Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “Well done, Bertie,” Mac said. “Jabarion would never have mentioned Destina’s Home Hoodoo Program if you hadn’t rattled his cage like that. I’d say we made a pretty good team in there.”

  Bertie felt her cheeks redden. Luckily, Mac was too busy negotiating his BMW through the bumper-to-bumper traffic to notice. As a battered pickup truck cut into the lane in front of them, he muttered under his breath and slammed on the brakes.

  When the traffic began to inch forward again, she said, “This Home Hoodoo Program sounds creepy. What do you think it means?”

  “Search me,” Mackenzie said with a shrug. “But if the program had anything to do with shutting down Charley’s restaurant, it gives Mabel an even bigger motive for the murder.”

  “I think Jabarion knows more than he’s letting on, Mac. He was at Sister Destina’s house nearly every day. I’ll bet he overheard lots of useful information.”

  “Probably,” Mac said. “But there’s no way Roddy Frazier is going to let us question the boy again without a court order.”

  The two of them contemplated the situation in silence for the next several minutes.

  “Perhaps Sister Destina discussed the Home Hoodoo Program in that crazy excuse for a thesis she sent me,” Bertie finally said. “I told you about it, remember?”

  Mackenzie grunted. “If Mabel ends up getting arrested, I’ll have to hire a paralegal to plow through the damn thing.”

  “I could read it for you,” Bertie said. “Poor Destina was clearly off her rocker, but I feel a responsibility, somehow. She mailed me that thesis only hours before she was killed.”

  “You’d be doing me a big favor,” Mac said. “I’m swamped with work right now. Got three other cases coming to trial in the next month.”

  “No problem,” Bertie said with a smile. “I’d be glad to read it for you. Truth be told, I’d do just about anything to keep my mind off the blasted choir concert.”

  For the rest of the trip back to the South Side, Bertie told Mac about the latest developments in her professional life—Melissa’s continued refusal to apologize for her behavior and her mother’s threat to take the matter to court.

  “She’s threatened to get an injunction to stop my concert,” Bertie said. “Have you ever heard of something so ridiculous?”

  Mac laughed. “Welcome to my world, Bertie. It is truly amazing, the kind of foolishness people will sue each other about. Fact is, we live in a litigious society. Bad for human relations, but very good for business.”

  “Fania Jones really could sue?”

  “Yes. But I wouldn’t worry if I were you. The college has excellent legal representation. And in the unlikely event she decided to sue you directly, I would defend you myself—make the woman rue the day she ever went to law school.”

  Bertie smiled. How long had it been since she felt like she had someone so unequivocally on her side—a male protector with whom she could share her troubles? David Mackenzie was one of those rare men who could be tough and gentle at the same time. And now they were teammates. Mac had said so himself.

  As the lawyer’s BMW turned onto Fifty-Seventh Street, Bertie had to admit she wouldn’t mind at all if the relationship developed into something more.

  Mac pulled into her driveway and shut off the engine.

  “Take care of yourself,” he said gently. He leaned across the gearshift and kissed Bertie on the cheek. “You’re a very special lady.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Friday, October 27—4:00 PM

  When Bertie arrived at choir practice on Friday, Terry Witherspoon was waiting in front of her classroom.

  “I’m going to need a few minutes to talk to your students,” he said. “There have been some important developments.”

  Bertie’s face sagged. “Fania Jones is going ahead with her lawsuit?”

  Witherspoon nodded grimly. “She’s filed for a preliminary injunction in Superior Court. There’s a hearing scheduled for the middle of next week. Our lawyers remain confident they can get it overturned, but to be on the safe side, Chancellor Grant has decided to put your concert on hold until the judge issues a ruling.”

  After the students had filed into the classroom and taken their seats, Witherspoon delivered the bad news in crisp, no-nonsense language. The choir responded to his announcement with shocked silence, but the minute Witherspoon left the room, they exploded.

  “This sucks,” TyJuana Barnes said loudly. “How can they do this after all the work we put in?”

