“Ms. Watkins!” I hear Detective Hutchins call from the foyer and dart out the door and down the hall.
“I had to run to the ladies’ room,” I say when I reach him and find Lena standing next to him with a large box in her arms.
“It looks like your things are ready to go.” He nods toward Lena.
“Yes. Thank you, Lena,” I say, but before I take the box from her, I hand the feather to the detective.
“What’s this?”
“I saw it on the carpet in the den on my way to the bathroom. It must have come off Odessa’s dress.”
“So her sequenced dress had feathers, too.”
“Sequined. Not sequenced,” I correct, just to give him a hard time. “And yes, it had feathers around the bottom hem. It’s probably nothing. I think her dress was losing feathers all over the house the night of the party, but I thought I’d hand it over to you in case it had any significance.”
“Red sequins and red feathers? That must have been some dress.”
“It was. And Monique was not happy to be upstaged by it, either.”
“Good to know.” He moves his eyes from me to the box in Lena’s hands with a “would you get out of here already” look on his face.
“Appreciate it,” I say to Lena as I take the box from her and move toward the door.
“Not that it isn’t always a pleasure, but I hope this will be the last I see of you . . . at least as it relates to the death of Ms. Dupree,” Detective Hutchins says to me as I walk past him.
I look up at him, knowing that somewhere behind that stern demeanor, he has the tiniest bit of a soft spot for me. “That wouldn’t be any fun for either one of us, now would it?” I keep walking as Lena kindly opens the door and holds it for me.
“I assure you, it would be plenty fun for me.”
I turn around, smile, and then I offer him a Wavonne-style “Mmm-hmm,” in a “yeah, we’ll see about that” sort of tone.
Chapter 22
“Was that handsome Cuban fellow there?” Momma inquires as soon as I walk into the kitchen at Sweet Tea.
“He’s Dominican. And no, Alex wasn’t there,” I respond, before asking, “What are you doing here?” It’s late afternoon and Momma has usually left Sweet Tea by now.
“Like you,” Wavonne interjects, “she’s nosy, and came by to see if you had a rendezvous with Alex while you were at Monique’s house.”
“Well, like I said, he wasn’t there. At least I didn’t see him.”
“You are going to reach out to him and offer your condolences, aren’t you?”
“Just as soon as you make me that Bundt cake, Momma.”
“Don’t nobody make Bundt cakes anymore,” Wavonne says. “What is this? 1972? Maybe you guys can go to the discotheque in some go-go boots while you’re at it . . . you know, relive your glory days.”
“The seventies were not my glory days, Wavonne. I’m not that old. I was a child when discos were all the rage,” I protest. “Now, can we change the subject? We’re opening for dinner shortly, and I still see greens that need to be chopped.”
“That’s my cue to leave.” Momma grabs her purse from the stool next to her. “I’m going home . . . will see if I can’t find that Bundt pan of mine.”
I roll my eyes. “Bye, Momma.”
“Later, Aunt Celia,” Wavonne says.
While the kitchen door swings closed behind Momma, I walk around to the other side of the counter and examine the heap of leafy collard greens that were delivered this morning from one of the few local farms left in the county.
“They’ve been washed?” I ask Tacy, who’s standing next to me with a chopping knife in his hand.
“Three times.”
“Good. Nothing worse than gritty greens.” I turn to Wavonne. “Let’s grab a few knives and help Tacy with the chopping. Our supply was starting to run low at lunch, and these will take a couple of hours to simmer.”
I’m sure Wavonne had planned to duck into the break room and surf on her phone until we open, but she grabs two knives, albeit very unenthusiastically, hands one to me, and keeps one for herself. The three of us begin using the knives to remove the stems from the individual leaves and lay them on top of one another in piles.
“So, what else happened over at Monique’s?” Wavonne asks, and I realize why she gave me so little grief when I asked her to help with the greens—she wanted to stick around and get the gossip.
