“You’re more than welcome. I hope you’ll come back,” I say and, right before Heather goes to shut the trunk I get a whiff of a familiar smell . . . a very familiar smell indeed. Why, I wonder to myself, is the scent of spiced rum mixed with dark chocolate coming from the trunk of Josh and Heather’s car?
CHAPTER 25
I swear I can still smell it—that spicy chocolate scent of Marcus’s cologne. I hated it when he was alive, and I hate it even more now. The scent was still in my nose when I called Detective Hutchins as soon as I got back inside the restaurant. I asked him to come over, so I could share some important information with him related to Marcus’s death.
“Hello, Halia,” he says when he sees me at the host station.
“Detective Hutchins,” I say. “Please, let’s have a seat.”
We take a seat at a two-person booth along the wall, and before I have a chance to ask, Darius shows up with two glasses of passion fruit iced tea.
“Are you hungry, Mr. Hutchins? May I offer you some lunch?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Oh. Come now. You have to eat,” I say, before turning to Darius. “Darius, would you bring us some cornbread and a sampler tray?”
“It’s really not necessary.”
“Who said it was for you?” I say with a laugh. “I have to eat, too. We’ll share.” I’m full from having lunch with Heather and Josh, but I want Detective Hutchins to feel comfortable and he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who likes to eat alone.
“So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
I take a breath. “Okay, I know this sounds strange, but I think I know who killed Marcus.” As the words come out of my mouth, I realize that I don’t believe them to be true. In my heart I just don’t think that Heather or Josh is a murderer. I can’t see a young lady who turned down my fried chicken salad sandwich until she was assured the chickens came from a humane farm or a guy who’s as timid as Josh killing a man. After a couple of hours with them, I feel in my gut that they did not do it. But then how do you explain a very distinct smell that I’ve only ever attributed to Marcus, coming from their trunk a few days after he was killed?
“Really?” he says with what appears to be an amused expression on his face . . . a sort of ‘okay, so tell me, silly lady, who do you think the mean old killer is?’ smirk.
“Well, maybe I don’t know, but I do have some information that might be ... is important.”
“And that is?”
“You interviewed Heather and Josh Williams, right? The young couple that had dinner with Marcus the night he was killed.”
“How do you know he was killed that night? His body didn’t turn up until three days after that. I know he was killed that night . . . blunt force trauma to the head was the cause. But I have the coroner’s report, which estimated the time of death. I’m curious as to how you knew that?”
I want to kick myself for making such a stupid mistake. “It just seemed like a safe assumption.”
Detective Hutchins eyes me distrustfully as if he knows I’ve been keeping information from him all along, and there’s a moment of silence between us before I speak.
“So now that you’ve told me he did indeed die on Saturday night, I’m telling you that on that same Saturday night he was wearing really strong cologne. It had a very distinct smell. He even told Wavonne and me that it was a custom scent he’d had developed just for him.”
Detective Hutchins waits for me to get to the point.
“Heather and Josh came to the restaurant today for lunch. I walked out to their car with them. And when Heather opened the trunk, I swear I smelled Marcus’s cologne.”
Detective Hutchins lets out a quick laugh. “You think you know who killed Mr. Rand based on a certain fragrance coming out of someone’s trunk?”
“It wasn’t just any fragrance, Detective. It was Marcus’s fragrance coming out of their trunk a few days after Marcus, a person they had a known conflict with, was found dead in a lake.”
He scratches the side of his head and studies me for a moment as if he’s trying to figure out if I’m nuts. “You really think it was a smell unique to Marcus?”
No, I dragged you all the way over here because I smelled some freakin’ Jean Nate. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
He seems to ponder what to do with my information for a moment and finally sighs as if I’m wasting his time. “I’ll check it out, Ms. Watkins,” he says, and I honestly can’t tell if he really will or not. “This wouldn’t be an attempt to deflect attention from your cousin, would it? We don’t look kindly on people leading us on wild goose chases.”
“Of course not, Detective. Wavonne has nothing to hide.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you have anything to hide?”
“I’m an open book, Detective Hutchins,” I say. Well, except for that chapter about me dragging a corpse out of my restaurant.
“If I may ask, what did you think would happen with the money you owed Marcus upon his demise?”
“It’s not something I ever gave much thought to. But, believe me, I never thought it would just go away if Marcus died. I assume I will now be repaying the loan to one of Marcus’s heirs.”
“Good answer,” he says, but I’m not certain he’s convinced of my innocence. “Forgive my prying, but you have to admit that it’s a bit”—he stumbles to find the right word—“curious that you owed Marcus a substantial sum of money, and your cousin fits the description of someone using his credit card, and you both happen to be each other’s alibi.”
“We’re not each other’s only alibi. Did you check with the cashier at the grocery store I mentioned? I’m certain she’d remember us. Not to mention we have a time- and date-stamped receipt showing where we were when we left the restaurant.”
“Yes. The infamous receipt. You’ve mentioned it twice now. One might think you only went to the grocery store to set up an alibi for you and Wavonne.”
“That’s absurd,” I say and make a mental note not to mention it again.
