Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “Mabel told me all about Sister Destina,” Bertie said. “She thinks the woman has tremendous psychic power.”

  Charley snorted in disgust. “Psychic power, my foot! The broad’s out to get me. It’s the only possible explanation for what happened last night. Destina must have paid someone to poison the commissioner’s food.”

  “That would certainly explain the accuracy of her prediction.”

  “Damn right it would,” Charley said. “When the Emporium opened, I put a pair of plastic pigs up on the roof. Within a week, Commissioner Jefferson’s people made me take them down. Against zoning regulation H241, they said. The guy’s a total fussbudget with a major burr up his butt. What are the odds that, out of all the customers in my restaurant, he’s the only person who gets sick?”

  “When you put it like that, it does seem suspicious.”

  “You got that right,” Charley said. “Sister Destina is a fake. Problem is, she’s got some kind of hold over my wife. Mabel doesn’t blow her nose until she’s talked to her. Any two-bit detective could expose the woman. But unless the debunking is done by someone she trusts, my wife will never believe it.”

  “You want me convince Mabel that Sister Destina is a fraud?”

  “Darn tootin’,” Howard chortled.

  In her mind’s eye, Bertie pictured the Hot Sauce King’s massive ebony face grinning from ear to ear.

  “You are a natural busybody, Bertie Bigelow. After Judge Green was murdered last year, you butted your nose into my business big time.”

  “You know that was never my intention, Charley. I just—”

  “No need to protest, little lady. You poked around until the real criminal was found. Compared to catching a cold-blooded murderer, getting the goods on this jive-ass transvestite will be child’s play. To sweeten the deal, I’ll pay you whatever fee you ask.”

  “What if Mabel finds out you’ve got me looking into this thing? She might not like it, you know.”

  “I’m up against the wall here, dammit!” After a short pause, the Hot Sauce King continued in a plaintive voice. “Last year, Mabel and I found out we couldn’t have children. We’ve been talking about adopting a little girl. Since Destina showed up, Mabel hasn’t mentioned adoption once. My wife is turning into a stranger, Bertie. Don’t know if she even loves me anymore.”

  “Of course she does,” Bertie said firmly. “Give me Destina’s phone number. I think I would like to meet this woman.”

  ***

  For the rest of the weekend, the local media feasted on what it now referred to as the “Hot Links Health Scare.” Like a recurring nightmare, clips of Charley Howard telling reporters to “clear the hell off” his property played over and over on local TV. The good news was that Commissioner Jefferson was no longer in critical condition. The bad news was that Jefferson, a small man with a fastidious manner and the physique of a chocolate Easter egg, was furious.

  From his hospital bed, the commissioner announced the formation of a special task force to investigate the matter.

  “I’ve eaten in some of the dirtiest cities in the world,” he told reporters. “Bangkok. Manila. Phnom Penh. But I never got sick. Not once. Not until I dined in Mister Howard’s benighted establishment.”

  When asked why he’d chosen to visit the Hot Links Emporium that night, Jefferson said, “One of my student interns suggested it. Said we’d be sure to have a memorable experience.”

  As the camera pulled in for a close-up, the commissioner pulled himself erect. “Shame, shame, shame, Mister Howard,” he said with an admonitory shake of his finger. “You are in violation of Regulation H-255Z. You will be punished to the full extent of the law.”

  ***

  Late Sunday night, Bertie called Sister Destina’s number and asked to make an appointment. The voice that answered the phone was soft and high-pitched with a slight lisp. It could have belonged to either a man or a woman.

  “Come Tuesday night at six,” the voice said. “It’s first come, first serve. But as long as you’re in the waiting room by six, Sister Destina will see you, no matter how late it gets.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Monday, October 16—9:00 AM

  When Bertie Bigelow walked into the faculty lounge the following morning, she saw Maria Francione standing by the coffee machine. Francione was a buxom redhead who favored low-cut madras tops, tight pants, and stiletto heels. With her loud voice and penchant for sweeping hand gestures, she’d always impressed Bertie as a drama teacher right out of Central Casting.

