Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “Should I try the ribs?” he said. “I’m from Memphis, and I’m picky about my barbeque. I haven’t found any place here that knows how to make a decent sauce.”

  Bertie smiled. “If I knew you’d wanted barbeque, I’d have suggested somewhere deeper into the ’hood, but the food here is decent. They fry up a good catfish.”

  Witherspoon laughed. “Think I’ll give those ribs a try. After living in Minnesota for the past five years, I could really use a good plate of soul food.” He raised his beer glass in salute. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid,” he said in an imitation Humphrey Bogart accent.

  “You like old movies?”

  Bertie’s guard dropped an inch or two when he replied, “I worship them. I keep a subscription to Netflix just so I can watch the old classics. After a stressful day, I come home from work, fix myself a bowl of popcorn, and treat myself to a double feature. Since it’s all on DVD, I can fast-forward through the racist bits.”

  “The blackface scene in Holiday Inn?”

  “Gone,” Witherspoon said. “Ditto the antics of that brainless maid in Gone With The Wind.” He bugged out his eyes and waved his hands in a gesture of mock confusion. “Lawd-a-mercy, Miz Scarlet! Da Yankees is comin’. Whatever is little ole me s’poze ta do now?”

  “Butterfly McQueen may have been an African-American pioneer, but it’s downright painful to see her in such a demeaning role,” she said.

  “Exactly,” Witherspoon said. “Now that I have Netflix, I don’t have to put up with that mess anymore. Fast-forward has improved the quality of my movie-going experience immensely.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Bertie said, raising her brandy Alexander in mock salute.

  For the next hour and a half, she and Witherspoon swayed and tapped their feet to the sounds of G-Man Gibson, a.k.a. Gary Gibson, Metro College Class of 2011. The G-Man’s licks were hot, and his backup group laid down a solid groove. Halfway into the band’s second set, the checkerboard-tiled dance floor in front of them began to fill with couples strutting their latest moves. When Witherspoon suggested they join the dancers, Bertie surprised herself by saying yes.

  Terry Witherspoon was a very good dancer. Dressed with casual elegance in a pair of pressed khakis, a dark-blue shirt, and a tweed jacket, he moved with an easy grace that caught the attention of several women in the room. When G-Man switched to a slow blues, it felt natural to continue dancing. As Terry pulled her close, Bertie could feel his breath on her neck and the steady pressure of his hand against the small of her back. How long had it been since she’d allowed herself to get this close to a man?

  Get a grip, girlfriend, she told herself. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. It’s just dancing—a casual night out to catch some good music.

  When the band finished their last song, Witherspoon took her arm and escorted her back to their table.

  “Thanks so much for bringing me here,” he said. “If it wasn’t for you, I would have spent the night alone.”

  “Me too,” Bertie said. Now that G-Man had finished playing, the tables around them began to empty.

  “Yes, but at least you’re not sitting in a hotel room,” Witherspoon said. “There is nothing in the whole world more lonely than that, believe me.”

  “You’re staying in a hotel?”

  Witherspoon nodded. “I didn’t get this job until August. By the time my contract was finalized, the semester had already begun. The college agreed to put me at the Palmer House for a couple of months, until I get myself settled.”

  Once again, Bertie experienced the distinct sensation of being out of her customary pay grade. The thought that Metropolitan Community College, a financially strapped inner-city institution, was footing the bill for an administrator to stay at a fancy downtown hotel floored her. Clearly Terrance Witherspoon lived in an alternative magical universe, far from the mundane world she inhabited.

  “They’re keeping you at the Palmer House?”

  “That’s right,” Witherspoon said. “Would you like to see my room? It’s got a great view of the city.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Bertie said. “I’m sure you must be tired after such a long night.”

  “Not at all. Come on up for a nightcap, Bertie. Have a drink. Check out the view before I take you home.”

  By this point, Bertie had consumed three brandy Alexanders and a massive plate of fried catfish. In the midst of this unusual combination of pleasant sensations, she felt a warning light switch on in the back of her mind. Two years ago, the late Judge Theophilous Green had lured her up to his apartment with promises of friendship and platonic conversation, only to show his true (lecherous) colors once he got her alone. There was no way Bertie was going to allow herself to be put in that position again.