  “They’ve got no choice,” Nyala Clark snapped. “They’re getting sued. Just the kind of stupid stunt you’d expect from a trashy lowlife like Melissa Jones.”

  “Wasn’t like she was kicked out the choir forever,” Maurice Green said bitterly.

  “All she had to do was apologize.”

  “But she didn’t apologize, did she,” Nyala said. “Didn’t apologize at all. Instead, she’s ruining the show for everybody. What a bitch.”

  “There’s no need for name-calling,” Bertie said. “Anyway, I can’t believe the judge is going to rule in her favor. Everything will be back to normal in a couple of weeks.”

  As she surveyed the angry faces of her students, Bertie hoped that her optimism was justified. And then she got an idea. An idea so phenomenal she wondered how she had failed to think of it before.

  “The Ace gave me his phone number when he was here a few weeks ago,” she said. “Why don’t I give him a call?”

  Nyala’s eyes widened. “His private number? That’s dope, Missus B. Can I have it?”

  “Absolutely not. I’ll give The Ace a call tonight. He was supposed talk to Melissa about the sexting thing before the workshop last week, but Melissa never showed up. Perhaps he’d be willing to talk to her over the phone. Who knows? Maybe we can get this mess cleared up once and for all.”

  But when Bertie telephoned The Ace later that night, she discovered that his “private number” was not nearly as private as she had hoped. Like his public number, it was monitored by a flunkie—in this case, a rude one.

  “The Ace can’t talk now,” the man said and hung up.

  If there was one thing that truly irritated Bertie Bigelow, it was rudeness. She redialed the number immediately. Even if she did not get to speak to The Ace in person, she intended to leave a message letting the singer know exactly what she thought of his staff and their manners.

  The Ace himself picked up the phone on the tenth ring.

  “I’m in the studio,” he snapped. “Who the hell is this?”

  “It’s Bertie Bigelow from Metro College, Mister Willis. I’m sorry to bother you, but something important has come up.”

  “Metro College?” The singer’s resonant baritone jumped an octave. “I got served with court papers this morning. Me—The Ace of Spades! Can you believe that shit?”

  Bertie’s heart sank. “Court papers?”

  “That’s right,” the singer said belligerently. “So if that’s what you’re calling about, you’ll have to talk to my lawyer. I am not saying another word. In fact, I never want to hear from you people again!” As Bertie gathered herself to respond, he continued. “My manager told me not to take this gig, and now I see why. All this drama over a pair of tits!”

  “But what about the students?” Bertie said desperately. “Don’t you care about them at all? They are going to be crushed if this concert doesn’t happen.”

  “Shoulda thought about that before they started sexting me, Missus Bigelow. I’ve got to make my living in this business.”

  Bertie’s eyes filled with tears as she hung up the phone. Sighing heavily, she poured herself a shot of brandy and downed it in one swallow. It burned her throat on the way down, but with any luck, the alcohol would help her forget her troubles—at least for a while.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Saturday, October 28—11:00 AM

  When Bertie finally rolled out of bed the next morning at the unheard-of hour of eleven a.m., her head was splitting. Wh
ether this was due to the medicinal nightcap she’d taken the night before or to the recent depressing developments in her life, she could not say. She staggered into the bathroom, swallowed an Advil, and stood under the shower until her head cleared. She was just getting out of the shower when her cell phone rang.

  “Thank God you’re home,” Mabel Howard said. “I wanted to talk to you before I left on my trip.”

  “What trip?” Holding the phone first in one hand and then the other, Bertie maneuvered into her bathrobe and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “That, my dear, is top secret,” Mabel said in a dramatic whisper. “Let’s just say, I’m onto something big—something that could break this case wide open.”

  Uh-oh. That did not sound good. “Have you talked to Mac? He’s your lawyer, after all. You should probably let him know what’s going on.”

  “No, Bertie, and I don’t want you telling him either. I need to make this trip in secret.”

  “Charley doesn’t know you’re going?”

  Mabel’s giggle reminded Bertie of a mischievous two-year-old. “Goodness, no. It would only raise his blood pressure. You know what a temper he’s got. Poor man is liable to blow a gasket.”