“Maybe so,” he says and begins to rise from the table. “Thank you for the information, Ms. Watkins.”
He’s annoyed me with his accusations, but I don’t want it to show so I decide to encourage him to stay. “No need to rush off. Won’t you stay and have a bite to eat? Darius should be back with that platter any minute.”
“I really must be going. I have to—”
Detective Hutchins cuts himself off as Darius sets down a platter of crispy fried crab balls, panko-coated onion rings, and mini-barbecue ribs dripping with my homemade sauce. He takes a long look at the oversized oblong plate and then looks back at me. “Okay. Maybe for a quick a bite.”
CHAPTER 26
I’ve always hated the smell of hair salons—that toxic scent of relaxer frying up Afro like it should come with a side of bacon. But a girl’s got to get her hair cut, and there’s no better place to catch up on the latest gossip than the beauty shop. I usually go to Latasha at Illusions a few doors down from the restaurant. She does a nice job, and the location allows me to quickly duck out of Sweet Tea, get a trim, and be back in time for the lunch rush. But today I’m cheating on Latasha—today I’m seated in a cheap vinyl chair with metal legs in the cramped waiting area of Salon Cuts.
“Halia! So good to see you. I saw your name in the appointment book, and I wondered if it was really you,” Régine says to me.
I stand up. “Hello, Régine. I need a trim, and I heard you were the best,” I say, when in reality, I’ve heard the exact opposite from several people. I don’t know who coined the phrase “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” but what he or she should have said is “Hell hath no fury like a black woman who got a bad weave . . . or bad relaxer, or a bad haircut.” If you screw up a sister’s hair, she will make sure anyone and everyone knows about it . . . while wearing a wig of course. So it’s no surprise word has gotten around town that Régine is a less-than-ap
t stylist.
“I’m flattered. Let’s take you back and get you shampooed.”
I follow her back to the sinks and sit down in front of one of them, saying a silent prayer that she doesn’t screw up my hair too much. I actually just got it cut a little over a week ago, but I needed an excuse to meet with Régine and pump her for information, so here I am. Detective Hutchins is supposed to be checking out Heather and Josh more thoroughly, and hopefully, he will look for some DNA samples in their trunk like they do on those crime shows. But I’m certainly not convinced that Heather and Josh are the culprits, and I had already made this appointment before I discovered the incriminating scent in their trunk. I figured I might as well keep it and find out what I can learn from, and about, Régine.
“Girl, I have clients who’d slice a finger off to have your hair,” Régine says to me after she wets my hair and begins gently massaging the shampoo in.
I laugh. I do hear comments like that a lot about my naturally straight hair, and they are usually followed by words of disdain about how I waste such lovely hair by keeping it short. While it would be nice to have a long mane of flowing black hair, I just wouldn’t have time to tend to it, so I keep it short and neat.
“I’m not kidding. I’ve been cutting hair for more than ten years, and I can think of many clients who would sell their firstborn.”
“Well, certainly not you. You have lovely hair.”
“Thanks.”
She does have nice hair and I can tell, looking up at her from the sink, that it is, in fact, her own. Originally, I thought it might be a weave or a good wig. I see lots of wigs in my restaurant. Some of them, the human hair expensive ones, are pretty good, and others are so bad they look like they came off a hook at a Halloween costume shop.
“I guess we were both blessed with good hair. It does take some time to maintain, though.”
“Yeah, that’s why I keep mine short. It’s so much easier to deal with,” I say, beginning to wonder why neither one of us has yet broached the topic of Marcus. It’s been less than a week since he was killed.
When Régine is done washing my hair, she gently pats it with a towel and asks me to follow her to her station.
“I’m so sorry about Marcus,” I say as she lays a frock over me and snaps it behind my neck.
Her previously sunny demeanor changes and a more subdued expression appears on her face. She looks at my reflection in the mirror and offers a weak smile. “Thank you, Halia. It’s been a difficult time. Today’s my first day back since I got the news. I wanted to take some more time off from work, but in my line of business, if I don’t work, I don’t get paid. And if you’re gone too long, your clients go elsewhere. But I’ll be out again for the funeral tomorrow.”
“I understand. We all have to earn a living. It was just such a shock. He was so young and charismatic.”
“He was truly one of kind,” she responds and looks down at the floor for a moment before starting to run a comb through my hair. “If you don’t mind, I’d really rather not talk about it. I don’t want to get emotional at work.”
“Of course, but may I ask if you’ve heard anything from the police? Do they have any leads on who might be responsible?”
“They interviewed me at my apartment. They asked me if I knew of anyone who might want to hurt Marcus, and then they started questioning me as if I’m a suspect.”
“I went through the same thing. I guess they have to question everyone. Surely, they don’t suspect you of having any connection?”
“I don’t think so. I went straight home from the restaurant Saturday night. The others were probably still there by the time I got home. I sort of went off on the police. I told them they could check the security cameras at my building if they wanted to. I had just lost my boyfriend. I was in no mood to deal with accusations.”
“I hear you. I found it unnerving, as well, to be questioned. . . and they questioned Wavonne, too, but maybe we should take some comfort in the fact that they are being thorough and will bring whoever killed Marcus to justice,” I say, before asking, “You didn’t have any leads for them, did you? Do you know of anyone who’d want Marcus dead?”
