I know I should announce myself but, honestly, I’m as captivated with Monique’s cosmetic-free image as she seems to be. Without all her war paint on, she’s barely recognizable and has a certain vulnerability about her. The longer Monique continues to stare at her reflection, the more her poise and general exuberance seem to fade. Her mouth slowly turns downward, and I look on from the hallway as a lone tear falls from her eye.
Feeling like I’ll be entering into “creepy voyeur territory” if I peek through the open door any longer, I announce myself with an “ahem” and a knock on the door. Startled, she catches sight of me in the mirror and quickly wipes away the droplet of moisture on her cheek.
“Hello,” she says. “Come in . . . come in. Close the door, please.” She adjusts her posture and slaps on a smile. “Just reapplying my makeup. All the dancing made me a little misty.” She catches me looking at the bruise under her eye. “I guess I’m busted,” she admits, beginning to dab concealer under the affected eye. “I had a little work done on my eyes. My surgeon assured me the bruising would be gone by now, but I must be a slow healer. Oh well . . . I guess no one really believes I look this fabulous without a little help anyway.”
“You do look fabulous,” I offer, feeling like I interrupted something by stepping into the bedroom even though she was the only one in here. “Your dress is simply amazing.”
“Thank you,” she says. “Seems a waste to only wear it this one time, but once I’ve worn something at a high-profile event like this, I can’t really don it again. Although, I guess if I did, it might get me a little press in one of those glossy trash mags . . . in the ‘She Wore It Twice’ section.” She’s finished applying the concealer and reaches for a little jar of foundation and a makeup brush. “When you’re the face of your products, you’ve got to keep that face in tip-top condition. Right?” As she begins brushing on the cream, I wonder why she has not yet asked me why I came upstairs and approached her in her bedroom. “You know, Halia.” She says this to my reflection in her mirror. “People think I have it all, but sometimes I look at a woman like you, and I’m envious.”
A loud laugh blurts from my mouth. “Envious? Of me?!”
“Yes. You’re lucky to be a normal woman.” She stammers a bit, afraid she may have offended me. “Well, not normal . . . not that you’re not normal . . . or abnormal in any way.” She takes a breath. “You know what I mean . . . sometimes having a life with some anonymity would be such a treat.” She sighs. “Like I was saying about not being able to wear the same dress twice . . . and being up here during my own party reapplying makeup because I’m afraid someone may snap a photo of me when I’m not at my best. Being on all the time can wear a sister out.”
Monique and I barely know each other, so I find it peculiar that she is sharing such personal information with me, but maybe I shouldn’t be surprised—apparently, I just have one of those faces that make people bare their souls. It happens all the time. People just start talking to me. Maybe I simply have a kind face or come off as very nonthreatening or something. Sometimes it’s a positive quality. Like now, I find it interesting to hear about how there is another side to the marvelous Ms. Monique Dupree. Other times, like when restaurant patrons want to tell me their life story when I have a few hundred other things that need tending to, it can be a bit of an encumbrance. Don’t get me wrong—I enjoy engaging with my customers, but I’ve had to master the art of exiting a conversation gracefully when patrons want to gab for extended periods during the lunch rush.
“Look at me going on and on.” Monique sets down the makeup brush. “Things okay downstairs? Can I help you with something?”
“Things are fine. It’s been a wonderful party, but I have an early day tomorrow, too, so I should get going.”
“And I owe you a check,” she says. “Can you hand me that folder?” She points to a leather portfolio on the dresser next to the door.
After I retrieve the folder and hand it to her, she starts rifling through it, flipping through a number of business-size checks. “Here you go.”
I take a quick look at it and fold it in half. “Thank you. It really was a delightful party.”
“Please! I should be thanking you for agreeing to help cater the affair. Your food was delicious.”
I smile. “Well, I’ll collect my trays and whatnot, and Wavonne and I will be on our way.”
“No need to take them now. Lena can wash them for you, and you can pick them up another time.”
