I glare at Wavonne.
“I hear ya. I’m tired as all get-out, as well. And I’ve got six more hours to go on my shift,” the cashier says to Wavonne and then turns to me. “You have a restaurant?”
“Yeah. Mahalia’s Sweet Tea over at the King Town Center.”
“Oh. I’ve heard such good things about that place. But I think it’s out of my price range. I’m not exactly making the big bucks working the night shift here.”
I want to say that I’m not exactly making the big bucks, either. People think that when you own your own successful restaurant you must be raking in the dough, but let me tell you, I’m not making any millions. I earn a nice living, but rich I’m not. By the time I pay my staff, rent, insurance, utilities, random repairs, and make the payments on my loans, I’m almost bled dry, but I love it nonetheless. Life is about enjoying what you do in the moment, not about being rich . . . or so I keep telling myself.
“Oh, come on over, girl. We’ll hook you up. We got good prices at lunchtime, and I’ll sneak you a free dessert if you sit in my section.”
I chuckle, hoping that Wavonne is joking and isn’t really passing out free desserts to her tables. “We really do have some good values on our lunch menu. Give us a try.”
Once we’ve wrapped up with the cashier, Wavonne and I load the bags into the cart and make our way to the exit.
“You know. I think I’d sleep better if we make a quick run back to the restaurant and make sure Marcus locked up. He’d had a few drinks and may have forgotten,” I say to Wavonne once we pushed the cart into the parking lot and loaded the van.
And that is part of the reason I want to go back. But I also want to make Wavonne get her purse and see the look on her face when I ask her to pay me back for the makeup.
RECIPE FROM HALIA’S KITCHEN
Halia’s Sour Cream Cornbread
Ingredients
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup yellow cornmeal
¾ cup white sugar
1 teaspoon salt
3½ teaspoons baking powder
2 eggs
1 stick softened butter
1 can cream of corn (8.75 oz.)
1 can drained whole kernel corn (8.75 oz.)
1 container sour cream (8 oz.)
• Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Generously grease a 12-inch cast-iron frying pan.
• In a large bowl, combine flour, cornmeal, sugar, salt, and baking powder. Stir in eggs, butter, cream of corn, corn, and sour cream. Mix using an electric mixer at medium speed until well blended. Pour batter into prepared pan.
• Bake in preheated oven for 25 to 30 minutes, until lightly browned, or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.
Eight Servings
CHAPTER 8
“Honestly, Wavonne, you’d lose your weave if it wasn’t attached. How’d you manage to leave your purse behind?” I ask after we’ve settled into the van and fastened our seat belts.
“First of all, this is a wig, not a weave, thank you very much . . . and I don’t know how I forgot my purse. I think I left it in my locker. It was late, and I was ready to go home. . . .”
“You and me both. Marcus really had us scrambling today, trying to get all those casseroles ready for the dinner rush.”
“You shoulda just told him no, Halia.”
“Marcus is not the easiest man in the world to say no to, Wavonne. You know that.”
“Yeah. He’d just keep laying on the sugar ’til you said yes anyway.”
“He’s a regular sweet-talking shyster. At least I know who I’m dealing with. I’m afraid his guests tonight might think he’s actually genuine. God knows what sort of business he’s gotten them mixed up in.”
“What do think he’s up to?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but from the day I first met Marcus, that man has been scheming.”
“Where’d you meet him, again?”
“He came into the restaurant I worked at more than ten years ago. And if you think he’s handsome now, you should have seen him then. He wasn’t as polished . . . his suits weren’t as expensive and his ties were not necessarily silk, but he was hot with youth and a real head turner. He was barely over thirty.”
“Thirty ain’t hot with no youth, Halia.”
“It’s all relative, Wavonne,” I say. “He was entertaining some clients. I don’t remember what sort of business he was in back then. That might have been when he started selling life insurance or mutual funds. I could tell he was putting on airs from the moment he sat down at one of my tables. He studied the wine list like he had a clue about wine and ordered an expensive bottle to share. Then he treated his guests to the works: appetizers, entrées, desserts, and cappuccino. Only problem was, when the bill came, Marcus’s credit card was declined.”