  “If you’re not going to tell your husband or your lawyer, you should at least tell me where you’re going,” Bertie said. “What if something happens to you?”

  “You’re so sweet to worry,” Mabel said airily, “but really, all I need you to do is cover for me. If anyone asks, just tell them I’ve gone to Lake Geneva for a spa weekend.”

  “You’re a suspect in a murder investigation,” Bertie said. “You can’t just go waltzing off without letting people know where you’re going.”

  Mabel’s tone was a mixture of hurt and indignation. “Who do you think you are, Bertie Bigelow? The Spanish Inquisition? Just forget it, okay? Forget you ever heard from me,” she said and hung up.

  Frustrated, angry, and more than a little bit worried, Bertie paced around her bedroom. Should she tell someone? On the one hand, Mabel Howard was a grown woman. What she chose to do with her life was her own business, wasn’t it? If Bertie called either Charley or Mac against Mabel’s wishes, she was likely to lose Mabel’s friendship permanently. On the other hand, this was a murder investigation. Whoever had stuck that sword in Destina’s stomach was still out there, just waiting for someone like Mabel Howard to make a wrong move.

  After several minutes of brooding, Bertie decided on what she hoped was a reasonable compromise. She would honor Mabel’s request for secrecy for the next twenty-four hours, but if she didn’t hear from Mabel by the next night, she would let both Mac and Charley know.

  Though Bertie felt fairly certain she was doing the right thing, she realized it would probably be a good idea to get a second opinion. Striding briskly to the end table by her bed, Bertie picked up her phone and called Ellen.

  “Mabel says she’s found a new clue in Destina’s murder and is going off somewhere to investigate. Think I should be worried?”

  Ellen laughed. “Probably not. Knowing Mabel, it could be anything. Who knows? Maybe she’s found herself a new psychic.”

  “Very funny,” Bertie said. “The last time Mabel found a new psychic, Commissioner Jefferson got food poisoning, Charley’s restaurant got shut down, and Sister Destina got murdered.” She sighed. “To be honest, I just don’t have time for any more of Mabel’s nonsense right now. Did you know Fania Jones has filed for an injunction to stop my concert? My show is in limbo until the judge makes up his mind.”

  “I heard,” Ellen said. “That’s a tough one, Bert. You okay?”

  “I am at the end of my rope,” Bertie said simply. “I even called The Ace to see if he could help.”

  “And?”

  “He basically cussed me out. Then he hung up on me. Meanwhile, the students are going nuts because their show has been put on hold. Do you think I should try to get the chancellor to change his mind? I was thinking of having the students write a petition or something.”

  There was a long silence at the other end of the phone. When Ellen finally spoke, her response took Bertie by surprise. “A student petition will only fan the flames, Bertie. It might even get you fired. If there is one thing our boss hates, it’s controversy, as you well know. I hate to say it, but it looks like you’re just going to have to wait this thing out. Pray the judge throws Melissa’s she-devil of a mother out on her butt, which, I must tell you, is a very strong possibility. The woman is damn near certifiable.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Bertie said slowly. “I just feel so powerless.”

  “Let the lawyers handle it. The whole situation is way above your pay grade. What you need is a little distraction. Invite your lawyer friend over for a little late-night conversation.” Ellen giggled wickedly. “Gotta tell you, Bertie. That’s one fine-looking brotha. Tall, dark, and handsome. I wouldn’t mind if he took my deposition some night.”

  “Shut up,” Bertie said. Fortunately, Ellen was not there in person to see her blush. “How many times do I have to tell you? The man is married.”

  “In name only, my dear. Name only. Rumor has it, Angelique Mackenzie has been running up to Detroit with Waymon Reid just about every weekend. Supposedly, he’s her financial advisor. But it does not take a stock market wizard to surmise the man’s also invested in her more physical assets, if you get my drift.” Ellen giggled wickedly again. “You’re a good girl, Bertie. You want to do what’s right, but let me tell you something. Life is no Sunday school picnic. There are no rules, especially where love is concerned, and the woman with the strongest will is gonna win, every time.”