I’m about to decline the offer when Nathan abruptly opens the bedroom door and pokes his head into the room. “Everyone is waiting,” he says impatiently to Monique. His words or his tone, or maybe just his presence, shifts the energy in the room—there’s a sudden tenseness in the air.
“Okay,” she replies. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Um,” he says, looking at me. “Your niece, is it? In the jumpsuit?”
“Wavonne? She’s my cousin.”
“Well, your cousin is downstairs telling our guests how unfair it is that our dog wears better jewelry than she does.”
A quiet groan comes from my mouth. “Oh my. I guess it’s time for me to get her home. Maybe it is best if I pick up the catering supplies later.”
I thank Monique one last time and begin to exit the room. Nathan moves to the side of the doorway, offering just enough space to let me pass, which I do hurriedly, trying to escape his negative energy as quickly as I can.
I’m halfway down the stairs when I’m treated to a vision that immediately reminds me of an old Sex and the City episode—the one where the girls visit the Playboy Mansion. They had been there for a while with various antics ensuing when Carrie and Miranda stumble upon a grotto with a bunch of naked women cavorting in a hot tub. Miranda takes in the scene and says something about “tit soup,” and Carrie, a defeated look on her face, says, “It’s time to go home.”
Wavonne has gotten up from the lounger and the dog is at her feet, looking up at her with puzzled eyes. Dogs have always taken a liking to Wavonne—I think they figure that, with her curvaceous girth, there’s bound to be some treats around. She’s swaying from side to side with her shoes in one hand while using her other hand to twirl some sort of fabric or garment over her head. She looks like she might stumble over at any moment while guests pass by on their way to the living room. It’s only when I notice how much more Wavonne’s “parts” are jiggling than they were on the dance floor, that I realize it’s her Spanx that she’s whirling around in the air.
“Halia!” She spots me on the steps, which by no means prompts her to end the little show she’s putting on. “I feel so free. I think I was about to cough up a kidney in these things.”
I scurry down the rest of the steps, praying that she went in the bathroom when she removed her shapewear from underneath her jumpsuit and didn’t disrobe right there in the foyer. When I reach her, I take hold of her shoulder with one hand and gently place my other hand under her elbow to keep her steady as I lead her back to the lounger and make her sit down.
“Stay here! I’m going to have the valet get the van and then fetch our coats.”
“We’re leaving?”
“Yes. Do not leave that seat until I get back. You’re making a complete spectacle of yourself.” As I give her the same eyes Momma used to give me when I was a kid and she wanted me to know she meant business, the dog hops up on the cushion with her. I look at her, lazily petting the dog with one hand, while her Spanx hang limp in the other . . . and I think of Sex and the City . . . and Carrie and Miranda . . . and tit soup. “It’s time to go home.”
Chapter 17
“You look ridiculous with those on indoors.” I’m referring to the sunglasses Wavonne is wearing. We’re in the kitchen of Sweet Tea getting ready for Sunday brunch. To say several cross words were exchanged this morning when I made her get out of bed and come into the restaurant with me would be an understatement. But I had no intention of rewarding last night’s behavior with a morn
ing off.
I’ve placed Wavonne on pepper-cutting duty this morning. What we call our “Technicolor Omelet,” featuring chopped red, orange, and yellow peppers along with diced onions, cheddar cheese, and a touch of garlic powder is one of our most popular breakfast entrées, so Wavonne will be busy for quite some time, slicing peppers into little match-size strips that add a nice touch of zest to the eggs. The omelets really are a thing of beauty when they slide perfectly out of the pan onto a dish already prepped with home fries and a little garnish made with purple cabbage, half a cherry tomato, and some parsley. I love to see this entree go out to customers. The mix of hues on display—the yellow eggs . . . the bright-colored peppers . . . the orange cheese and purple cabbage and green parsley—they all just seem to say “Good morning! It’s going to be a great day.”
