Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “Come in, counselor,” she said, waving him upstairs to the kitchen. “You look like you could use a break.”

  Mac laughed. “Do I really look that beat up? I didn’t think it showed.”

  As she set the food out on the kitchen table and pulled a Michelob from the refrigerator, the burly lawyer stretched out his legs with an appreciative sigh. Tired as he was, Mac exuded a jovial masculine energy that seemed to overflow her small kitchen. Bertie suddenly wished she had not dressed so casually that morning. Instead of a Metro College sweatshirt and a beat-up pair of jeans, it would have been nice to be seen in something a bit more alluring. Not that it really mattered, of course. After all, Mac was just a friend, but still ...

  Mac lifted his beer bottle and took an appreciative swallow. “The police have found a partial print belonging to Mabel on the murder weapon,” he said. “But there are other prints as well, so they’re interviewing all Destina’s regular clients. For now, Mabel is being considered a ‘person of interest,’ which means the police will be watching her like a hawk.”

  “She’s not the only person they should be watching,” Bertie said. “Turns out, Sister Destina’s psychic reading business was really a giant psychology experiment.”

  Mac put down his fork and stared in amazement. “What?”

  “Destina’s real name was Dustin-Destina Kingsley. She was a psych major at the U of C,” Bertie said with a grin. “For some crazy reason, she sent me her Ph.D. thesis. Actually, it’s not really a thesis at all. It’s a deranged manifesto. Destina was using her clients like lab rats, while scamming them out of big bucks at the same time.”

  For the next several minutes, Bertie gave Mac a summary of what she’d learned. When she was finished, he whistled softly.

  “From what you’ve just told me, it’s likely several of Destina’s clients have motives. Certainly, they all knew about that sword. Detective Kulicki says Destina kept it out in the open next to her throne.”

  “That’s right,” Bertie said. “The thing was razor sharp too. Ellen and I both saw Sister Destina use it to cut open a doll in midair.” She shivered. “I suppose it wouldn’t take that much strength to kill someone with a thing like that.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Mac said. “Killing Destina would have been easy, even for someone Mabel’s size.”

  “Has Mabel given you an alibi for the time of the murder?”

  “She admits she went to Sister Destina’s house at five o’clock that afternoon. She even admits that she and the psychic had an argument. But Mabel swears that, when she left Sister Destina’s house an hour later, the psychic was alive and well.”

  Bertie nodded. “I suppose we should not rule out the possibility that Mabel’s husband did it,” she said. “Charley adores his wife. If he thought anyone was trying to hurt her, he might get violent. As you know, the man has a terrible temper.”

  “True,” Mac said. “At least he’s not hanging out with Tony Roselli anymore.”

  “He told me the same thing,” Bertie said. “Assured me that his business was completely legit. He’s been a changed man since he joined the Octagon Society last year.”

  Mac pulled a wry face. “Can’t say I’m a big fan of that bunch, Bertie. The Octagons rejected me the first time I applied, you know. Said I was not an ‘established professional.’ But I’m guessing it had more to do with the fact that my skin was too dark.”

  Bertie squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. As a tan-complected woman with somewhat Caucasian features, she had not had to deal with the intra-racial color discrimination encountered by darker-skinned people.

  “The Octagons were terribly color-struck back in the day,” she said softly. “I’d like to think those attitudes are different now.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Mac said. His laugh was uncharacteristically bitter. “Once I’d made a big enough name for myself, they begged me to join. If it wasn’t for Angie, I’d have told them to take a hike. But Angie loves being an Octagon—the parties, the fundraisers, the whole social swirl.”

  Figures, Bertie thought wryly. In her opinion, Angelique Mackenzie was one of the most shallow, insecure social climbers on the planet. Out of respect for Mac, she kept these thoughts to herself.

  For the next few minutes, the two friends chewed their noodles in thoughtful silence.

  “Have you heard anything from Angelique lately?” Bertie asked.

