“I’m flattered to be asked,” I say, although I’m not sure that’s true given that I appear to be a “sloppy seconds” choice. “But touring the museum... mentoring... judging—that sounds like a full schedule, and there is just no way I can make arrangements to take an entire day off with such short notice. And, honestly, I’m probably not a good fit anyway. I’m just not a ‘be on TV’ kind of girl.”
“Have you gone mad, Halia?!” Wavonne asks. “You have an opportunity to be on national television . . . to meet that smoke show, Leon Winfield... and you’re saying no?”
“It pays one thousand dollars for the day. Not to mention the priceless publicity for your restaurant. We generally average into the hundreds of thousands of viewers.”
I’m quiet for a moment as Trudy and Wavonne look at me, both with expressions like a lion about to pounce on a gazelle that fell behind from the herd. I think about what they both just said. The idea of being on TV in front of millions of people makes me very anxious... but I guess the publicity would be good for Sweet Tea.... Then again, I already have a very loyal and large customer base, and the restaurant is busy all the time.... I don’t really need it.
Trudy pipes up in the midst of my prolonged hesitation. “I’ve been authorized to up your fee to three thousand dollars.”
“Three thousand dollars!” comes from Wavonne. “Take it, Halia.”
“It’s really not about the money,” I say. “I’m just not comfortable with the idea of being on television.”
I’m pretty secure about my looks. I’m on the far side of forty so maybe I don’t look as good as I did twenty years ago, but I’d like to think I’m reasonably attractive. And although it would be nice to tone up a bit and drop a few pounds, most of the time I’m fine with being a curvy size fourteen. But that’s in real life—this is television we’re talking about. I’m not sure I want to put my Rubenesque figure on TV in front of thousands of people. I’ve seen the comments Internet trolls write underneath online videos—some are downright vicious.
“No need to be anxious. The focus of the show is really the contestants. You won’t have a lot of camera time.”
Trudy can see I’m still very much on the fence and about to choose the side less preferable to her. “We’re in a bit of a bind here,” she says. “If I’m honest, at this point, it’s either you or we’re going to be pulling grill masters from behind the line at the local Red Lobster. I’ve been—”
“Red Lobster. Yum,” Wavonne interrupts.
Unlike myself, Trudy is not used to Wavonne’s propensity for unsolicited and in-no-way-pertinent-to-the-conversation remarks, so I throw her a “just ignore her” look to let her know she can continue.
“I’ve been... well... because it’s really short notice, and we’d really like to have you on the team, not only can I up your fee, but I’ve also been authorized to make another offer: If you come aboard, Russell will donate ten thousand dollars to the charity of your choice.”
“That’s very generous.” I consider her offer for a moment and let out a sigh. “I guess I really can’t turn that down.” And I guess I really can’t turn that down. There are several charities I have a soft spot for that I’d like to see have that money, and if making that happen only costs me a single workday and the possibility of making a fool of myself on national television, I suppose I can live with that. “I’ll need to make some arrangements to be sure there’s coverage here tomorrow.”
“You’d better make some arrangements for me, too, because there is no way I’m missin’ out on meetin’ Leon and seein’ the filmin’ of a real live TV show,” Wavonne demands. “I’m still bitter over Wendy Williams canceling her tapin’ the day I had tickets.” She looks at Trudy. “I went all the way to New York to see her, and she canceled... said she was ‘sick’. . . I have not watched her since.”
With my eyes I remind Trudy of her right to ignore Wavonne as necessary, and she continues. “Russell would like to meet with the judges this evening at the Palm. Are you available at eight?”
“Yes,” Wavonne announces.
“Trudy said he’d like to meet with the judges, Wavonne.”
“I’m sure Wavonne is welcome to come. Shall I tell him to expect both of you?”
I look at my watch and think of all I have to do to get Sweet Tea ready to open this morning, and all I would have to do to be able to get out of here in time to make an eight o’clock dinner in the city. “Why don’t I host the team here?” I offer. “It’s going to be hard enough to get away tomorrow. I’d really be pushing it if I tried to leave early this evening as well.”
