I’m mulling over possible suspects in my head when I see Stan, the UPS man, outside the front door. I go over and let him in. It’s not quite eleven o’clock, so the doors are still locked.
“Morning, Stan. How are you?” I ask as he wheels our latest order through the door.
“I’m good. Sorry to come through the front, but I’m in a hurry, and it’s only a few boxes.”
“No problem. We’re not even open yet.”
I follow Stan as he wheels the boxes toward the kitchen just in time for Momma to hold the door open for him. She must be on her way out. She’s got her jacket over her arm and her purse in her hand. I poke my head in the kitchen behind Stan and ask Laura to check the boxes and sign for the order.
“Why don’t you go back in there and talk to him?” Momma says to me as we stride toward the front of the restaurant. “He’s handsome enough. Seems so nice, and I hear those UPS drivers have good benefits.”
I’m about to respond when I see Wavonne knocking on the front door, assuming it’s locked. She’d run a few doors down to the coffee shop to get some sort of pumpkin latte something or other. I didn’t relock it after letting in Stan, so I wave her in.
“Wavonne,” I say. “Momma has a crush on Stan, the UPS driver. She thinks he’s handsome . . . and likes that his job has good benefits.”
“She got a thing for Stan?” Wavonne says before turning to Momma. “You go on, Aunt Celia. Get yourself a boo thang.”
“Yeah, Momma likes the younger men,” I say with a wicked smile on my face.
Momma rolls her eyes at us.
“Ooh. Aunt Celia a cougar!” Wavonne howls while making cat-claw gestures with her hands. “Rawr!!!”
We both laugh.
“Now, you girls stop that,” Momma snaps.
“What? Did you not just say he’s handsome or ‘handsome enough’?”
“You know I meant for you. You girls are nuts.” She begins to stomp away. “I’m leaving. I’m done with my baking, and you two are getting on my last nerve.”
We can’t help but keep laughing as we watch her head toward her car. I’m thinking about how maybe . . . just maybe, she’ll back off for a little while now that I’ve turned the tables on her, when I see Jacqueline emerging from her BMW in the parking lot. As she gets closer to the door, she catches my eye and waves . . . not a hearty back-and-forth wave . . . more of a “Jacqueline” wave, a pretentious quick flick of the wrist. Everything about her is always “just so,” and today is no exception. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a beige suit with shiny nude patent leather pumps.
“Hello,” I say when she enters the restaurant. “How are you?”
“I’m well. Thank you.”
“Did you come for lunch?” I say. “I’ve got a great special today—chicken and dumplings.” I know she’d sooner slice off a finger than eat chicken and dumplings . . . or at least eat chicken and dumplings in public, but I’m trying to keep the conversation light and appear relaxed.
I see a spark go off in her eyes at the mention of chicken and dumplings, and I swear she’s about to say she’d love some before she stops herself and, instead, says, “That sounds really nice, but I just stopped by to see if anyone here has talked to Marcus.”
“Marcus? I don’t think so. I haven’t seen him since he was here with you and his other guests on Saturday night.”
“Really? Mother called me on Sunday morning and said that he never arrived to take her to church.” Jacqueline has a way of talking that sounds slightly British (e.g., referring to her mom as “Mother”), even though she was born and raised right here in Prince George’s County. “Then Régine called looking for him Sunday evening. Apparently they had had plans to meet for dinner.” Jacqueline rolls her eyes when she says the word “dinner.” We both know what Marcus was meeting Régine for, and it likely was not dinner. “I keep trying him on his cell phone, but it just rings and goes to voice mail. I’m starting to get a little worried, not to mention perturbed. I’m getting phone calls for him left and right.” She sounds more concerned about Marcus’s absence being a nuisance to her than his well-being.
“I wouldn’t worry too much. Marcus is a big boy and can take care of himself.”
“As far as I can tell, here was the last place anyone saw him.”
