There was a roar of assent from the crowd.
The alderman smiled like a teacher indulging a bright but unruly pupil. “We all understand your position, Missus Crawford. Please take your seat and allow Commissioner Jefferson to answer your questions.”
Muttering to herself, the woman returned to her seat, and the alderman resumed his presentation.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a man who needs no introduction here in Washington Park. For years, he’s been a champion of neighborhood advocacy. He’s a member of the Washington Park Commerce Association, a deacon at Blessed Savior Episcopal Church, and the founder of the Preserve Our Community Task Force.” Mathers paused to permit a smattering of polite applause. “Tonight, I see the commissioner is accompanied by his lovely wife, Alvitra.” He nodded toward a massive woman, who sat tapping her foot impatiently in the front row.
In spite of the expensive jewelry and designer suit she wore, Missus Jefferson’s build and jowly face reminded Bertie of an out of shape sumo wrestler. Like Queen Elizabeth acknowledging her subjects, Alvitra Jefferson nodded and graced the audience with a small wave.
“For those of you who don’t know, Alvitra’s father was the great A.J. Swade, founder of the A.J. Swade Insurance Group. You don’t get any more Washington Park than this family, ladies and gentlemen. Please join me in welcoming Commissioner Leroy T. Jefferson.”
The crowd applauded as Jefferson—wearing a tan Brooks Brothers suit, a white shirt, gleaming black patent leather shoes, and a maroon bow tie—took his place at the podium.
“My fellow Chicagoans,” he said in a clipped, precise voice that could have belonged to an Oxford University graduate. “Our beautiful South Side oasis has been hit by a crisis in recent months.”
“You got that right,” Mrs. Crawford chimed in loudly. “Question is, what are you going to do about it?”
The crowd, which had been sitting patiently through Jefferson’s introductory remarks, began to mutter among themselves.
“She’s right,” a gray-haired man shouted from the back row. “We all know what the problem is. Developers from downtown looking to move up here, drive up prices, and push us out of our homes.”
“When they tore down the projects on State Street, this whole area became a battle zone.” Mrs. Crawford was standing now, waving her gloved hands for emphasis. “People got displaced. New gangs moved in. But we pulled together as a community and closed ranks against outside troublemakers. We’ve still got a long way to go, but we’re determined to preserve our neighborhood. And we are not about to be driven from our homes by Max Sweetwater and a bunch of eggheads from the U of C.”
Commissioner Jefferson nodded. “I’ve travelled all over the world,” he said grandly. “And I’ve seen what unchecked development has done in cities like Bangkok and Manila. I am here to assure you that no highrise development will take place along Fifty-Ninth Street. Washington Park’s unique residential character will remain unchanged.”
Although the crowd applauded dutifully, Mrs. Crawford’s face retained its skeptical expression. “We’ve heard all this before,” she said bluntly. “Meanwhile, the U of C has bought two more lots on Garfield Boulevard. Real estate sharks are grabbing up property here like there’s no tomorrow, Commissioner. Sweetwater’s dead, but his tower at Fifty-Ninth and Wabash is alive and well.”
Emboldened by Mrs. Crawford’s feistiness, a thin man in a dark leather jacket chimed in. “She’s right, Commissioner. They are going right ahead with plans to demolish all the homes on that block.”
“Not for long,” Jefferson said grimly. “As the head of the Chicago Zoning Board of Appeal, I have a lot of clout in this city. I promise you people that I intend to do everything in my power to preserve this neighborhood. Contrary to popular opinion, the University of Chicago does not own this town. Neither do the corporate interests downtown.”
“Amen!” Mrs. Crawford shouted as the crowd applauded wildly.
Bertie had thought that this would just be a rather dull meeting about zoning concerns or some such. She had even come up with some questions to ask. But given the fervent temper of the proceedings, her question about the potholes on Prairie Avenue now seemed inappropriate. As she wracked her brain to come up with a more pertinent line of inquiry, Commissioner Jefferson stretched his arms wide in benediction.
