Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “Destina, it’s me—Bertie Bigelow. Are you in there?”

  The door to Destina’s inner sanctum had also been left ajar. Bertie pushed it open and walked inside as Bessie Smith’s gritty lament continued to pour at top volume from an oversized boom box in the corner:

  You mistreated me and drove me from your door.

  Mistreated me and drove me from your door.

  But the Good Book says you’ll reap just what you sow.

  The spotlights over the psychic’s throne had been turned on full. Harsh beams of brilliant white light bounced off the glossy white walls and careened off the glossy white furniture.

  Sister Destina lay sprawled on the floor with her head tilted at an impossible angle. Blood spattered the ceiling above her, stained the wall behind her throne, and dripped onto the glossy white floor. Her white wedding dress was torn and streaked with crimson. The ceremonial sword Destina had once brandished to chase away demons now protruded from her enormous stomach.

  Bertie stood frozen in disbelief for several seconds as her mind struggled desperately to comprehend the scene before her. Then she began to scream. As she ran out of the house, Bessie Smith’s voice followed her:

  Trouble, trouble, I’ve had it all my days.

  Trouble, trouble, gonna follow me to my grave.

  Outside on the sidewalk, Bertie Bigelow took a deep breath, dug out her cell phone with shaking fingers, and called 911.

  ***

  For the next few hours, a small army of policemen streamed in and out of Sister Destina’s inner sanctum, photographing the body and dusting for fingerprints. As Bertie sat numbly in the psychic’s shabby waiting room, Detective Michael Kulicki arrived, accompanied by his partner, a gangly black man with a cauliflower ear and a sullen expression. Although Bertie had met Kulicki during her investigation into the murder of Judge Theophilous Green, the detective did not seem pleased to see her. Haggard, as always, with a smoker’s cough and a jaw lined with five-o’clock shadow, Kulicki immediately began to pepper her with questions.

  What was her connection to Sister Destina? Why had she come to visit the psychic that evening? Had she seen or heard anyone inside the house?

  “Sister Destina asked me to come by here tonight,” Bertie said. “She had something important to show me.”

  “Something important? Like what, Missus Bigelow?”

  Bertie shook her head. “Honestly, I have no idea. Maybe her assistant would know.”

  Kulicki’s partner pulled a ballpoint pen and a small notebook out of his back pocket. Slowly, as if speaking through a dense fog, Bertie spelled out Jabarion Coutze’s name and gave the police his description.

  “Did Sister Destina have any enemies?”

  Again, Bertie shook her head. “I really couldn’t say. I guess you could try asking her regular clients.”

  Detective Kulicki grunted. “And were you?”

  “Was I what?”

  “A regular client.” He leaned forward and pinned her with a steely gaze. “What exactly was your relationship with the deceased?”

  “It’s complicated, I’m afraid. My friend Mabel Howard had been coming here a lot. Her husband asked me to find out if Sister Destina was ripping her off.”

  “And what did you find out, Missus Bigelow? Was Sister Destina a fraud?”

  Bertie nodded slowly. All she wanted to do was lie down. Her temples were throbbing, and her eyes ached with fatigue.

  “So you lied when you said Destina had no enemies.”

  Bertie flushed and looked away.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time, Missus Bigelow. Did you see anyone leaving Sister Destina’s house this evening?”

  “I already told you,” Bertie said. “I didn’t see anyone. Am I free to go now?”

  “For the moment,” Kulicki said tersely. “But don’t even think about leaving the city without letting me know.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Saturday, October 21—8:45 AM

  The image of Sister Destina sprawled on the floor and covered in blood haunted Bertie’s dreams. Who could have done such a horrible thing? Surely there was no way anyone as sweet and gentle as Mabel Howard could be capable of plunging a sword into Destina’s belly. Surely not. Mabel was thin, while the psychic had been huge. Yet, something nagged at Bertie’s memory. Hadn’t Mabel been the captain of the fencing team her senior year at Georgia State University?