  “Have you looked at the paper today?” Francione asked.

  Bertie shook her head. The last thing she wanted to see that morning were the headlines. All weekend, the Chicago Sun-Times had run stories about the Hot Links Health Scare. Yesterday’s offering had been a gossipy feature titled “Celebrities and Salmonella,” listing various Chicago luminaries who had contracted food poisoning recently. At the top of the list was Zoning Board Commissioner Leroy Jefferson, who was described as “recovering nicely” from the incident.

  Ignoring Bertie’s unenthusiastic expression, Francione reached into her oversized shoulder bag, extracted a copy of the Chicago Sun-Times, and thrust it into Bertie’s hand.

  “Don’t bother with the front page,” she said. “It’s all bad news anyway. Turn to the Arts and Culture section, page 8-D.”

  While Francione peered anxiously over her shoulder, Bertie opened the paper and began to read.

  LOCAL TEACHER STARS IN ONE-WOMAN SHOW

  Tomorrow at 8:00 pm, the Goodman Theater Workshop will present a reading of Basta, Mama! Maria Francione, an associate professor of theater arts at Metro Community College, wrote, directed, and produced the play. She will also be performing the title role.

  “Congratulations,” Bertie said. She put down the paper and gave her colleague a hug. “If I didn’t already have an appointment tomorrow evening, I would definitely be there.”

  “An appointment? What could possibly be more important than the one-and-only performance of my new show?”

  Although Francione laughed, Bertie could tell that, at some level, the woman was serious. Having spent the majority of her life around performers, Bertie recognized the sound of a bruised ego when she heard it.

  “Sorry, Maria. Really. I am sure you will be fantastic, but I’m going to see a psychic tomorrow night.”

  “A psychic?” Francione covered her eyes. Adopting a ridiculously fake Hungarian accent she intoned, “I see a tall, dark, and handsome man in your future, Missus Bigelow. Someone with deep, soulful eyes and rippling muscles. Most important of all, I see a beautiful Italian actress receiving rave reviews for her performance at the Goodman Theater.”

  Bertie grinned. “I don’t know about the tall, dark, and handsome part, but I’m sure your play is going to be a smash. I’m really sorry I won’t be able to make it.”

  Francione waved her hand grandly. “Some other time, my dear. Perhaps when I’m on Broadway. In the meanwhile, do me a favor and give these comp tickets to your students. I’m at my best when I perform for a full house.”

  With a grin, Bertie took the tickets, poured herself of cup of coffee, and carried it back down the hallway. With any luck, she’d be able to answer a few emails and organize her lecture notes before her next class.

  As Bertie approached her office, she saw a tall, willowy girl with shoulder-length hair leaning against the wall. The girl wore a pair of designer skinny jeans, a loose-fitting white blouse, sunglasses, and a Bulls cap propped at a jaunty angle. Bertie sighed and mentally said goodbye to her plans of getting organized before class. Nyala Clark, Metro’s reigning student diva, was waiting for her.

  ***

  “I simply cannot sing under these conditions,” Nyala announced and swept into Bertie’s office.

  “What could possibly be the matter so early in the morning,” Bertie said.

  “I’m talking about my solo, of course.” Nyala plopped her oversized handbag unceremoniously in the center of
Bertie’s desk. “The whole thing is beyond stupid.”

  “What whole thing, Nyala?” Bertie didn’t like to start her day with drama and conflict, but as the director of a fifty-voice choir, she had grown used to dealing with high-strung performers. “Why don’t you start from the beginning. Tell me exactly what’s on your mind.”

  The problem was that Nyala’s solo at the end of their upcoming concert had been cut to make room for a hip-hop dance number featuring Nyala’s archrival, Melissa Jones.

  “Jamz Management is considering me for a part in their next Mega Funk tour,” Nyala said. “That song was supposed to be my showcase.”

  Bertie felt a vein begin to throb in her right temple. “I understand how you feel, Nyala, but the concert is not just about you. It’s a showcase for the entire choral program. The Ace has specifically asked that a dance number be included in our show.”