“Do you need to speak so loudly?” Wavonne puts down her knife and rubs the sides of her head. “Your voice sounds like a gong banging in my head.”
“Did someone have a little too much to drink last night?” Tacy asks while pulling some pans from a rack hanging from the ceiling. Shortly after we open, he’ll have up to four omelets going at a time throughout the morning.
I snicker. “A little? I’m sure she wishes it was only a little.”
“So I had a good time. Sue me.” Wavonne lifts her head and looks at Tacy, who’s now beating a large bowl of eggs. “Can you please get those runny eggs away from me?”
Tacy laughs and moves the bowl to the counter behind him.
“I can’t remember half the night. I have a vague memory of dancing with some guy. He was handsome, but I can’t remember his name, or if I gave him my number.”
“Do you remember his wife?”
“Huh?”
“Treena Simms. It was her husband you were gyrating all over last night.”
“Ah . . . okay. Yeah . . . I seem to recall her gettin’ all up in my face.”
“Can you blame her?”
“What? Like it’s my fault when a sista can’t keep a man?”
“That’s the same thing you said to Monique’s dog last night, during your in-depth conversation with him . . . or her.”
I’m about to expand on Wavonne’s activities at the party when Momma comes into the kitchen.
“Hey, Momma. What are you doing here?” I ask. She usually does not come into Sweet Tea on Sundays.
“I’m on my way to church, and I thought I would stop by and see how things went with Alex last night. Should I start learning Spanish, so I can talk with my bilingual grandchildren?”
“My God, Momma. How many times are we going to have this conversation? I’m in my forties. Regardless of what, if anything, happens with Alex, or anyone for that matter, I don’t see grandchildren in your future.”
“Why do you have to squash an old woman’s dreams?” She points toward my midsection. “There’s bound to be a viable egg or two floating around in there.”
“I don’t know, Aunt Celia, she’s pretty old,” Wavonne chides. “Practically menopausal. I saw her a minute ago, fanning herself . . . must be gettin’ them hot flashes.”
“I was fanning myself because I was standing over a flaming grill covered with home fries, Wavonne.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Wavonne utters in a “if you say so” sort of way. “Either way. I think they got all sorts of procedures they can do nowadays . . . help old hens like Halia have babies.”
“Maybe she can hire one of those surrogates like those rich white ladies do,” Momma jokes.
At this point the two of them are just trying to get under my skin. It’s a hobby of theirs.
“All right, all right . . . enough with the old lady cracks,” I say. “I’m going to check on the dining room,” I tell them just to get away.
“Lawd . . . she’s done got her compression stockings all in a knot,” Wavonne says to Momma, and then calls behind me, “We’re only playin’ with ya, Halia. Come back.”
“Yeah . . . and I covered for you so you could go to the party last night,” Momma says. “You at least owe me some details about how things went with that personal chef fellow,” Momma says.
“Later,” I call over my shoulder as I exit the kitchen.
I’m barely in the dining room when I see Latasha at the front entrance, knocking on the glass. She looks distressed, so I hurry over and unlock the door.
She scurries in. “Have you heard the news?”
“What news?” I ask.
“So you haven’t.”
“Haven’t what? What news?” I ask again.
“Monique.” Latasha takes a breath. “She’s been killed . . . murdered . . . shot! It’s all over the TV.”
Chapter 18
With Latasha following, I walk quickly toward the right side of the restaurant, grab the remote control, and flick on the flat screen that hangs behind the bar. As I change the channel from ESPN to one of the cable news stations, Momma and Wavonne emerge from the kitchen.
“I thought I heard you out here,” Wavonne says to Latasha. “Come over to hear about the party last night?”
“No,” Latasha says abruptly, and nods her head toward the television.
“Monique Dupree, known as the Coiffure Queen by the millions of African American women who use her products, was found dead during the early morning hours. Ms. Dupree presided over a multimillion-dollar hair care empire and was scheduled to start a nationwide tour to promote her company today,” says the lead anchor on the news before cutting to a reporter in the field.