“Reject!” Wavonne yells like she always does when a credit card swipe is declined by the approval machine at the restaurant.
“I didn’t want to embarrass him, so rather than tell him that his card was declined in front of his guests, I slipped a note in the leather bill folder before I handed it to him that said for him to see me at the bar. You should have seen him approaching me, like a dog with his tail between his legs.”
“So what happened?”
“We tried another card, and it was declined, as well. We finally maxed each card with some of the total bill, but he was still thirty dollars short, and that was before my tip.”
“He stiffed you?”
“Not only that. I loaned him the thirty dollars.”
“You did what?”
“I felt sorry for him. He was so desperate to impress. He promised me that he was about to close a deal, and he’d pay me back as soon as he could. And you know what?”
“What?”
“That little scoundrel never did pay me back . . . and he still had the nerve to keep bringing his clients back to the restaurant and always asked for me to be his server.”
“You’re shittin’ me?!”
“I kid you not. He left me decent tips from then on, but he never did pay back the money I loaned him or give me that tip he skipped out on.”
“You let him off the hook?”
“I did . . . until a few years ago when I needed some investors to get Sweet Tea up and running. After he’d reviewed my business plan and listened to my pitch about the restaurant, he seemed to be on the fence about whether or not he wanted to invest. That’s when I reached back several years and reminded him of the time I bailed him out, and how he’d never paid me back. I honestly think that is what sealed the deal and brought him on board as an investor,” I say to Wavonne as we pull into a parking space in front of Sweet Tea.
“Girl, I’da had his balls in a vise grip if he’d tried to stiff my ass.”
We walk toward the restaurant. When we reach the entrance, I put the key in the door. “That’s funny,” I add, when I notice my key won’t turn properly. “The door’s unlocked. Marcus had better still be here. If he left without locking up, I’ll beat his ass.”
“Marcus?” I call out, wondering why he’d have all the lights off in the dining room if he was still here.
“Anyone here?” Wavonne yells from behind me as we both stride toward the back of the dining room. “It’s stuck,” she says when we reach the kitchen door. She tries to push it open. I watch her push the door, and push it again . . . and push it again, while each time, it hits against something on the other side. Finally I say, “You do know that the door opens both ways?”
I reach in front of her and pull the door toward us.
“What the . . . ?” is all that comes out of my mouth when I catch sight of what was blocking the door—it was Marcus, lying facedown on my shiny ceramic tile.
“It’s Marcus! Is he okay?”
“Is he okay?!” I say back to Wavonne, my heart starting to race. “Does he look okay to you? Call nine-one-one.”
Wavonne pulls out her phone, and I crouch down
and take Marcus’s hand. I’m about to call his name to see if he answers . . . to see if he’s conscious, but I can tell from the feel of his hand that he’s not conscious—I can tell from the feel of his hand that he’s not alive.
CHAPTER 9
“Oh my God!” I drop his hand and quickly stand up. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, Wavonne. Dead. D-E-A-D!”
“Oh, hail to the no! I ain’t stayin’ in here with no dead body! I’ll call nine-one-one from outside.”
“You’re not leaving me here alone.” I grab her hand and take a quick look around.
“I don’t like this, Halia. I’m no good with dead people.” She starts dialing her phone. I see her press the nine key, and she’s about to press the one when I see it.
“Wait! Don’t call anyone.” I’ve just caught sight of one of my cast-iron frying pans. It’s lying next to Marcus, whom I now see has a big welt on the back of his head. At first I thought he had fallen over drunk or something like that, but now I’m pretty certain that’s not the case.
“Huh?”
“Don’t call anyone!” I repeat, my breath quickening. “This wasn’t an accident.” I point to the frying pan. “Someone hit him over the head with it.”
“Who?”