“He didn’t leave with Régine on Saturday night?”
“No. Régine drove herself home. Marcus spends Saturday nights at Mother’s so he can take her to church in the morning.”
“What about his other guests? Have you checked with them?”
“No. They all left before I did. I was the last one here with Marcus. He said he was going to wrap some fried chicken to take to Mother and then be on his way, as well.”
I want to ask more about Charles . . . and Marcus’s other guests, but it might seem suspicious if I start asking too many questions. I’m not supposed to know anything bad has happened.
“This isn’t like him at all. He can be inconsiderate and self-involved, but he usually answers his phone and returns calls . . . and he never stands Mother up for church.”
“I didn’t know Marcus was so religious.”
“Religious?” Jacqueline says with a laugh. “Marcus goes to church for one reason and one reason only—it’s a well-stocked pond of fish waiting to take his bait. He’s landed more clients at the Church of Christ than anywhere else. It’s hard not to trust a man who takes his mother to church every Sunday, and Marcus knows it.”
I chuckle and try to remind myself to speak of Marcus in the present tense like Jacqueline is doing now. I’m not exactly sure what she means by clients. I know Marcus had a lot of clients, but it wasn’t like he was a lawyer or a therapist. I’m curious as to what he was doing for all these “clients” and under what pretense he was finagling them out of their money, but I’ve always tried to stay out of Marcus’s business affairs. Beyond accepting a loan from him and making my payments to him every month, I kept my nose out of his dealings.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have any information for you. Are you sure you don’t want to stay and have a bite? We’re brewing some raspberry iced tea as we speak.”
“Thank you, Halia, but I really have to go. I’ve already gotten one phone call from a client Marcus was supposed to meet this morning, and there may be more. On top of handling his dealings, I’m teaching a yoga class later this afternoon and have two personal training clients of my own after that. If Marcus doesn’t get in touch with me soon, I’m not sure what to do.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” I lie. “He’s bound to turn up in a little while. He probably just lost track of time.”
“Let’s hope so,” she says. “It was nice to see you. Can I take a rain check on that tea?”
“Of course.”
“And you know you’re always welcome at any of my classes.” She looks me up and down. “I do a Pilates for beginners class two nights a week.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I lie. I barely know what Pilates is, but I know enough to know I’m not interested.
As Jacqueline leaves the restaurant, I think about how, very soon, she’s going to learn that she’s lost her brother. I also think about how I’m not sure she’ll be that upset to hear the news. I’ve never gotten the feeling that she’s terribly fond of him. In fact, there were times, like today, when I’ve sensed animosity toward him—the way she rolled her eyes when she spoke of him and Régine or talked about the real reason her brother goes to church. Jacqueline may be snobbish and uptight, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders. Much like me, she’s one of the few people who are able to look past Marcus’s charm and good looks to see the fiend underneath. For all I know, she hit him over the head with my frying pan and was just over here this morning trying to look innocent.
CHAPTER 16
Missing dead body or no missing dead body, I have a restaurant to run. While it would be nice to have time to stew about the implications of a murderer o
n the loose, there are water glasses to be filled, cornbread to bake, and sweet tea to brew. It’s Tuesday afternoon, and the lunch rush is just getting started. As usual I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off—seating patrons, checking in with tables, making sure the kitchen operations are running smoothly, etc., which takes my mind off Marcus. I just can’t think about him anymore. I keep telling myself that his body will turn up soon enough. And, if it doesn’t, Jacqueline will file a missing person’s report. One way or another, an investigation will be started, and the police can get down to business. Maybe it’s better that someone moved the body—the farther away from my restaurant Marcus is found, the less chance of anything about this situation being connected to me and Wavonne. The only thing that makes sense is that the murderer moved Marcus . . . maybe to buy some extra time before any police involvement. But how did he or she know that Marcus had already been carted out of the restaurant by Wavonne and me? It really scares me to think that someone may have been watching us as we dragged a corpse along the alley. Then again, maybe the murderer came back after we left just to make sure Marcus was dead, found the restaurant locked, and searched the area until he or she came upon Marcus out back.
