“How’s it going?” I ask Laura.
“Good. The temperature is off in oven number two. I called the repair shop, but they can’t get anyone out here today, so we’re down to two ovens until then.”
“Okay. I’ll give Harry a call at the repair shop, and see if I can sweet-talk him into getting someone out here today. Anything else going on?”
“No. Everything is pretty well under control.”
I want to ask her if she’s sure . . . if she’s sure there’s nothing else going on. Or if she saw anything suspicious when she came in this morning, but I decide it’s best to keep my mouth shut.
“Great. I’m going to go look at the reservations on the computer and see what kind of crowds we can expect this morning.”
When I first opened Sweet Tea, I didn’t take reservations. As anyone in the restaurant business can tell you, taking reservations creates a host of problems. You have the no-shows whom you’ve held a table for, the folks who show up late and get an attitude when you’ve given their table away, and the diners who linger at their table well beyond the allotted time for which we plan for them to be there (we call them “campers”), which makes us run behind with other reservations. It’s much easier and more profitable to take customers on a first-come, first-serve basis, but as my restaurant became more popular and waits of up to two hours were not unheard of on Friday and Saturday nights, I started getting more and more requests from patrons for me to start taking reservations, so I eventually decided to reach for some middle ground and began offering a limited number of reservations, but still make most tables available on a first-come, first-serve basis. This way, as long as customers call far enough in advance, they can usually get a reservation for their preferred seating time and avoid a long wait.
As I make my way out to the host stand, I see a Prince George’s County police car pull into a parking spot outside the front door. My heart starts to sputter as I watch Jack Spruce get out of the car. I know Jack well, and Wavonne teases that he has a crush on me. I don’t think anyone would call him handsome, and much like myself, it wouldn’t kill him to drop a few pounds, but he has a kind face and is always very nice. He is one of many officers who patrol the parking lot on a regular basis. On some Friday and Saturday nights we have a cop in the lot for the entire evening, which is more to keep an eye on Fast Freddie’s (a sports bar and pool hall, several doors down from Sweet Tea that often has a pretty rambunctious crowd) than my restaurant, but their presence is still appreciated. We always welcome the police into the restaurant and offer them free sodas or cups of coffee.
My hands are trembling as I mess around with the keys on the computer to look like I’m keeping busy as he makes his way to the door. I pretend to take a moment or two to notice him standing outside. When his eyes catch mine, he smiles and offers a quick wave. I force a return smile and remind myself to walk slowly toward the door.
You don’t know anything about any dead body behind the town center. Nothing. Absolutely nothing, I say to myself in my head, thinking that these thoughts might help my face project innocence.
“Morning, Halia,” Jack says, when I unlock the door and let him in. “How’s it going?”
“Just fine, Jack. How are you?”
“I’m good. You got any coffee on?”
“Sure. I believe we’ve started brewing it already,” I say, and turn toward Tacy, who’s a few yards away at one of the tables. “Tacy, can you get Officer Spruce a cup of coffee?”
“You bet,” he says, nods at Jack, and heads toward the coffee station.
“What’s new? Good crowd at dinner last night?”
“Yeah . . . yeah. It was good,” I say awkwardly, waiting for him to bring up a dead body.
“Good. Best food in the area. No wonder you keep so busy.”
I nod to acknowledge his compliment and then just look at him, waiting for him to break the news . . . to start asking questions, but he just stares back at me.
Oh, for Pete’s sake, I think to myself. He doesn’t know about the body. He’s just here on a social call.
Conversation usually flows freely between Jack and me, so I need to break this uncomfortable quiet before he gets suspicious.
“I’m sorry,” I say, breaking the silence. “I’m a little distracted. One of my ovens is down just in time for the brunch rush.”
“Really? Sorry to hear that. If I were handy, I’d offer to take a look at it for you, but I struggle with changing light bulbs.”
“You and me both.” I begin to relax a little bit. “So what are you up to this morning? Making your regular rounds?”
“Yeah. There was break-in at a house in the neighborhood across the street. The owners had let their newspapers pile up on the front porch. Burglars figured they were out of town and starting trying to break in the door. But, of course, they weren’t out of town . . . just lazy about picking up their papers. They called us and screamed that the police were on the way, so by the time I got there, the perpetrators were long gone . . . never a dull moment around here.”
“That’s for sure,” I respond, thinking about just how much less dull it was going to get around here very soon.
Before I have to force any more conversation, Tacy approaches with Jack’s coffee.
“I put it in a Styrofoam cup in case you want to take it with you,” Tacy says as he hands over the coffee.
“Thanks,” Jack replies. “Well, it sounds like you have a lot to deal with this morning, so let me get out of your way.”
“Thanks for stopping by, Jack. Hope you have a good one.”
As he walks out the door, I think about what he said . . . about me having a lot to deal with this morning.
“You have no idea, Jack,” I say softly as I watch him get in his patrol car. “Boy, do you ever have no idea . . .”