  Shaking her head clear of these disturbing thoughts, Bertie dragged herself out of bed, staggered into the bathroom, and splashed cold water on her face. What she needed was an activity—something to take her mind off things. For the past week, she’d been meaning to rake up the leaves scattered across her yard. But between preparing for The Ace’s workshop and investigating Sister Destina’s phony predictions, the task had remained undone. This morning, Bertie decided, she was going to have a clean yard, come hell or high water. Order in the midst of chaos, she told herself. Stability in a time of change, not to mention some much-needed fresh air.

  Pulling on a Metro College sweatshirt and a pair of tattered jeans, Bertie pried the rake loose from the neglected pile of yard tools in the basement, unfolded an oversized yard waste bag, and stepped outside.

  It was another one of those brilliant Indian summer days that make up for the pain of coping with Chicago’s harsh winters and scorching summers. As always, when the weather was fair, Bertie was happy she lived near the lake. No matter how hot, stuffy, or stagnant the energy in the western part of the city, if you lived close to Lake Michigan, there was always a breeze. The sun felt warm and welcoming, and fat, puffy clouds floated across a picture-perfect blue sky.

  On the other side of the small chain-link fence that separated their yard from Bertie’s, the O’Fallon sisters were also doing yard work. While Pat raked leaves into neat multicolored piles, Colleen snipped away at a rogue patch of English Ivy with an oversized pair of garden shears.

  “Mornin’,” Colleen called out in her reedy Irish brogue. “Grand day, isn’t it?”

  “I s’pose,” Bertie said absently. Normally, the vibrant red of the leaves lying on the ground would have appeared beautiful. Today, they reminded her of blood.

  “You suppose?” Pat put down her rake and walked over to stand next to her sister by the fence. “Something botherin’ ya, Bertie?”

  Bertie sighed. “Someone I know was murdered last night.” As the two elderly women clucked sympathetically, Bertie recounted the story of her visit to Sister Destina’s house. “The worst part is, I was the one to find the body.”

  Pat reached across the fence and patted Bertie’s hand. “Don’t let it worry ya, Bertie. Surely, the police will sort the matter out.”

  “Sure they will,” Colleen chimed in. “A good copper always gets his man, or so my cousin Billy used ta say. Isn’t that right, Pat?”

  “Right as rain,” Pat said. “Our Billy was a captain in the fourth precinct for years. Never let a murderer elude him, I can assure you.”

  Although she kept her expression pleasant, Bertie shuddered inwardly. Her memories of policemen were not those of the friendly Irish cop on the beat. For Bertie, as for many black Chicagoans, the cop on the beat was often anything but friendly. It had been a beefy Irish policeman, perhaps even Pat O’Fallon’s cousin Billy, who’d pulled Bertie’s brother out of his car and broken his nose for no particular reason. Although Bertie knew the O’Fallons meant well, there were some things the two sisters would never understand.

  As she cast about in her mind for a tactful response, the phone in her kitchen began to ring. Bidding the elderly sisters a hasty goodbye, Bertie ran inside and picked up the receiver.

  “Thank God,” Charley Howard said. “I was about to hang up and try your cell phone. The cops have taken Mabel down to the station for questioning.”

  “My Lord.” Bertie pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. “She should have a lawyer by her side. Have you called Mac?”

  “Of course I’ve called him,”
Charley shouted. “Dammit, Bertie! This whole thing is all my fault.”

  “How can you possibly say that? You did everything you could to get Mabel away from Sister Destina.”

  “I’ve been working too much,” Charley said. “Spending too many nights at the restaurant. If I’d been around more, Mabel would have never gotten involved with a psychic in the first place.”

  “Don’t worry,” Bertie said. “I’m sure she has a perfectly good explanation for her whereabouts on the night of the murder.”

  The Hot Sauce King grunted. “I hope you’re right, Bertie. Thing is, Mabel refuses to talk about it. That’s why I need your help. You gotta get her to open up, find out what’s really going on.”