  “No, Terry,” she said firmly. “It’s been a lovely evening, but I’d like to go home now.”

  “Of course,” Witherspoon said smoothly. If he was in any way disappointed, he did not show it.

  On the way back to Bertie’s house, they made agreeable small-talk about the weather, the movies they’d seen, and the musical groups they listened to. To his credit, Witherspoon did not mention Fania Jones, Bertie’s choir, or Metro College.

  When he parked his Thunderbird in Bertie’s driveway half an hour later, she had to admit she’d thoroughly enjoyed his company. In the manner of a true gentleman, Witherspoon came around to open the passenger door. He took her hand as she clambered out of her low-slung seat, and suddenly, before Bertie knew quite what had happened, she found herself in his arms.

  “You’re a very sexy woman, Bertie Bigelow,” Witherspoon said, brushing her cheek with his lips. “I don’t mind saying, I’d like to see more of you.” Tilting her chin up with his hand, he kissed her gently on the mouth.

  As he kissed her again, Bertie felt the long-suppressed desires deep inside her begin to stir. But just as her libido was about to pass the point of no return, Bertie’s mental warning light began to blink furiously.

  “Maybe we should slow down a bit,” she said, stepping back to create more space between them. “I’m new to this whole dating game.”

  “You sure?” Witherspoon took her face between his hands and gave her a lingering kiss.

  Bertie took a deep breath. “Afraid so, Terry. I’m just not ready.”

  ***

  In bed that night, Bertie could still taste the hot and slightly sour tang of Terry Witherspoon’s lips as they’d pressed against hers. That is one fine man, she thought to herself.

  On the other hand, there was no denying that her sixth sense had kicked in, even as her body began to surrender. Terry was definitely good company. But could he be trusted? To be honest, Bertie would have felt more comfortable kissing someone she knew well. Someone like Mac, for example. A man with character and integrity. A proven friend who genuinely cared about her. But of course, Mac was married. Witherspoon, on the other hand, was both interested and available. But was he sincere? The man is sexy as hell, girlfriend. What else do you really need to know?

  For the next hour, Bertie’s mind wheeled in circles, trying to make sense of the startling new developments in her life. Three weeks ago, she’d been a lonely widow, crying herself to sleep in an empty bed. Now here she was, kissing a man she barely knew and at the same time (if she were to be totally honest) lusting after David Mackenzie, a married man.

  What she needed was a second opinion, preferably from an expert. Fortunately, Ellen was available to meet her for brunch the following morning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sunday, October 29—10:30 AM

  When Bertie and Ellen arrived at the Mellow Yellow restaurant for brunch the following morning, the place was packed. A mixed crowd of older middle-class blacks, scruffy-looking students, and affluent professional types clustered around the small bandstand wedged against the restaurant’s large plate-glass window. As they nodded their heads in approval, a skinny white girl belted out Billie Holiday tunes, accompanied on guitar b
y a Japanese boy with a ponytail.

  Taking what was most likely the last available table in the entire restaurant, Bertie and Ellen squeezed between a brick wall and the doorway to the men’s room. Not the most salubrious of locations, but the two women were so involved in their conversation, they barely noticed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Ellen’s tone was not exactly angry, but Bertie could tell her friend’s feelings had been hurt. The fact that Bertie had gone on her first date in nearly a year without letting Ellen know was a serious breach of girlfriend etiquette.

  “It all happened so suddenly,” Bertie said, lifting her hands in apology. “I barely had time to do my hair and pick out a decent dress before it was time to go.”

  Ellen grunted. “If you’d just taken two seconds to call me, I could have saved you a world of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “As we both know, I’ve had my share of adventures where men are concerned,” Ellen said slowly. “So I hope you won’t take what I am about to say the wrong way.”

  “Of course not,” Bertie said, waving her hand in an unsuccessful attempt to get the attention of the harassed waitress clearing the table across from them.

