Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “You know how it is here in Chicago. Strange bedfellows and all that. Jabarion told me he was helping Sweetwater with his highrise project.”

  “Did Jabarion tell you anything specific about his job?”

  “No,” Penny said breezily. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

  “What about Commissioner Jefferson?” Bertie said. “Ever run into him at Destina’s house?”

  Penny Swift frowned. “Leroy Jefferson is one of those puritans I told you about—stuck in the past and afraid of change. The man’s a pompous idiot. Always running off at the mouth about having been to Thailand, blah, blah, blah. I never saw him at Sister Destina’s though. Was he a client?”

  Now it was Bertie’s turn to shrug. “I have no idea. I was just curious.”

  “I wouldn’t get too curious about those kinds of things if I were you, Missus Bigelow. Those of us who saw Sister Destina on a regular basis tend to value our privacy, if you get my drift. I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

  On the long drive back to the South Side, Bertie mulled over what she had learned. Penny Swift had been surprisingly knowledgeable about Sweetwater’s development business. Had she invested money in his Wabash Towers highrise project? She’d also intimated that she and Jabarion Coutze were friends. It seemed an unlikely alliance. Were they really that close? As she turned off Lake Shore Drive onto Fifty-Seventy Street, Bertie remained deep in thought. Penny Swift had advised Bertie not to get too ‘curious’ about Sister Destina’s clients. “I’d hate to see you get hurt,” she’d said. Had the heiress been threatening her?

  ***

  That night, Bertie typed up a long report and emailed it to David Mackenzie. She should probably also have called Charley Howard to share what she’d learned in person, but she was just too tired. Instead, she fixed herself a large bowl of popcorn, poured herself a medicinal shot of brandy, and watched back-to-back episodes of The Haves and the Have Nots before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Monday, October 23—11:30 AM

  Bertie was surprised to find herself in an excellent mood the next morning. Given the grim events of the past week, there was no logical explanation for her good spirits. Perhaps she was simply tired of being immersed in tragedy. As she walked across the parking lot toward the main entrance of the college, the crisp fall air invigorated her. The lighthearted banter of the students she passed in the hallway made her smile. She even got a kick out of the perennial bickering taking place in the faculty lounge.

  While sipping her morning cup of coffee, Bertie caught the tail end of a skirmish between Ellen Simpson and her arch-nemesis, George Frayley.

  “As an educational institution, Metro College should propagate an appreciation for the fine arts, Professor Simpson.” The word arts came out sounding like “ahts” in Frayley’s reedy New England tenor. “This so-called slam poetry festival you propose is simply not appropriate.”

  “What exactly do you mean by appropriate, George?” Ellen’s copper bracelets jangled emphatically as she made air quotes around the word appropriate. “In my opinion, ‘appropriate’ is just another code word for poetry written by dead white men.”

  Looking something like a wounded polar bear, Frayley shook his head in disgust. “Be serious,” he sniffed. “I am not a bigot. The North Shore Junior League has offered to send us some volunteers. Surely, you must agree, this is a wonderful opportunity to expose the students to some real culture.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that ninety percent of our students are African-American? Bringing those blue-haired ladies out here is just not going to cut it.”

  With a wicked grin, Ellen curtseyed and began to declaim in a pseudo-English accent:

  I think that I shall never see

  A person clueless as little ole me.

  My old man’s worth a million bucks,

  So who cares if my poetry sucks?

  “This is not a matter for levity, Professor Simpson,” Frayley snapped. “In my thirty years at this institution, I have made it a point to teach only material of the highest quality. I will not stand by while the standards of this college are lowered in order to satisfy some benighted bureaucrat’s idea of ‘diversity.’ Do I make myself clear?”

  Ellen stuck her hand on her hip, reared back her head, and sucked her teeth ominously. “I hope you’re not trying to tell me African-American poetry is inherently inferior, George. I refuse to believe that even you could be that ignorant.”

  With a curt nod in Frayley’s direction, Ellen Simpson walked out of the room, rolling her eyes at Bertie as she swept by.

