Bertie nodded meekly, but as she slipped from her chair, she pulled the pepper spray from her purse, pointed it in the commissioner’s face, and pressed the button.
Screaming in pain, Jefferson dropped the gun and lunged blindly toward her. Evading him easily, Bertie turned and ran out of the room.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Friday, November 10—10:00 AM
Bertie was met with a round of applause when she walked into the faculty lounge three days later.
“Brava, Bertie! Hail the conquering heroine!” Maria Francione said. Taking Bertie by the shoulders, the drama teacher kissed her European-style on both cheeks.
“We were just reading about you in the Sun-Times,” Jack Ivers said. “What a story! ‘College Professor Solves Double Murder.’”
Even George Frayley offered congratulations. “We may disagree on certain matters, but no one can dispute your courage in the face of danger,” the English teacher said, shaking her hand.
Unaccustomed to receiving this much attention from her colleagues, Bertie shifted from one foot to the other as she stood in the center of the room.
“It’s not as big a deal as they make it out in the paper,” she said. “I just reacted, that’s all. Anyone in my situation would have done the same thing.”
“Nonsense,” Frayley replied. “The facts of the matter speak for themselves, even in this rather poorly written article. You confronted a vicious killer and brought him to justice.”
“In case you are planning to write a memoir,” Maria Francione added. “Just remember, I’ve got first dibs on the screenplay.”
Bertie blushed. “Thanks, everyone. Really. I hardly know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” Jack Ivers said, laughing. “Just sit back and take it in. It’s not every day a person has the opportunity to alter the course of civic events. Mayor Davis has just announced he will form a committee to investigate Commissioner Jefferson’s handling of several development projects. The Wabash Towers complex has been put on hold indefinitely.”
“More importantly, you have rescued two Thai girls from a life of virtual slavery,” Frayley added. “It says right here in the paper that Illinois Protective Services has already found new homes for the children.”
George Frayley was about to comment further when he saw Ellen Simpson walk into the room. Hastily, he finished his coffee, gave Bertie a parting wave, and excused himself.
If Ellen saw her nemesis leave, she gave no sign of it. With a mischievous expression on her face, she took Bertie by the elbow and steered her into the hall. “Can we go to your office?” she said urgently. “I’ve found out something really big.”
Despite the curious expression on Bertie’s face, Ellen refused to say another word until they were alone.
“You’re never going to believe this, girlfriend,” she said, assuming her customary perch on the edge of Bertie’s desk. “Terry Witherspoon is leaving Metro at the end of this semester.”
“How is that possible?” Bertie said. “The man just got here. Doesn’t he have a contract?”
“He might, but he went to see Doctor Grant and begged to get out of it. Hedda Eberhardt told me so herself—in the strictest confidence, of course.”
“Of course,” Bertie said drily.
“Witherspoon told the chancellor he had a family emergency. Said he was going to have to return to Minneapolis.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Damn straight,” Ellen said. “The only ‘emergency’ that jive-ass gigolo has got going on is with his lovely wife. Bet you a million bucks she cracked the whip on his trifling behind.”
“I can’t say I’m sorry,” Bertie said. “I hate to be mean-spirited, but the man went out of his way to stab me in the back.”
“That he did,” Ellen said. “But our soon-to-be-ex dean of students is not the only SOB at Metro College. For example, there’s a certain gentleman on the Events Committee who definitely qualifies. I am referring, of course, to that regressive moron George Frayley. Only reason I restrained myself from giving him a piece of my mind just now was that I didn’t want to spoil your celebration.”
“I appreciate it,” Bertie said. “He was actually quite civil to me. The guy is human, after all.”
“That’s debatable,” Ellen said. “The underhanded jerk told the Events Committee that my Hip-Hop Poetry Conference would, and I quote, ‘attract dangerous elements’ to our campus.” The nine copper bracelets on Ellen’s right arm clanked angrily as she stood up and began to pace in tight circles around the room. “So instead of contemporary poetry in a socially relevant medium, the students are once again going to be subjected to a performance by the North Shore Poetry Society.”