  “I am sorry to be the one to tell you, but ...”

  “But what, Ellen? For Pete’s sake, stop beating around the bush.”

  Ellen sighed. “It guess it’s better you hear it from me than from someone else.” She surveyed the room closely before continuing. “My friend Raeline called from Minneapolis last week. When I mentioned Witherspoon’s name, she started cussing a blue streak. Terry Witherspoon is trouble, girlfriend. He pulled the exact same seduction routine on Raeline five years ago. After he’d gotten what he wanted, he dropped her like a used Kleenex.”

  “Five years is a long time,” Bertie said, ignoring the hurt she felt inside. “Who’s to say he hasn’t changed?”

  “His wife, most likely. Raeline says Terry is very much married to a white woman in Minneapolis. The woman has been known to hire detectives to follow anyone she suspects of being involved with her husband. I wouldn’t be surprised if she is on her way to Chicago this very minute.”

  Bertie’s stomach roiled. She no longer cared if the waitress ever made her way back to their table.

  “You sure?”

  Ellen nodded grimly. “You were probably going to be Witherspoon’s last fling before Wifey Dear blew into town.”

  Bertie stared at the wooden table in front of her, trying her best to not to let Ellen see how disappointed she was.

  “I should have known it was too good to be true,” she said bitterly. “I feel like such a chump. How could I have been so stupid?”

  Ellen patted her friend consolingly on the hand. “You didn’t know, that’s all,” she said.

  “Well, actually, I did kind of know,” Bertie said slowly. “It was in Sister Destina’s prediction. She said three men would pursue me, remember? An old friend, a new friend, and a false friend. I guess Terry was the false one.”

  “Nonsense,” Ellen said, shaking her head. “If Destina was such a psychic hotshot, how come she let herself get murdered? No, Bertie. There’s nothing occult about this situation. This is just the oh-so-common dilemma of being a single black woman in this predatory age.”

  “If you say so,” Bertie said glumly.

  “Let’s order a massive breakfast and eat ourselves into a coma,” Ellen said, waving to the waitress. “Nothing like two thousand extra calories to help a girl forget her troubles.”

  ***

  When her cell phone went off at midnight, Bertie was severely tempted not to answer. Whether it was Terry Witherspoon calling with another jive-time come-on or Eberhardt calling with more bad news about the lawsuit, she felt certain that answering the call would only lead to more misery.

  Trapped inside her cell phone’s tinny speaker, Marvin Gaye sang the refrain to “What’s Goin’ On” over and over. Muttering a few unprintable words under her breath, Bertie answered it against her better judgement.

  “Sorry to call you so late,” Mabel Howard whispered. “I wanted to let you know I’m okay.”

  Bertie pressed the phone closer to her ear. “Speak up, Mabel. I can barely hear you. Where are you?”

  “I’m in St. Louis with Jabarion Coutze.”

  “You’re what?”

  Oblivious to the late night chill, Bertie threw off the covers and got out of bed.

  “We’re attending the Bishop Hayes Self-Empowerment Conference. You’ve heard of the bishop, right?”

  Of course Bertie had heard of him. Taking his cue from pop psychology, the popular televangelist emphasized personal responsibility and the power of prayer. His central tenet, “The Lord Helps Those That Help Themselves,” was emblazoned in gold letters above the doorway of his ten-thousand-seat megachurch.

  “Jabarion and I are turning over a new leaf,” Mabel said. In a rambling monologue, she described the highlights of the conference: the bishop’s five-hundred-voice choir, his hands-on healing sessions, and his marathon sermons. “Jabarion and I were in victim consciousness. We gave our power away, let Sister Destina rule our lives,” she said. “But all that’s over now. We are free.”

  Before they ran off to St. Louis, Jabarion had given Mabel a blow-by-blow account of Sister Destina’s Home Hoodoo Program.

  “Sweetwater would target homeowners in areas that were near the University of Chicago that had not yet gentrified,” Mabel said. “He’d have Jabarion call to see if they’d be interested in receiving a free consultation from a ‘distinguished and reputable psychic.’”

