Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce

by A. L. Herbert

  “Hmmm.” I take a closer look at the screen before pressing play and letting the program run again.

  “What? What do you see?” Wavonne asks.

  “Nothing,” I respond, and watch the scene unfold again. It’s yet more video in which I’m present, but this time it was taken right after Wavonne, Momma, and I had just bypassed the long line, with some help from Odessa, and made our way into Monique’s House of Style.

  “Oh my God. If they show any video of me without my wig, I will sue someone,” Wavonne says as the camera takes in the three of us along with Monique and my whole band of suspects . . . Nathan, Odessa, Alex, Maurice . . . but now, as the video zooms out, a fifth person of interest comes into play. I barely have time to process the new information when the video cuts to shots of Monique’s white party.

  I watch intently as the white party unfolds on the television, looking for any more persons of interest. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, until there’s a close-up of Monique and Nathan posing for photos next to the cake that Alex made. In true sensational journalist fashion, the program freezes this scene into a still and begins to expound upon how, underneath the beautiful mane of what everyone thought was Monique’s hair, was, in fact, a shortly cut Afro. And, in what is clearly an attempt to up the “salacious” factor, the program depicts what Monique actually would have looked like without her wig. As much as I’m sure they tried, it seems they couldn’t get their hands on an actual photo of her wigless, so the producers digitally altered the still of her and Nathan in front of the cake. They erased her wig and superimposed a closely cropped head of hair on her. And this is when it all comes together—this is when I figure it all out.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Wavonne asks me. “Why do you look like Lucy when she’s finally figured out how to worm her way into Ricky’s show?”

  Chapter 37

  “Thank you for coming,” I say to Detective Hutchins. He just stepped out of an unmarked car in front of Maurice’s house. Wavonne and I have been waiting for him to arrive before going into the gathering. Maurice had mentioned earlier that he had been approached by police, so I confirmed with the detective that he was not involved in that meeting. Otherwise, I don’t think there’s much chance that anyone else at the gathering will know who he is.

  “I’m not happy about this, Ms. Watkins,” he says. “I’ve told you a million times to leave the police work to the police. We have a solid case against Nathan, but we are following up on other leads. There was no need for you to do that. I came more for your protection than any other reason. I’m a little afraid for your safety—if you start hurling allegations of murder at people, you may find yourself in a ‘more than you bargained for’ situation.”

  “I appreciate your concern. I’m grateful . . . really,” I say. “Did you bring what I asked?”

  Detective Hutchins pats his front pocket. “Yes.”

  “Thank you. We’ll introduce you as a friend of ours.”

  We walk up the front steps and knock on the door.

  “Hello,” Maurice says, looking down at my hands, and then back up at me. There’s a brief look of disappointment on his face, and I realize that he may have expected me to bring some food. I thought it was a bit odd that he invited Wavonne and me to a gathering for Monique’s close friends, as we barely knew her, but now it makes a bit more sense—he was likely hoping I’d show up with a few pans of cornbread. And, now that I think about it, I probably should have at least brought a bottle of wine with me or something. But this is my first time at an affair like this—part memorial service, part party. I’m not sure of the etiquette for such a thing.

  Maurice is dressed a bit more conservatively than usual in a pair of tan khakis, a white shirt, a pink bow tie, and a plaid patchwork blazer that’s a mix of pastels. “Please forgive me for wearing spring fashions in the fall, but Monique loved this jacket . . . it complemented the pink of her product packaging so nicely.”

  “You look great. Very smart,” I say. “This is our friend . . .” I stumble for words. I can’t believe that after all I’ve been through with Detective Hutchins over the years, I’ve never learned his first name.

  “Hi,” Detective Hutchins says. “I’m Robert. I’m a friend of Halia’s. Forgive me for tagging along, but we have plans in the city afterward, so they invited me.”

  “No problem. Please come in.”

  Maurice’s home is a narrow row house, so when we step through the door there is no foyer or hallway. We come through the threshold right into a living room/dining room combo and find about twenty people present, either seated or milling about, some with small plates of food or a drink in their hands.

