Mabel giggled mischievously. “I have an appointment, of course. I told Sweetwater I wanted to sell Charley’s restaurant. It’s right in the heart of Bronzeville—a very up-and-coming neighborhood. Sweetwater was practically drooling by the time I got off the phone.”
“And I suppose you also have a plan for how you’re going to get him to show you this logbook?”
“Don’t you worry,” Mabel said. “I have my ways. Tell Charley and Mac to meet me at Sweetwater’s office tomorrow night. You come too, Bertie. Eight p.m. I’m about to blow this whole case wide open.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Monday, October 30—9:00 AM
When Bertie reached Mac on his cell phone the next morning, he was less than thrilled to learn that his client had left the state without his knowledge. And when Bertie let it slip that she’d known about Mabel’s travel plans, the lawyer’s displeasure deepened.
“You knew Mabel was in St. Louis and didn’t tell me?”
“Not exactly,” Bertie said. “She told me she was going away but wouldn’t tell me where.”
“You should have called me immediately,” Mac said. “Mabel Howard is my client. More to the point, she is a suspect in a murder investigation. What in the blue blazes were you thinking?”
If there was one thing Bertie hated, it was being reprimanded.
“I’m calling you now, aren’t I?” she replied. “The trip is water under the bridge now, anyway. The point is, Mabel’s discovered some important new information.”
“And rather than share this so-called important information with me, her lawyer, Mabel told you instead?”
“What was I supposed to do, Mac? As soon as I found out something useful, I called you.” Although she understood Mac’s frustration at being left out of the loop, Bertie felt her temper rising. She and Mac were colleagues, after all. Working together to catch a vicious killer. But in that moment, Mac’s tone was decidedly less than collegial. “Mabel says that Sister Destina, Max Sweetwater, and Jabarion Coutze were involved in a fraudulent real estate scam.”
The lawyer snorted in disgust. “And how did Mabel come by this information? Did she read it in her horoscope? Oh, I know. She got it off the Psychic Hotline.”
“This is no time for sarcasm,” Bertie snapped. “The fact that your client left town without telling you is not my fault. You asked me to help you with this case, didn’t you? Mabel wants us to meet her at Max Sweetwater’s office tonight at eight. Don’t be late.”
As she hung up the phone, Bertie shook her head ruefully. Only yesterday, she’d been daydreaming about David Mackenzie. She’d even gone so far as to imagine what it would feel like if he took her in his arms. How sweet his lips would taste if he kissed her. What a fool I’ve been, Bertie thought bitterly. Mac was a smart, capable, and honest person, to be sure, but there was no way Bertie wanted to be around anyone who could speak that sharply to her. No way at all.
Her next phone conversation was even more difficult.
“My wife did what?” Charley Howard’s voice was so loud she had to move the phone away from her ear. “She told me she was going to Lake Geneva. Of all the low-down, dirty, devious tricks.” In the background, Bertie could hear him slamming his fist against a wooden surface. “Don’t you remember why I hired you in the first place? You were supposed to be my eyes and ears, Bertie. But you lied to me instead.”
“Not exactly.” A feeling of déjà vu descended as Bertie explained for the second time that morning that Mabel had sworn her to secrecy, but the idea of honor between girlfriends cut no ice with Charley Howard.
“You are fired, little lady,” he snapped. “And don’t even think about trying to collect any money for the time you’ve put in so far. No siree. I do not give my money away, especially to people who stab me in the back.”
“You can be mad at me all you want,” Bertie said. “But give your wife the benefit of the doubt. She’s found some important new evidence in the case. If she’s right, this evidence will exonerate her and point directly to the guilty party. She wants us to meet her at Max Sweetwater’s office tonight at eight o’clock.”
For a full minute, there was silence at the other end of the phone.
“You sure this is a good idea?” Charley finally asked.
“No,” Bertie said, “but what choice do we have? You don’t want Mabel uncovering a murderer by herself, do you?”
“You’ve got a point. Maybe I better call a couple of guys I know to come along for the ride.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Bertie said hastily. “Mac will be there to keep things from getting out of hand.”