“I am a student of the blues, ladies and gentlemen. It is black America’s finest and most powerful poetic statement. I’d like to dedicate this song to my friends at Gilded Lily Development.”
Jefferson spread his legs, took a deep breath, and began to sing in a surprisingly rich tenor:
“Everybody’s got to pay the piper some time
Oh yes they do.
Everybody’s got to pay the piper some time.
You may be ridin’ high, babe
Got the world tied up in string.
You may be lookin good, babe
But when that piper comes to call
Your looks won’t mean a thing.
Everybody’s got to pay the piper some time.”
As the crowd applauded wildly, the commissioner took a bow and stepped back from the podium.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Alderman Mathers said. “That concludes our meeting for this week. Keep on keepin’ on!”
As the crowd began to head outside, Commissioner Jefferson stepped off the speaker’s platform.
“Excuse me, Commissioner,” Bertie said as she hurried toward the stage. As Jefferson turned to face her, she continued, “My name is Bertie Bigelow. I’d like to ask you some questions about a mutual friend.”
The commissioner, still emanating a messianic glow in the wake of his triumphant speech, nodded distractedly. “A mutual friend, you say?” He extracted a monogrammed lace handkerchief from his breast pocket and daubed the sweat from his brow. “And who might that be?”
When Bertie mentioned Sister Destina’s name, Jefferson turned pale. “That woman had me poisoned,” he snapped. “She’s no friend of mine.” As he began to walk away, Bertie surprised them both by grabbing Jefferson’s arm.
“Please, Commissioner,” she said. “It’s important. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Bertie fully expected him to pull away and stride off into the crowd. Instead, the commissioner hesitated. “What did you say your name was?”
“Bertie Bigelow. As you know, Sister Destina has been murdered. I’m investigating the killing on behalf of my client, Mabel Howard.”
“Charley’s wife?” Was Bertie mistaken, or had an expression of panic passed across the commissioner’s face? “What did she say about me?”
Gotcha, Bertie thought to herself. “It isn’t so much what Mabel says as what Sister Destina herself had to say before she died. Do you own a house at 11872 Argyle Avenue?”
Jefferson’s eyes narrowed. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss this matter.”
“Why not, Commissioner?”
Bertie surprised herself again by standing directly in Jefferson’s path. Either the man was going to knock her over or he was going to have to answer her question. Just as it appeared Jefferson was going to utilize the former alternative, Alvitra Jefferson materialized at his side.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Alvitra said smoothly. “When I was a little girl, my daddy used to always take me around the community and introduce me to his clients.” She placed a proprietary hand on the commissioner’s shoulder. “I always like to meet my husband’s acquaintances.”
If Leroy T. Jefferson was relieved to see his wife, he did not show it. If anything, Bertie thought the commissioner looked even more nervous.
“This woman is not an acquaintance, in the true sense of the word,” he harrumphed, shooting a pleading glance in Bertie’s direction. “I am meeting her for the first time just now. I am sure we can resolve the real estate matter you mentioned, Missus Bigelow,” Jefferson said. “In fact, I believe I have some time available tomorrow even
ing. Call my secretary, and I’ll have him set up the appointment.”
As Jefferson shuffled through his pockets and handed Bertie a business card, Alvitra never released her talon-like grip on his shoulder.
“Come, Leroy. There are other constituents waiting to speak with you.” With a cool nod, Alvitra Jefferson took her husband’s arm and steered him in the opposite direction.
No question who wears the pants in that family, Bertie thought to herself. It was almost as if Alvitra suspected her husband of having an affair. The woman was emanating that same kind of suspicious, patrol-the-borders energy. Not that Jefferson seemed like the wandering type. Despite his rich tenor voice and love for the blues, the commissioner struck Bertie as a tedious, nitpicking fuddy-duddy who’d be unlikely to stray too far from home.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tuesday, November 7—9:00 AM
At the stroke of nine the following morning, Bertie dug through her purse until she found Commissioner Jefferson’s business card. Two minutes later, his personal secretary was on the line.