  “How about I get you each a glass of sangria?” he asks, before narrowing his eyes at Wavonne. “Wavonne, sweetie, I thought we had come to an agreement about the tight clothing,” he adds, referencing the very snug leopard print dress she’s wearing. “Rule of thumb: If we can tell you’re an ‘innie’ or an ‘outie’ through the fabric, you need to go up to the next size, dear.”

  “This is a new dress, Maurice. I got it off my Wish app for seven dollars,” she says. “I’m still breakin’ it in. It will loosen up as the day goes on.”

  I have to laugh when Maurice gives Wavonne one of her very own “mmm-hmms” before leaving our little group to fetch our drinks.

  I scan the crowd and see Odessa on the sofa talking with another woman I don’t recognize. I also see Alex, looking dapper as ever in a pair of tapered chinos and a fitted gingham shirt. He’s standing by the dining room table, helping himself to some cheese and crackers.

  “Your boyfriend’s here,” Wavonne says to me.

  “I see him,” I say. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “That’s Alex Rivas,” Wavonne says to Detective Hutchins. “He’s Dominican . . . and he’s got a thing for chicas viejas.”

  “Old girls?” Detective Hutchins asks.

  “Wavonne’s just being silly,” I say. “Why don’t we sit down.”

  The three of us have barely started toward the sofa when Maurice comes back with our drinks. He quickly passes them to us and then begins clapping his hands. “Okay, everyone. Why don’t we get started?”

  The room quiets as Maurice grabs a stool and sits down. “I’m so glad everyone made it today to honor Monique and her memory. I honestly feel this is the kind of memorial she would have wanted—a gathering where the people closest to her can celebrate her life away from throngs of fans and press that were at her funeral. I thought we could introduce ourselves, as I’m not sure everyone has met before, let others know of our connection to Monique, and share stories or anecdotes.”

  Maurice starts the sharing process by telling everyone how he was Monique’s personal wig dresser and stylist. He talks of how they met at Enigma years ago before she was a household name, and how they became friends as well as business associates. He starts to tear up when he speaks of how he regrets not taking more aggressive action to get her to leave Nathan. He then shares a few touching stories about Monique, the charity work she did, and how well she took care of her mother.

  A few other people share stories about how they met Monique and what she meant to them before Odessa’s turn comes around. “I don’t even know where to begin with Monique,” she says. “We met in high school when we were Biology lab partners. I had spent the morning trying to make my hair look like Paula Abdul’s when she was in Janet Jackson’s “Nasty” video, and the first thing Monique said to me when we were paired in class was, ‘That side ponytail looks stupid.’ I responded with the first thing I ever said to her: ‘No one watches Dynasty anymore. Perhaps you should lose the shoulder pads.’ Of course, I knew she wasn’t wearing shoulder pads . . . and she knew she’d met her match. From then on we were friends . . . sisters . . . sometimes nemeses. We had our ups and downs, but through it all, I think we always respected each other’s ambition and drive. The world . . . my world will be a much less interesting place without Monique. I’ll miss her.
”

  The room is still until it becomes clear that Odessa is finished.

  “Who would like to go next?” Maurice asks.

  “I can go,” Alex says, and clears his throat. “I met Monique last year when I was working at a little restaurant downtown. I’m proud to say she enjoyed my food so much that she asked for me to come out of the kitchen, so she could meet me. She—”

  “Um,” I utter, interrupting Alex. Detective Hutchins and I have been exchanging looks while guests have shared their stories, and I can tell he’s getting inpatient and wants me to move things along. “I’m sorry to cut into your story, Alex, but I’m curious—what restaurant was it that you worked at when you met Monique?”

  “Oh . . . it was just a small restaurant here in the city . . . it’s out of business now,” is his response. “They couldn’t make it when I left to cook for Monique,” he adds with a laugh.

  “Did you have a favorite thing to cook . . . a specialty at the restaurant?”

  “No . . . um . . . just different things.”

  “So you made ‘different things’ at an unidentified restaurant?”

  “I guess I did . . . yeah. Why all the questions?” Alex asks, and from the looks on the faces of everyone else in the room, they want to know why the rude lady is asking “all the questions” too.