“That might work. Let me make a few calls.” Trudy gets up from the booth and steps away.
“So Halia’s gonna be on TV,” Wavonne says as if I’m not sitting right next to her.
“It appears that way,” I respond, already feeling the nerves.
“Don’t worry, Halia.” Wavonne notices my angst. “I got you. I’ll do your hair and makeup . . . and I’m already tryin’ to figure out what you’ll wear for the tapin’. A little MAC Studio Fix foundation on the face, a touch of Black Vanilla Combing Creme on the hair, some Spanx around that midsection. Halle Berry will have nothin’ on you.” She looks at me and pauses for a moment. “Well, Halle Berry may be a bit ambitious.... Viola Davis will have nothin’ on you.”
“Thanks, Wavonne, but I think I can manage on my own.”
She has good intentions, but I’m afraid Wavonne’s styling help might leave me looking like a contestant on RuPaul’s Drag Race.
“I’ve seen you manage on your own, Halia. If history is any indication, unless there’s some ‘dress like a schoolmarm’ theme tied to the episode, you’d better let me help you.”
I’m about to, once again, decline Wavonne’s offer, but then I see Trudy approaching the table after finishing her phone calls, and I realize that in my closet I have both a tweed suit and black flats that are dreadfully similar to hers. I believe I donned both items when I went to church with Momma a few months ago. Considering that I appear to share fashion sense with a woman who reminds me of a character on a vapid 1960s sitcom with less sex appeal than a Catholic nun, maybe a little (just a little) fashion advice from Wavonne would not be the worst thing in the world.
“Fine,” I say. “But no sequins or rhinestones. And if you start throwing around words like stiletto or miniskirt, the deal is off.”
Chapter 2
“How are we doing on the peach pie?” I ask Wavonne, who just stepped out of the kitchen.
“I think I saw two or three whole pies back there. And there’s plenty of red velvet cake and a few trays of banana pudding.” She notices how fidgety I am. “Look at you all nervous,” she says with a laugh.
“I’m not nervous,” I say, wishing it were true.
“Mmmhmm.” Wavonne says this the same way Momma did when I was a little girl and claimed I had no idea how the crayon marks got on the wall or was not responsible for the missing chocolates in the Whitman’s Sampler she was saving for company. “Naomi Campbell’s more relaxed when police dogs start sniffin’ around her suitcase at the airport,” she adds. “You’ve been runnin’ around here like an anxious squirrel all day. We’re all used to you bein’ a control freak, Halia, but today you’ve been really over the top—hoverin’ over the kitchen staff, checkin’ and recheckin’ stock, fluffin’ centerpieces—and don’t think I didn’t see you over by the windows earlier makin’ sure every shade was hangin’ at the exact same length. You do know they make medications for conditions like yours these days?”
“I don’t need medication, Wavonne. I just want to make sure everything is in order when Russell gets here.”
I’m not usually one to put on airs... really, I’m not. But ever since Trudy said Russell agreed to meet here at Sweet Tea instead of the Palm, a high end steak house where power deals are struck over sirloins and lobsters, I’ve been in high gear trying to make sure we put our best foot forward tonight. Of course, I’m really pr
oud of my restaurant—in the general scheme of things, it’s hugely successful. I have an abundance of regular customers who have been coming here for years, we regularly make the Washington Post’s and Washingtonian magazine’s top restaurant lists, and most nights, even weekday evenings, we have people waiting for tables. But I can’t help feeling like small potatoes in comparison to Russell—the man oversees a national culinary empire and apparently has his own televised show to find chefs to work in his ever-expanding collection of fine dining establishments.
“Well, I hope you’re done... ’cause it looks like he’s here.” Wavonne points her eyes past me.
I turn toward the front door and see Trudy, laptop in tow, and Russell, who I recognize from some photos I’ve seen of him in various magazines, stepping inside Sweet Tea. There’s a third person with them who I’m assuming is Russell’s wife.
