“A hundred thousand dollars?!” I bellow. “Oh my.”
“A few weeks ago the Enquirer published a photo of him meeting with Rodney Morrissey.”
“Who’s that?”
“He’s a well-known crime boss . . . a high-dollar loan shark and a very, very bad man. More than one person associated with him has turned up dead over the last few years.”
“Why doesn’t Monique get rid of Nathan if he’s gambling away all her money and getting involved with dangerous people?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Monique is a smart, beautiful woman, but when it comes to relationships, she makes bad decision after bad decision.”
“Speaking of relationships, what is up with her and Odessa?”
“Those two.” Maurice shakes his head. “They’ve had a . . . shall we say tenuous relationship since I’ve known them. They started out in the cosmetology trenches together . . . low-paid styling jobs at chain beauty shops . . . and, while Odessa has certainly had some success with her salon, Monique just surpassed her by leaps and bounds and became this nationwide phenomena. I don’t think Odessa can handle it. She’s jealous.”
“So why did Monique invite her to dinner last night if they don’t get along?”
“I don’t know. Their whole deal is complicated. They go way back, and they have a mutually beneficial relationship. From what I know, Odessa sells more of Monique’s products than any hair salon in the country, so Monique gives her some discounts on the wholesale prices. They are both making a lot of money for each other.”
Maurice pokes his head outside the dressing area. “Where is that salesgirl?”
“I’m not sure we need her,” Wavonne says. “The longer I wear this, the more it grows on me.”
“It’s okay, but it would need a little tailoring to make it a perfect fit and it might be a little too glittery . . . with the silver sequins and all.”
“There is no such thing as too glittery when it comes to Wavonne.”
“Not for Wavonne,” Maurice says. “For Monique. She’ll get testy if she knows I helped Wavonne select something that, even for half a second, takes any attention away from her.”
“Is that even possible? For anyone to take attention away from Monique?” I ask, although I guess, if anyone was going to do such a thing, it would be Wavonne. “Monique would be the belle of the ball in a potato sack. And I’m sure whatever she’s wearing to the party will be in a league all its own.”
“It will be. Monique would settle for nothing less,” Maurice says. “She’s had a custom-made gown in the works for months . . . mermaid silhouette . . . bateau neckline . . . handsewn beads . . . it’s gorgeous . . . just gorgeous . . . worth every penny of the four thousand dollars she’s paying for it.”
“Four thousand dollars?!” Wavonne shrieks.
“Wow. That must be some white dress,” I say.
“White?” Maurice responds. “Aren’t you cute.” He’s talking to me as if I’m a naïve child. “Now, how do you expect Monique to be the undeniable center of attention in a white dress at a white party?”
Wavonne and I stare back at him, perplexed.
“That’s Monique’s thing . . . every year she throws a white party and insists that all her guests wear white . . . then she makes a grand entrance in a bold-colored dress. This year she is wearing a vivid Larimar blue evening gown.”
“Sounds like it will be quite something.”
“Yes, and if I don’t get over to her house and help her get into it soon, I’ll never hear the end of it.” Maurice looks at his watch once again. “I’m going to go find Susan. We need to get a move on.”
“Larimar?” I ask Wavonne as Maurice steps away. “Must be one of those trendy designers my unfashionable pear-shaped self has never heard of.”
“How can you not have heard of him, Halia? He’s dressed Halle Berry and like a million other celebrities.”
“Really? That’s—”
“Here we are,” Susan says, reappearing with Maurice and handing a white jumpsuit to Wavonne.
“Try it on and let’s see how it looks,” Maurice instructs. “We are out of time, so if this is not a good look for you, we’ll go with the dress you have on. I’ve got to get over to Casa Monique and help her get ready . . . and help her deal with whatever antics that husband of hers has been up to.”
“Wow, it sounds like working for Monique is quite the roller-coaster ride,” I say as Wavonne steps into the dressing stall and closes the curtain.
“It’s certainly never boring,” Maurice says. “Never ever boring.”
Chapter 12
“A large, purple creature of indeterminate species with short arms and legs. He was first introduced by McDonald’s in—”
“I know who Grimace is, Wavonne. I don’t need you looking him up on Wikipedia or whatever you’re reading from,” I say to her as she puts her phone back in her lap. We’re in my van on the way to Monique’s party. After our shopping excursion with Maurice, Wavonne and I went back to the house to get ready and then stopped by Sweet Tea to pick up the items my staff prepared for the event. I must say I have the best team in the business—in only a few hours they prepared quite the spread for us to take with us.
As Wavonne and I maneuver through Saturday night traffic, the smell of chafing dishes filled with my famous corn fritters, mini waffles topped with little nuggets of crispy fried chicken, and buttermilk biscuit bites permeates throughout the vehicle. I suspect the main reason Monique invited us to this haughty affair is because she wanted my culinary contributions on her buffet, so I went with time-tested party food that always goes over well rather than daring to try something new. I’m sure her guests will enjoy the creations we have in transit—they really are delicious on their own, but, in my never-ending quest to take things up a notch, I’ve brought along a few accompaniments to make them even tastier: a little powdered sugar to dust the corn fritters, praline syrup for the fried chicken and waffle hors d’oeuvres, and house-made pineapple red pepper jelly for the biscuits.
