“Maybe so,” Odessa says. “Are we done here, ladies? I’ve got a client arriving any minute.”
“I guess so,” I reply. “Thank you, Odessa. I really hope I didn’t offend you with my questions.”
“I’m not easily offended, Halia. If I was, I wouldn’t have stayed friends with Monique for so many years. Why are you snooping around about Monique’s murder anyway? Shouldn’t you just let the police do their job?”
“They seem to have decided, perhaps prematurely, that Nathan is guilty, and I must say, the evidence does point in that direction. But me? I’m not so sure Nathan is the culprit.”
“You know, if you really think Nathan may not be Monique’s killer, if I were you, I’d be asking questions of one Alejandro Rivas.”
“Alex? Why?”
“You mentioned overhearing Monique and me arguing. Well, I overheard an argument of my own—Alex and Monique had a doozy of one the night of the party. It was after the party wrapped and Nathan had gone out back to smoke a cigar. I was the last guest still there. I’d said my good-byes, and they thought I’d left, but I made a quick run upstairs to the ladies’ room. On my way out, I heard Alex begging Monique to ‘reconsider. ’ I don’t know exactly what he wanted her to reconsider, but my guess is that she was ending an affair with him, and he was trying to talk her out of it . . . to no avail, apparently. I remember Monique’s words very distinctly. She said, ‘It’s over. I can’t do it anymore. Let it go, Alex.’”
“What did he say?” Wavonne asks.
“Nothing. He just stormed out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and out the door.”
“So you think he and Monique were having an affair?”
“It sure sounded like it from the way they were quarreling. I don’t think he saw me, but I caught a glimpse of his face as he took off. He was mad as hell. Perhaps mad enough to kill Monique.”
“Wow. I had no idea.” I hope the disappointment doesn’t show in my face. I liked Alex, and I was starting to entertain the idea that maybe he actually had been flirting with me over the last few days. I hate to think of him having a fling with Monique, and I really hate the idea of him possibly having something to do with her death. “Thanks for sharing that with us, Odessa. It’s good to know.” I turn to Wavonne. “You ready? We should let Odessa get back to work.”
We say good-bye to Odessa again, who seems slightly less irritated by me, now that she’s directed my suspicions elsewhere, and I compliment her salon a final time before we leave.
When we step outside, I see the man who purchased some Hair by Monique products while we were talking at the counter. He’s smoking on the sidewalk in front of a Starbucks a few doors down from Odessa’s salon. He takes a last puff from the cigarette, throws the bud on the ground, and stomps it out. Then he pulls out his car keys and heads toward the parking lot, making a quick pit stop before stepping off the curb onto the blacktop to lift his Salon Soleil bag of hair care products and toss them in one of the public garbage cans.
“What’s that about?” I ask as Wavonne and I watch him make his way to his car. “Why would he throw away a few hundred dollars’ worth of creams and conditioners?”
“Beats me,” Wavonne says, her eyes on the man of interest. She waits until he’s inside his car with the door closed before speaking again. “But wait here while I go fish them out.”
Chapter 25
“This smell of fried chicken is making me hungry,” Wavonne says. We’re back in the van after making a quick stop at Sweet Tea to check on a few things and fix a plate for Alex. Wavonne and I are on our way to pay him a quick visit. I’m having trouble even considering the idea that he and Monique were having an affair or that he could have been involved with Monique’s death, but if someone throws a lead my way, I can’t help but follow up on it. And, if I’m being honest, it’s as good an excuse as any to see him again. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but much as I denied it to Wavonne and Momma, I did feel like there was a spark between Alex and me, and I simply can’t imagine that handsome man, who seemed so kind the few times I’ve met him, could be a killer. My guess is he’s actually quite broken up about Monique’s death and could use a condolence visit from some friendly faces, so Wavonne and I will make a social call and, if I can somehow bring it up in a much less awkward and accusatory way than I did with Odessa, I’ll see what I can glean about his whereabouts when Monique was killed.
