Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “Ya scared me witless, young man,” Pat said, dropping a fist full of Hershey’s Kisses into the child’s outstretched shopping bag. “Truly, ya did.”

  If this had been a normal Halloween, Bertie would have joined them, but at the moment, the idea of celebrating anything even remotely macabre was more than she could handle. Instead, she gave the two elderly sisters a friendly wave and scurried inside. After turning off her porch light and fixing herself a Lean Cuisine dinner, she immersed herself in a deliciously frothy Terry McMillan novel. At ten p.m., she crawled under the covers and turned out the light.

  But the minute she closed her eyes, a host of disturbing images began to flash through her mind: the vacant expression on Mabel’s face as she stood over Sweetwater’s body; Jabarion Coutze simpering as he escorted Penny Swift into the inner sanctum; Sister Destina splayed across her throne, her elaborate white wedding dress covered in blood.

  After tossing and turning for another forty-five minutes, Bertie got out of bed, pulled on her bathrobe, and padded downstairs to the kitchen to fix a cup of tea.

  Technically speaking, of course, Mabel’s guilt or innocence was no longer Bertie’s concern. Charley Howard had fired her. The most logical thing for her to do was to stop worrying about the case. But deep in her heart, Bertie knew that this was not possible. Mabel was her friend. If Bertie ever wanted to sleep at night again, she was going to have to figure this thing out. Whether Charley Howard liked it or not.

  It had been ten days since she’d looked at Sister Destina’s so-called thesis. Though the manuscript was rambling and chaotic, it was still possible it might contain a valuable clue. Bertie carried her cup of double-strength Irish Breakfast tea upstairs to her work table and lifted Destina’s manuscript from its cardboard box.

  “The dependent type is a common visitor to any psychic’s office. Jabarion C. is weak, both emotionally and physically, but there is hope that, under my expert tutelage, he will someday become a man. To sharpen his inner warrior, I have entrusted him with my Home Hoodoo Program. The program was suggested to me by Max S., a perfect specimen of the predator type. The predator is the lion of the psychic jungle.”

  Bertie grinned. At last, she had found independent proof of Mabel’s allegations.

  But for the next twenty pages, Destina rambled on about the feeding habits of lions in the jungle with no further mention of either Sweetwater or the Home Hoodoo Program.

  It was now nearly two o’clock in the morning. Exhausted, Bertie put the manuscript back in its box and climbed into bed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Wednesday, November 1—11:00 AM

  As Bertie took her seat next to Terry Witherspoon in Chancellor Grant’s office the following morning, she could barely contain her anxiety. Under normal circumstances, she would have enjoyed the panoramic view of the campus afforded by the chancellor’s large picture window. She might even have appreciated the polished sheen of his mahogany desk and the plush shag carpet under her feet.

  But these were not normal circumstances. Not at all.

  “Missus Jones’ request for a preliminary injunction has been denied,” Chancellor Grant announced in his ponderous baritone. “However, she has informed our lawyers that she intends to appeal the ruling.”

  Bertie took a deep breath and stole a quick glance at Terry Witherspoon, who looked straight ahead with an impassive expression.

  “The appellate court will hear her argument at the end of the week,” the chancellor continued. “Meanwhile, the larger question of whether we have violated Melissa’s constitutional right to free speech remains unresolved. Missus Jones is also suing the college on that matter. She is asking for the sum of one hundred million dollars in punitive damages. A trial date on that issue has been set for December fifteenth.”

  Bertie cleared her throat. “Is there any way Melissa’s mother could be persuaded to reconsider?”

  “Doctor Witherspoon tried that route, Professor Bigelow. He spoke to Missus Jones on the telephone last week. Unfortunately, she refuses to change her mind.”

  “Yes, but what if I spoke to her,” Bertie said. “Melissa is a natural-born performer. I can’t believe she wants this show to be cancelled any more than we do. Surely I can persuade Missus Jones that denying her daughter the opportunity to participate in this show is not in anyone’s best interest.”