“Doesn’t the Events Committee pick a new chairman every year?” Bertie said. “Frayley has to step down in June. Maybe you’ll have better luck next year.”
“I’ll be shocked if anyone signs up for poetry class next year after watching the pathetic show Frayley’s got planned. A bunch of blue-haired old ladies reading romantic drivel from the nineteenth century.”
“I’ve got some news that might cheer you up,” Bertie said. She waited patiently until Ellen had finished pacing. “You’ll never guess who called me last night.”
Ellen stuck a hand on her hip and glared. “I’m glad you’re in good spirits. Goodness knows, you deserve to be. But in case you hadn’t noticed, I am in no mood for games.”
“Okay, okay,” Bertie said, raising her arms in mock surrender. “You’d have never figured it out in a million years, anyway. Sam Willis, a.k.a. The Ace of Spades, called me up last night.”
“Let me guess,” Ellen said sourly. “He read about you in the paper, and now he feels bad because he yelled at you about the lawsuit.”
“Something like that,” Bertie said with a sheepish smile. “He’s coming to Chicago tomorrow and wanted to know if I am free for lunch. He says his mama wants to meet me.”
“Hold on just one second, girlfriend. Did I just hear you say you’re having lunch with The Ace of Spades? The finest brother this side of Hollywood?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Bertie said. “And yes, I promise to call you with a full report the minute it’s over.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Saturday, November 11—Noon
At precisely twelve o’clock the next afternoon, Bertie Bigelow approached the black Lincoln Town Car that waited in front of her home. A uniformed chauffeur scurried out to hold the passenger door while she climbed in. As the car glided away, Bertie spotted the O’Fallon sisters peering through their front window. She was definitely going to have some explaining to do when she got back home.
The Ace was waiting on the sidewalk in front of his mother’s modest West Englewood bungalow when Bertie arrived twenty minutes later. Despite the November chill, the singer wore a pair of low-slung jeans and a sleeveless white undershirt. While his torso was perhaps not as a chiseled as it had been in his heyday ten years ago, Bertie couldn’t help but notice the muscles rippling under tattoos on his arms. Three heavy gold chains hung around his neck, and his trademark wavy hair was braided in cornrows and covered by a red Chicago Bulls cap.
“Glad you could make it, Bertie. After that whole mess with the concert, I was afraid you’d be too pissed at me to come,” he said, taking Bertie by the hand. “Come inside and meet my mama. She’s been dying to talk to you ever since she read about you in the paper the other day.”
Mrs. Willis sat in a wheelchair facing the front door. A frail, light-skinned woman in her mid-seventies, she was dressed casually in blue slacks and a matching sweater. Her gray hair had been pinned in a bun at the top of her head, bringing her high cheekbones and Native American features into sharp relief.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Mrs. Willis said, extending a bony hand. “My son has been talking about you.”
“He has?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “It’s not every day someone you k
now gets in the paper for solving a double murder.”
“I wouldn’t count on it happening again in the near future,” Bertie said wryly.
Mrs. Willis laughed. “I should hope not. Samuel tells me you’re a teacher?”
As The Ace hovered anxiously, Bertie took a seat on the sofa across from his mother. “I’m the choral director at Metro Community College. This will be my tenth year.”
“I was a teacher myself until my heart gave out. Englewood High on West Sixty-Second Street. The kids ran me crazy, but I loved every minute of it. Tell you the truth, I’m still hoping to get back in the classroom, if I can get my doctor to agree.”
“Nothing like teaching to keep you young,” Bertie said. “It’s hard work, but the rewards can be amazing.”
Mrs. Willis turned and tapped her son on the arm. “Samuel, please tell Raquia to put the food out, would you?” As The Ace left the room, she rolled her chair closer to Bertie and stage-whispered, “My son’s paying someone to babysit me. Name’s Raquia. She’s only twenty-one. A nice enough girl and an adequate cook, but dumb as a post, I’m afraid. Nothing on her mind but the latest episode of Scandal. Worse than that, she hovers. Terrified my heart’s going to give out.” Mrs. Willis leaned forward and looked Bertie in the eye. “What I need is less hovering and more stimulation. Please say you’ll come back and visit me again.”