“Thank you, Leslie,” says the young lady standing in front of Monique’s house. “Police were called to this home in Mitchellville, Maryland, a suburb of Washington, DC, at twelve thirty a.m. by Ms. Dupree’s husband, Nathan Tucker. We are being told that, following a social event at the house last night, Mr. Tucker was called to the Washington Convention Center, which is currently holding the annual Unique Chic Hair Show, to handle some unexpected issues with the Hair by Monique display. Hair by Monique is Ms. Dupree’s brand of hair care products, which are extremely popular with African American women and have made Monique Dupree a household name.
“When Mr. Tucker returned home in the early morning hours, he found Ms. Dupree dead via a gunshot wound to the head.” The camera zooms toward a small hole surrounded by splintered glass in one of the front windows of the house. “Here you can see where the bullet went through the window.”
I don’t know who alerted my team in the kitchen to the breaking news, but at this point, brunch prep operations have ceased at Sweet Tea, and my entire staff is in front of the one television in my restaurant, intently watching the news of Monique’s death unfold.
Before the camera pans back to the reporter, I’m able to get a muddled view of what’s on the other side of the glass with the bullet hole in it. I can just make out two policemen talking to each other in front of a large television mounted over a fireplace—not a lot of detail, but when I combine it with my understanding of the layout of the house, it’s enough for me to know that Monique was shot in the room Lena referred to as her den—the room she liked to relax and unwind in. This brings about a vision in my head of Monique, having changed into sweatpants or pajamas after an exhausting evening of being “on,” lounging on the sofa . . . with a cup of tea, perhaps . . . when the most horrible of things happened. The thought sends a shiver through me.
“Sources are telling us that there were no signs of robbery or forced entry, and one would have to assume that the bullet that killed Ms. Dupree was fired from the front lawn, somewhere between the house and the small wooded area that offers the residence privacy from the road,” the reporter adds as the camera rotates to show the layout of Monique’s front yard.
Other than noting that no suspects have yet been identified, the reporter offers little additional information before the newscast returns to the studio anchor, who promises to keep us apprised as more details become available.
I turn off the TV and look around, taking in all the unsettled fac
es, most of which are staring at me, presumably seeking some words of posthumous acclaim for Monique or comfort for themselves. What do I tell all these people who only two nights ago were so excited to see Ms. Dupree in person and play a hand in her dining experience here at Sweet Tea? Of course, none of us were close to her, but Monique was a local girl who “made good,” she was a role model for young women, and she was here, in flesh and blood, among us so recently. Her warmth made people feel like they knew her . . . like they were connected to her.
Sometimes being the boss sucks, I think to myself before trying to string some words together. “I’m so sorry we have to start the day with such terrible news. Monique was certainly one of a kind, and I feel fortunate that I . . . that we got to meet her in person.” I pause for a moment to try to collect my thoughts and think of something more to say. “She started from humble roots right here in Prince George’s County and went on to create a beauty empire. From my few encounters with her, I’ll remember her kindness, her wit, and her glamourous style. She will be terribly missed. . . .” I stumble for more to say before Wavonne comes to my rescue.
“Amen!” Wavonne says loudly.
“Amen!” comes from a few others.
“If anyone needs a few moments to collect themselves or make any calls . . . or whatever, please take the time before we get on with prepping this place to open.”
My staff begins to disperse, talking among themselves about the news, but Momma, Wavonne, and Latasha stay by my side as I pull out a barstool and sit down.
“Wow . . . just wow,” is all I can say.
“I know,” Latasha says. “I couldn’t believe it when I first heard it. She was just in my salon on Friday . . . and now she’s dead.”
“Not just dead,” Wavonne says. “Sista was murdered. Iced. Kevorked. Whacked—”
“We get it, Wavonne,” I say. “Why would anyone want to kill her?”
“The beauty industry can be ruthless, but I’ve never heard of anyone getting killed over some relaxers or curling creams.”
Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce Page 11