“Yes, Missus Bigelow. I’ve been expecting your call. The commissioner will see you in his office this evening at seven p.m. Is that convenient?”
Feeling the glow of accomplishment, Bertie stopped by the faculty lounge for a celebratory cup of coffee. Professor George Frayley, chairman of the Metro College Events Committee and Ellen Simpson’s personal nemesis, was holding court in the corner with his back to the door.
“Popular music has no place in a serious college curriculum,” he said in his patrician New England accent. “Missus Jones’ lawsuit is a terrible thing, of course. But in the end, it will lead to a positive result, both for us and for our students.”
Maria Francione, dressed in a tight-fitting leotard top and a wide cotton skirt, shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous, George,” she said, waving her hands in the air for emphasis. “Bertie was completely within her rights throwing Melissa out of her choir. If the little puttana had tried a stunt like that in my drama class, I’d have done the same thing. And now her mother’s suing the college? Give me a break!”
Jack Iverson peered over the top of his New York Times and nodded. “Maria’s right. A teacher should have a right to control her classroom. I’m all for civil liberties. It’s what I teach, after all. But things have gotten way out of hand.”
As the college’s most senior faculty member, Iverson was accustomed to having the last word on any campus controversy. But George Frayley, who was the second most senior faculty member, showed no sign of backing down.
“Pandering to the lowest common denominator always gets you in trouble,” Frayley sniffed. “If Professor Bigelow had kept her student’s minds on the classics, the sexting episode would never have occurred.”
Bertie had remained silent so far. George Frayley’s opinion was not going to affect the outcome of Fania Jones’ lawsuit in the least. Still, his comments rankled.
“The Metro College Madrigal Singers took first place in the Illinois State Choir Competition last year,” Bertie announced loudly. “Not third place. Not second place. First place!”
George Frayley had been standing with his back to the door and had not seen Bertie come in. Embarrassed at the realization that she had probably overheard his entire diatribe, he fell silent.
“The choir sang Vestiva i colli by Giovanni Palestrina,” Bertie said. “One of the best known madrigals of the Italian Renaissance. My students are not dummies, George. They can and do sing anything that is put in front of them, from Bach to rock.”
Bertie picked up her coffee and stomped back to her office. Slamming the door loudly behind her, she sighed wearily. This was shaping up to be the worst semester of her life. Mabel was in jail. Her concert had been cancelled, and her love life was in the toilet. There had to be something she could do about at least one of those problems.
Frustrated, she paced the length of the room. Six steps to the bookcase overflowing with CDs, musical scores, and old textbooks. Reverse direction. Six steps past her battered metal desk to the coat rack by the door. As she passed her desk for the tenth time, Bertie stopped short.
It did not take a rocket scientist to see that Fania Jones was determined to prevent the Metro College Singers from performing with The Ace of Spades, at any cost. But what if they were to perform without The Ace? What if Metro College was not the sponsor?
Two hours later, Bertie walked into choir practice and told her students she had an important announcement to make.
“We have been invited to perform at the South Side Museum for their annual fundraiser,” she said.
Maurice Green’s face was a study in skepticism. “You makin’ this up, Missus B?”
“No, I am not,” Bertie said firmly. It broke her heart to see how cynical her students had become in the wake of recent events. “I spoke to the museum director this morning. She’s an old friend of mine. She wants us to be part of the opening ceremony.”
Nyala Clark raised her hand. “You talking about the fancy dress ball that’s on Channel Nine every year?”
Bertie nodded. “The Kwanzaa KickStart is a huge event. The opening ceremony will be broadcast live on WGN-TV. Unfortunately, The Ace will not be performing with us, but Dwyane Wade will be in the audience.”
Maurice Green’s eyes widened. “D-Wade? From the Bulls?”
“The very same,” Bertie said with a smile.
“But what about the lawsuit?” TyJuana Barnes said. “Isn’t there some kind of legal paper saying we can’t do our show?”