“I figure Alex will be happier to see us if we bring him some goodies—everyone is happier to see you when you come with a plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and collard greens. He’s probably hungry. I doubt he’s in the mood to cook at the moment.”
“Yeah . . . instead of cookin’, he’s either grievin’ Monique’s death or, if Odessa’s story holds any water, afraid the po po are about to show up at his door with an arrest warrant,” Wavonne says. “How’d you find out where he lives, anyway?”
“He mentioned that he lived at Iverson Towers the night he was at Sweet Tea, but I don’t have his apartment number. I’m hoping there will be a directory or something.”
“I think that’s it . . . right up there on the right.” Wavonne points to a high-rise apartment complex, or at least what we call a high-rise in suburban Maryland . . . maybe ten or twelve stories tall. “I think a friend of mine lived there a few years ago,” she adds, picking up the shiny plastic Salon Soleil bag from the floor while I turn into the parking lot of Alex’s building. “Why do you think that man at Odessa’s salon bought all this stuff only to chuck it a few minutes later?” She pulls out a few bottles of hair potions.
“I’ve been wondering about that, too. I have no idea. Odessa’s salon probably caters to wealthy people, so maybe throwing away expensive hair products is no big deal to them, but I’m still not sure why he’d do it.”
“Oh well . . . whateva . . . I got the hookup now. I can give this hair milk to Tanya for her birthday. I think Aunt Celia uses this conditioner—I’ll sell it to her at half price. And I’ll keep this detangler for myself.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” I say as we step out of the van and walk toward the glass doors that lead to the lobby of Alex’s apartment building.
Wavonne pulls on one of the door handles. “They’re locked.”
There’s a call box next to the entrance, but you need to know the apartment number of the person you’re visiting to reach the appropriate tenant and have them buzz you in.
I put my hands up to the glass to block the glare and look inside. “There’s a clerk at the front desk. Maybe she can help us.”
Wavonne peers through the door as well. “She doesn’t look too friendly, and sometimes these places won’t give out people’s apartment numbers.”
“If that’s the case, maybe she can call Alex and tell him we’re here.”
“Sometimes apartment buildings won’t even confirm if someone lives there at all. At least that’s what happened when I was trying to track down that lady with the pop-up wig shop on H Street in the city . . . the one that sold me what was supposed to be a genuine Beverly Johnson human hair wig that turned out to be some fake-assed Vivica Fox pile of polyester. If this building is anything like hers, they won’t tell you nothin’,” Wavonne says. “Come on. Follow my lead.”
I don’t have a chance to agree with whatever scheme she has come up with before Wavonne starts knocking on the door and waving for the clerk to let us in. The unpleasant-looking woman presses a button, and Wavonne hurries in front of me toward the desk.
“Cómo estás,” Wavonne says to the lady. “My brother . . . my hermano, Alex Rivas lives here . . . you know, aquí . . . but I don’t remember his apartment number.” I think she’s trying to do a Dominican accent, but she comes off sounding more Jamaican. “He’s been sick . . . you know, embarazada.”
I don’t know much Spanish, but I do know that embarazada means pregnant.
“I’m Juanita.” Wavonne nods in my direction. “And this is my sister, Rosario. W
e’re Dominican, ya know . . . we brought Alex some food . . . when he’s sick he only eats Dominican food, so we made some tacos and burritos and guacamole,” she says, lifting the plate in her hand.
The clerk shifts her eyes from Wavonne to me and gives me a “is this chick for real?” look. She then leans heavily in her chair and directs her gaze back at Wavonne. “So, let me get this straight. You’re bringing your pregnant Dominican brother some Mexican food . . . Mexican food that smells like fried chicken?”
“Ah . . . um . . .” Wavonne stumbles as she tries to think of something to say.
“Wavonne here is a little . . . what’s the word?” I ask while Wavonne still struggles for words.
“Extra,” the woman says.
“Yes, extra. She’s a ham . . . always putting on a show,” I say. “May I ask your name?”
The woman gawks at me, as if she’s sizing me up. Then she turns her head in Wavonne’s direction and seems to decide that, at least in comparison, I’m relatively sane. “Tanesha,” she says.
