After Mac left, Bertie fixed herself a cup of tea and carried it up to her bedroom. Ten minutes later, she was once again immersed in Destina’s magnum opus.
“It is a well-known fact that the German mind is superior to that of most individuals, except, of course, for Jamaicans, who are the most superior of all. It is for this reason that I have made a special point to delve into the ontology and etymology of the German language.”
After a digression of several pages, Bertie found a quote from the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche written in bold font and positioned in the center of the page:
Man is something that shall be overcome.
Nietzsche had believed in a kind of superman, an “ubermensch.” The ubermensch was superior to other humans. Because of this, he would not be bound by religion, conventional morality, or the law. Adolph Hitler had been a big fan.
On the next page, the German word for “attention” had been printed in large type.
ACHTUNG!
IT HAS BEEN REVEALED to me, Sister Destina the Ubermensch, that evildoers reside at 11872 S. Argyle Avenue! The foul stench of their doings against Kolab and Maly is known to the Almighty. Whilst in a dream state, an angel appeared and revealed the truth to me, Sister Destina the Ubermensch. Evildoers BEWARE! Your doings have been psychically perceived by me. Those responsible WILL SUFFER the mighty sword of retribution.
ALSO SPAKE DESTINA
Give me a break, Bertie thought wearily. Sister Destina’s delusional ramblings were really beginning to get on her nerves. Thank goodness there were only a handful of pages left.
For the next ten pages, Destina railed against a host of so-called “enemies”: the U.S. government, the IRS, the World Bank, and, to Bertie’s surprise, the Gay Rights Movement. After taking a final potshot at the inequality of the Federal Tax Code, Sister Destina concluded her magnum opus on a Biblical note.
The Angel of the Lord appeared to me last night. And lo, I have heard the Word from on high! I, Sister Destina, who thought herself an ubermensch, have been severely chastised. Things can no longer continue as they have been. I must clear my karmic field now, before it is too late.
Underneath this paragraph was a list of names:
Mabel Howard
Jabarion Coutze
Max Sweetwater
Penny Swift
Bertie Bigelow
As she read her name, Bertie felt the skin at the back of her neck begin to tingle. Destina had begged Bertie to come to her house the night she was killed. It was likely the psychic had extended a similar invitation to every person on this list.
But someone hadn’t been interested in helping Sister Destina clear her karma.
Someone, possibly one of the people on this very list, had gone to the psychic’s home that night with murder on their mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Saturday, November 4—8:00 AM
Bertie woke up the next morning suffused with a sense of melancholy. Heavy gray clouds covered the sky and blocked out the sun. The wind blowing in from Lake Michigan picked up leaves, papers, and trash from the sidewalk and sent them scurrying into the street. Despite her best efforts, the fall season, which had begun with such excitement and optimism, was ending on a note of disappointment, disillusionment, and death. Bertie took a deep breath and pulled her terrycloth robe closer to ward off the chill that had settled over her.
Stop brooding, she told herself sternly. What’s done is done. There’s nothing you can do about it now. She could not fix the fact that Destina was dead or that Mabel was in jail. She could not fix the fact that Melissa’s mother was suing the college or that her concert had been cancelled. However, she could prevent the leaves currently swirling around her small backyard from blowing all over the sidewalk.
Bertie pulled on her coat, picked up a broom, and stepped outside.
“Lovely mornin’,” Pat O’Fallon sang out. As usual, she and her sister, Colleen, were busy at work beautifying their already spotless patch of yard next door. “Great day ta be gettin’ the yard in order.”
“I suppose,” Bertie said glumly. “Such a chill in the air. Winter’s on the way.”
“Why of course it is,” Colleen said. “Ya wouldn’t want to mess with the divine order of the seasons, now would ya?”
“No, of course not.” Bertie poked at a pile of leaves with her broom. “It’s just that lately time seems to pass faster than ever.”
Pat nodded. “Just wait until you get to my age, dear. Each year seems to last about a day.”
“That’s why it’s important to keep yer chin up and yer step lively,” Colleen chimed in. “Keep it positive. You know, like it says in the song.”
With an impish grin, Pat began to sing. “Be positive. Keep it positive.”
The two sisters were well into the second chorus before they noticed that Bertie was not singing along.
“You’re lookin’ downright peaked,” Colleen said. “What ails ya, Bertie?”
“My concert with The Ace of Spades has been cancelled.” As she swept the remaining leaves from the sidewalk, Bertie gave the two sisters an abridged version of the latest developments.
“What a terrible shame,” Pat said. “Girls sending naked pictures. Lawsuits. They’d have never put up with this sort of thing at Holy Angels, eh, Collie?”
“Not a-tall,” Colleen replied. “At the first sign a trouble, Sister Agnes would have sent a priest in to lay some holy water about.”
“Holy water and a switch,” Pat added dourly.
“Melissa Jones could use a good talking to, for certain,” Bertie said. “But it’s her mother that’s the real problem. She’s the one who’s old enough to know better.”
“There’s got to be somethin’ evil in a person ta make her persist in such a wrong-headed manner,” Pat said, shaking her head. “Must a-been touched by Satan.”