Lunch was served in the dining room on an antique cherrywood table that must have been an heirloom. After The Ace had positioned his mother’s wheelchair at the head of the table, Raquia carried in plates piled high with baked chicken, potato salad, and candied yams. As they ate, Bertie and Mrs. Willis swapped classroom anecdotes while The Ace sat at the other end of the table talking heatedly into his cell phone. From what Bertie could tell, there was some kind of problem with the sound gear he’d requested for his upcoming tour. In the middle of Bertie’s story about Metro Choir’s last trip to the Illinois State Choir Competition, Mrs. Willis set down her fork.
“We have a guest, Samuel,” she said sharply. “Put that phone away at once.”
If Bertie had talked to one of her students in that tone, she would have had a fight on her hands. But to her surprise, the man known as The Ace of Spades, a.k.a. the “finest man this side of Hollywood,” nodded meekly and slid the phone into his pocket.
“Sorry, Mama,” he said. “Just trying to get the details together for my tour next month.”
“That may be. Nonetheless, there’s no excuse for rudeness,” Mrs. Willis said. “And speaking of rudeness, am I to understand that you cancelled your performance with the Metro College Choir?”
“Your son did not cancel the show, Missus Willis,” Bertie interjected hastily. “The college cancelled it after the mother of one of my students took us to court.” As The Ace looked on in amusement, Bertie gave Mrs. Willis a PG version of the events surrounding Fania Jones’ lawsuit.
“You mean to say, the matter has still not been resolved?” Mrs. Willis said.
“No,” Bertie replied. “There’s a court hearing scheduled for some time in December. The good news is that my students will not lose out completely. I’ve arranged for them to sing at the South Side Museum’s Kwanzaa KickStart next week.”
The Ace grunted. “Always a lot of celebrities at that show,” he said. “At least they’ll get some TV coverage out of it. Still, I’m sorry we did not get to do the set we’d planned. And again, sorry I lost my temper, Bertie. I just hate dealing with lawyers.”
Mrs. Willis wiped her mouth on a yellow cloth napkin and peered accusingly over her spectacles.
“This is all your fault, Samuel. You should never have given that girl your number in the first place. Isn’t there anything you can do?”
Under his mother’s stern gaze, The Ace looked down and pushed a piece of chicken across his plate.
“You’re right, Mama,” he said softly. “I’ll look into it.”
Dessert was a dish of warm peach cobbler topped with vanilla ice cream. As Raquia cleared away the last of the dishes, Mrs. Willis announced that she was tired. Taking the hint, Bertie hugged the feisty older woman and promised to visit again soon.
“You better,” Mrs. Willis said. Turning her wheelchair toward the kitchen, she called out, “Come on, Raquia. Take me away from this madness. It’s time for my nap.”
As Bertie slid into the black Lincoln Town Car that waited for her in front of Mrs. Willis’ home, The Ace kissed her on the cheek.
“I like you. You’re not like the pea-brained chickenheads I usually meet,” he said. “You’re smart. You’ve got style, and you’ve got guts.”
“Thanks,” Bertie said, hoping she was not blushing too visibly.
“I’d like the chance to show you my better side. I’m going on tour, but I’ll be back in January. Can I call you?”
Completely at a loss for words, Bertie smiled and nodded her head. As the limo pulled away from the curb, she pinched herself.
Not once, but twice.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Friday, November 17—4:00 PM
Bertie listened to her classroom buzz with excitement as the students filed in and stood on the risers next to the piano. This was it. The final rehearsal before the South Side Museum Kwanzaa KickStart. As she nodded to the accompanist and the music began, Bertie sent up a silent prayer that everything would go smoothly.
Two hours later, both Bertie and her students were exhausted.
“We’ve been over the ending to ‘Inseparable’ at least ten times,” Bertie said wearily, “and it is still not right.” She shot a challenging glare in the direction of the ten boys in her tenor section. “How many times do I have to tell you, Maurice? There’s only one bar before we go to the coda.”
Maurice Green shuffled his feet and looked down at the floor. “Yes, ma’am. I won’t forget next time. I promise.”