“Tanesha, I’m Halia and this is Wavonne. We’re trying to find a friend of ours, Alex Rivas. He recently lost someone dear to him, and we wanted to check on him and bring him a little something to eat. I know he lives in this building, but I don’t know his apartment number. Maybe you could help us with that?”
“You’re his friend, and you can’t call him and ask him for his apartment number yourself?”
“Maybe ‘friend’ wasn’t the right word. We just met several days ago. We catered an event together last Saturday night. We never exchanged phone numbers.”
“You’re in the catering business?”
“She’s the owner of Sweet Tea, the best—”
“Sweet Tea?!” Tanesha exclaims before Wavonne has a chance to brag. “No way?!”
“Yes way,” I say with a laugh.
“I love that place! It’s a bit out of my price range, so I’ve only been a few times . . . on some special occasions. The fried chicken and waffles were my favorite . . . and the sour cream cornbread . . . Oh. Em. Gee!” She looks at the plate in Wavonne’s hand again. “Is that your fried chicken under the foil?”
I nod and reach for my wallet and find a business card. “How about I give you my card, and you can send me an e-mail. We’ll set up a time for you and a guest to have lunch at Sweet Tea, on the house.” My offer should go on to include “if you help us out,” but we both know it’s implied, and it seems impolite to actually say it.
“Four twenty-three,” Tanesha says, taking the card. “Alex . . . he’s in apartment four twenty-three.”
“You know where tenants live by heart?”
“I know where single male tenants who look like Alex live by heart. That man is handsome as hell. But I don’t think he’s home. In fact, I’m not sure he lives here anymore.”
“What?”
“He was moving a bunch of stuff out the other day, and I haven’t seen him since. I asked him about it, and he said he was just getting rid of a few things, but he was probably afraid I’d tell the property manager if he admitted he was moving. He still has five months left on his lease.”
“Wow, you’ve really kept tabs on Mr. Rivas.”
“I’m partial to Alex because he’s single and good-looking, but I don’t have that much to do all day, so I keep an eye on a lot of the residents. I know who’s sneaking cat litter into this no-pets-allowed building, I know women who regularly go up to their apartments at lunchtime with men who are not their husbands, I know who came through last night with a big box of wine even though she came through with a big box of wine the night before and the night before that. Most people are actually very interesting if you just pay attention.”
“I suppose that’s true,” I agree, and try to steer us back to the subject of Alex. “Do you recall what day it was that Alex was moving things out?”
“Um.” She puts a finger to her cheek and thinks for a moment. “I remember him, boxes in his hands, sidestepping other residents in their church clothes, so it must have been Sunday morning.”
“Really? That’s good to know, Tanesha. Thank you for your help,” I reply. “Doesn’t sound likely, but do you mind if we pop upstairs and see if he’s home?”
“Be my guest.” Her eyes veer toward the plate in Wavonne’s hand. “If he’s not at home, you’re not going to throw that fried chicken away, are you?”
“If he’s not home, you’ve got first dibs on it,” I offer, and Wavonne and I set off for the elevator.
“So Alex may have skipped town the morning after Monique was killed,” I say once the elevator doors close, realizing I may have to actually begin entertaining the idea of putting him on my suspect list.
“Sounds like it,” Wavonne agrees as we exit the elevator and walk down the hall to Alex’s unit.
I knock on the door several times and when there’s no answer, I try the knob and find the door locked. “I guess the chances of getting Tanesha to open the apartment are pretty slim. We could try to bribe her with the fried chicken.”
“Or,” Wavonne says, reaching for her wallet and pulling out a credit card, “we could try this.” She lifts the card and finagles it into the doorjamb. “This will only work if the deadbolt isn’t locked.” She quickly slides the card down toward the floor and, just like that, the door pops open.
“I don’t even want to know where you learned that,” I say, and pop my head into the apartment to see the living room. Its only contents are a sofa and a bulky coffee table. “Hello. Alex?” I call, before pushing the door open wider, and stepping inside with Wavonne to take a closer look. We can see where a flat-screen television has been removed from the wall and some indentations in the carpet where some small end tables used to be.
