destina had left her front door wide open.
After knocking and calling out a tentative “hello,” Bertie stepped inside. The music was so loud it hurt:
Trouble, trouble, I’ve had it all my days.
Trouble, trouble, I’ve had it all my days.
Seem like trouble’s goin’ to follow me to my grave.
No wonder Destina can’t hear me, Bertie thought. I can barely hear myself.
Stuffing her fingers in her ears, she took a look around. The waiting room was empty, and every light in the place had been turned on. Deprived of its usual dim lighting, the room looked distinctly tacky. There were cracks in the walls and a water stain on the ceiling. Destina’s pink velvet sofa was shiny from overuse, and even the velvet Jesus hanging on the far wall looked like he’d seen better days.
Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery Page 6