  “She came by last night to pick up her winter coat and boots. Guess that means she’s not planning to be with me this winter ...” As his sentence trailed to a stop, David Mackenzie shook his head. “I can’t get over the fact she’s gone, Bertie. Five years of marriage up in smoke, just like that. For the last few days, I’ve been asking myself if she ever loved me. Was I just fooling myself the whole time?”

  “Of course not, Mac. But you know how it is. People change. I know how brutal it can be to find yourself alone all of a sudden.” She smiled and patted him gently on the arm. “But it gets more bearable with time. At least, that’s what everyone tells me.”

  “Thanks for listening, Bertie. Most people, they don’t have the time or energy to listen to anyone else’s problems. It really means a lot to be able to talk to you like this.”

  Hoping that Mac hadn’t noticed the sudden flush in her cheeks, Bertie stood up, cleared away the plates, and carried them back to the sink. Keep this professional, girlfriend. Do not make a fool of yourself.

  When she returned to the table five minutes later carrying two steaming mugs of coffee, the lawyer was deep in thought.

  “From what you’ve told me about Destina’s so-called thesis, it’s pretty clear Mabel was not her only client with a motive for murder.”

  “Definitely not,” Bertie said. “Sister Destina was ripping off most, if not all, of them. Did you know Penny Swift was also Destina’s client?”

  “Swift as in Marshall Swift Department Stores?”

  “The very same. Sole heir to the family fortune. The woman made the forty-six mile round trip from Kenilworth in a chauffeured limo at least twice a week. Sister Destina had nothing but contempt for her. If Penny Swift had known the psychic’s true feelings, she would probably have been quite angry.”

  “Angry enough to commit murder?”

  “I don’t know the woman well enough to say, but it seems possible.”

  “I guess I’d better talk to her,” Mac said. He sighed and rubbed a hand over the stubble on the top of his head. “I have another case going to trial next week, and I really don’t have time to take on anything new. But if Mabel is formally charged, I’m going to need to get statements from everyone in Sister Destina’s inner circle.”

  “Let me help you on this one,” Bertie said, surprising herself. “Penny Swift and I know each other, at least a little bit. We had a long conversation in Sister Destina’s waiting room. I think I could get her to talk to me.”

  Mac frowned. “You sure? What if the woman turns out to be the killer?”

  “I’ll be careful,” Bertie said. “And very tactful. I’ll have Penny eating out of the palm of my hand by the end of the interview. Anyway, you’re shorthanded, Mac. You told me so yourself not five minutes ago.”

  The lawyer grinned and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, Bertie. You win. Go ahead and talk to her. But remember, easy does it. We don’t want to ruffle anyone’s feathers here. I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”

  As she walked Mac to his car, it occurred to Bertie that she was beginning to enjoy her new role as an amateur detective. Although Mac was a brilliant lawyer, interviewing Penny Swift was going to require more of the feminine touch. The woman ran a chain of clothing stores, after all. What could be more innocent than calling her up for a bit of fashion advice?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sunday, October 22—Noon

  The drive to Penny Swift’s Kenilworth home took longer than Bertie had anticipated. For a solid hour, she drove north on Lake Shore Drive, watching the banks of hea
vy storm clouds rolling in over the lake. By the time she reached the Sheridan Road exit, raindrops had begun to spatter her windshield. After an additional thirty minutes spent crawling along a narrow, winding road in the pouring rain, Bertie spotted the stone pillars flanking the entrance to the Swift estate.

  She turned into the driveway and drove uphill past a large tennis court. As she approached Penny’s sprawling brick mansion, Bertie noted wryly that a black cast-iron coachman in a red uniform kept watch at either end of its large circular driveway. In spite of the devotion Penny Swift professed for Sister Destina, the woman apparently had no problem displaying these thinly disguised reminders of black servitude.

  A white Mercedes sedan and a snazzy red Maserati were parked in the middle of the driveway. Noting with relief that the rain had stopped, Bertie parked in front of the house, being careful to leave plenty of space between her Honda and the two luxury cars. As she switched off her engine, the mansion’s front door swung open to reveal a tall man in a Lacoste T-shirt, pressed khakis, and a pair of Italian loafers. His gray hair was coiffed in an elegant pompadour that matched the expensive sweater draped casually around his shoulders.