“Not much,” I say. “I arrived, got my supplies, thanked Lena for them . . . oh, and Nathan was arrested.”
“What?! Why didn’t you tell us that when you came in?”
“Like I had a chance with Momma’s hounding me about Alex and Bundt cakes.”
“Girl, you better spill some tea.”
“Jack was there.”
“Jack Spruce? Your law enforcement admirer that you’ve been stringin’ along for years so he’ll keep givin’ you inside info?”
“I have not been stringing him along, Wavonne. I genuinely like him. I just don’t feel that way about him. We’re friends. He’s very nice.”
“Very nice?” Wavonne asks. “Very nice is what you say about a dachshund or an apartment with cheap rent.”
“Oh, stop. He is very nice, and if our friendship comes with a perk or two, then so be it.” I take one of the piles of greens, roll it up like a cigar, and begin chopping. “And speaking of perks, he did share a few things with me, and so did Detective Hutchins.”
“Like what?”
“They found the gun this morning under some leaves in the wooded area between the road and Monique’s front lawn. It had Nathan’s fingerprints on it, and his hands tested positive for gunpowder residue.”
“Get out?!”
“I was there when they took him from the house in cuffs. He was ranting and raving and said he was going to sue them.”
“Yeah . . . maybe when he gets out of jail in fifty years.”
“It doesn’t look good for him.” I lay down my knife. “Why don’t you guys keep chopping, and I’ll get the pot going.”
I continue to tell them about the rest of the afternoon while grabbing a sixty-quart pot from underneath the counter and placing it on the stovetop. I turn the burner on and drop some onions and garlic that have been sautéed in vegetable shortening and bacon grease into the pot while I tell Wavonne and Tacy, and the rest of my kitchen staff within earshot, about the sequin on the front lawn and the feather in the den, and how Nathan claims he saw Odessa headed back to the house after the party.
“Sounds like Nathan did Monique in, but who knows, maybe Odessa had something to do with it, too.”
“Maybe,” I agree, and turn to Tacy. “Thanks for prepping all of this,” I offer, referring to the onions and garlic he had all prepped and ready to go in the pot.
Tacy, a man of few words (one of the reasons I like him so much), nods, and he and Wavonne look on as I add some chicken broth, apple cider vinegar, and water to the pots. We discuss theories about why Nathan might have killed Monique while the two of them continue to chop greens, and I diligently mix the fragrant liquid with a big metal spoon. As we mull over his rumored gambling addiction and alleged abuse of Monique, I add a few heaps of our house seasoning, which consists of paprika, salt, onion powder, black pepper, red pepper flakes, garlic powder, and dry mustard.
“There,” I say, giving the pot a final stir and turning up the heat on the stove. “All ready for the greens and ham hocks.”
Once we’re done chopping the greens, we’ll add them to the pots along with some ham hocks and simmer them for a good two hours. Then we’ll pull the hocks out, remove the meat from the bone, chop it into small pieces, and return it to the pot before moving the finished product to the steam table to keep the greens hot before they are plated, topped with bits of crispy bacon, and taken out to our guests with a bottle of my homemade hot pepper sauce.
I turn back toward the counter and pick up a knife. I’m about to help Tacy and Wavonne finish chopping the greens when
Sondra, one of my hosts, pops in with the portable phone in her hand.
“There’s a call for you, Halia. He wouldn’t tell me who he is, but he says it’s urgent.”
“Really?” I ask. “It’s probably some dial-a-date guy Momma gave my number to.” I laugh and put the phone to my ear. “This is Halia.”
“Hi, Halia,” I hear in a low deep voice. “Please don’t hang up.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Nathan . . . Nathan Tucker. I need your help.”