“How the hell should I know?!”
“We gotta call the police, Halia.”
“Just hush for a minute. Let me think.” I start pacing back and forth, my hands shaking.
“Think about what? What’s there to think about? You find a dead body, you call the police.”
“Not when that dead body is in your restaurant, you don’t. Who’s going to want to eat here once word gets out that someone was murdered in my kitchen?”
“Not me, that’s for damn—”
I cut Wavonne off. “Would you just shut it for a minute? I told you, I need to think.” I keep pacing the floor, looking at Marcus, then looking away, then looking at him again. I can’t believe the man who was so alive and well and full of charisma such a short time ago is now lying lifeless on the floor at my feet. I was never a fan of Marcus, and sometimes he annoyed the crap out of me, but I never would have wished this on him.
I can’t get a grasp on what this all means. Too many thoughts are rushing through my head. I think of Marcus, and the effect his death will have on the people close to him—people like Jacqueline and Régine. But, honestly, thoughts of my livelihood are coming to mind, as well. I have put years of blood, sweat, and tears into this restaurant, and I’m not about to let it go under. I’ve poured everything I have into Sweet Tea. Even with a bank loan and help from investors like Marcus, Momma and I had to take out a second mortgage on the house and tap Daddy’s life insurance money to get this place off the ground. Not to mention I employ an entire staff who depend on me for wages. There is just too much at stake for me to let word get out that a prominent businessman was killed in my restaurant.
I try to calm myself while Wavonne looks on from the other side of the room. I stare down at the lifeless body and take a deep breath . . . and another. “You’ve got to help me get him out of here,” I finally say.
“Get him outta here? Lord Jesus! Have you done lost your mind, Halia? Where you gonna take him?”
“I don’t know.” I’m still walking back and forth across the kitchen, more quickly now. “We’ll drag him out back into the alley behind the bookstore or the coffee shop. Anywhere but here.”
“We? I ain’t touchin’ no dead body, Halia. For Christ’s sake, shuckin’ all that corn this afternoon did enough damage to my manicure.”
“Wavonne,” I say, steadying myself and looking directly at her. “If my restaurant goes out of business because no one wants to eat at a murder scene, who do you think is going to pay you what I pay you to sit around and run your mouth and paint your lips all day?”
She looks at me for a second or two . . . then at Marcus . . . then back at me. “I’ll get the feet,” she says. “You get the head.”
CHAPTER 10
“I just thought of something,” Wavonne says. “What if the killer is still here?”
“I’m sure he . . . or she is gone. He probably hightailed it out of here the moment Marcus hit the ground. He would have shown himself by now if he were still here. What would he want with us anyway? Marcus was involved with all sorts of questionable businesses. I’m sure this has nothing to do with us. Now help me. I think we both need to get him from up here. You get under his right shoulder, and I’ll get under his left.”
Wavonne does as she’s instructed. “I don’t like this, Halia. I got a police record. I don’t need to be movin’ no dead bodies around.”
“If anything happens, I’ll take the heat, Wavonne. Now help me flip him over.”
We manage to get him turned on his back. We both pull from under his shoulders and slide him over to the door that leads to the back alley. I release one hand, open the door, and poke my head out. All is clear, so Wavonne and I keep pulling. He’s not a real big man . . . and he kept himself nice and lean, but he feels like a lead weight. I hear a thump as his butt hits the ground when we get him past the one step from the door to the asphalt.
I almost feel like I’m out of my body . . . like I’m looking down at Wavonne and me from the roof and wondering what the hell those two women are doing dragging a limp corpse down the alley. He seems to be getting heavier and heavier, but neither one of us dares to take a break. We want to get this done as soon as possible. By the time we get him several yards past the restaurant and drop him next to a Dumpster behind the bookstore, we’re both huffing and puffing like two fat girls in gym class.
“Now what?”