  “I think you know why, Alex,” I say. “There was no restaurant, was there?”

  “Of course there was. It was—”

  I cut him off. “And you’re not a chef, either, are you?”

  He doesn’t answer, but I can tell I’ve unnerved him.

  “When I let you tour my kitchen at Sweet Tea, and one of my employees called ‘behind you,’ the first thing you did was back up. Anyone who’s been around a commercial kitchen knows ‘behind you’ means don’t back up. I didn’t think much of it at the time—perhaps you’d been away from the hubbub of a busy restaurant kitchen after signing on with Monique and had gotten rusty about the workings of such a place.”

  “Yes. Maybe I did.”

  “Maybe so,” I respond. “And I guess I can forgive the lack of knowledge around restaurant kitchen protocol, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that no real chef would have served the . . . for lack of a better word, ‘crap’ that you prepared for Monique’s House of Style and for her white party. There was nothing about the spreads you prepared that said ‘professional chef.’ Even Wavonne here”—I gesture toward Wavonne—“can make spinach dip and meatballs. And now that I think about it, those mini quiches that looked fresh from the freezer at the white party probably were fresh from the freezer.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Even Wavonne’?”

  I ignore Wavonne’s inquiry. “Besides, I looked you up, and L’Academie de Cuisine has no record of you ever attending. But my Internet search did dig up a few other records for one Alejandro Rivas. It wasn’t that long ago that you worked as a masseur at the Gold Door Spa in Bethesda . . . your name was mentioned in a review on Yelp. That’s the same spa that I heard Monique mention going to the night she dined at Sweet Tea. I don’t know how it happened . . . maybe she booked a massage with you, kept coming back for more, and that’s how the affair started. Who really knows . . . but the affair did start, didn’t it?”

  “This is ridiculous. I never had a romantic relationship with Monique.”

  “Of course you did. And she couldn’t bear the thought of going on the road for weeks without you. I’m guessing Nathan would not have been too keen on his wife bringing a handsome young man on tour with them whose only job would be to give his wife regular rubdowns. So she hired you as a personal chef . . . or I guess I should say, to pose as a personal chef.”

  “You don’t have any proof that we were having an affair.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, Alex,” I challenge. “Women don’t usually wear jewelry given to them by men who are simply in their employ at grand affairs like Monique’s white party.”

  “From the look on your face, I’d guess somethin’ about what Halia just said struck a nerve,” Wavonne says, eyeing Alex. “You look like my friend Melva when she got caught stuffin’ all-you-can-eat crab legs in her purse at the Korean buffet.”

  I give Wavonne my “shut up” glare and turn back to Alex. “Monique looked stunning the night she was killed in that custom-made blue dress. When Maurice told Wavonne and me about it before the party, he said she planned to add her usual splash of color to her annual white party with a Larimar blue dress, I didn’t think much of it. I had never heard of Larimar. But I spend most of my days in khakis and unisex no-slip kitchen shoes—I figured he or she was some hot designer that I’d never heard of . . . but it turns out that Larimar is not a he or a she.”

  “Of course he is,” Wavonne says. “He’s dressed Tyra Banks and Iman. He’s the one with that famous cat . . . Chowpeter or somethin’.”

  Maurice lets out a long, loud sigh. “That’s Lagerfeld,” he says, shaking his head. “And the cat’s name is Choupette.”

  “So who or what is Larimar then?” Wavonne asks.

  “I’m getting to that,” I respond. “For reasons that are not important at the moment, I had the pleasure of glue-gunning a few hundred plastic gems to an old prom dress a few days ago. At some point as I was pressing the gems on the fabric, the blue ones sparked a memory of the necklace Monique wore the night of the big white party. I assumed it was just an accessory that she added to her gown, but in retrospect, I suspect she had the dress made to go with the necklace. I remember the piece of jewelry because it was made from a stone that I’m not sure I’d seen before . . . it was somewhere between light blue and turquoise. I did a little research on blue gems, and that’s when I found out that Larimar is not a designer . . . Larimar is a gem . . . a blue gem . . . a gem found in only one place—the Dominican Republic.”