  “Unfortunately, it is now too late for further negotiation,” Chancellor Grant said. “Our lawyers have indicated it would be unwise to contact the girl as long as the case remains active.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Bertie said. Though she was trying to maintain a professional demeanor, her words tumbled out in a jumble of anxiety. “The Ace, I mean Mister Willis, was giving this performance free of charge, as a service to the community. He’s let me know, in no uncertain terms, that if this concert is cancelled, he will not reschedule. To be honest, he was quite angry about the whole thing.”

  The chancellor grunted. “I shouldn’t wonder. Any thoughts, Doctor Witherspoon?”

  Again, Bertie shot a quick glance in Witherspoon’s direction, but the dean’s expression was unreadable.

  “Professor Bigelow allowed Melissa to get out of control,” Witherspoon said crisply. “If she had exercised a firmer hand in the classroom, this entire incident could have been avoided. At this point, however, the only reasonable alternative is to cancel the concert and move on.”

  Bertie could hardly believe her ears. Was Witherspoon trying to blame her for the sexting fiasco?

  “I take strong exception to Doctor Witherspoon’s remarks,” Bertie said. As Witherspoon flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his pant leg, she felt like screaming. Instead, she took a deep breath and continued in a crisp, professional tone. “If I had known that Melissa was going to send naked pictures of herself to our visiting artist, I would certainly have stopped her. As soon as I found out, I reported the matter to Doctor Witherspoon, who assured me he had prior experience with this sort of thing. He was the one responsible for talking to the girl’s mother, not me. If anyone is to blame, I suggest you look in his direction.”

  As Witherspoon opened his mouth to respond, the chancellor cut him off.

  “Let us not bicker, please. I understand that this is an upsetting situation, but to argue about whether it could have been prevented or not is pointless at the moment. The question before us at present is whether we should try to push forward with this concert or not.” Chancellor Grant leaned his considerable bulk backward in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling, as if seeking inspiration. “Missus Jones has told our lawyers that she will pursue this matter all the way to the Supreme Court if necessary. Personally, I suspect the woman may be somewhat unhinged. However, given the circumstances, I must agree with Doctor Witherspoon.” Ignoring the stricken look on Bertie’s face, Chancellor Grant pushed back from his desk and stood. “The Metro College Choir concert is now officially cancelled. I will instruct our legal team to telephone Mister Willis and inform him of my decision.”

  Too stunned to speak, Bertie willed herself out of her chair, nodded brusquely in Chancellor Grant’s direction, and left the room. She kept her game face on as she swept past Hedda Eberhardt’s desk, strode down the hall, and rode the elevator down to the basement. Only after she had entered the ladies’ room and locked herself safely in a stall did Bertie Bigelow burst into tears.

  I actually thought Terry Witherspoon wanted to be my friend, she thought bitterly. Instead, the man had done his level best to stab her in the back. Bertie did not believe for a single moment that Witherspoon actually thought she could have prevented the sexting incident. He’d simply been trying to make her look bad in front of Chancellor Grant because she had refused to sleep with him. What a fool she’d been! From her current vantage point, it was obvious Terry Witherspoon had never been genuinely interested in her. Obviously, he’d seen her merely as an easy conquest—one last fling before his wife arrived.

  Bertie kept to herself as
much as possible for the rest of the day. Sooner or later, she would share her story with Ellen, perhaps over a few drinks at Rudy’s Tap. But at the moment, the pain of Witherspoon’s betrayal was too raw to share with anyone. At that moment, all she wanted was to be left alone.

  But before Bertie could crawl home to lick her wounds in solitude, she was going to have to tell her choir that their show had been cancelled. All week, she’d been relentlessly upbeat. Insisting that the lawsuit was a temporary obstacle, she’d assured the choir that the show they’d worked so hard to put together would, in fact, go on as scheduled. But now what would she tell them?

  Bertie waited for her students to file into the classroom, then delivered the bad news in plain, unvarnished language.

  “The chancellor has decided to cancel our concert,” she said.

  For a moment, there was shocked silence in the room. Then Nyala Clark piped up from the back row.

  “I thought the judge was going to stop this stupid lawsuit,” she said in an injured voice. “You said so yourself.”