As I walk toward them and get a real-life look at Russell, I realize his magazine pictures must have been heavily retouched. He isn’t someone I would have considered handsome from the doctored images accompanying the various articles about him, but in those photos, someone with master Photoshop skills at least took the edge off his coarse appearance, not to mention several inches off his waistline. He’s an obese black man with a swollen nose, crooked teeth, and limbs that appear disproportionately small when compared to the rest of his body.... And it appears, since the photos I’ve last seen of him, he’s taken a cue from Al Sharpton—his relaxed hair is combed straight back until the ends curl upward behind his neck.
“Hmmm... He wasn’t ‘all that’ when I saw him on TV, but he looks even rougher in person,” Wavonne says to me as we approach the trio. “Looks like he stole a wig from one of the Supremes... and not even a good one.”
“Shhh,” I say as we get closer to our guests. “Mr. Mellinger.” I extend my hand to him. “Halia Watkins. I’ve known of you for years. I’m honored to finally meet you in person.”
“Thank you.” He grips my hand with his own. “You’ve met Trudy, and this is my wife, Cynthia.” He gestures toward the striking woman of indeterminate age next to him. She has a sort of regal quality about her. Her flawless light brown skin and fit figure might lead one to believe she’s in her thirties, but there’s something about her eyes . . . a certain wisdom coming from behind them, that makes me think she’s much older.
“Lovely to meet you,” Cynthia says. She gives me a two-handed handshake, using her right hand to return my grasp while laying her left hand on top of the whole deal. This is when my eyes make contact with a diamond the size of a macadamia nut extending from her ring.
“You too. Welcome to Sweet Tea. This is my cousin, Wavonne. She’ll be our server this evening.”
Russell and Cynthia, who, if you include her heels, is about four inches taller than her husband, exchange greetings with Wavonne, and I sense a bit of “and we are mingling with the help, why?” energy coming from both of them as they shake her hand with a bit less enthusiasm than they did mine.
“Why don’t I show you to our table,” I suggest. “We’re expecting one more, right? Five of us total?”
“Yes,” Russell says, “but Trudy has some work to do. If there’s a small table nearby that might be the best option for her.”
“I’m sure I can arrange that,” I say, even though it seems a bit rude to exclude Trudy from sitting with us, but perhaps they see her as “the help,” too.
I lead the group to a six top in the back and let Trudy know she can set up at the small two-person booth to the left. While she fires up her computer and slips a Bluetooth thingamajig on her ear, the rest of us take our seats at the larger table.
“Can you get us started with some waters? We can go over the specials when everyone is here,” I say to Wavonne before turning to my guests. “Unless, of course, you’d like to start with a cocktail or a glass of iced tea right away.”
“Vodka soda,” Russell barks while looking at his phone.
“Dry martini for me, please.”
“And for you, boss?” Wavonne asks me.
“Just water for now.”
“What a lovely place.” Cynthia looks around. “Isn’t it a lovely place, Russell?” She pokes his arm with her finger.
“Um... yes... very nice.” He barely lifts his head from his phone before looking back down, pecking on the screen, and bringing it to his ear. “Russell here. What’s this I hear about a delay in the tile? The tile has to be down before we can move on with other installations.”
Although I can’t make out his exact words, I hear a male voice on the other end begin to respond, but Russell lets him speak for about a nanosecond before talking over him. “I’m not interested in the ‘whats and whys.’ You’ve been hired to handle those. I want that tile down by the end of the week.”
The man tries to reply but, once again, Russell talks over him. “I repeat: I want the tile down by the end of the week. Make it happen. I need you to meet deadlines. This is a Russell Mellinger restaurant. If you want to miss deadlines go work for Chili’s.”
I’m honestly surprised at why he would bother at this point, but I hear the man start speaking again and, to no one’s surprise, Russell interrupts him for a third time. “Are we clear?”
The man begins with his excuses yet again, and it’s almost painful to hear the vague rumbling of his voice coming from the phone when we all know Russell is just going to cut him off.
“Are we clear?” Russell repeats in the harshest tone he’s used thus far.
Finally, Russell gets the one word answer he wants and disconnects the phone without saying good-bye. “Idiots,” he says. “It’s a world full of idiots.” He turns to Trudy. “Trudy, put a tickler on my calendar to follow up with Jim about the tile tomorrow... and line up some candidates for his job if I end up firing him.”