  “So what?” Alex says. “Anyone could have given her the necklace. Yeah, Larimar is from the DR, but you can buy it anywhere. She may have purchased it for herself.”

  “Anything is possible, I guess, but Larimar is not expensive, and Monique was not in the habit of buying cheap jewelry. . . or cheap anything for herself. She had necklaces worth thousands of dollars, but she chose to wear one that may very well be worth less than a hundred bucks. She would have only done that if the necklace had sentimental value . . . if it came from someone very special to her.”

  There is a change in Alex’s eyes when I say “someone very special to her” that makes it clear to me, and to everyone in the room, that the necklace was from him.

  “Speaking of the Dominican Republic, you were showing me some photos of your recent trip there at the white party. Doesn’t seem like much of a stretch that you picked up the necklace for Monique while you were there, and she decided to wear it the night of the party as a symbol of your feelings for each other.”

  “I’m not saying any of this is true, but if it were, why are you bringing it up now?”

  “Because it gets to the root of why you killed Monique.”

  My words are followed by a collective gasp from virtually everyone in the room, including Alex, who squirms in his chair before responding. “If Monique and I were in love, like you say we were, why on earth would I kill her?”

  “I asked myself the same question when I was suddenly able to tie you to being in the very spot on the front lawn where the gun that killed Monique was likely fired.” I turn to Detective Hutchins. “Do you have the sequin from the front lawn that I gave you the day Nathan was arrested?”

  Detective Hutchins pulls a small plastic bag from his jacket pocket and hands it to me. I retrieve the red sequin and hold it out between my thumb and index finger.

  “At first, I thought for sure it came from Odessa’s gown . . . that it fell off her dress as she shot Monique from the front yard. Then I thought maybe it was Maurice . . . that he fired a gun at Monique in full red-sequined Brightina Glow drag from the same spot. But then, yesterday, I saw footage from the white party on
some trashy barely news television show. That’s when I realized the sequin I found on the front lawn may not have fallen from a dress . . . or any piece of clothing at all.”

  “Sista say what?” Wavonne cackles as I see brows go up with curiosity around the room.

  “Can I borrow your shoe?” I ask Wavonne, knowing that my practical flats are not quite up to the task I have in mind.

  “For what?”

  “Just give me your shoe, Wavonne.”

  Wavonne leans over, removes one of her heels, and hands it to me. “I got these off Wish, too . . . only fourteen dollars.”

  I take it from her and drop the sequin on a table by the sofa.

  “Sequins for clothing are typically made of metal or plastic. Giving one of those a little pounding would likely have no major impact.” I take Wavonne’s shoe, give the sequin a couple of good taps with the heel, and watch it shatter. “But this sequin wasn’t made of metal or plastic. It smashed into a tiny pile of dust because it was made of sugar.”

  “Sugar?” Detective Hutchins asks.

  “Edible luster dust, to be more exact.”

  “Edible? The sequin was food?” Wavonne asks.

  “Yep. You can make them . . . or buy them off the shelf at any craft or cake decorating store. They would be a great resource for a man posing as a chef . . . a man with no real culinary experience who was attempting to make a pretty impressive-looking cake . . . an easy way to add a little razzle-dazzle to an otherwise very ordinary dessert,” I explain. “I didn’t see the cake on the night of the party. I never really made it into the living room that night, and I guess people were congregating around it, blocking my view when I poked my head in there. But when I saw the cake on TV, things started to make sense. There it was on the flat screen above the bar at my restaurant . . . a pink three-layer cake sprinkled with red sequins.”

  All eyes are on me and the room is obscenely quiet as Alex becomes increasingly agitated.

  “When Wavonne and I arrived at the party, you had just come from finalizing the cake and were removing your chef’s coat because you had gotten some icing, and apparently sugared sequins, on it. I’m all but certain you put the coat back on before you left the house, and you must have still had it on when you shot Monique from the front yard, with gloves on, I assume, so only Nathan’s fingerprints would be on the gun. Maybe it was the recoil from the gun . . . or just from you blundering around, but at some point, a sequin fell off your jacket and onto the ground.”