  “I did think that,” Bertie said simply. “And I was right. The judge threw out Melissa’s case. But apparently Missus Jones is going to appeal, and the chancellor is afraid the suit will drag on for several more months. Since the outcome of the case remains uncertain, he had no choice but to cancel the show.”

  The students stared glumly at Bertie for a long minute. Finally, Maurice Green spoke.

  “This just ain’t right. No way I’m ever gonna forgive Melissa this. Not if I live to be a hundred years old!”

  TyJuana Barnes stood up and raised her fist in the air. “Somebody need to go over there and talk to that girl,” she shouted. Bertie’s star alto was built like a small tank and had the attitude to match. As she spoke, a defiant murmur of approval rippled through the group.

  “That is absolutely out of the question,” Bertie said firmly. “Other than our legal team, no one from the college is allowed to have any contact Melissa.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s you, Missus B,” Maurice said, hiking up his jeans as he spoke. “I’m talking about a little unofficial contact. A friendly visit from her fellow students.”

  “Yeah,” TyJuana said in a menacing tone. “We could drop by there tonight. All of us. Straighten her skanky little ass out. Show her the light.”

  “Do you want to go to jail?” Bertie looked out at her students with a challenging stare. “If any of you so much as sets a toe on Melissa Jones’ property, her mother is going to have you arrested.”

  As Bertie’s words hit home, her students slumped lower and lower in their seats. Like the air leaking from a punctured tire, she watched the energy drain from their faces. It didn’t take a mind reader to know what they were thinking.

  The concert was too good to be true. We should have known it would never really happen. Good things are just not in the cards for people like us.

  ***

  When she got home from work that evening, Bertie marched straight into the kitchen and poured herself a double shot of brandy. She did not consider herself a heavy drinker, but tonight, a belt of the hard stuff was absolutely mandatory. As the liquor burned its way down her throat, Bertie dug through her CD collection until she found The O’Jays album she was looking for.

  She put their vintage hit Back Stabbers on repeat and poured herself another drink. Sister Destina might not have gotten much else right, but she’d been accurate about one thing—Dr. Terrance Witherspoon had turned out to be very a false friend, indeed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Wednesday, November 1—6:00 PM

  When the doorbell rang half an hour later, Bertie dragged herself down the stairs on wobbly legs and squinted through the peephole. David Mackenzie stood on her front porch with his coat over his arm and a worried look on his face.

  With a sigh, Bertie shot back the deadbolt and opened the door.

  “Is that The O’Jays?” Mac said. “I sure hope you’re not playing ‘Back Stabbers’ on my account.”

  “Not at all, Mac.” With an embarrassed shrug, Bertie led him upstairs to the living room and turned down her CD player. “But I should warn you, I won’t be very good company. Metro College has cancelled my choir concert.”

  “I thought the judge turned down Fania Jones’ request for a preliminary injunction,” Mac said. “If that’s the case, there should be no problem with you going ahead with the show.”

  “She’s appealing his decision,” Bertie said. “Not only that, but she’s filed a Civil Rights case in federal court. She claims Melissa’s right to free speech is being violated. She’s suing the college for one hundred million dollars in punitive damages.”

  Mac snorted in disgust. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. There is no way on God’s green earth she’s going to win.”

  “Tell that to Chancellor Grant,” Bertie said. “The man hates controversy in any form. The thought that this case could drag on for months has got him totally spooked. So to be on the safe side, he’s pulled the plug.”

  “Oh, Bertie. I am sorry. I know how long you’ve been working on that show.”

  “Three months down the drain,” Bertie said bitterly. “And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

  “In that case, I’m especially glad I decided to stop by this evening,” Mac said. He sat down next to Bertie on the couch and squeezed her arm sympathetically. “Sounds like you could use some company.”

  “It’s been a lousy day, and that’s a fact,” Bertie said.

  As the rest of the “Back Stabbers” album played softly in the background, she and Mac sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, Bertie turned to the lawyer and said, “What was it you wanted to see me about, anyway?”

  “More bad news, I’m afraid,” Mac replied. “I just came from the courthouse. Mabel Howard is being held on suspicion of murder.”

  Bertie sighed heavily. “Poor Mabel. How is she holding up?”