“That food sure smells good,” Wavonne says as we turn off the highway and continue to follow my navigation system, which leads us to a winding back road.
“I didn’t know there were this many trees left around here,” I say as the robotic voice coming from my speakers tells us we are approaching our destination. Prince George’s County is a densely populated Maryland suburb across the line from DC, so, even though I’ve lived here my whole life, I’m surprised by the area we’ve found ourselves in—it has an almost rural feel to it. We’re in Mitchellville, one of the more affluent areas of the county. I don’t get over this way much, but, based on the few times I’ve passed through recently, I thought it pretty much consisted of high-end tract housing developments and shopping centers. I didn’t realize there were still wooded sections in the area with houses that sit on multiple acres rather than a fraction of one.
“Me either,” Wavonne says. “These are some big-ass houses . . . on some big-ass pieces of land. People are spendin’ money for these places.”
“I’m sure they are,” I agree as we close in on Monique’s driveway. I know it must be hers because it’s safeguarded by two young men who look like they just stepped out of an episode of America’s Next Top Model. They’re both African American and wearing crisp white pants held up with thick silver belts, snug white shirts, and white pageboy hats. There’s a bit of a chill in the fall air, so I imagine they must be cold without any jackets on.
“Ooh, girl,” Wavonne says as I make the turn, and one of the young men motions for me to stop. “I need to get me some of that praline syrup you got back there. I know what . . . I mean who I’d like to pour it all over.”
“They are quite handsome, but aren’t they a little young . . . even for you?”
Wavonne is barely shy of thirty, which sounds positively youthful to my forty-something self, but these guys look like they’re barely over eighteen.
“As long as they are old
enough to vote and enlist in the army, ain’t nothin’ wrong with dippin’ your toes into the Generation Z pond here and there.”
“I think I’ll let you dip your toes in that pond solo,” I say as one of the young fellows reaches my van, and I let the window down. I’m about to greet him, but before I have a chance to speak, his eyes catch sight of the chafing dishes in the back, and he says, “I’m sorry. The help is supposed to use the back entrance.”
“The help?!” Wavonne barks from the passenger side. “Do we look like freakin’ Aibileen and Minny? We are guests of Ms. Monique Dupree. I know you’d better get out our way . . .”
“Oh gosh . . . I apologize,” he says. “May I have your names please?”
I give the young man our names, he checks for them on his list, and gives us the okay to continue up the long driveway that leads to Monique’s house.
“Wow.” Wavonne takes notice of the stately home, which, based on Monique’s bright pink tour bus and flamboyant taste in fashion, is a bit more conservative (in style, not size) than I expected. It’s an enormous (I’m guessing upward of five thousand square feet) red brick home with a series of long white columns, staggered dormers, and a double-door entry. The trees along the driveway and the shrubbery in front of the house have been strung with what must be thousands and thousands of twinkling white lights—the effect is quite spectacular.
The driveway loops into a circle in front of the house, and I stop the van near the main doors. I ,figure I’ll park it out of the way once we’ve unloaded the food, but I’ve barely stepped the vehicle when a young man, dressed in the same outfit as the guys at the other end of the driveway, hands me a ticket and looks for me to give him my key.
“Valet parking? Look at Ms. Dupree keepin’ it classy,” Wavonne says as she rounds the corner from the other side of the van. “Is this a home or a country club?”
After I explain to the gentleman that I need to bring the food into the house before he parks the car, he calls over another attendant. They offer to help us carry in the trays, and all four of us walk up the front steps with our arms loaded.
When we reach the front door, an older woman greets us and introduces herself as Lena, Monique’s housekeeper. We step into a grand foyer at the base of an imposing curved staircase as a little toy dog, a Pomeranian, I think, yaps at our feet. It has some sparkly stones on its collar, and I can’t help but wonder if they are actual diamonds.
“Please tell me those are not real diamonds on that dog’s collar,” Wavonne says to me as Lena, with an air of authority, instructs several attractive young ladies, garbed in the most bizarre catering uniforms I’ve ever seen, to take the chafing dishes from us and carry them to the kitchen. They are all wearing white minidresses with a lace overlay and four-inch white leather pumps. The only reason I know they are staffing the party rather than attending as guests is the small half apron tied around their waists with the Hair by Monique logo embroidered in pink across the front. The outfits look beautiful, but are clearly highly impractical for working a party—I guess, when she decided on the apparel for her party staff, Monique, much like God when he created the Kardashians, valued appearance over any real utility. I suppose it makes sense—she is in the beauty business after all. But as the daintily clad women, who look vaguely familiar to me, walk away with my food, I find myself afraid they might stumble on their ultra-high heels and corn fritters and fried chicken will go flying all over Monique’s pristine granite floors.
“You can drop your coats in Monique’s den,” Lena says, and leads us to, when compared to the grand nature of the rest of the house, a fairly modest room with a large flat-screen television, a fireplace, and a taupe leather sectional on which coats are already piling up.