  George Frayley turned to Bertie and shrugged helplessly. “What in the world is wrong with that woman?” he said. Fortunately for Bertie, this was a rhetorical question, and Frayley left without waiting for a reply.

  “Wow,” Amy Chu said. Coffee cup in hand, she turned to Bertie with a quizzical look. “That was way over the top.” Metro’s new computer science teacher was barely five feet tall with doll-like features and shoulder-length black hair. The large, round glasses she wore gave her a slightly owlish look. “Does this kind of thing happen often?”

  “Nearly every day,” Bertie said with a smile. “If too many days go by without some kind of argument, I tend to get nervous. You’ll get used to it after a while.”

  ***

  For the rest of the day, Bertie retained her good spirits. The choir was finally beginning to get its act together. Not a minute too soon, of course. The Ace of Spades would be back in town for one final dress rehearsal before the big show on November eighteenth, which, as Bertie reminded her students on a daily basis, was less than a month away.

  The only fly in the ointment was the continued absence of Melissa Jones. The chancellor had given the girl a week to apologize to Bertie and to her classmates. And after Melissa’s no-show at The Ace’s workshop, Terrance Witherspoon was supposed to have called Melissa’s mother. But so far, Bertie had not heard a word about the girl from anyone in authority.

  It was now time to rehearse “Route 66,” the jaunty swing tune made famous by the great Nat King Cole. When everything went well, “Route 66” was a guaranteed showstopper. The tenors carried the melody, while the sopranos and altos chimed in with “wah, wah, wah” in harmony. But as the students began to sing, a jarring note caught Bertie’s ear. She waved her hands impatiently at the accompanist, and the music stuttered to a halt.

  “Altos,” she said. “You are coming in late on your entrance in the third bar of letter C. I’m not sure you know how the melody goes there.”

  “Oh no, Missus B,” Nyala Clark said loudly. “That ain’t it. We definitely know where to come in. At least I do. The tenors are messing us up. They’re not singing the music the way it’s written.”

  The tenor section erupted in a chorus of protest. As Bertie gestured for silence, she noticed Terrance Whitherspoon sitting in the back of the room. Apparently, the dean of students had slipped in during the last few minutes. She nodded in his direction before returning to the business at hand.

  “Quiet down, people,” Bertie said. “It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. We just need to fix the problem. Take it one more time from the top.”

  As the students ran through the song again, Bertie noted with relief that the problem at letter C had been corrected. At last, the group was beginning to perform as a cohesive unit. Swaying from side to side, they popped their fingers and dipped in time to the beat.

  When song was over, Terrance Witherspoon applauded loudly. As the last student filed out of the classroom, he pulled out a chair next to the piano and sat down.

  “Do you have a minute?” he said. “Something important’s come up.”

  Alerted by the serious tone in Witherspoon’s voice, Bertie took a seat on the piano bench across from him.

  “We’ve got a problem,” he said bluntly. “I didn’t have the heart to say it in front of the students. Fania Jones is threatening to file an injuncti
on against us.”

  “An injunction?” Like a boxer stunned by an unexpected blow, Bertie shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Unless Melissa is allowed to participate in the show, she’s threatening to ask for an injunction to keep us from holding the concert.”

  “Can a judge really do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Witherspoon said. “It seems pretty farfetched to me. Chancellor Grant and I are meeting with our lawyers this afternoon to plan a strategy, just in case she actually follows through with her threat.”

  “If this show is called off, there are going to be a lot of disappointed students on our hands,” Bertie said grimly. “Not to mention their parents and the rest of the community. People have been looking forward to this thing for months. Do you think I should just give in—let Melissa come back?”

  “Not without a written apology,” Dr. Witherspoon said firmly. “This is no longer just about your choir, Bertie. It’s a matter of principle. This college will not be bullied.”

  Bertie sighed. It was one thing to have to deal with recalcitrant students. Out-of-tune notes, sloppy rhythms—that was her domain. But an injunction was another matter entirely. If her late husband Delroy, the “African-American Perry Mason,” had been there, he would have known exactly what to do. But Delroy was not there and would never be there again.

