CHAPTER FIVE
Tuesday, October 17—10:00 AM
Bertie was grading papers in her office when Melissa Jones walked in the following morning. The girl wore a leather miniskirt that left little to the imagination. Shiny purple lipstick, thigh-high boots, and a skimpy red tank top completed the outfit. Without waiting for an invitation, she settled herself in the chair opposite Bertie’s desk.
“You wanted to see me, Missus B?”
“There’s a rumor going around that you sent nude photos of yourself to The Ace of Spades,” Bertie said. “Is it true?”
“Is that what this is about?” Melissa’s tinkling laugh reminded Bertie of Glinda, the Good Witch. “I was afraid I’d done something wrong—you know, flunked a test or something.”
Bertie took a deep breath while mentally picking her jaw up off the floor. “So you admit it?”
“Sure,” Melissa said. “It’s not illegal, you know.”
“Aren’t you concerned you’ll be giving The Ace the wrong impression?”
“Just making the most of my assets,” Melissa said with a shrug. “Give him something to think about. Maybe he’ll have a part for me in his next video.”
“Sexting is not appropriate behavior, Melissa. Not at Metro College, and certainly not in my choir,” Bertie said. “I’m going to have to report this to the dean of students.”
Melissa’s expression darkened. “This ain’t even your business, Missus B. I’m over eighteen, and so is The Ace. It’s a free country, you know.”
“The country may be free, but my choir is not,” Bertie said firmly. “Unless Doctor Witherspoon says otherwise, you are suspended from choir practice until further notice.”
With surprising speed for someone so tightly encased in leather clothing, Melissa Jones ran out of Bertie’s office and slammed the door behind her.
In the silence that followed, Bertie sighed heavily. After a moment, she gathered up her briefcase and rode Metro’s creaking old elevator six floors up to the office of the dean of student affairs.
“Come in, Professor Bigelow, come in,” Dr. Terrance Witherspoon said. The new dean was tall and lanky with skin the color of spun caramel. Though his mustache and close-cropped hair were peppered with gray, he carried himself with the ease of a man in his early thirties. “Have a seat. I gather it’s urgent or you wouldn’t have dropped by like this.”
Although he’d only been on the job for a few weeks, Witherspoon projected an air of confidence, listening calmly as Bertie poured out her story. When she had finished, he smiled.
“Believe it or not, we had a similar incident at Minneapolis College last year.” The dean’s voice was deep, and his delivery was leisurely, as though he had all the time in the world. “Sexting between consenting adults may be in bad taste, but it is not against the law.” Witherspoon chuckled softly. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Professor.”
As a wave of relief swept over her, Bertie smiled. Before Witherspoon’s arrival, she would have had to discuss the sexting incident directly with Chancellor Grant, a compulsive micromanager who tended to turn even the smallest anthill into Mt. Everest. The new dean’s relaxed approach was a welcome breath of fresh air. What’s more, Bertie thought to herself, the man is definitely easy on the eyes.
“So what happens next?” she said. “The Ace of Spades is coming to campus for a rehearsal next week. I’d sure like to have this resolved before he arrives.”
“I’ll give our little extrovert a phone call,” Witherspoon said. “With any luck, I’ll be able to work out a solution in the next day or two.”
As he ushered Bertie out of his office, she couldn’t help but notice that the new dean smelled faintly of musk. Was it her imagination, or did their parting handshake linger a beat longer than the accepted norm?
***
That evening, as they drove to their appointment with Sister Destina, Bertie told Ellen about her encounter with Dr. Witherspoon.
“Something about the way he shook my hand felt strange,” Bertie said.
She flipped on her turn signal and guided her Honda down the ramp and onto the Dan Ryan Expressway. The Dan Ryan cut a wide swath through the city’s black neighborhoods, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by African-American conspiracy theorists. To this day, some South Siders whispered that the highway’s route had been deliberately altered to keep blacks out of Mayor Richard J. Daley’s all white Bridgeport neighborhood.