“I hope not,” Bertie said grimly. “The show is tomorrow.”
She nodded toward the accompanist, listening intently as the choir ran through the song for what she hoped was the last time. Sure enough, Maurice and the rest of the tenors sang the ending flawlessly.
Though she was reluctant to celebrate prematurely, Bertie was pleased with her choir. The students had persevered, in spite of all the drama that had taken place during the semester. Tomorrow night, they would perform live on WGN-TV before an appreciative audience of local celebrities at the Kwanzaa KickStart.
As Bertie was about to dismiss the choir for the evening, Melissa Jones walked into the room. Dressed in a pair of impossibly tight leather pants, platform heels, and a skimpy red halter top, Melissa sauntered up to the podium and tapped Bertie on the shoulder.
“Long time no see,” she said, ignoring the dirty looks being sent her way by the rest of the students. “I just stopped by to let y’all know that my mother has called off the lawsuit.”
“This is wonderful news,” Bertie said. “Did you hear that, everyone? The lawsuit is not going to go forward.”
There was a smattering of applause. From their places on the riser next to the piano, Nyala Clark and Maurice Green continued to glare in Melissa’s direction. If Melissa was going to rejoin the group next semester, Bertie knew she would need to diffuse this cloud of resentment. Hoping to lead by example, she offered Melissa her hand.
“I am glad everything is finally settled, Melissa. It will be good to have you back in the choir next semester.”
“’Fraid not, Missus B,” Melissa said. “I’m leaving next week to go on tour with Vanilla Pudding.”
Nyala Clark looked like she was about to explode. Vanilla Pudding, a.k.a. Steve Steinberg, was a blue-eyed soul brother whose X-rated hit “Soft ’N’ Creamy” had garnered over one million YouTube hits in the past month.
“How the hell’d you get that gig?” Nyala said. “You post your sorry little titties on Instagram?”
Melissa favored her archrival with a smug smile. “Of course not, fool. I auditioned, like everyone else. But I will say, T
he Ace hooked me up, though. He put in a call on my behalf. When I called to thank him for the gig, he told me to be a good girl, concentrate on my dance moves, and keep my clothes on.”
***
Ellen Simpson laughed when Bertie told her about Melissa’s visit. As was their custom, the two women were enjoying a quick drink at Rudy’s Tap before going home for the evening.
“That’s just too damn much,” Ellen chortled. After she’d taken another sip from her rum and Coke, her expression turned serious. “You know, The Ace got her that job as a favor to you.”
“I suppose,” Bertie said. “He felt bad about the way he behaved when the concert was cancelled. I guess he was trying to make amends.”
Ellen raised an eyebrow. “Mama told him to do it, right?”
“As a matter of fact, Missus Willis did speak to him rather sharply,” Bertie said. “I was surprised he didn’t argue or answer back. Just said ‘yes, Mama’ and got right on the case.”
“A Mama’s Boy,” Ellen said. “I know you’re hot on this guy, and I will not deny that he is fine, but dating a Mama’s Boy is more than a notion, Bertie.”
Bertie laughed. “Don’t worry, Ellen. I’ll admit I was on cloud nine for a minute there. Who wouldn’t be? As you just said, the man is sexy. But I’ve still got my feet on the ground. We’ll see what happens when his tour is finished.”
“Smart girl,” Ellen said.
As a vintage Stevie Wonder cut pulsed from the jukebox, the two women sipped their drinks and bobbed their heads appreciatively in time to the music.
“I’ve got a story for you,” Ellen continued. “Remember how upset I was when the Events Committee turned down my proposal for the Hip-Hop Poetry Conference?”
Bertie nodded.
“You will never guess what happened,” Ellen said with a twinkle in her eye.
At that afternoon’s meeting of the Events Committee, Ellen said, the North Shore Poetry Society had announced they would be changing their program. In an effort to keep pace with changing times, the group was cancelling its scheduled reading of the patriotic poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Instead, the society intended to offer a performance of Slammin’ the Bard, a spoken word mash-up of Hamlet, Macbeth, and King Lear set to hip-hop music.
Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery Page 18