We start to move through the space and come upon a table and chairs in the dining room and a virtually empty kitchen—almost nothing on the counters or in the refrigerator or cabinets. There’s a bed and a dresser in the bedroom, but the dresser is empty, as is the closet.
“Clearly, Rico Suave left town in a hurry.”
It takes me a moment to respond, as the idea that Alex was not who I thought he was really starts to settle in. “It sure seems like it. I think he took everything he could fit in his car and just left the rest.”
“You think Odessa was right about him?”
“Maybe. Maybe he did kill Monique in a fit of rage after she ended their apparent affair and left town before the police would have a chance to question him.”
“So, what now?”
“Hell if I know. The police think Nathan killed Monique. Nathan thinks Odessa killed Monique. Odessa thinks Alex killed Monique. I’ve got as many suspects as Jennifer Lopez has ex-husbands.”
“That’s a lot of people who might have wanted someone dead. If anyone wants me dead, I hope it’s only one person . . . two at the most.” Wavonne kids. “And that sucks about Alex. He seemed like a good guy, and I know you had a thing for him.”
“I did not have a thing for him,” I lie.
“Mmm hmm,” Wavonne drones. “I guess it was a disappointin’ day for everyone.”
“I don’t know about that.” We step out of the apartment and close the door. “With Alex MIA, at least Tanesha at the front desk is getting herself some of the best fried chicken in town.”
Chapter 26
“It was very nice of you to invite me, Halia, but I’m afraid your wonderful menu is simply going to be wasted on me. I’m only doing lean proteins and steamed vegetables until I drop thirty pounds,” Maurice says, having just walked through the door of Sweet Tea. “And, quite frankly, I’m miserable, but I can barely get these pants buttoned, and I refuse to buy any more new clothes that go up yet another size. I’m going to get back into my thirty-two-inch-waist Bonobos if it kills me. I only stopped by to say hi and thank you for the offer. I’m in the neighborhood anyway to touch base with Latasha about a business opportunity.”
I invited Maurice to Sweet Tea a few days ago. I wanted to t
hank him for taking Wavonne and me shopping last week and, yes, I also want to pump him for information about Nathan and Odessa. And, as it appears that he has skipped town, I’m particularly interested in anything Maurice may know about the relationship between Alex and Monique.
“It’s me who wanted to thank you. Who knows what I would have worn to the party if you had not intervened. Fashion is so not my thing.”
“You?” Maurice runs his eyes over my outfit. “In those LL Bean khakis that are completely devoid of any tailoring and that Eddie Bauer wash-and-wear no-iron shirt? No way,” he kids.
“I guess I’m a ‘function over form’ kind of girl when it comes to clothing, especially at work. And how did you know exactly where I bought my clothes?”
“I’m a stylist. I can tell you where most of the people in this restaurant bought their clothes.”
I’m tempted to tell him to go for it, but I’m thinking it may not be the best idea for him to start pointing at my customers and calling out their apparel choices. Instead, I say, “Please. Stay and have some lunch. It’s not what we’re known for, but we have a few low-calorie options. Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll get you a menu.” He seems agreeable to my suggestion, so I grab a menu and show him to a small booth along the wall. “And how about a glass of our Purple Rain iced tea to start with? It’s lightly sweetened with stevia and a touch of honey, so it’s only about thirty calories a glass.”
“How can I turn down something called Purple Rain iced tea?”
“We used to call it Purple Passion, but we happened to have it on special the day Prince died in 2016, and one of my servers started calling it Purple Rain, and it sort of stuck.”
I give Maurice a few minutes to peruse the menu before returning with a glass of purple tea made from an organic blend of hibiscus, rosehips, and stevia leaves that we mix with puréed blueberries, a few drops of honey, and a squeeze of lemon. We normally bring out a pan of our famous sour cream cornbread with the drink order, but, clearly, Maurice is trying to stick with whatever program he is on, so I decide not to tempt him.
Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce Page 16