  “Jesus Christ, Penny,” the man shouted over his shoulder as he strode toward the driveway. “This is business. Can I help it if there’s an emergency at the office?”

  When the man had gotten about thirty feet from the house, he pulled a phone out of his pocket and punched in a number. Though Bertie could not hear exactly what he whispered into the phone, she did note that he appeared to blow a kiss into the device before sticking it back in his pocket with a satisfied smile. Clearly, everything was not all hearts and roses in the Swift household.

  Choosing discretion as the better part of valor, Bertie remained inside her car while the man strode past her, angled into his Maserati, and roared away.

  When she was sure the man was gone, Bertie climbed out of her car and stretched. After the rain, the temperature had dropped sharply. If she’d known it was going to be this much colder up here, she would definitely have worn a heavier coat. But at that moment, Bertie had more important things to worry about. She took a deep breath, pasted a smile on her face, and walked briskly up the flagstone walk toward the Swift mansion.

  In his haste to hop into his Maserati and drive away, the man Bertie assumed to be Penny Swift’s husband had left the door to their imposing mansion wide open. Bertie knocked tentatively on the doorframe and peered inside.

  “It’s Bertie Bigelow, Missus Swift. We spoke on the phone last night.”

  “Of course I remember you, Missus Bigelow. Come in,” Penny said.

  As Bertie’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realized that she was standing in the middle of an elaborate Parisian-style foyer. The floor under her feet was pink marble, and an ornate chandelier hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling above her head. Directly in front of her was an elegant curved staircase. All in all, the scene reminded Bertie of something from a movie set. Perhaps in a moment Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers would glide down those stairs and begin to waltz around the room.

  But instead of Fred and Ginger, Penny Swift walked slowly down the stairs and extended her hand. Though she was in great shape and wearing an Ellesse tennis outfit that must have set her back nearly two hundred dollars, Penny Swift had a hangdog air. It didn’t help that tears glistened against her tanned cheeks.

  “Is this a bad time?” Bertie said. “I can come back later if you want.”

  “With the dirtbag I’ve got for a husband, it’s always a bad time,” Penny said, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “Come on in. I could use the company.”

  As Bertie walked into the living room, she noticed a wall lined with photographs of Penny and her husband from a presumably happier time: gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes overlooking the Grand Canyon; in formal attire with their arms around each other at a Chamber of Commerce dinner; frolicking on their front lawn with a pudgy boy and a shaggy golden retriever.

  The picture that most interested Bertie, however, showed Penny Swift dressed in white martial arts clothing. Gazing fiercely into the camera, she held a trophy in one hand and a long sword in the other.

  “I see you’re into karate,” Bertie said. “Is that a black belt you’re wearing?”

  “Sixth degree Taekwondo,” Penny said proudly. “Are you a practitioner?”

  “Oh no. I always wanted to, but somehow, with one thing and another, I never got around to it.” Bertie made a quick mental note to move Penny Swift up on the list of viable murder suspects. For a sixth degree black belt, sticking a sword into someone’s belly would be child’s play. If I were this woman’s philandering husband, I’d be a bit more careful.

  Smiling blandly, Bertie decided to change the subject. “Your home is lovely,” she said.

  Penny Swift shrugged. “Daddy bought it for me twenty years ago when Morgan and I got married. I thought we’d be happy forever. But our son Percy’s away at college now. He hardly ever visits anymore. And Morgan? Well. You know what they say, don’t you?” She took a seat on the edge of a curved leather couch in the center of the room, placed her hands on her knees, and leaned forward expectantly.

  Puzzled, Bertie shook her head. Was this a rhetorical question, or did the woman actually expect an answer?

  “A house is not a home, Missus Bigelow. I believe the incomparable Luther Vandross had a hit song to that effect.”

  Bertie nodded. “As I said before, I’d be happy to come back another time if you’d prefer.”