CHAPTER 13
“What are those?!” I say with a cross expression to Linda, one of my servers, as she passes by me, and I catch a glimpse of the two baskets of salty/sweet cheese nips she’s carrying—two baskets of salty/sweet cheese nips that are burned on the bottom. “I know you are not about to take those burned biscuits out to one of our customers.”
Linda looks at the biscuits, looks back at me, and hesitates a moment before responding. “I’m sorry. I grabbed them quickly. I didn’t realize they were burned.”
“Throw them in the trash and wait for the next batch to come out of the oven,” I say quickly and walk past her to do a quick check around the restaurant to see if any more of the burned nips have made it out to my tables. Brunch is in full gear . . . not an empty seat in the place, and I’ve got a crowd in front of the host stand and outside waiting for tables. I’m thankful for the distraction of being busy, but I’m about to blow a gasket waiting for the news to break. It’s noon, and as far as I know, no one has found Marcus in the alley. I keep waiting for sirens and police cars to show up, but so far, nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
This is one of the few times that I wished I had a television in the restaurant, so I could keep an eye on the TV and see if any news breaks about a dead body being found behind King Town Center. Customers always ask if I’m going to install some flat screens, so they can catch CNN or watch the football games. I even get sales reps in here from time to time trying to offer me a deal on a few Sony or Samsung TVs (and don’t get me started on the guy who came in trying to sell me newspaper frames to hang over the urinals in the men’s bathroom . . . can we not at least be alone with our thoughts when we pee?). But I refuse to allow TVs in my restaurant. We’re surrounded by televisions everywhere we go these days—at restaurants, bars, health clubs . . . even my dry cleaner has a flat screen going behind the counter from open to close. Hell, you can’t even get a burger at McDonald’s without watching turmoil in the Middle East or the latest politician caught with his pants down. I want my restaurant to be a respite from all of that constant peripheral stimulation. I want people to come here to focus on their family and friends, and mos
t important, my food.
“Hello,” I say to the one and only table that seems to have gotten a basket of the burned nips. “I’m Halia, the owner. How are you folks doing this afternoon?”
The pleasant-looking couple smiles, and they both say they are doing well.
“These biscuits are a little charred on the bottom and not up to my standards.” I take the basket from the table even though they’ve clearly already downed two of them with no complaints. “Let me get you a fresh basket.”
The woman at the table laughs. “They tasted fine to us.”
“You’ll like the new ones even better then. Please, pardon the inconvenience.”
I head back to the kitchen, and once I’m behind the line I raise my voice. “Who’s on biscuit duty?”
“I was,” Roger, one my youngest kitchen helpers, says with a meek expression.
“Well, number one, Roger. Why are you burning my biscuits? And, number two, why on earth didn’t you throw them out once they came out of the oven burned?” I then turn to everyone in the kitchen. “And why did anyone take these burned biscuits off the sheets, put them in baskets, and serve them to our customers?”
“You know how customers get when we’re running behind on the cheese nips,” Linda says. “It’s like mutiny out there if they don’t get them right away. They weren’t really burned . . . just a little dark on the bottom.”
A hush falls over the kitchen. Linda’s new, and although I went over my expectations with her as I do every server, she clearly has not yet grasped the passion I have for the food we serve here.
I look at Linda and then cast my attention to the entire kitchen. “Listen up, everyone. Nothing, and I mean nothing leaves this kitchen that isn’t perfect.” My eyes linger on Linda as I scan the room. “That means no slightly-browned-on-the-bottom cheese nips, that means no salads with croutons missing, that means no French fries that aren’t hot and crisp. Have we got that?”
I see several nods.
“You guys do a great job, but let’s not have any more mishaps.”
Honestly, I’m a little thankful to Linda for the brief distraction she’s given me. I’ve been on edge since last night, and at this point, I just want the cops to arrive, so I can pretend that I don’t know anything about anything, get them out of here, and let them move on with finding out who did Marcus in . . . and hopefully that will be the end of it from my perspective.
As the day wears on, and I seat diners, pop in and out of the kitchen, and check in with customers, I start to think I might lose it. By three o’clock the restaurant quiets down, and there are still no police, no news . . . no nothing. I decide that I just can’t take it anymore. I need to make some excuse to be in the alley and be the one to find the body my damn self. I think on it for a while and come up with a reasonable excuse. I decide to ask Tacy to break down a few boxes for me in the store room, so I can take them home to use for collecting stuff to take to Goodwill. I tell him I’ll drive around back and load the boxes into my van in the alley rather than traipsing through the restaurant with them and out the front door.
I’m nervous as I walk out of the restaurant toward my van, but I can’t take the waiting anymore. I hate the idea of me being the one to “find” the body, as that will tie me that much closer to the murder, but the sooner the police know about the body, the sooner they can start investigating, the sooner I can tell them whatever version of the truth I come up with, and the sooner I can have this lead weight lifted from my shoulders.