“All right, little lady. You’re on. Gilded Lily Developers on Seventy-Fifth Street. See you tonight at eight.”
***
Bertie felt nervous and unsettled for the rest of the day. Twice during Music Theory 101 she lost her train of thought in midsentence. During choir rehearsal, she stared off into space until the sound of Nyala Clark tittering in the back row snapped her back into the present. Truth be told, Bertie and her students were all feeling aimless. There was little point in rehearsing for a concert that had been put on hold indefinitely. Did it really matter if some of her students could not tell the difference between an eighth note and a hard-boiled egg? In the end, did anybody really care?
After forty-five dispiriting minutes, Bertie dismissed the choir and retreated to the faculty lounge. The room was empty except for Ellen Simpson, who sat on the couch leafing through a pile of student essays.
“You look depressed, girlfriend,” Ellen said. “Don’t tell me you’re still upset about that jive-ass Terry Witherspoon. That man is not worth a single tear.”
“Honestly? I don’t even know what I’m so depressed about,” Bertie said. “Life has gotten so complicated recently. Between this lawsuit, my pathetic love life, and Sister Destina’s murder, I am totally distracted. I barely got through my lecture today.”
“How about stepping ’round the corner to Rudy’s Tap with me? A nice soothing glass of red wine is bound to lift your spirits.”
Bertie shook her head glumly. “I can’t. I’m supposed to meet Mabel at Max Sweetwater’s office tonight.”
“What for? More detective stuff?”
“Something like that.” Ellen listened eagerly while Bertie related the latest developments in the murder investigation. “Mabel claims she’s going to reveal some big secret tonight. Something that may uncover the identity of the murderer.”
“Girl, you’ve got no right to be depressed,” Ellen said. “You’re like the black Miss Marple or something. Would it be okay if I came along? I’ve never been part of a murder investigation before.”
“You’ll probably be disappointed,” Bertie said. “The way my life’s been going lately, the trip is likely to be a complete waste of time.”
“In that case, we’ll go have a drink after,” Ellen said with a grin. “Anyway, you might need some backup.”
“You’re not worried things might get dangerous?”
“I’d love it.” Ellen’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “If you think it’s going to get really hairy, we can swing by my apartment and pick up my .22. It’s just a little gun, but it packs a wallop, just the same.”
“Absolutely not, Ellen. We are not walking in there and waving guns around.” When she saw the wounded expression on her friend’s face, Bertie relented slightly. “I know you mean well, but I don’t think we are going to need weapons. Mac and Charley are going to be there to help us out. I’m sure we can handle anything that comes up.”
“Did you say ‘we’?” Ellen said with a grin. “All right, partner! Let’s hustle our butts out there.”
“It’s too early,” Bertie said. “The meeting doesn’t start till eight. It’s only six thirty.”
“Get a grip, Bertie. I thought you were a detective. Don’t you know the detective always goes to these kinds of meetings early? You need to case the joint—get the lay of the land and all
that stuff.”
“I know the lay of the land,” Bertie said. “I’ve been there before.”
“Not with me you haven’t. I’ll even do the driving. Let’s get a move on, shall we?”
Thirty minutes later, Ellen pulled her car in front of Gilded Lily Development, Inc. This time, the gate to the parking lot was up, and the guard who had admitted Bertie on her last visit was nowhere to be seen. With a shrug, Ellen pulled her vintage Volvo station wagon past the empty guard station and into the lot. The other two cars in the lot were parked close to the side entrance of the building. One of them was a maroon Cadillac Escalade tricked out with whitewall tires, tinted windows, and a matching sunroof.
“That’s got to be Sweetwater’s ride,” Ellen said, pulling into the adjacent space. “No doubt purchased with the money he’s made throwing hard-working families out of their homes.”
“Ellen, please,” Bertie said sharply. “If you don’t think you can be calm, maybe you should wait in the car.”