“I spoke to Chancellor Grant this morning,” Bertie said. “He’s going to check with our lawyers. But as long as The Ace is not involved, he doesn’t think there will be a problem.”
As she spoke, Bertie sensed an air of cautious optimism fill the room.
“The important thing is not to give up hope,” she said firmly. “We’ve worked too hard to quit now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Tuesday, November 7—5:30 PM
Bertie returned home with a satisfied smile on her face. Although her students were not yet jumping with joy about the concert she’d proposed, the tide was definitely turning.
Sadly, the same could not be said for her sleuthing activities. Mac had yelled at her. Charley Howard had fired her. Worse still, Mabel Howard was now the prime suspect in two grisly murders.
Despite her lack of tangible success, Bertie was too stubborn to give up. She had resolved one pressing issue. If she put her mind to it, perhaps she’d be able to figure out a solution to the murder investigation as well. She brewed herself a cup of tea, dug out a sheet of paper and a pen, and sat down at her kitchen table to write.
POSSIBLE SUSPECTS
1—Max Sweetwater
He and Destina had been business partners. If their relationship had gone sour, it was easy to imagine him killing the psychic. But why had Sweetwater been killed? If the real estate mogul had enemies outside Destina’s inner circle, finding his killer would require resources Bertie could not possibly muster. She decided to stick with the theory that he and Sister Destina had been killed by the same person, at least for now.
2—Penny Swift
Despite her designer clothing, buff body, and up-market lifestyle, Penny Swift was a deeply unhappy woman. Her husband was cheating on her, and she’d been betrayed by Sister Destina, the one person on earth she’d thought she could trust. But why would Penny have wanted to kill Max Sweetwater? Had she invested in his Wabash Towers project? Bertie made a note to ask Mac if he’d uncovered any information about that.
3—Jabarion Coutze
The boy was an obvious suspect. His father was a notorious criminal. He’d even admitted to setting fires as a part of Destina’s Home Hoodoo program. But was he capable of murder?
4—Charley Howard
Given all the trouble Sister Destina had caused him, it was easy to imagine the Hot Sauce King stabbing her in a violent fit of temper. But Charley would have had no motive for killing Max
Sweetwater. From what Bertie could tell, the two men barely knew each other. But what if the developer had threatened Mabel in some way? Under those circumstances, there was no telling what Charley might do.
5—Mabel Howard
Much as she hated to do it, Bertie could not omit her friend from the list of suspects. She’d been in Sister Destina’s home the night of the murder. She’d been caught standing over Sweetwater’s dead body with a bloody sword in her hand. Could the sweet, slightly daffy woman Bertie thought she knew be a cold-blooded killer?
With a sigh of frustration, Bertie put down her pen and checked her watch. To her surprise, the time had flown. It was now nearly six fifteen. She would have to hurry if she wanted to get downtown in time for her seven o’clock meeting with Commissioner Jefferson.
As she was walking out the door, the wall phone in her kitchen rang.
“Thank God you picked up!” Mabel Howard sounded even more breathless than usual. “My spirit guides told me to call you immediately.”
“Where are you?” Bertie said. She knew Mabel was supposed to be undergoing evaluation at Northwestern University’s Psychiatric Center. “Please tell me you haven’t run away from the hospital.”
“Of course not,” Mabel said. “I was able to persuade this lovely nurse to let me make a phone call. I told her it was an absolute emergency.”
Bertie glanced at her watch—six twenty. Although she wanted to help Mabel with her latest emergency, she felt she’d be doing her friend a bigger service by not missing her meeting with Commissioner Jefferson.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” Bertie said. “But I can’t talk right now. I’m on my way out the door.”
“You’re going out?” Mabel’s already high-pitched voice jumped up another octave. “Oh no, Bertie. You can’t do that!”
“Why on earth not?”
Mabel took a deep breath. “Since Sister Destina died, I’ve been getting messages. A voice speaks to me, tells me things.”
Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery Page 16