“Watch out for that truck,” Ellen said, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. “If he changes lanes, he’ll wipe us out in a heartbeat.” Fearless in most situations, Ellen was an absolute shrinking violet when it came to driving.
“Relax, girlfriend. I’ve got my eye on it. What I’m asking you is, should I be keeping an eye on Terrance Witherspoon? Sure felt like there was more than a handshake going on this afternoon.”
Ellen cocked her head and flashed Bertie a knowing look. “How long has it been, Bert?”
“How long since what?”
“You know.”
Bertie blushed. “Not since Delroy died last April.”
“Your husband was one in a million,” Ellen said. “But he’s gone, and you are barely forty. It’s time you started thinking about dating again.”
Bertie sighed. “I suppose you’re right, but I’ve been out of the meat market for eleven years. I wouldn’t even know how to begin.”
“All the more reason for you to jump into the pool as soon as possible,” Ellen said. As she rubbed her hands together, the copper bracelets she always wore jangled merrily. “That new dean is a fine-looking specimen. I wouldn’t mind doing a few laps in the pool with him myself.”
“I ought to wash your mouth out with soap,” Bertie said, laughing.
“Seriously, Bertie. Pheromones don’t lie. Your feminine intuition was right on the money about that handshake. The man is attracted to you. And what’s more, you are attracted to him.”
Bertie contemplated this new idea in silence for several minutes as she maneuvered her car off the highway and turned onto Ninety-Fifth Street.
“Maybe you’re right,” she said softly. “It’s been so long, I can hardly feel myself down there.”
Ellen grinned wickedly. “I bet the good dean has got a remedy for that.”
“Your mind stays in the gutter,” Bertie said. “Why don’t you take a look at that map on your cell phone? Destina’s street should be coming up on the left in two blocks.”
CHAPTER SIX
Tuesday, October 17—6:00 PM
The first thing Bertie noticed about Destina’s house was the smell. A combination of melting candle wax, human sweat, incense, and cheap cologne filled the psychic’s tiny living room-cum-reception area with an indefinable and somewhat exotic funk. Although it was a relatively warm October day, the psychic’s furnace was running full blast. On the wall opposite the front door, red velvet curtains bordered with gold tassels covered the room’s only window. On the adjacent wall, a dozen candles in glass containers flickered underneath a large velvet portrait of Jesus on the cross. The only other light in the room was provided by a faux-Tiffany lamp perched on the table at one end of the ornate French provincial sofa that sat underneath the window.
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Bertie noticed a white woman in a pink L’Etiole tennis dress sitting on the sofa. The woman was slim and looked to be in her mid-forties. Her short blonde hair had been carefully layered, and she radiated the athletic glow of someone not accustomed to missing her daily workout.
“Don’t just stand there, you two,” the woman said. “Sit down.”
“We’re here to see Sister Destina,” Bertie said hastily and extended her hand. “I’m Bertie Bigelow, and this is my friend Ellen Simpson.”
As she walked toward the couch, Bertie heard Ellen mutter something under her breath. Ellen was notoriously quick to take offense when she felt she was being bossed around—especially if the bossy person happened to be white.
“Pe
nny Swift.” The white woman leaned forward slightly to offer a brisk handshake. “This your first time?”
Bertie nodded.
“I wouldn’t miss my session with Destina for all the tea in China,” Penny said. “My driver brings me up here twice a week from Kenilworth.”
“It’s a fifty mile round trip from Kenilworth to Morgon Park,” Ellen said sharply. “Don’t they have psychics out in the suburbs?”
Penny laughed. “Not like Destina. That woman can work miracles.”
As Ellen grunted and took a seat on the couch, Bertie studied Penny Swift thoughtfully. Her crisp accent, pampered body, and designer clothes reeked of privilege. Nevertheless, the woman exuded an unmistakable air of sadness. Her carefully applied makeup could not completely hide the lines under her eyes. And despite an expensive manicure, the nails on her fingers had been chewed to the quick.
“Mabel Howard tells me the same thing,” Bertie said. “She swears by Destina’s predictions.”
“Mabel’s a friend of yours?”