I try to lay to rest thoughts of Marcus as I carry a pan of cornbread out to a four-top where three men in suits are seated on a lunch break from work.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I hope Darius is taking great care of you.” I set the pan on the table. “Be careful. It’s hot.”
For a brief period I stopped serving my cornbread in the cast-iron pans. They’re heavy and hard to clean, and occasionally I get customers who touch the searing pans and burn themselves. But when I started baking the bread in sheets, cutting it into slices, and serving it in baskets, I got so many questions about what happened to the cast-iron pans and comments about what a nice presentation they made, I decided to bring them back.
“Thank you,” says one of the men while the others at the table nod.
“My pleasure.”
I turn toward the kitchen, and I’m almost out of earshot when I barely overhear their conversation. I can’t make out exactly what they’re saying, but I hear the words “dead” and “body” and “pond.”
My antennas go up, and I immediately grab a pitcher of water to have an excuse to go back to the table.
“I don’t know. There were four police cars over there. When I stopped at the traffic light, I asked one of the bystanders what was going on, and she said they had pulled a body out of the pond,” I hear one of the gentlemen say as I top off water glasses that are almost full to begin with.
“What’s all this?” I ask as if I’m just generally curious. I figure if you hear people talking about pulling a body out of a pond, it doesn’t sound suspicious to inquire further about their conversation.
“Apparently the cops found a dead body over in the pond at the entrance to Wellington Acres.”
Wellington Acres is a newer housing development down the street from the restaurant. As you drive into the neighborhood, Wellington Lake sits to the left, but as my customer said, it’s really more of a pond. It houses a small fountain that seems to be broken more than it’s working, but it’s pretty when it’s in operation. There’s a jogging trail around it and sometimes people picnic on the perimeter. I’ve never seen anyone swim in it. I’d be surprised if it’s more than three or four feet deep.
“Really?”
“Yeah. The woman I talked to said it was a black man in a full suit and tie.”
My breath quickens, and I notice a slight tremor in my hands as I hold the water pitcher and hope the men at the table don’t notice. The news rattles me, but I also experience a sense of relief that Marcus has been found . . . assuming it’s him . . . it has to be him.
“A news crew arrived just as I drove off. I’m sure there’ll be more details on TV later.”
“I hope it was some kind of accident. You hate to hear of things like that so close to home.” I can’t think of anything else to say, so I tell them to enjoy their lunch and try to gracefully walk away.
TV. TV. I need to get to a TV. Once again I’m wishing I had one in the restaurant.
It’s eleven forty-five. The local news will be on in fifteen minutes. I find Laura in the kitchen and tell her I need to run a quick errand.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, a genuine look of concern on her face. It’s not unusual for me to leave the restaurant now and then, but it is rare for me to do it during peak hours.
“Yes. Fine. I won’t be gone long. You can hold down the fort?”
“Sure.”
When I get out to the parking lot and inside my van, I’m not sure where to go. I can’t run home to catch the news. Momma will be there, and me coming home in the middle of the day will take more explaining than I have the energy for. Fast Freddie’s has like a hundred TVs, but they don’t open until three and, besides, I can’t very well go have a beer at Fast Freddie’s, only three doors down from Sweet Tea, after leaving in the middle of the lunch rush saying I have to run an errand.
Think, Halia, think. Most restaurants have TVs these days, but they’re likely to be broadcasting the national cable news channels, which won’t be covering a local story like this. There’s a Sears that’s only about twenty minutes away. I think they have an electronics section. If I hurry, I can get there shortly after the twelve o’clock news starts.
I point the van toward the parking lot exit and head to Sears. Traffic is light this time of day, and I manage to get there in less than twenty minutes. When I get inside the store, I look up and scan for the electronics section. I see it in the far right corner and quickly walk in that direction.