  ***

  After a small breakfast of wheat toast and coffee, Bertie retired to her music room to spend the afternoon. Outside, the sky was gray and heavy. It would be pouring buckets before long. The wind blowing in from the lake rattled against the windows and shook the last leaves from the trees on Harper Avenue. Thank God she had the piano to keep her loneliness at bay.

  When the phone rang around four thirty, she almost didn’t answer it. She hated for her practice sessions to be interrupted. She wasn’t expecting any calls, and what’s more, she’d dealt with more than her share of drama lately. Whoever was calling would just have to leave a message, she decided. On the other hand, there was always the possibility that Mabel Howard was phoning to check in. Reluctantly, Bertie pulled herself away from the piano and answered the phone.

  “I hope you haven’t forgotten about our date,” Terry Witherspoon said. “You promised to take me around to some of the local clubs tonight, remember?”

  “Oh dear,” Bertie said. The conversation she’d had with Witherspoon earlier that week about jazz clubs had totally slipped her mind. Had she made a definite date to see him? As she remembered it, the conversation had never been more than hypothetical. “Were we supposed to get together tonight?”

  “Why not?” Witherspoon said. “It’s as good a night as any. You live on Harper, right? I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  ***

  Terry Witherspoon’s Thunderbird rumbled into her driveway at the stroke of eight p.m. By the time Bertie opened her front door, the O’Fallon sisters had already come out to investigate.

  “Lovely motor your friend’s got there,” Colleen chirped, raising her voice to be heard over the car’s engine. “Going somewhere special?”

  “Idjit! Can’t you see Bertie’s got a gentleman caller?” Pat grabbed her younger sister by the arm and steered her back inside.

  “About bloody time, if you ask me,” Colleen said as she closed the door.

  Extracting his lanky frame from inside the sports car, Terry Witherspoon strode around to the passenger side and opened the car door with a sweeping gesture.

  “Your chariot awaits, madame,” he said.

  Charmed in spite of herself, Bertie smiled and climbed in, allowing Witherspoon to close the door behind her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone anywhere with a new male friend. Gr
anted, this was supposed to be a platonic outing, but nonetheless, Bertie had to admit she felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of being out and about with such a handsome man.

  “Where should we go?” Witherspoon said. “I’m not much for rap, but other than that, I’m open to anything.”

  “One of my former students is playing at Buddy Guy’s club tonight,” Bertie said.

  Witherspoon whistled softly. “The Buddy Guy? Now I know I’m in Chicago. That man has played with everyone from Muddy Waters to The Rolling Stones.”

  “For years, he ran the Checkerboard Lounge on the South Side. He moved his operation downtown a couple of years ago,” Bertie said. “My student was lucky to get a gig there. His music sounds a bit like George Benson, with a pinch of Parliament-Funkadelics, and a teaspoon of B.B. King thrown in. Can you picture it?”

  “Definitely,” Witherspoon said with a grin. “A funky guitar-driven groove with bluesy elements. I can totally get with that program.”

  Half an hour later, Terry Witherspoon’s T-Bird rolled to a stop in front of Buddy Guy’s Legends Club. After handing his keys to the valet, Witherspoon took Bertie’s arm and led her inside. From the club’s décor, Bertie surmised that Buddy Guy was attempting to evoke the down-home spirit of his former South Side establishment. The exposed brick walls were decorated with guitars belonging to the musical legends who’d ventured into the ’hood to jam there back in the day. Keith Richards, Eric Clapton, and, of course, the great B.B. King. Neon signs advertising Pabst Blue Ribbon beer illuminated the bar, and the air was redolent with the pungent smell of barbequed ribs.

  But Bertie doubted Guy’s downtown club would remind too many people of a South Side dive. Certainly not anyone who took a look at the prices on the menu. She felt that it spoke either to Witherspoon’s tact or to the size of his paycheck that he did not blink at the prospect of shelling out thirty dollars for a pair of burgers.