Bertie nodded.
“Mabel Howard is my homie,” the white woman said, affecting a Southern accent without a trace of irony. “Haven’t seen her since the incident, though. How’s she holding up?”
“’Bout as well as you would expect,” Bertie replied, “considering.”
Penny shook her head sadly. “The whole tragedy could have been averted, you know. If Destina had been allowed to do her banishing ritual, Howard’s Hot Links Emporium would be open for business right now.”
Ellen Simpson had been squirming in her seat for the past several minutes. She was here to support Bertie, and the last thing she wanted was to get in a shouting match with the white woman at the other end of the sofa. But Penny’s last statement was just too damn much.
“Don’t be silly,” Ellen snapped. “It was a simple case of food poisoning. Could have happened to anybody.”
Penny favored Ellen with a smug smile. “But it didn’t happen to just anybody, did it? It happened in Charley Howard’s restaurant. Just the way Sister Destina predicted it.”
Ellen shook her head and grunted like a bull preparing to charge.
“That’s all very interesting,” Bertie said, shooting a warning glance in Ellen’s direction. “But I’m curious. How did you find out about Sister Destina?”
“My driver, Cedric, recommended her. I used to have a terrible problem going to sleep at night. My husband took me to a sleep specialist, who put me on every drug in the book. Ambien, Lunesta, Rozerem—you name it. I’ve had psychotherapy. I’ve had hypnotherapy. I even tried acupuncture, but nothing worked.”
“That must have been difficult,” Bertie said. “I take it you’re feeling much better now?”
“Sister Destina healed me,” Penny said. Her blue eyes sparkled with missionary zeal. “I’m telling you, it was a miracle. She identified my problem immediately.”
“Fascinating,” Bertie said. “Do you mind telling me what the problem was?”
Penny glanced around the room nervously and moved closer before announcing softly, “There was a dark entity stuck to my aura.”
As Ellen suppressed a giggle, Bertie nodded blandly. “My, my,” she said. “That sounds serious. How did Sister Destina get rid of the entity?”
“That, my dear, is a secret,” Penny said. “My tongue will turn black and swell up like a goiter if I tell a single soul. Anyway, I’m not completely healed just yet. Sister Destina says I still need more work.”
“Sounds like a complicated case,” Bertie said. “Do you know if Mabel had entities as well?”
Penny shook her head. “We’re not encouraged to share the details of our sessions. Kind of like going to the doctor, you know. Patient confidentiality and all that.”
At that moment, a door to Bertie’s left opened to reveal a heavy-set black man in a rumpled business suit and a young man sporting baggy jeans and a silk do-rag.
“A pleasure, as always, Jabarion,” the man said. He clasped the younger man’s hand and shook it vigorously. “She’s a wonder-worker, that Destina. An absolute miracle woman.”
The younger man, who looked to be somewhere around twenty, arched an eyebrow and offered a frosty smile.
“I’ll stop by your office later in the week, Mister Sweetwater,” he lisped in a girlish falsetto. “Meanwhile, have a great evening.”
“That I will, son. Now that I’ve seen Sister Destina, I believe it’s going to be a very fine evening indeed.” With a hearty laugh, the man threw a black raincoat over his shoulder and strode across the waiting room.
“Have a great session, Penny,” he said. With a final wave, the man walked out of the house and slammed the front door behind him.
In the silence that followed, the young man extracted a small bottle of hand sanitizer from his pocket, applied a dab to his left palm, and rubbed his hands together. After carefully inspecting each finger, he turned toward the sofa.
“Ready, Missus Swift?” he said.
“Of course, Jabarion, darling. How is the diva today? In good spirits?”
“Comme ci, comme ça.” The young man wiggled his left hand from side to side. “She’s not in one of her moods, if that’s what you’re worried about. Not yet, anyway.”
Like a French courtier from a bad Hollywood melodrama, he glided across the room, took Penny’s hand, and kissed it.
“Come with me to the Kasbah, ma chérie,” he purred. “Destina’s inner sanctum awaits.”