  “Did it work?” Bertie said. “I usually hang up when I receive calls like that.”

  “Yes, but that’s you,” Mabel said. “The people Sweetwater targeted were elderly, lonely, and vulnerable. They stay barricaded inside because the neighborhood is so dangerous. You’d be surprised how happy they are to have someone to talk to.”

  “Jabarion can be very smooth when he wants to be,” Bertie said, remembering how he’d kissed Penny Swift’s hand in Destina’s waiting room.

  “A lovely boy,” Mabel agreed. “He’s totally broken up about this thing, Bertie. His part in it, I mean. That’s why he spilled the beans.”

  “So what would happen next?”

  “Destina, dressed as a man in a suit and tie, would pay the homeowner a visit. After accurately predicting a few minor life events in order to win their trust, she would move in for the kill. In vague and somewhat mystical language, she’d tell them their home was a nesting place for toxic vibrations. Tell them she saw tongues of fire licking at their heels.”

  “Tongues of fire?”

  “That’s right. As you remember, Destina could be quite dramatic. By this point, the poor homeowner would be shaking in their rocking chair, believe me. Then she’d make the pitch. ‘The spirits are with you,’ she’d say. ‘You will soon be given an opportunity to make a profit from your property.’ Naturally, she’d recommend they contact Max Sweetwater.”

  “Most homeowners are not that superstitious,” Bertie said. “What about the people who either didn’t want to sell or wanted a lot of money for their homes?”

  “Most people are greedy,” Mabel said. “If they thought they were putting one over on Sweetwater by selling him a house that was about to burn down, they were happy to sell. And for those who didn’t, Jabarion Coutze would set a small fire at their house a few days later. Not enough to burn the place to the ground, but enough to diminish its value significantly. One way or the other, Sweetwater acquired the property at a bargain price.”

  “Didn’t anyone go to the police to complain?”

  “Be realistic,” Mabel said in a pitying tone. “This is the ghetto. Nobody goes to the police about anything if they can help it.”

  “Okay,” Bertie said slowly. “But what does any of this have to do with the murder?”

  “Sister Destina called me the day she was killed. She’d had some kind of conversion experie
nce and was trying to put things right. Said she was sorry for all the phony hexes she’d laid on me and asked me to come by the house.”

  Bertie inhaled sharply. “You were at Sister Destina’s house the night of the murder?”

  “I know it doesn’t look good, Bertie, but that’s what happened.”

  “This is definitely not going to help your case,” Bertie said.

  “The police can say what they like,” Mabel said airily. “I was not the last person to see Sister Destina alive, and I can prove it. Max Sweetwater drove up as I was leaving. Bet you a hundred to one he’s the killer.”

  “If what you say about the Home Hoodoo Program is true, Max Sweetwater and Sister Destina were in business together. Why would he want to kill her?”

  “Sister Destina told me she’d had some kind of apocalyptic vision of good and evil. People touched by Satan, that kind of thing. I think it scared the living daylights out of her. She was trying to clean up her act and bring her karma into balance.”

  “I suppose that makes some kind of sense,” Bertie said slowly. “If Sister Destina was going to blow the whistle on his Home Hoodoo scam, Sweetwater would clearly have had a motive. But this is all just conjecture.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Mabel said smugly. “I have proof. Max Sweetwater keeps a logbook in his office safe of the homeowners he targeted to receive the hoodoo treatment. The book lists the owner’s name, address, and the date they consulted with Sister Destina. A check mark next to the address indicates whether the house was scheduled for a fire hex.”

  “A book like that would be pretty damning evidence,” Bertie admitted. “I suppose Mac could try to get a subpoena to search Sweetwater’s office, but it doesn’t seem likely the court would issue it. Jabarion Coutze is the son of a convicted felon. Why would any judge believe him?”

  “Would you have a little faith, please?” Mabel said impatiently. “We don’t need to worry about a subpoena. I’m going to get the book myself.”

  “But how do you even know Sweetwater will see you?”