RECIPE FROM HALIA’S KITCHEN
Halia’s Collard Greens
Ingredients
4 bunches collard greens
1 tablespoon vegetable shortening
8 slices bacon
1 chopped onion
3 cloves chopped garlic
4 cups chicken broth
2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
3 cups water
1 tablespoon Sweet Tea House Seasoning
1 smoked ham hock
Sweet Tea House Seasoning
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 tablespoon paprika
2 teaspoon onion powder
1½ teaspoons red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon dry mustard
• Swish greens in a large bowl (or sanitized sink) of cold water to remove grit before transferring to a colander to drain. Replace water in bowl and repeat process of swishing greens and transferring them to a colander until greens are grit free (i.e., when you do not see any grit in the water after extracting the greens).
• Stack washed greens (stalks removed) in 4 piles. Roll each pile up like a cigar. Slice into ½-inch strips.
• In frying pan, heat shortening over medium high heat. Add bacon, turning occasionally. Cook until crisp. Remove bacon, chop into small pieces, and set aside.
• Add onions and garlic and sauté in shortening and bacon grease until onions are tender (about 15 minutes). Add onions and pan drippings to a large pot. Add chicken broth, cider vinegar, and water. Stir in one tablespoon of Sweet Tea’s House Seasoning, then add greens and ham hock to the pot. Bring contents of pot to a boil over high heat, cover, and reduce heat to medium. Simmer greens and ham hock, stirring occasionally, for 2 hours, or until greens are tender.
• Remove ham hock from liquid and strip meat from the bone. Discard bone and excess fat. Chop meat into small chunks. Combine ham hock meat with chopped bacon in a bowl.
• Drain greens and transfer to a large bowl or deep serving dish. Mix ham hock meat and chopped bacon into greens.
• Serve immediately so bacon stays crisp.
Chapter 23
There is something really creepy about visiting the campus of a correctional facility . . . the staid brick buildings, the tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, the general sense of confinement—it all just gives me goose bumps . . . goose bumps that linger on my skin as a uniformed guard asks for my name, the reason for my visit, and my driver’s license. After taking down my license plate and using what looks like a very strong flashlight (even though it’s daylight) to look through the windows of my van (searching for God knows what), he returns to his little booth and presses a button to lift the gate arm, allowing me to drive onto the property of the Prince George’s County Correctional Center.
As I follow the signs to the building where I’m supposed to meet Nathan, I can still hear the desperation in his voice when he called me yesterday. He was adamant that he did not kill Monique, and that the police were overly anxious to close her murder case. He said they had little interest in pursuing any further investigation and were going to put him away for life without considering other suspects—namely Odessa, whom Nathan is convinced returned to his and Monique’s house after the white party and shot Monique from the edge of the front lawn. The red sequin he saw me hand Detective Hutchins has only reinforced his certainty that Odessa is the killer.
Apparently, he and Monique ran in the same social circles as a now-deceased acquaintance of mine, Raynell Rollins, a former high school classmate who was killed earlier this year. She was a top-selling real estate agent in the area and the wife of a prominent former Washington Redskins player. Although she and her husband didn’t have the same national celebrity as Monique, they were definitely part of Prince George’s County’s upper crust, so it makes sense that Monique and Raynell kept company with the same people. After meeting me, Monique must have put two and two together and realized that I was the one whose name was being batted around at cocktail parties as the person who solved Raynell’s murder. At some point before she died, Monique apparently shared this information with Nathan, and he’s now decided that my history as an amateur sleuth is his only hope for avoiding a lifetime in prison.
I was told I could have virtually nothing on my person when I meet with Nathan, so I shove my purse under the front seat and drop my cell phone in the glove compartment. When I lock the van and walk toward the entrance of the facility, the only things I have on me are my driver’s license and my car keys.
* * *
“Yes?” says a disinterested woman behind the counter after I enter the building.
“Hi. My name is Mahalia Watkins. I’m here to see Nathan Tucker.”
“Inmate number?”
I feel like responding, “I’m good, thanks for asking,” but I guess if there’s any place to not get smart, it’s the county jail. Instead, I say, “I’m not sure. I don’t think I was given that information.”
She sighs as if I’ve asked her to go pick up my dry cleaning or mow my lawn. “I’ll need to look him up. What’s his name again?”