“I’d say, ‘forgive him, he’s not usually like this,’” Cynthia says to me, “but, unfortunately, he’s always like this. Can you believe I’ve put up with him for thirty years?” She turns to Russell. “Can you take it down a notch? You’re a guest here, and we need to firm up plans for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow. The show. Yes.” He sets his phone down on the table. “As soon as Tilla or Tina or whatever the hell her name is gets here, we’ll go over some of the logistics.”
“Twyla,” Cynthia corrects, and as the name hits my ears I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. How many Twylas can there be in the local restaurant business?
“Twyla Harper?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Twyla Harper?!” Wavonne says, setting a highball glass down in front of Russell and martini glass down in front of Cynthia. “Of Twyla’s Tips, Tricks, and Tidbits?”
Wavonne is referring to a regular cooking segment Twyla used to have on the local news.
“That’s the one,” Cynthia says.
“Is that so,” Wavonne replies in a wicked tone. “Things just got interestin’.”
Chapter 3
“Interesting? How so?” Cynthia asks.
“Well...” Wavonne pulls out a chair and sits down. “Twyla and Halia here have a bit of a sordid history.”
“We do not.”
“Twyla owns Dauphine in the city,” Wavonne elaborates. “Overpriced, mediocre-at-best, Cajun food. Halia worked for her many moons ago.”
“Really?” Cynthia looks in my direction.
“Yes. Those were my government job days. I was a loyal civil servant at the Census Bureau for quite some time and worked part time at a bunch of different restaurants around town over the years. Dauphine was the last place I worked at before I quit the bureau and opened Sweet Tea. It was still a happening place back then.”
“Dauphine?” Russell asks.
“Yes. It was very popular for a number of years, but I’ve heard through the grapevine that it has not been doing well for a while... that it’s really starting to show its age.”
“As is Twyla,” Wavonne says. “That old hen must be sixty-somethin’ by no
w.”
“Yes, around or about,” I say.
“Is that the extent of your history with Twyla?” Russell asks. “That you were once in her employ?”
Wavonne cackles loudly. “That would be a no,” she answers for me. “Twyla was ridin’ high when Halia opened Sweet Tea. She had a good story... the same story as Halia actually . . . as a whole bunch of people, I guess. She’d quit a nine-to-five job as a lawyer or a librarian... or a lab techni—”
“She was a loan officer,” I say. “For whatever reason, when she opened Dauphine, the press ate up her ‘leave your humdrum office job and follow your dreams’ tale. She was featured in the Washington Post and was on the local news . . . and she eventually ended up with a spread in People magazine and a guest appearance on one of the national morning talk shows.”
“The first year or two Dauphine was off the chain busy,” Wavonne says. “Twyla landed a regular cooking segment on the local news that promoted her restaurant and helped pack ’em in. She was great on camera. She has a thick, and if you ask me, overdone, southern accent and knows how to lay on the sugar when she wants to.”
“Yes. We’re aware of her quasi-celebrity status,” Cynthia says. “That’s how we ended up casting her as a guest judge. How does Halia factor into any of this?”
“Well... like I said,” Wavonne replies, “Twyla had a good story and talked a good game... got lots of publicity. There was only one problem. Girlfriend couldn’t... can’t cook worth a damn. She could get people in the door with all the press and hoopla, but no one came back. A few years after she opened, the place was hurtin’ big time, but things started to turn around when she hired someone who actually knew her way around a kitchen.”
“Halia?” Cynthia asks.
“Yep. She pretty much saved the joint.”
“Wavonne is exaggerating, but I was able to up the kitchen’s game a bit and help her develop a steady clientele. She hired me as a front of the house manager, but the longer I was there, the more time I spent in the kitchen helping her and the line staff. Twyla opened a restaurant with no experience. I’d worked in a dozen restaurants by the time I came on board at Dauphine and had always had a knack for cooking, so I was able to really contribute there... improve recipes, change a few work-flows... implement some quality control. I also tried an approach to working with the kitchen staff that was somewhat... shall we say novel to Twyla—I was kind and respectful to them.”
Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits Page 2