  “So where do things stand now?” she said.

  “At the moment, just carry on and hope for the best,” Witherspoon said. “I think Fania Jones is just bluffing, trying to intimidate us. I’m still optimistic this thing will be resolved soon.”

  “What about The Ace?” Bertie said. “We have a contract. If we cancel this show, he’s going to be furious.”

  “Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that, Bertie.” Witherspoon leaned forward and flashed an infectious grin. “Is it all right if I call you Bertie? When I worked at Minneapolis College, everyone was on a first name basis. Makes for a much more relaxed and collegial atmosphere in my opinion.”

  “Don’t tell that to the chancellor,” Bertie said with a smile. “He’s from the Deep South and a stickler for protocol. He sees the proper use of manners as the last bastion of civilization.”

  “Of course,” Witherspoon said. “But when the chancellor’s not around, you can call me Terry.” He leaned back in his chair and winked. “Who knows, maybe Fania Jones will make us all famous. Metro College could go down in legal history as the defendant in the first ever ‘right to sext’ lawsuit.”

  “That’s not funny,” Bertie said, smiling in spite of herself.

  “True,” Witherspoon said, stretching out his legs and crossing his arms behind his head. “But at the moment, laughter is probably the best medicine. Along with music, of course. After work tonight, I intend to go home, pour myself a stiff drink, and put some Miles Davis on the stereo. Do you like jazz, Bertie?”

  “You bet. No music is more satisfying to the soul.”

  “You got that right,” Terry said. “Problem is, I’m new in town. I know about the Jazz Showcase. But I’m guessing there are even better spots tucked away in the ’hood, if you know where to look.”

  Bertie grinned. Metro’s new dean was not only smart, capable, and good-looking—he was a jazz fan. Amazing.

  “Do you know about the Velvet Lounge on Cermak? They’ve got live jazz three nights a week. Or what about the Jazz Institute of Chicago? They do a big jazz festival and other smaller events throughout the year.”

  Witherspoon’s eyes sparkled. “Would you be willing to do me a favor? Be my tour guide to a few of the local jazz clubs?”

  Is Terry Witherspoon asking me out?

  As if he had read her thoughts, the dean continued hastily, “Just as friends, you understand. In the spirit of collegiality, I’ll even buy the drinks.”

  Feeling slightly foolish, Bertie smiled. “Sounds lovely,” she said.

  ***

  When Bertie stopped into Rudy’s Tap on her way home from work that night, she spotted Ellen Simpson sitting alone at the bar.

  “Melissa Jones’ mother is threatening to stop our concert,” Bertie said, signaling the bartender to bring her usual glass of Merlot. “She’s talking about asking the court for an injunction.”

  “Lord have mercy,” Ellen said, shaking her head. “Nothing worse than an angry black woman. I don’t know why she’s condoning Melissa’s slutty behavior in the first place. In my humble opinion, the kid needs an ass whuppin’.”

  “She’s a single mom, and Melissa is her only child,” Bertie said. “I think she genuinely believes she’s doing the right thing, sticking up for her daughter and all that.”

  “Give me a break,” Ellen said impatiently. “What mother wants her kid showing her tits to strange men just so she can get a part in a show?”

  “A stage mother,” Bertie said simply. “You’d be surprised what people will do if they think it’ll get them fame and fortune. Didn’t you see the dress Kim Kardashian wore to the Grammys? Let’s just say it left almost nothing to the imagination. And she’s a star. When people like Melissa’s mother see that stuff on TV, they just assume that the ability to get at least semi-naked is simply another job requirement. Her mother told me, and I quote: ‘Melissa was just doing what she had to do to get noticed.’”

  “Oh, she got herself noticed, all right,” Ellen said, laughing. “But didn’t you tell me The Ace actually picked her because he thought she was a good dancer?”

  “That’s right. Told me so himself. I was hoping he would tell Melissa the same thing. But of course, she hasn’t come to class all week.”