  “Did you ever stop to think why?” Nyala shot back, her eyes flashing. “Why The Ace wants dancing all of a sudden?”

  “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

  “Oh, he’s got reasons, all right.” Nyala’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “The Ace wants dancing ’cause that skank Melissa Jones sexted him, Missus B! Sent the man a photo of herself bare-ass naked.”

  Bertie sighed. For the most part, she loved her students and loved her job, but there were times when she wished she’d heeded her father’s advice and gotten an MBA instead. This morning was definitely shaping up to be one of them.

  “And you know this how?”

  “Everybody knows it. Everybody but you, of course. Ask Melissa yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  “I will do that,” Bertie said crisply. She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Regardless of what I find out, the best way to help yourself is to sing like an absolute goddess. The Ace sees plenty of naked girls in his line of work. But a great singer? That, my dear, is one in a million.”

  ***

  The rest of Bertie’s day unfolded with similar intensity. Her Theory 101 students did poorly on the quiz she’d given the week before. Two boys from her History of Western Music seminar sent her emails to complain about their grades.

  Worst of all, Melissa Jones was a no-show at choir rehearsal that afternoon.

  Could it be that Nyala’s allegations were true? By the time Bertie had finished her last class, she was simply too tired to care. She sent Melissa an email, instructing the girl to stop by her office as soon as possible. The next day, first thing, she’d check with the Dean of Students and see what else needed to be done. But for the moment, Bertie Bigelow’s working day was over.

  She had gotten in the habit of stopping off at Rudy’s Tap on her way home from work. Although it was just a grungy hole in the wall, the bar provided a welcome refuge on those nights when she dreaded returning directly from the bustle of Metro to the silence of an empty home. The lights were kept low to disguise the peeling paint and weathered tables, and, barring an absolute emergency, no one in their right mind ever used the restroom. But the place had the best jukebox on the South Side of Chicago. At Rudy’s, the serious music lover could find anything that suited his mood, whether it was a ballad by Billie Holiday, a down-home blues by B.B. King, or a Motown classic from Stevie Wonder.

  R. Kelly was crooning something slow and sexy as Bertie slid onto a stool at the bar. After ordering her usual Merlot, she spotted Ellen Simpson sitting alone at a table in the back. Dressed in a lime-green dashiki, matching head wrap, and a glittering pair of ankh-shaped earrings, Simpson was easily visible, in spite of the bar’s dim lighting.

  “Hey girl,” Bertie said, walking over to join her. “You’ll never guess what I just found out.” When Bertie had finished telling her friend about Melissa Jones and the sexting incident, Ellen shook her head sadly.

  “Kids these days are crazy,” Ellen said. “And it’s not just the kids. Truth is, everybody’s crazy. There’s no honor, no loyalty, and no morals left. I’m telling you, Bertie. Society is going to hell in a handbasket.”

  Until that moment, Bertie had been completely immersed in her own troubles, but something about Ellen’s bleak tone and pessimistic remarks caught her attention.

  “That doesn’t sound at all like you, Ellen. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought Jerome was taking you out to dinner tonight.”

  Only last week, Ellen had said that, if Jerome ever popped “the question,” she would answer in the affirmative.

  “I am through with that jive-time jerk forever,” Ellen said bitterly. “Don’t even speak his name.”

  “What happened?”

  “Young-Mi Kim happened,” Ellen said. “Jerome and I were getting it on every Saturday night, but he had a whole other flavor happenin’ during the week.”

  “Say what?”

  “You heard me. Brother was steppin’ out with this little Korean chick behind my back. The man had the absolute nerve to call at three o’clock this morning to tell me all about it.” A tear slid down Ellen’s cheek and splashed into her rum and Coke. “He says he’s going to marry this woman.”

  “I know how much you were hoping he’d be the one,” Bertie said softly.

  She took the cocktail napkin from under her wine glass and pressed it into her best friend’s hand.

  “The worst thing is, I had absolutely no idea,” Ellen said, shaking her head. “None whatsoever.”

  “You know what they say. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.”