Bertie shifted uncomfortably. The two sisters were kind souls and well-meaning enough, in their way, but talk of people being “touched by Satan” had a tendency to make her nervous.
“I don’t know if I can go that far,” she said slowly. “To be honest, I think the woman’s just got mental problems.”
“Oh, the devil’s a busy one, Bertie. You never know who he’ll touch next.” In a rare moment of agreement, the two sisters nodded their heads in unison as Pat ticked off a list of the world’s woes. “Mass murderers. Serial rapists. Child molesters. Terrorists who’d just as soon kill ya as look at ya. The devil’s a busy one. Unspeakable evil is everywhere you look these days.”
“Did you just say ‘unspeakable evil’?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Pat said gravely.
A chill that had nothing to do with the weather ran down Bertie’s spine.
“Remember I told you about Sister Destina? The psychic who was murdered? She used that exact phrase to describe the activities going on in a house on Argyle Avenue. I was tempted to ignore it, but listening to you talk, I’m not so sure. There’s just a slim chance Destina might have been on to something.”
“Sure she was,” Collie said. “A claim like that cries out to be investigated. What you’ll be wantin’ are the full particulars—who owns the house, who lives there, that sort a thing.”
Bertie sighed. “Even if there is something to this, the truth is, I don’t have time to wait in line at the Cook County Assessor’s office. I suppose I could drive by the address, but unless I am willing to stake the place out twenty-four hours a day, I doubt I’d find out anything.”
“No need for extreme measures,” Pat said gaily. “No need at all. You can find everything you need to know right on the internet. Isn’t that right, Collie?”
“Course it is,” Colleen said. She leaned over the fence and put a pale, arthritic finger alongside her nose. “You can sleuth it out on the Web. Go to Intel.com.”
Pat O’Fallon turned to her sister. “No, Collie, that’s not it.”
“Yes, it is,” Collie said an in injured voice. “T
here ya go, pickin’ at me again.”
“I wouldn’t have ta pick if ya’d use half the brains the Almighty put in yer skull,” Pat snapped. “The website is called Intelligentsearch.com.” She spelled the letters out in a careful schoolmarm’s voice. “If you go there, you’ll get to the bottom of this thing, for sure.”
Bertie shook her head in amazement. “How on earth did you two find out about that stuff?”
Pat grinned impishly. “We may be old, but we’re not in the grave just yet, you know.” Rolling up her sleeve, she stuck out her arm to display the shiny Apple Watch strapped to her bony wrist. “My nephew Harry keeps us up to date on all the latest gadgets. It wouldn’t do to get behind the times, now would it, Bertie?”
Later that afternoon, Bertie fixed herself a cup of tea, fired up her laptop, and punched the Argyle Avenue address into the search engine at Intelligentsearch.com. Sure enough, for a small fee, the website promised to provide her with the name of the house’s owner and current residents.
As she waited for the page to load, Bertie made a conscious effort to keep her expectations low. In the course of her so-called thesis, Sister Destina had used the term “unspeakable evil” to describe a laundry list of pet peeves, including the Pope, Congress, the CIA, and the American Library Association. It was likely the Argyle Avenue reference would turn out to be yet another wild goose chase.
As the image slowly materialized on her computer screen, Bertie put down her teacup and leaned in for a closer look.
11872 S. Argyle Avenue
Type of building: Condominium unit
Number of rooms: 5
Owner of record: Leroy T. Jefferson – 5744 S. Prairie Ave., Chicago, IL 60619
Date of last purchase: May 24, 2012
Purchase price: $75,000
Phone: none
As she read and reread the entry, Bertie’s mind whirled in circles. The man who owned the home Sister Destina had written about was Leroy T. Jefferson, the head of the Chicago Zoning Board and the very man who’d been poisoned in Charley Howard’s restaurant. Surely this was no accident.
Pondering this remarkable information put Bertie so deep in thought that she almost didn’t hear her cell phone ringing. Marvin Gaye was well into the third repetition of the tag line from “What’s Goin’ On” before she answered.
Penny Swift’s nasal twang had an injured quality. “I was beginning to think you were ignoring my call, Bertie.”
“Goodness no,” Bertie replied hastily. “I was just distracted, that’s all.”
“Well, you are going to be very glad you picked up when you hear what I have to say.” Penny cleared her throat. “The Kenilworth Community Club is having a special Diversity Banquet next Sunday. I’d like you to attend as my guest.”
It was a good thing for race relations that Penny Swift could not see the expression on Bertie’s face. Until the 1950s, blacks had been legally barred from living in Kenilworth. And in 1964, an angry crowd had burned a cross on the lawn of the one black family brave enough to move there. Even now, Bertie would have been very surprised if the village had more than ten African-American residents.
Imbued with a sense of mission, Penny Swift plowed ahead. “Kenilworth is making great strides, Bertie. This is the first time we’ve ever had an event of this nature. I’d been planning to invite Destina, but of course, that’s no longer possible.”
When Bertie didn’t respond right away, Penny sighed. “I miss going out to the South Side,” she said wistfully. “Sister Destina was totally unique. I don’t know where I’ll ever find another spiritual advisor like her.”