  “The whole thing is a tempest in a teapot,” Ellen said. “It’s not going to do Melissa’s career any good to cancel your show. Even Fania Jones, stupid as she is, should be able to figure that out. Speaking of stupid, I met with the Events Committee again this afternoon.”

  After spending the next twenty minutes discussing George Frayley’s latest attempt to derail the Hip-Hop Poetry Conference, the conversation turned to Sister Destina’s murder.

  “Have the police arrested anyone?” Ellen asked.

  Bertie shook her head. “Charley Howard has asked me to look into things. I think he’s worried that Mabel might be involved. I drove out to Kenilworth to interview Penny Swift yesterday.”

  “That woman is a real trip,” Ellen said, waving to the bartender to bring her another rum and Coke.

  “You got that right,” Bertie said wryly. “Turns out that the old cliché is true—money can buy a lot of things, but it does not guarantee happiness.”

  “Especially if you’re a rich-ass white woman with race issues.”

  “It’s more that she’s got people issues,” Bertie said. Every now and then, Ellen’s tendency to see everything through the lens of radical politics rubbed Bertie the wrong way.

  “Whatever,” Ellen said with a grand wave of her hand. “Point is, Penny Swift could very well be the killer. Her relationship with Destina sounds pretty sick to me. These kinds of dependency situations have a way of turning ugly.”

  Bertie took another sip of her wine and nodded. “Did you know Penny was a martial arts champion? In her living room, there’s a picture of her holding a samurai sword.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me a bit,” Ellen said. She turned to Bertie and winked. “Everybody knows skinny women are evil. A toothpick like Penny Swift has got enough rage inside to fillet Destina’s fat ass in a heartbeat.”

  Bertie laughed. “Penny thinks Sister Destina was killed by a burglar. Says I should talk to Max Sweetwater—that he’s an expert on the neighborhood.”

  “Expert, my black ass,” Ellen snapped. “Exploiter is more likely. The man has evicted more black folks than Citibank.” Urban renewal was another one of Ellen’s pet peeves. “Younger professionals want to move back into the city, Bertie. They’re tired of the boring, white-bread ’burbs where they currently reside, and they don’t want to drive two hours a day in traffic just to get to work. Just a few weeks
ago, a computer company bought the old Schulze Bakery on Garfield Boulevard. Pretty soon, the whole area is going to turn lily white.”

  Bertie sighed. “Maybe you’re right, Ellen. In any case, I’m going to make an appointment to see Sweetwater. Be worth seeing what he’s got to say about the murder.”

  Ellen shook her head. “I don’t know what it is about you, Bertie Bigelow. You’re such an innocent person, yet you seek out the company of scumbags.”

  “Guess it’s my karma,” Bertie said with a wicked grin.

  Ellen set her drink down on the table and studied Bertie with a serious expression. “I don’t think I would focus on that topic too much if I were you,” she said grimly. “This is no joke, Bertie. There’s a cold-blooded killer out there. If he suspects you’re on to him, all the karma in the world is not going to keep you safe.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Tuesday, October 24—6:00 PM

  As Bertie made her way down Seventy-Fifth Street, she was struck by how much the neighborhood had changed. When she was growing up, the corner of Seventy-Fifth and Paulina Avenue had been the center of a bustling commercial neighborhood. Her family had bought their meat from the small butcher shop on the corner. She’d taken her first party dress to the dry cleaners down the block and had whiled away countless hours in the Afro Pride Bookstore next door. But now, aside from a check-cashing service and a liquor store, there seemed to be little evidence of human habitation. Boarded-up storefronts alternated with vacant lots cordoned off by spiky wrought-iron fences to prevent the neighborhood crackheads from camping there.

  In this bleak environment, the offices of Max Sweetwater’s company, Gilded Lily Development, Inc., stood out by a country mile. At the entrance to the parking lot, an armed guard in a crisp gray uniform emerged from his booth to take Bertie’s name and license number. Only after he had located her name on his list of approved visitors was she allowed to park inside. Located in what had once been a Hi-Lo Supermart, the developer’s office and its adjoining parking lot occupied the entire block. A six-foot chain-link fence topped by coils of barbed wire surrounded the complex.