  “I’ve had it, Bertie. I am through with men.” Ellen raised her glass in mock salute. “To celibacy!”

  “Don’t be silly,” Bertie said. “A month from now, you’ll have moved on completely. Last time you broke up with a guy, you met someone new the next day. Remember?”

  “It’s not going to take me a month to move on this time, girlfriend. I plan to forget that sorry-ass chump immediately.” Ellen tipped back her head, polished off the rest of her drink in one long swallow, and stood up. “Lemme get us another round.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Bertie said. “You do remember what happened the last time you got drunk, right?”

  Ellen cracked a wry smile and sat down. “I passed out in a plate of chicken wings, as I recall. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t want to do that again.”

  “Of course not,” Bertie said. “You just need something else to occupy your mind.” She pushed aside her drink and leaned forward. “Remember Sister Destina, the fortune teller I told you about?”

  “How could I forget?” Ellen said. “Charley Howard’s restaurant has been all over the news. Couldn’t have picked a worse guy to poison. Commissioner Jefferson is a real stickler for regulations.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Guy’s some kind of Asia nut—always talking about his trips to the Exotic East. But traveling doesn’t seem to have helped his disposition any. Rumor has it he sleeps with the Chicago Zoning Code under his pillow at night.” Ellen took a swallow of her drink before continuing. “Lord knows he’s not sleeping with his wife. Alvitra Jefferson’s got a face like a hog, a tongue like a razor, and a disposition that would piss off the Dalai Lama. People only put up with her because she’s H.L.R. Swade’s daughter.”

  “The H.L.R. Swade?”

  Ellen nodded. “The very same. Founder of Swade Insurance Group—the oldest and largest African-American insurance company in the Midwest. Daddy Swade spoiled his daughter rotten, and she expects the same treatment from her husband. You know the deal—a new Cadillac every year, and a fur coat to go with it. No wonder Commissioner Jefferson is a tyrant in his pathetic little world. That’s what happens when you’re not getting any nookie.”

  Bertie flushed and looked away.

  “Present company excepted, of course.”

  Bertie waved Ellen’s apology aside. “Charley’s restaurant has been shut down by the Board of Health.”

  “I pity the guy assigned to put up that ‘Closed’ sign,” Ellen said. “The Hot Sauce King’s got one hell of a temper.”

>   “Don’t I know it,” Bertie said. “You should have heard him Saturday night. He thinks Sister Destina is running some kind of protection racket.”

  “Why doesn’t he have the Roselli brothers pay the woman a visit? One look at those goons and she’ll be on the next plane out of town.”

  “Charley swears he’s no longer connected to the Mob,” Bertie said. “Says his business is strictly on the up-and-up, and you know what? I believe him. He’s been a changed man ever since he got accepted into the Octagon Society.”

  “The Octagons call themselves the most exclusive black social club in Chicago,” Ellen said, pulling a sour face. “Bunch of color-struck snobs, if you ask me.”

  “Perhaps,” Bertie said. “But they don’t tolerate any funny business. A person’s got to mind their Ps and Qs if they want to fit in with that set.”

  “Wearing that goofy checked shirt and a pair of overalls? Charley’s got a ways to go in the social decorum department,” Ellen said wryly. “But I do take your point. A close association with the Mob might be a bit over the top for those uppity Octagon Negroes.”

  “Charley may be a loudmouthed tough guy, but where Mabel’s concerned, the man’s a total cream puff,” Bertie said. “He worships the ground she walks on. I’ve never seen him this worried. Apparently, Mabel has stopped talking to him. Spends all her time on the phone with Sister Destina.”

  “Think Mabel’s under some kind of spell?”

  “Charley’s asked me to look into it,” Bertie said. “I’ve got an appointment to see this Destina person tomorrow night. Want to come along?”

  Ellen cocked her head to one side. “See a fortune teller? Me?”

  “It’ll be fun,” Bertie said. “Take your mind off your problems.”

  “Well, I suppose you’ve got a point about that,” Ellen said with a smile. “What have I got to lose? If she’s any good, maybe she can hook me up with a love potion or something. God knows I could use it.”