“Jabarion Coutze Junior,” Penny squealed, her tanned face red with excitement. “Shame on you, flirting with an old lady like that.”
Taking Jabarion’s arm, Penny waved gaily at Bertie and Ellen and sashayed out of the room.
As the door to Destina’s inner sanctum closed behind the unlikely couple, Ellen poked Bertie in the ribs. “We’ve had some crazy adventures together, but girl, this sho’nuff takes the cake,” she said. “Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with here?”
“A rich white woman, an effeminate teenager, and a loudmouth fat man,” Bertie said. “And that’s just for starters.”
“You really don’t know who these people are?”
“Of course not. Do you?”
“I know you need to practice the piano every day, Bertie, but you’re hopelessly uninformed about the really important facts of life. You should read the gossip columns more often.”
Bertie shook her head irritably. “If you know something about these folks, you need to tell me. It could be important.”
“Okay, okay.” Ellen moved closer to Bertie on the couch and lowered her voice to a whisper. “The crazy white woman? Penny Swift? Her family owns the Marshall Swift Department Store chain.”
Bertie whistled softly. “She must be paying Sister Destina a fortune for those sessions she’s getting.”
“No doubt. But she’s not the only big fish here,” Ellen continued. “The fat guy that just left is Max Sweetwater.”
“The real estate tycoon?”
“As I live and breathe. Sleazy SOB was on the news just the other night, announcing a new development at Fifty-Ninth and Wabash. Rumor is, he bought the land for a song last year after a series of suspicious fires in the neighborhood.”
“He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’d go to a psychic,” Bertie said. “Wonder what he’s doing here.”
“I have no idea,” Ellen said. “But let me tell you something even stranger. The light-skinned boy? That’s Jabarion Coutze Junior.”
“I know that, Ellen. I was sitting right here while Penny was talking to him, remember?”
Ellen gave Bertie a pitying look. “Do I have to fill in all the blanks here? Just think about it for a second. Jabarion Coutze. Where have you heard that name before?”
After a moment, Bertie’s eyes widened. “He’s related to the Jabarion Coutze? The drug lord?”
“That would be my guess. Coutze is not exactly your run-of-the-mill surname.”
“Wasn’t that the guy they
busted on a murder charge last year?”
“That’s the one,” Ellen said. “Imagine the irony, Bertie. While Daddy is doing consecutive life sentences in the slammer, Junior is hanging around with a cross-dressing psychic and hugging up on white ladies.”
As Ellen leaned over to make a further comment, the door leading to Destina’s inner sanctum flew open. Penny Swift, her face wet with tears, stormed into the room, grabbed her jacket, and rushed out the front door.
“Sister Destina will see you now,” Jabarion announced. His expression was unreadable as he crossed the living room and pulled the front door shut. “Which one of you ladies will be going first?”
“My friend and I have never done this before,” Bertie said. “Is it possible for us to go in together?”
“As you wish.” Jabarion Coutze lifted his shoulders in a world-weary shrug. “Follow me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tuesday, October 17—6:30 PM
Bertie and Ellen looked around in amazement. The light in the psychic’s inner sanctum was dazzling. The walls and ceiling of the room had been painted a glossy white, and thick white curtains covered the room’s only window. Next to the window was an elaborate triangular bookshelf. On the bottom shelf, flickering white candles alternated with large mason jars filled with an unidentifiable white liquid. The next several shelves contained dark-skinned dolls of both sexes dressed in white clothing, china serving bowls piled high with shredded coconut flakes, and bottles of Bacardi rum that had been painted white to match the décor. At the top of the bookshelf, a large human skull stood upright, surveying the room with hollow eyes.
Jabarion pointed toward two white velvet armchairs sitting in the center of the room. Without further explanation, he turned on his heel and walked out, closing the door behind him. Directly in front of the two chairs was a raised platform flanked by a pair of potted palm trees. In the center of the platform, illuminated by a set of halogen bulbs recessed into the ceiling, sat an elaborate faux-gold throne worthy of Louis XVI.
Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery Page 3