“There’s a full home theater in the basement, but this is where Monique tends to relax in the evenings. We’re using it for jackets and purses this evening.”
“It’s very nice . . . cozy,” I say as Wavonne and I remove our coats and lay them on the sofa. “If you can show us toward the kitchen, I’m happy to help set up my trays.”
After Lena points us in the right direction and excuses herself, Wavonne and I exit the room.
“I love that jumpsuit on you,” I say as we navigate the cavernous home in search of the kitchen. “Maurice had the right idea when he picked it out.” My compliments for Wavonne are not always altogether sincere (honestly, much of the time, she doesn’t give me a whole lot to work with), but this time I do really mean what I’ve said. Maurice’s selection for Wavonne is quite striking—it’s formal enough for the occasion, but the way it drapes over only one shoulder with a sleeve that drops slightly above her elbow and flows from a loose-fitting midsection into what Maurice called “palazzo pants” (apparently, a fancy way of saying bell bottoms) gives the ensemble a sense of whimsy and fun that fits her . . . and the little cutout along the bustline revealing her cleavage is so Wavonne. Of course, it took some persuading to get her to agree to take it home in a size sixteen rather than a fourteen, but with many words of encouragement and a few digs from Maurice (I recall something being said about “sausage” and “casing”) she eventually relented.
“Thank you. It’s growing on me.” She looks down at herself. “All white and flowy . . . I’m thinking I can add some wings to it and be an angel for Halloween,” she says as we bypass the same cameraman who was at Odessa’s salon yesterday. He appears to be getting ready to film the festivities.
“Well, that’s one idea,” I reply just before we reach the kitchen and come upon Alex. He has his back turned to us and is in the midst of removing his chef’s jacket. I hate to admit it, but I think Wavonne and I are both too enmeshed in the view of Alex’s V-shaped back muscles protruding through the tight-fitting T-shirt he has on under the outer layer, that we fail to announce ourselves. Assuming he’s still alone, he removes the T-shirt, and Wavonne lets out an audible sigh, alerting him to our presence.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought I was alone.”
I smile, trying to look at his eyes rather than his defined bare chest. “Oh . . . no need to apologize.”
“Apologize?” Wavonne says. “You should charge a fee. If anything need cheese on it tonight, we can grate it on your abs.”
Alex laughs, which sends a ripple through his chiseled stomach. “I was putting the finishing touches on the cake in the living room and made a little mess on my chef’s coat. Monique wants us lowly staff members to wear these shirts anyway,” he jokes, and grabs a short-sleeve white linen shirt from the counter (the same type the attendants at the gate were wearing) and quickly slips it on. “Did you have to do such a great job with your contributions to the buffet? I’m afraid my efforts are going to pale in comparison.”
I smile again. “That’s nice of you to say. Has my food been put out already?”
“Yes. Some of Odessa’s girls helped me set them up in the dining room.” He gestures toward the threshold on the other side of him. “Would you like to see the buffet?”
“Sure,” I say as Alex leads Wavonne and me to the dining room. “What did you say about Odessa’s girls?”
“Some of her stylists are working the party . . . taking coats . . . serving drinks . . . passing out hors d’oeuvres in addition to what we have on the buffet . . . just standing around looking pretty.”
“That’s why I recognized them. They were staffing the tables for Monique at the hair show today.”
“Yes. I think Monique pays them quite well to do a little moonlighting for her. Tonight I believe they are supposed to somehow bring up which hair products they use while passing around trays of champagne,” Alex says, and then nods toward the table, which could easily seat fourteen people if the dining chairs had not been removed so it can act as a serving station. It’s draped in a white taffeta cloth that could easily be repurposed as a train for a designer wedding dress. A crystal vase with more than a dozen white roses graces the center of the table and several long taper candles are glowing among th
e food displays.
“Your items are at that end.” Alex points to his left. “And here we have my spinach dip with marble rye bread, shrimp cocktail, and mini quiches,” he says before going through the rest of his handiwork, which includes a cheese board, some vegetable trays, meatballs, and a few other, mostly uninspiring, edibles.
“It all looks delicious,” I say, trying to muster some enthusiasm as I eye the mini quiches that look like the frozen ones you buy at Costco.
“Sure does,” Wavonne agrees, and grabs a plate.
“Wavonne!” I snap. “I don’t think the buffet is officially open. The guests have barely started arriving.”
“I’m a guest, and I’m here . . . and if I’m gonna start wearin’ a sixteen I may as well eat up.”
“Put the plate back, Wavonne. Can you at least wait until the party is actually underway before attacking the food?”
“Fine.” She puts the plate back on the stack. “I’m going to find the little girls’ room, and see if I can adjust these Spanx.” She wiggles around uncomfortably. “I think my pancreas has been shoved up into my neck.”
“What are Spanx?” Alex asks.
“Essentially a modern-day girdle.”
“Sounds painful,” Alex says, and looks me up and down. “Seems unnecessary to me. I personally think women should celebrate their curves, not try to hide them.”
“Aw . . . that’s sweet. All the fashion magazines would disagree with you, but it’s nice to know that there are some men out there who appreciate women who look like women.”
Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce Page 8