“I don’t know,” I say back to Wavonne. “We’ll leave him here, and someone from the bookstore will find him when they take out the trash. They’ll call the cops. We’ll just say the last time we saw him was when we left the restaurant at midnight.”
I give Marcus’s body one last look. I still can’t believe he was just entertaining clients in Sweet Tea. Only hours earlier he was eating my fried chicken in between forcing that phony smile of his and trying to sell his clients whatever bag of goods he was hocking tonight. He may not have been the most principled person in the world, but he always seemed to have so much energy and life in him. To see him lying cold and stiff on the ground next to a Dumpster almost brings a tear to my eye. Even Marcus didn’t deserve to go like this. But I don’t have time for tears or any further reflection. At the moment, what Wavonne and I need to do is get the hell out of there.
“We have a receipt from the grocery store showing what time we were there, and we chatted with the clerk about the restaurant. She’d probably remember us and could serve as an alibi,” I say to Wavonne as I begin to walk away. “We’ll say we went home from the store. Momma’s been asleep for hours, so she won’t have to lie about what time we got home if she’s asked. Like I said, Marcus kept company with all sorts of people. The more the police investigate, the less interest they’ll have in us. Besides, we didn’t do anything but try to keep my business from going under. All we have to do is . . .” I let my voice trail off when I realize Wavonne is not behind me.
“Wavonne! What were you doing?” I ask, relieved to see her come from the other side of the Dumpster.
“Nothing. I was just giving him one last look. He was one handsome brotha, Halia.”
“Now is not the time, Wavonne. Let’s get inside, straighten up, and get on home.”
“I just helped you move a dead body, Halia. Do I have to help you clean, too?”
I don’t respond, but the streetlamps provide enough light for her to see the glare from my eyes, and she doesn’t say another word while she follows me back into the restaurant.
Despite the fact that someone was killed, and there’s a frying pan lying on the floor, there’s very little to indicate that anything out of the ordinary happened in the kitchen. Everything else seems to be in order.
Aside from the pan, th
ere’s really nothing out of place. I reach down and pick the frying pan up off the floor. Without thinking, I walk over to one of the oversized sinks filled with a few soaking pots. It’s not until I let go of the frying pan, and it sinks into the soapy water, that it occurs to me that fingerprints. . . murderer-identifying fingerprints . . . might have been on the handle.
“Damn it!” I quickly reach my hand into the water and grab for the pan handle even though I know it’s too late.
“What?”
“The pan. It might have had fingerprints on it.”
Wavonne looks at the dripping frying pan in my hand. “Had bein’ the key word.”
I drop the pan back into the water, livid with myself for being so thoughtless. I’m not sure how I could have turned it over to the police without being implicated for moving Marcus’s body, but now I’ve ruined what might well be the most helpful piece of evidence to lead the police to Marcus’s killer.
CHAPTER 11
I usually don’t get to the restaurant until nine on Sunday mornings. Laura gets in at seven and starts the prep work with the line staff, and I usually work very late on Saturday nights, so I allow myself to sleep in until seven-thirty on Sundays. But I could barely sleep a wink last night, and after hours of tossing and turning, I finally decide to say “to hell with it,” trudge out of bed at six, and head toward the shower.
I’m about to leave my bedroom when I stop cold. I get a whiff of something . . . something sweet and spicy . . . sweet and spicy and disturbing. It takes only a second for the scent to register. What did Wavonne say Marcus’s cologne smelled like? Spiced rum and dark chocolate? Yes. That’s what I smell. My shoulders quickly lift with tension, and I feel a flush of heat to my face. Oh my God! Marcus, or the ghost of Marcus, is haunting me! He’s right here in my bedroom to exact revenge on me for moving his body and not calling the police. I’m about to go into full-fledged panic mode when I see my clothes from last night lying on the dresser. I grab my blouse and put it to my nose. It smells pungently of Marcus’s cologne. I sigh with relief as I realize that his obnoxious fragrance must have seeped into my clothes when Wavonne and I were manhandling him out of the restaurant.
Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) Page 5