  “Wouldn’t you be better off hiring a professional detective? I haven’t really done you much good so far.”

  “Mabel trusts you. That makes you the perfect person for the job.”

  “Perhaps,” Bertie said. “But there’s something you need to know. Remember I told you about The Ace’s workshop last night? I got Mabel a backstage pass and a front row seat. But she never showed up. I looked all over for her, Charley. She never came.”

  “Do the police know?”

  “I don’t think so. The cops didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell.”

  Charley Howard sighed. “Let’s just keep it that way. And for God’s sake, talk some sense into my wife, Bertie. I’m counting on you.”

  After hanging up the phone, Bertie spent the next several moments brooding. She’d assured Charley that she had not mentioned anything about Mabel to the police. But her memory of the previous night was hazy, at best. She’d been exhausted, disoriented, and terrified. Is it possible she had let something slip?

  With a loud sigh, Bertie told herself to cease and desist from idle speculation, at least for the moment. She had a major concert in less than three weeks. She had emails to answer, papers to grade, and a life to live. A life that did not involve Mabel Howard, policemen, psychics, or murder.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Saturday, October 21—2:00 PM

  With a determined step, Bertie marched up the stairs, sat down at her bedroom work table, and fired up her computer.

  At the top of her email list was a letter from the registrar’s office reminding her that Monday was the last day to withdraw students who had stopped coming to class.

  Bertie chewed her lip thoughtfully. She had not heard a peep from Melissa Jones since the sexting incident. Should the girl be withdrawn? Bertie leaned back in her swivel chair and stared pensively out the window for several minutes. No, she decided. There was still a chance Melissa would come to her senses and apologize. For the time being, the girl would remain enrolled in the choir.

  The doorbell rang as Bertie prepared to read her next email. When she opened the door, a harried UPS man thrust a package into her hands.

  As she watched his truck drive away, Bertie shook her head.

  That’s odd, she thought to herself. She hadn’t ordered anything from Amazon and wasn’t expecting any packages. It wasn’t Christmas, nor was it anywhere near her birthday.

  Deep in thought, Bertie closed the door and set the package on the table. Ellen’s nemesis, George Frayley, had received a gift-wrapped box of dog poop from a disgruntled student last semester. Could this be a similar prank?

  The box was rectangular in shape and weighed about three pounds. If it did contain poop, there was no telltale odor. A more cautious person might have thrown the mysterious package away. But for better and sometimes for worse, Bertie Bigelow had never been a cautious person.

  She grabbed a knife from the kitchen drawer and cut away the wrapping paper. Taped to the front of a cardboard shoe box was a single sheet of pink stationary.

  My Dear Bertie,

  When I read your aura yesterday, I knew I could trust you with my masterpiece. I am a psychic, after all. I know these things.

  Hugs,

  Destina

  Inside the shoebox was a typewritten manuscript. The title page read:

  Toward an Epistemology of Gullibility: Unpacking the Cultic Milieu of Psychicism

  BY

  DUSTIN-DESTINA KINGSLEY

  Submitted for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

  Department of Psychology

  University of Chicago

  Of the many things Bertie had anticipated the package might contain, a Ph.D. thesis was definitely not one of them. Shaking her head in amazement, she began to read.

  “One in every seven Americans will consult a psychic this year. Who are these people? As a psychologist, I was eager to find out. I set up shop in a lower-class neighborhood on Chicago’s Southwest Side to study this strange phenomenon.

  My first order of business was to make sure that the address I used did not contain the number six.”

  Destina described the house, the neighborhood, and the local atmosphere in excruciating detail. After several pages, the following sentence caught Bertie’s eye:

  “Mabel H., a thirty-six-year-old African-American female, was the ideal subject for my research. To test the limits of her credulity, I told her a bigger and bigger lie every week. No matter what I said, the woman gobbled up my stories like candy. Mabel H. is the perfect example of the psychic’s most frequent client—the credulous type. Take note that her age is a multiple of six.”