“Have you heard from any of her regulars recently?” Bertie said.
“As a matter of fact, I have. Jabarion Coutze called me over the weekend. Went to some kind of conference in St. Louis and came back all fired up. He wants to start a hip-hop clothing business. He asked me if my husband might be willing to stake him a few dollars.”
Not bloody likely, Bertie thought to herself. From what she’d heard about Penny’s wayward husband, he did not strike her as the philanthropic type.
“What did your husband say?”
“In a nutshell? No way, no how,” Penny said bitterly. “Morgan can be a real prick sometimes. Sister Destina always used to say he was sleeping with that pea-brained secretary of his.”
“Did you believe her?”
“I did at the time,” Penny said. “Now I don’t know what to believe. Sister Destina lied to me, Bertie. The day she died, she insisted I come over so she could make a clean breast of things.”
Struggling to keep the excitement out of her voice, Bertie said, “Did you say you were at Sister Destina’s home on the night of the murder?”
Until that moment, Penny’s tone had been breezy and intimate, but suddenly there was an edge to her voice. “Are you interrogating me, Bertie?”
“Of course not,” Bertie said, backpedaling furiously. “I was just curious, that’s all.”
“I don’t think I believe you,” Penny said. “You want to know what I think? I think you’re trying to dig up some dirt on me. Something that will divert suspicion from Mabel Howard.”
“Mabel is my friend,” Bertie said in what she hoped was a placating tone. “Quite naturally, I’m trying to help her. If you were at Sister Destina’s that night, you may have seen or heard something that could be important.”
“What I did or did not do that night is none of your business,” Penny said curtly. “The more I think about it, I do not think I want a snoop like you coming anywhere near my Diversity Banquet.”
As the phone connection went dead, Bertie laughed out loud for the first time in two days. Wait till I tell Ellen about this, she thought. But first, she needed to call Mac and let him know what she had learned—both about Penny’s probable visit to Sister Destina’s home the night of the murder and about the Argyle Avenue property owned by Commissioner Leroy Jefferson.
Should she call Mac on his cell phone? Since it was now late in the afternoon on a Saturday, she decided to try calling the lawyer at home.
As she waited for Mac to pick up, Bertie smiled in anticipation. They’d had a lovely conversation last night. Surely, the new information she’d discovered would merit another in-depth conversation. Perhaps they could get together for dinner later that evening.
“Who the hell is this?” Angelique Mackenzie’s voice snapped Bertie out of her reverie. “David’s busy right now. He’ll have to get back to you later.”
In a state of shock and guilty embarrassment for the amorous thoughts she’d been harboring, Bertie mumbled a reply and beat a hasty retreat. For the second time in as many weeks, she felt like a total fool. Mac had given her the impression his wife had moved out, that she’d gone to live with another man. But apparently, Angie Mackenzie was back and sounding every inch the lady of the house.
Bertie had been a fool to get her hopes up. She knew that now, but one thing was certain. It would never happen again. Not ever. She did not need Mac or any other man in her life, thank you very much. If Mac wasn’t going to help her investigate the murders, Bertie Bigelow was fully capable of handling matters on her own.
Brushing away a tear, Bertie marched upstairs and fired up her laptop. A quick visit to the CookCounty.gov website showed that Commissioner Leroy T. Jefferson held a town hall meeting at the East Washington Park Community Center on the first Monday of every month. On Monday, she would attend the meeting and ask for a few minutes of his time. Now that she’d thought of it, Bertie wondered why the idea had not occurred to her before. If she wanted to find out about Commissioner Jefferson’s second house, she would simply ask him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Monday, November 6—6:30 PM
As Bertie Bigelow drove west on Garfield Boulevard, she hoped that Commissioner Jefferson’s town hall meeting would not turn out to be a total waste of time. This time last week, she would have called Mac to get his opinion. But the way Bertie felt at the moment, she was damned
if she’d ever speak to the burly lawyer again. After finding a parking space, she locked her car and walked down the brightly lit street, past a large vacant lot and a bustling McDonald’s, to the low-rise brick building that housed the East Washington Park Community Center.
To Bertie’s surprise, the place was packed. She’d been expecting a lightly attended and entirely perfunctory Q&A session, attended by a few bored retirees and maybe a wino or two looking to come in out of the cold. But every seat in the room was taken. As she found a place leaning against the wall to the right of the speaker’s platform, Commissioner Leroy Jefferson was being introduced by Alderman Gregg Mathers. With his round belly and small head, the alderman reminded Bertie of a bowling pin with arms.
“My fellow Chicagoans,” Mathers said. His voice was that of the quintessential South Side politician—deep, stentorian, and touched with a hint of the Deep South. “As you know, the Gilded Lily Development Company is planning to erect a highrise building in our neighborhood.”
A tiny gray-haired woman wearing a Sunday-go-to-meeting hat and a pair of white gloves stood and shook her fist at the platform.
“Send those vultures back downtown,” she shouted in a surprisingly penetrating voice. “They’re trying to take over our neighborhood.”
Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery Page 15