  “Don’t be silly. I want to do whatever I can to help your enquiry. Sister Destina meant the world to me. Now that she’s gone, I have no idea how I’m going to cope.” Penny pulled a crumpled tissue from the pocket of her tennis skirt and blew her nose. “I know Destina could be moody—downright insulting. But I didn’t let it bother me. It was just part of her trickster persona.”

  Bertie raised an eyebrow. “From what I could tell, she was extorting money from Mabel Howard. That’s a bit more severe than simply tricking someone, don’t you think?”

  Penny waved a dismissive hand. “Destina knew what she was doing. Mabel was a credulous flake with a pea-sized brain and money to burn. She needed an extreme adjustment to balance her karma. From each according to their means, to each according to their need.”

  Bertie kept her expression bland, although she found Karl Marx’s words highly incongruous coming from the mouth of a North Shore socialite.

  “And what about you, Missus Swift? Did Sister Destina balance your karma as well?”

  “Of course,” Penny said grandly. “That is the work of the trickster—to shake you out of your comfort zone. Rattle your cage and disorient your habitual ways of doing things. Why do you think she always wore a dress?”

  “I don’t know,” Bertie said. “But it does seem Sister Destina went out of her way to upset people.”

  “Of course she did,” Penny said with a smug smile. “I can see you’ve never done any transformational work.”

  “You mean workshops? Encounter groups, that sort of thing? No, I haven’t, at least not yet. My husband passed away suddenly eighteen months ago, and I’ve been thinking about going to a support group. Does that count?”

  “Not really. I’m talking about expanding one’s consciousness, Missus Bigelow. I’ve done EST. Firewalking. Yogic breathwork and Ecstatic Reprogramming,” Penny said, ticking each one off on her fingers as she ran down the list. “Out of all of them, Sister Destina was the best. She made me furious sometimes, but deep down, I knew it was always for my own good.”

  “Did you know the psychic was taking advantage of you?”

  Penny Swift’s lips tightened in a thin, straight line. “I had intimations.”

  “Was that the reason you were crying when you left Sister Destina’s house the day I met you?”

  “Was I? To be honest, I can’t remember. Brain like a sieve, you know?” Penny giggled nervously and stood up. “I’m afraid I’ve been r
emiss in my duties as a hostess. Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Some breakfast, perhaps?”

  “No thanks,” Bertie said. “Mind if I ask you another question?”

  “Depends what it is. Why don’t you ask, and then I’ll decide.”

  “Fair enough. You spent hours in Destina’s waiting room. You watched her clients come and go. You knew Jabarion Coutze, Mabel Howard, and all the other regulars. Who do you think killed her?”

  Penny cocked her well-coiffed head to the side and studied Bertie thoughtfully.

  “At first, I thought it was Mabel, or perhaps her husband, Charley. He claims he doesn’t associate with the Mob anymore, but I’m not sure I believe him. Then again, it could have been a burglar. Sister Destina loved to dress up, you know. She’d walk around the house in a diamond tiara. Everyone in the neighborhood knew it.”

  “You’re saying a burglar killed Sister Destina with her own sword?”

  “Why not? The stupid thing was sitting right out in the open. Maybe the burglar forgot his gun or something.” She shrugged elegantly. “As you know, it’s a terrible neighborhood, riddled with crime.”

  Much as Bertie hated to hear this wealthy white woman speak disparagingly about the ’hood, she knew that Penny Swift was right. In the last five years, successive waves of gangs and drugs had turned the South Side of Chicago into a virtual war zone.

  “You should talk to Max Sweetwater,” Penny continued. “He’s planning to build a new highrise complex on the corner of Fifty-Ninth and Wabash. Some of the local puritans don’t like him, but Max knows the South Side like the back of his hand. Between him and Jabarion Coutze, you can find out everything you’d ever want to know about the area—who’s in, who’s out, and where all the bodies are buried. Hold on a minute.” Penny reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. “Let me give you his private phone number.”

  “I didn’t know Coutze and Sweetwater were working together,” Bertie said as she tapped Sweetwater’s contact information into her phone. “I’d have thought they ran in completely different circles.”