  Bertie shook her head sadly. It was all there—the phony hexes, the manipulations, and the escalating demands for money. But Mabel Howard was not the only person Sister Destina had cheated.

  “The narcissist is driven by an overwhelming desire to be the center of attention. It is the second most common personality type I encountered as a psychic. Neglected by her husband, Penny S. paid me thousands of dollars for phony hexes and fake potions. This is, I believe, related to the number of sixes in her birth date. The number six is evil and should be eliminated entirely from modern speech.”

  Part diary, part academic tome, and part manifesto, the psychic’s “thesis” veered wildly from subject to subject in no particular order. Topics of discussion included the Arabic numbering system, the use of the number six in Greek mythology, and the need for more electric cars.

  After ten more rambling pages, Bertie put the manuscript down and rubbed her eyes. Sister Destina had mailed her thesis only hours before being brutally murdered. Why had the psychic sent her this document? Had Destina had some kind of premonition? A chill ran up Bertie’s spine. The whole thing was just too creepy. Suddenly, Bertie felt a strong desire to talk to someone, anyone.

  As long as they were practical, sensible, and sane.

  When she heard Ellen’s voice at the other end of the line, Bertie’s words tumbled out in a rush of excitement.

  “Girl, you will never guess what I’m reading.”

  “Please tell me it’s not Fifty Shades of Grey, Bertie.”

  “Be serious,” Bertie said. “I just found out something amazing. Are you sitting down?”

  When Ellen assured Bertie that she was indeed seated, Bertie continued. “Sister Destina was a student at the U of C. The fortune-telling set-up was part of her Ph.D. research.”

  Ellen laughed. “I always knew those U of C folks were crazy. I just didn’t know exactly how crazy.”

  “Destina mailed me her thesis the same day she was murdered. I’m in the middle of reading it right now.”

  “Say what?”

  “You heard me,” Bertie said. “Her main theory was that only certain types of people visit psychics. So far she’s mentioned two: the ‘credulous type’ and the ‘narcissistic type.’ Wait a sec. Let me find the place.” Delighted to have someone with whom to share her news, Bertie shuffled through the pages until she found what she was looking for. “Okay, here it is. Check this out:

  “‘A credulous personality, such as Mabel H., is motivated by an infantile need to live in a fairy-tale universe.’”

  “I hate to admit it, but Destina’s got a point there,” Ellen said. “Mabel is definitely the credul
ous type. Did Destina write about anyone else we know?”

  “Penny Swift,” Bertie said. She cleared her throat and began to read.

  “‘Penny S. is a classic narcissist. Unused to being in an all-black environment, the woman was initially suspicious. But I soon had her eating out of my hand.’”

  “Sister Destina was some manipulator,” Ellen said. “It’s no wonder she got herself killed. What else did you find out?”

  “I’m only on page fifty. Already, I’ve waded through a five-page rant about the IRS, an itemized list of the shoes in her closet, and a section about her favorite TV shows. Destina hated the Discovery Channel. Can you believe it?”

  “Worried someone would ‘discover’ the truth about her sorry behind,” Ellen said. “Woman was nuttier than Aunt Harriet’s fruitcake.”

  “I should call Mac and tell him about this thing, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Ellen said. “And be sure to keep me in the loop. I’m dying to know what happens next.”

  Later that afternoon, Bertie called Mac’s cell phone.

  “I discovered what may be an important clue,” she said. “Do you have time to take a look at it?”

  “I’m at the police station with Detective Kulicki,” Mac said. “I’ll swing by for a few minutes on my way home.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Saturday, October 21—6:55 PM

  It was close to seven by the time David Mackenzie appeared at Bertie’s doorstep, a briefcase in one hand and a bag of Chinese take-out in the other.

  “Shrimp lo mein,” Mac said. “I haven’t had a minute to eat all day. Be honored if you’d join me.” Though his suit was wrinkled and there were lines under his eyes, the lawyer’s infectious grin lifted Bertie’s spirits.