  “She was really out of it at the hearing today. Her eyes were blank, and she could barely get up the energy to answer my questions. Judge Brenner has ordered her to undergo a full round of psychiatric tests.”

  “Mabel’s always been a bit of a flake,” Bertie said. “But I can’t imagine her actually killing someone. What on earth was she doing with that sword in her hand, anyway?”

  “She says Sweetwater was dead when she arrived at his office that night. The sword was lying across his body. When she bent down to see if there was anything she could do, she picked the weapon up without thinking.”

  Bertie nodded. “I thought so. The question is, do you believe her?”

  “I would like to, Bertie. As her lawyer, it’s my job to convince the judge that she’s telling the truth, no matter what I believe.”

  Mac slumped wearily against the cushions on her living room couch. His suit was rumpled, his tie hung at a crooked angle, and there were dark circles under his eyes. As the lawyer spoke, Bertie couldn’t help thinking he needed a woman to take care of him.

  “I’ve been drinking brandy for the past hour,” she said suddenly. “I think I could use a cup of coffee. Can I get you something?”

  Mac smiled. “That would be terrific. I haven’t had time to eat since breakfast.”

  Five minutes later, Bertie set two steaming mugs of black coffee and a tin of Danish butter cookies on the living room coffee table.

  “It’s not the healthiest of snacks, but it’ll tide you over for a while,” she said. “Do the police have any other suspects?”

  “Other than Mabel, no,” Mac said wearily, munching on a cookie. “Just between the two of us, I’d dearly love to see another credible subject enter the picture. I made a big deal in court today about the size differential between Mabel and the two murder victims. However, I neglected to mention that Mabel was the captain of her college fencing team. If the DA is worth his salt, he’ll uncover that piece of evidence on his own in the next few days.”

  “You think he will?”<
br />
  “It’s only a matter of time,” Mac said. “He’s got an entire staff of research assistants whose sole mission in life is to convict Mabel Howard of first-degree murder.”

  Bertie sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “I read something in Sister Destina’s thesis that might be helpful. Remember the Home Hoodoo Program?”

  Mac nodded wearily. “That’s the scam Mabel claimed that Sweetwater and Destina concocted to gobble up real estate at bargain basement prices. Trouble is, there’s no proof the program ever existed. According to Mabel, Sweetwater kept a log of burned houses in his office safe. But the police have been over his office with a fine-tooth comb. No such books have been found.”

  “Of course not,” Bertie said triumphantly. “The murderer took them.”

  “Unless they never existed. Unless they were just another one of Sister Destina’s inventions.”

  “But Destina wrote about the program in her thesis,” Bertie said. “Described the whole thing and implicated both Jabarion and Sweetwater. Doesn’t that substantiate Mabel’s allegations?”

  Mac shrugged. “Sister Destina is dead. Mabel can barely put together a coherent sentence. Jabarion could probably tell us more, but I’ll need to get a court order before I can talk to him. Was there anything else about Mabel in this thesis thing?”

  “I know I promised to read it,” Bertie said sheepishly. “I stayed up reading till two in the morning the other night, but I fell asleep before I could finish it.”

  Mac sighed and looked at his watch. “This has been one hell of a day. Nearly seven o’clock, and I haven’t even looked at any of my other cases.”

  “I’m almost done reading Destina’s manuscript. If I read fast, I could probably finish it and send you a summary before Monday.”

  “That would be great,” Mac said with a tired smile. He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You’re the best, Bertie. One in a million.”

  Long after Mac had driven away, Bertie stood lost in thought by her front door. In the past ten days, she had been kissed by three different men—a thing that in and of itself was a source of considerable wonder. And although David Mackenzie was not as handsome as The Ace of Spades, or as suave as Terry Witherspoon, the lawyer had an indefinable presence, an aura of masculinity, that Bertie was beginning to find irresistible. Something about the assurance with which he carried himself, even in the midst of a major life crisis, resonated deep within Bertie’s heart. And unlike The Ace or Terry Witherspoon, David Mackenzie was a man a girl could depend on, a man who honored his commitments. Dependability is written all over him, Bertie thought. Even in his dogged loyalty to a wife who, by all accounts, wasn’t worthy to shine his shoes.