Jackpot! I think to myself as I see the wall of flat screens. Two of them are broadcasting the local news on Channel 4. I pretend I’m shopping for a television and hear one of the anchors speaking of a water main break near Logan Circle in the city.
“Can I help you with anything?” a salesperson asks me from behind.
“No, thank you. I’m only looking at the moment.”
“Okay. Let me know if you need anything.”
He walks away, and I continue to act like I’m reading specs about the televisions while keeping my ears focused on the sound of the TV closest to me. There’s talk of construction of a shopping center being delayed due to traffic concerns and something about a D.C. council member who may have granted favors to a friend in the form of government contracts. Finally, ten minutes into the broadcast I see a photo of Wellington Lake appear next to the anchorwoman’s head.
“In other news today, the body of a deceased African American man was found in Wellington Lake, a small lake that sits at the entrance of Wellington Acres, a housing development in Prince George’s County. Police say the man was in a suit and tie. He was five feet nine inches tall with a shaved head. According to police reports, he did not have a wallet or any identification on his person, which has led police to suspect robbery as a potential factor in his death. Authorities are urging anyone with information that may be helpful in identifying the man or the circumstances surrounding his death to contact the Prince George’s County Police Department.”
“That’s it!?” I actually say out loud before I can stop myself. A man is dead and that’s all we get? A thirty-second blurb on the news.
I storm out of the store, convinced that if it were a white man found in a lake in Montgomery County it would have been the lead story of the day. I get back in the van feeling like this little boondoggle had been a complete waste of time.
Now what? I wonder to myself. More waiting. I just hope that Régine or Jacqueline, or someone else who has noticed that Marcus is missing, managed to have the TV turned to the local news and caught the minuscule story so they can identify Marcus’s body.
CHAPTER 17
It’s been four days since Marcus was killed, and even though his body was found yesterday, it still seems that aside from the murderer, Wavonne, and me, no one knows he’s d
ead. I keep waiting to get the news from someone and have been thinking about how I should react to hearing it. Should I try to have an emotional reaction or accept the news with subdued grief? Either way I need to pretend to be surprised, but not so surprised as to go overboard. Regardless of how I decide to feign that I’m just hearing about Marcus’s death, I trust myself to act appropriately. Wavonne, on the other hand, is a different story.
“Have you thought about how you’re going to react when you get the news that Marcus is dead?” I ask Wavonne. We’re in my van, but she’s driving. She asked to borrow it on her day off, so she could use it to make a few extra dollars delivering phone books. I decided to come along while she picks up the books, so I can chat with her and see where her head’s at around all of this . . . and make sure she has, and will continue to keep her mouth shut about our activities the night of the murder. I also want to coach her on how to react when she gets the news of Marcus’s death.
“What’s wrong with you, Halia? I already know he’s dead.”
“No. No. I mean when someone tells you the news. You’re going to have to act like it’s a surprise.”
“Don’t you worry about me. I’ll give a performance worthy of an Oscar.”
That’s what I’m afraid of. “I think it might be best to keep it low-key, Wavonne. If you act crazy with grief, it will look suspicious.”
“I ain’t gonna act all crazy. But don’t you think I can’t shed a fake tear or two if I wanna?”
“Just don’t go overboard. I don’t want you screaming and carrying on like Aunt Faye at a funeral.” Our aunt Faye shows up to any and every funeral she can and puts on a show worthy of an admission fee. Between the weeping, the howling, and the occasional fainting spell, she always manages to make someone else’s death all about herself. Everyone (well, everyone but me and Momma, who just roll our eyes from the sidelines) rushes to her side to comfort her. “There goes Faye . . . drama, drama, drama,” Momma would say to me about her sister as we watched her antics. “She needed to be the center of attention when we were kids, and she needs to be the center of attention now.”
Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) Page 8