I start the van and back out of the parking space, giving the area one last look to see if any police cars are making their way in the parking lot, but no such luck. I drive along the front of the shopping center, turn the corner to whip around to the alley, and slowly maneuver the van toward the Dumpster behind the bookstore. As I get closer to my destination, I slow down and take a look. My eyes widen and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention, but I don’t stop. There’s nothing to stop for. The body’s gone.
CHAPTER 14
“Where’s Wavonne?” I ask Tacy, who’s standing in the kitchen next to the broken-down cardboard boxes I asked him to get for me.
“I think she’s out front. Do you want me to put the boxes in your van?”
I ignore the question and slam through the kitchen door into the dining area.
“I personally think she wears padded underwear. What white girl has an ass like that?” is all I hear Wavonne say to Linda, who’s putting an order into the computer. I don’t know who she’s talking about, and I don’t care.
“Linda, can you cover Wavonne’s tables? I need to talk to her.”
I don’t wait for Linda to reply. I grab Wavonne by the elbow, haul her through the kitchen, and out the back door just as Tacy is shutting the door on my van.
“I put the boxes in the back.”
“Thanks, Tacy. Wavonne and I need to run a quick errand. We’ll be back soon.”
Wavonne follows my lead and gets in the van. I start it up and just drive with no particular destination in mind.
“He’s gone!” I call out.
“Who?”
“What do you mean, who? Marcus. He’s gone!”
“Gone? Where’d he go?”
“How the hell should I know!? I drove around back, and there’s no body by the Dumpster.”
“What!?” Wavonne responds and turns around to look behind us out the window. “You sure he was dead, Halia? Maybe he got up and walked away.”
“He wasn’t breathing, and he didn’t have a pulse. He was dead!” I take a quick look at Wavonne before turning my eyes back toward the road. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Wavonne looks at me, and I think, for the first time, the gravity of the situation is hitting her.
“What are we going to do now?” I’m more asking myself than Wavonne.
“Just play it cool, Halia,” Wavonne says, making some calming motions with her hands. “We need to just play it cool. His body’s bound to turn up eventually.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I take a breath as we come to a stoplight. “But until then there is a murderer on the loose, and no one except for the two of us even knows that a crime has been committed.”
“You said yourself, Halia, that whoever killed Marcus doesn’t want anything to do with us. It had to’ve been related to some funky monkey business deal gone bad.”
“I don’t know what else it could have been about, but it happening in my restaurant scares me. Whoever killed him must have come back or seen us moving the body. Who else would have taken him?”
“You sure he was dead?”
“He was dead, Wavonne!”
Wavonne and I are quiet for a moment as we both stare straight ahead before I let out a long sigh. “I really don’t know what to do. I thought the cops would find the body, start an investigation from there, and find out who did him in. But now it could be days or weeks before he’s even reported missing.”
Wavonne turns her head in my direction and seems to be studying me as thoughts rush through my head. “Now, don’t you go gettin’ any big ideas about tellin’ the police the truth, Halia. You dragged me into this, and I ain’t goin’ to the big house ’cause you made me help you drag his body around.”
“I’m not going to call the police, but what if an anonymous caller did and said they saw a dead body behind the town center late last night?”
“Don’t you be makin’ any anonom . . . anono . . . whatever that word is—calls, either. They can trace numbers . . . analyze your voice. I watch CSI. Cops can do all sortsa crazy shit. You let it take its course. Someone‘ll figure out he’s missin’ soon enough.”
I think about what Wavonne says. I’m quiet for a minute or two before responding, “Maybe you’re right.”
“Damn straight, I’m right. I ain’t no dummy.”
“Never said you were, Wavonne,” I say and decide we might as well turn around and head back to the restaurant. Wavonne probably is right. The more we stay out of this
business, the better.
CHAPTER 15
So it’s day two since the night we found Marcus dead on my kitchen floor, and I’m still a nervous wreck. I always pay attention to who is coming in and out of my restaurant, but I now find myself looking up with a different kind of urgency every time someone comes through the door, wondering if it’s the police, or someone looking for Marcus, or, God forbid, whoever killed him.
I’ve been thinking a lot about who that person might be. I was up half the night obsessing about it. Marcus knew a lot of people. I don’t know much about murder, but I do know that people are usually murdered by someone they know. I doubt I’m even familiar with a fraction of his friends and acquaintances. There was the couple that was in here last week, who were clearly not happy with Marcus . . . and back here again the night he was killed. Could they have done him in? They didn’t look like murderers, but what does a murderer look like? Then there were his other guests at Sweet Tea on that fateful night: the more casually dressed man whom I know nothing about; Marcus’s sister, Jacqueline; and, of course, there’s Régine. Sure, she’s sort of trashy and dresses like a street walker, but I don’t think Régine’s a murderer, and why would she murder her meal ticket? I can’t imagine she stood to gain anything if Marcus died. He was no fool and, assuming he had a will, I’d be highly surprised if he left Régine so much as a nickel or named her on any life insurance policies.
Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) Page 7