“Don’t worry,” Ellen said. “I was only kidding. When we get inside, I’ll be silent as a mouse.” Ellen tilted her head in the direction of Sweetwater’s car. “Just between you, me, and the gatepost, though, Bertie, tell the truth. Isn’t that exactly the kind of pretentious heap you’d expect a guy like Max Sweetwater to drive?”
To change the subject, Bertie said, “Looks like Mabel is here as well.” She pointed to the cherry-red Jeep with a vanity plate that read MAGIC GRL.
“If that’s the case, what are we waiting for?”
Forgetting all about her promise to stay quiet and remain in the background, Ellen jumped out of the car and strode briskly toward the building. Not wanting to be left completely in the dust, Bertie trailed along behind her. It would probably have been prudent to wait for Charley and Mac to join them, but it was too late now.
“Look, Bertie. Someone left the side door propped open. They must be expecting us.”
A brick had been wedged into the side doorway where the eager young intern had met Bertie on her previous visit. Hoping that her friend’s supposition was correct, Bertie followed Ellen into the apparently deserted office building. The large florescent lights that had lit the place during Bertie’s first visit had been turned off. The eerie glow of the office’s many computer screens provided the only illumination. Fortunately, Bertie had been there before. Surprised at the accuracy of her memory, she led Ellen through the maze of cubicles toward Sweetwater’s office. When they passed the Styrofoam model of Wabash Towers, Ellen whistled softly. The model, illuminated by a small floodlight, looked remarkably lifelike.
“So this is what the bastard’s been up to,” she said, pointing to the Styrofoam name plates listing the Tower’s proposed tenants. “Starbucks. J. Crew. The Gap. Not a single black-owned business, Bertie. Sweetwater is selling our neighborhood out to The Man.”
“He’s selling our neighborhood to the people who will make him the most money,” Bertie said tartly. “But it doesn’t matter now. In a couple of minutes, you can talk to him in person. His office is just around the corner.”
Grabbing Ellen by the hand, Bertie turned toward the narrow passage that led to Sweetwater’s office. As the two women left the circle of light illuminating the model of Wabash Towers, they were once again plunged into total darkness.
Suddenly, they heard a high-pitched scream. Chilled to the bone, Bertie and Ellen ran toward the source of the sound. As they rounded the final corner, they found Max Sweetwater’s office door wide open. All the lights were on in the room. Framed against the light, Mabel Howard stood, sobbing uncontrollably. At her feet lay Max Sweetwater. The developer’s rumpled brown suit, his desk, the walls, and every other surface in the room was covered in blood.
“Oh my God!” Bertie shrieked. “Oh my God! Mabel, what happened?”
Mabel Howard did not answer. Sweetwater’s Japanese sword dangled limply from the fingers of her right hand. Like her dress and her overcoat, the weapon was stained with blood.
Showing surprising calm for someone who’d just come along for the ride, Ellen Simpson pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911. Seconds later, Mac and Charley ran into the room. As Mabel continued to stand motionless over Max Sweetwater’s body, Charley gently removed the sword from her hand and laid it on the floor.
“Mabel, honey, look at me,” he said. “What happened here?”
“It would be best if Mabel kept quiet,” Mac said taking a quick look around the room. “Don’t anybody touch anything. Have the police been notified?”
“They’re on their way,” Ellen said. “I just called them.”
Mac grunted. “Which means you people have just ten minutes to tell me what happened here. Starting with you, Bertie.”
“As you know, Mabel asked me to meet her here,” Bertie said quickly. “Ellen volunteered to come along. When we walked in, Mabel was standing over the body. Honest, Mac. That’s all I know.”
As Bertie spoke, Mabel continued to stand with a blank expression on her face. Charley wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders and led her away from Sweetwater’s corpse.
“This man’s throat has been cut,” he said, shooting Bertie an angry glare. “This is all your fault, Bertie. You were supposed to be keeping an eye on her.”
“Are you saying this murder is my fault?” Bertie replied angrily. “God knows, I’ve been doing the best I can to keep Mabel out of trouble. That’s why I came here in the first place.”