“I don’t. The police think it may have been a random robbery. After all, his wallet was missing. It may have been related to some of his business affairs, but I stayed out of Marcus’s work. All that financial stuff is way over my head anyway . . . commodities, exchange traded funds, margin calls . . . it may as well be Greek.”
“Was Marcus dabbling beyond his financial planning business? Jacqueline told us about a mortgage program he was involved in.”
“Yes. But I didn’t know much about that, either. Other than it was the topic of discussion the night I last saw Marcus.”
“Heather and Josh were Marcus’s clients, right?”
“Yes, and they were not happy with him that night . . . at least not at the beginning. By the time I left, Marcus and Charles had seemed to calm them down a bit. I’m not sure if they completely succeeded, but they were trying to sweet-talk Heather and Josh into thinking everything with the program was sound.”
“Thinking? Were things not okay?”
“I suspect not. From what I could gather, whatever bag of goods Marcus and Charles sold them was supposed to be sending them checks to cover their mortgage, and, lately, those checks had stopped coming.”
“So you said he eventually calmed them down, but when they were angry, did you think they were angry enough to . . . you know?”
“The husband didn’t seem that agitated. It was really more the girl who was angry. Was she mad enough to kill someone? I doubt it, but who knows. I’m sure the police talked to them, as well.” She looks at me in the mirror. “Honestly, Halia. I’d really rather not talk about it.”
“Sure . . . sure. Let’s change the subject.”
She begins trimming my hair, and I can tell by the way she handles the scissors that this is not going to end well. Some hairdressers have a fluid, confident touch and others, like poor Régine, probably shouldn’t be trusted with a pair of clippers at Petco.
“So, do you live around here?” I ask.
“Not far. I’m over at the Madison.”
“Oh yeah. That’s a nice building,” I lie. I’ve been past it a few times. It’s sort of run-down and in a pretty rough part of town. I ask the question about where she lives as if it were just an attempt to move on from the discussion of Marcus, but now that I’m aware of where Régine lives, I know what I need to do next. I just hope that, after Régine is done with my hair, I don’t look like Don King doing it.
CHAPTER 27
I’ve just stepped out of the hair salon, and I’m looking at myself in the rearview mirror. And let me tell you, it ain’t pretty. It may be the worst haircut I’ve ever gotten. My bangs generally flow in a tapered fashion toward the side of my head, but Régine cut them in a straight line across my forehead, and she seems to have left one side of my hair fuller than the other, as if she were going for a more subtle version of an eighties asymmetrical ’shroom. The look makes me think of high school and neon clothes, and the old station wagon I drove back then.
My high school is now almost exclusively black, but when I was there it was still fairly racially mixed. Despite this, the black students still mostly hung with each other and the white students did the same. I think of the black girls grooving to Salt-N-Pepa with our Jheri curls, and the white girls rocking out to Def Leppard with their bangs teased up to the ceiling. It strikes me as ironic how such an effort was made to integrate schools, and the students ended up self-segregating within the school anyway.
A few years ago, I started an annual tradition of inviting the entire senior class of my alma mater to Sweet Tea for lunch— generally around two hundred students each year. I host them in two groups over two days when Sweet Tea is closed between our regular lunch and dinner hours. I fill them up with cornbread and spare ribs and fried chicken. Over dessert, I give a brief talk about my path to opening
my own business and the work involved in running a restaurant. I encourage them to think big and ask the ones going off to college to consider coming back to Prince George’s County when they graduate. I suggest they all get involved in the community or even think about opening their own businesses to provide needed services and create jobs. I just want them to know that anything is possible if you work hard enough and show them what a fellow graduate accomplished. Of course, I invite the young men, but my heart is with the girls. I want them to aim high, and while they have so many positive African American female role models these days, they’re still bombarded with images of women whose greatest claim to fame is that they managed to find successful men to pay their bills or happened to land a reality show based only on their talent for behaving badly and creating drama in their lives.
I make a mental note to call Latasha and schedule an appointment to salvage my hair as best she can. I’d phone her right now, but I have another call to make. I find the number in my contacts list and put the phone to my ear.
“Charles. Hi. It’s Halia Watkins from Sweet Tea. Remember? We chatted the other day at your seminar.”
“Yes. What can I do for you, Halia?” He doesn’t sound too happy to hear from me.
“I’m just dotting some i’s and crossing some t’s over here and wondering if you can help me?”
“Does this have to do with Marcus’s murder, Halia? I’ve told the police everything I know.”
“Can I just ask you a few quick questions? I promise I won’t take up much of your time.”
He’s quiet on the other end of the phone, which I figure is better than a no.
“You were one of the last of Marcus’s guests to leave the restaurant the night he disappeared, right?”
He’s still silent.
“I’m not asking because I think you have anything to do with Marcus’s death. I’m asking because I’d like to know what time Régine left?”
“Régine?” he asks. “I don’t remember the exact time.” His tone is friendlier now that I’m not asking questions about him. “But I do remember she left very shortly after you did.”
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