“Tucker. Nathan Tucker.”
She clicks some buttons on her keyboard, finds him in the system, and scribbles a few notes on a form. She then barks more words at me, makes a copy of my driver’s license, and hands me a pass.
“Security is to your left,” she says. “No cellular telephones, laptop computers, tablet computers, smart watches, purses, bags, pagers . . . no food or drink, including chewing gum,” she adds, almost robotically. “There are lockers before the screening area if you need to store anything.”
I take the pass and say, “Thank you,” to the young lady despite her groans, snappy questions, and not being bothered to make eye contact with me at any point during our interaction. From there I find my way to the screening area, deposit my keys in a little bin, and send them through an X-ray scanner. I then walk through a metal detector only to be told, once I’ve cleared it, to lift my arms and separate my feet. As a plump middle-aged woman with about as much warmth as the surly lady at the reception counter waves some wand thing over my entire being, I decide that if I hear the term “strip search,” I’m out of here, and Nathan is on his own.
Once I’m finally cleared and pick up my keys, a guard asks me for the inmate number of the person I’m there to see. He seems just as annoyed as the lady at the counter when I don’t remember it.
“It should be on your pass.”
“Sorry. It’s my first time here.” I flip my pass upward so he can see it. He checks something off on his clipboard and leads me down a hallway that smells like both mold and bleach, to an unmarked door, which he unlocks and holds open for me. I poke my head in and see a sizable space with tables and chairs that remind me of a retro McDonald’s, albeit a very stark and drab McDonald’s . . . back when the tables were attached to the floor and the plastic chairs were attached to the tables.
I see a few other inmates with visitors before my eyes spot Nathan. I don’t know why I’m surprised to see him in an orange jumpsuit—I guess that’s what one wears in jail. But given that this is only a county detention center and he has not yet been convicted of anything, maybe I thought he would still be in street clothes or at least something less . . . I don’t know . . . less incriminating.
I check in with yet another guard seated at the front of the room before finally getting to meet with Nathan.
>
“Hello,” he says, extending his hand without getting up. I’m not sure if it’s the circumstances of my visit or the somber environment, or his jumpsuit, but the bulk of that intimidating quality that was emanating from Nathan when I first met him is gone. At the moment he looks much more “victim” than “bully.” “Thank you for coming.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Tucker.”
“Nathan. Please.”
“Nathan,” I say. “I didn’t know her well, but I liked Monique, and she was such a great role model for young women. If I’m being honest, I’m only here because I feel like I owe it to her to hear what you have to say. Even then, I’m really not sure if I can help you.”
“I appreciate that.” He fiddles with his fingers nervously. “What I have to say is . . . is that I did not kill my wife.”
“I’m not privy to all the relevant information, Nathan, but from what I know, the evidence is stacked against you. Word is that your fingerprints are on the gun, and your hands tested positive for gunpowder residue, which would indicate that you recently fired the weapon in question.”
“Of course my fingerprints are on my gun. I had gunpowder on my hands because I went to the range the day of the party and did a few practice rounds. You can check the register at the small arms range by my house. I wanted to get in some final practice with the gun . . . make sure I knew how to use the thing before we went on the road.”
“The road?”
“The tour. Monique and I . . . and Maurice and Alex were starting the tour the next day. We were going to be traveling all over the country in a very conspicuous bus. People would know Monique was on board, and she is known for being rich and wearing flashy expensive jewelry. We could have easily been targeted by thieves . . . even kidnappers. I bought the gun so we’d have some protection while we crisscrossed the country, not to kill my wife.”
“Why do the police even think you would want Monique dead?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but if you believe the talking heads on TV, I supposedly was looking to split from her, and when I did, I wanted our entire fortune, not the half of it I would have gotten if we divorced,” Nathan says. “And . . . well . . . I have some gambling debts . . . some debts I owe to a not-so-nice person.”
Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce Page 14