“Quiet, both of you,” Mac said curtly. Waving Charley to step aside, he touched Mabel gently on the arm. “Mabel, I’m your lawyer. Whatever happened here, you’ve got to tell me. I promise I will do my very best to keep you out of jail, but I can’t do that if you won’t talk to me. Understand?”
Mabel Howard blinked and gave Mac the tiniest of nods.
“Good,” the lawyer said. Speaking very slowly, as if talking to a small child, he continued. “The police will be here very soon. Before they come, I need you to tell me if you did this. Did you use that sword to kill Max Sweetwater?”
Just as Mabel was about to respond, Detective Michael Kulicki and three uniformed policemen burst into the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tuesday, October 31—4:00 PM
When Bertie arrived at Rudy’s Tap the following afternoon, the place was deserted. She’d had a long, hard day at work and was in desperate need of liquid refreshment. She took a seat at the bar and ordered a glass of Merlot. As Bertie nodded her head appreciatively in time to The Jazz Crusaders cut spinning on the jukebox, Ellen slid onto the next barstool.
“The police give you a hard time last night?” Ellen caught the bartender’s attention and ordered a rum and Coke. “Tell me everything.”
“Detective Kulicki had trouble believing that I just stumbled upon the corpse by accident.”
“Why on earth would the man have a problem with that?” Ellen said with a wry grin. “This is only your second dead body this month. It’s not like you do this every day.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” Bertie said. “Somehow the detective failed to see the humor. He kept asking the same questions over and over. I don’t think he believed a word I said. It was after midnight before I got home.”
“He was tough on me too, at least until he realized I didn’t have a clue.”
“Charley Howard fired me last night,” Bertie said. “Told me I was the worst detective he’d ever seen.”
“Good,” Ellen said. As Bertie opened her mouth to protest, Ellen raised a cautionary hand. “You did the best you could, Bertie. Was it your fault Mabel got herself hooked on that crazy psychic? Of course not! The whole situation was messed up long before you got in the picture.”
For the next few moments, the two women sipped their drinks in silence.
“If I were Charley, I’d be asking myself what Mabel was doing with that sword in her hand in the first place,” Ellen said.
Bertie sighed. “I know it looks bad, but I still can’t believe she
’s a killer.”
“What does Mac say? Have you talked to him yet?”
Bertie shook her head. “After the cops came in, they put us in separate rooms. I haven’t seen or heard from him since. I think he’s still mad that I didn’t tell him about Mabel going out of town.”
“That’s a man for you. Always looking for someone to blame when things go wrong.” Ellen put down her glass and winked broadly. “I wouldn’t let it bother you, though. He’ll calm down in a bit. I’m telling you, girlfriend, Mac’s got the hots for you. I’ve got radar. I can sense these things.”
All the way home from Rudy’s Tap, Bertie brooded. Could it be that Ellen was right about Mac’s interest in her? If so, why did this possibility leave her feeling so unsettled? Bertie had always prided herself on being a clear-thinking and decisive person. It was not at all like her to develop crushes on men, particularly men with whom she was involved professionally. And yet, here she was, kissing Terry Witherspoon one minute and daydreaming about Mac the next. Whatever craziness was bubbling up in her hormones, it was time to bring her feelings under control.
For the rest of the way home, Bertie hummed songs by strong, self-reliant women: “Superwoman” by Alicia Keys; “I’m Every Woman” by Chaka Khan; and finally a rousing chorus of R-E-S-P-E-C-T, complete with a few Aretha-like flourishes.
Bertie had almost begun to feel like her old self again by the time she pulled to the curb. As she got out of the car, a trio of young girls in princess costumes scurried excitedly across the street.
“Good grief,” Bertie said to no one in particular. She’d been so preoccupied with the craziness going on in her life, she’d forgotten all about Halloween.
Next door, the O’Fallon sisters had a large inflatable pumpkin set up in their driveway to celebrate the occasion. Dressed as Batman and Robin, the two women stood on their front porch, passing out candy to a stream of costumed children.
“Oh my goodness” Colleen cooed. “It’s Freddy Krueger from Nightmare on Elm Street!”
Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery Page 13