Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery)

by Herbert, A. L.

  “I ain’t gonna act like that ol’ fool.”

  “I hope not, Wavonne. The less attention we draw to ourselves, the better. Keep it quiet and dignified,” I say, before adding, “You haven’t told anyone about us moving the body, have you?”

  “Oh yes, Halia. I just went and told everyone I know. I posted it to my Facebook page.”

  “All right, all right. I’m sorry. But forgive me for being concerned. We could get in a lot of trouble if anyone found out what we did. A lot of trouble, Wavonne. I just want to make sure you understand that.”

  “You been beatin’ it into my head for four days now, Halia. I get it. You think I wanna go to jail? I know what happens to pretty, voluptuous girls like me in jail. I ain’t interested in being no girlfriend to no big-assed heifer named Maxine.”

  Wavonne pulls into the parking lot of a small building in an industrial park. There are signs directing cars where to go to pick up phone books. Supposedly there was a training about delivering the books last night, but Wavonne was allowed to opt out since she participated last year. I’m proud of her for taking some initiative to earn some extra money, and I have to admit, somewhat surprised.

  I watch as Wavonne gets out of the van, hands some paperwork to an attendant, and heads around to the back of the vehicle to open the hatch. Two men start filling the back of the van with phone books. I’m always hauling around stuff for the restaurant, so I usually have the seats folded down, and I took the back one out altogether a few years ago, which makes for plenty of room to stack phone books. As they continue to pile up, I wonder how long it’s going to take Wavonne to deliver them all. It gives me some hope that maybe somewhere underneath that wig and all that makeup is a work ethic.

  “Looks like your entire day off is accounted for,” I say once we’re back on the road. “How much are they paying you to deliver all these?”

  “A hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “Seems like a lot of work for a hundred and fifty dollars,” I say. If Wavonne would hustle and take on a few more tables she’d make about that working a shift at Sweet Tea.

  “I guess.”

  “Okay. Well, I need you to drop me at the restaurant before you make the deliveries.”

  “I know. I’m working today, too. We’ll head back there shortly.”

  “You’re working today? At Sweet Tea?” I hadn’t looked at the schedule, but I assumed she was off to make her deliveries. “If you’re working today, when do you plan to deliver all these books?” I’m eying the paperwork one of the men who loaded the van handed her with the pages and pages of addresses awaiting their yellow pages.

  “You just mind your bidness, Halia.”

  We travel for a few minutes while I continue to look at the list of addresses, and, when I look up, Wavonne’s pulling into the recycling center in Upper Marlboro.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “Like I said, Halia, mind your bidness.”

  She stops in front of one of the paper recycling bins, gets out, and pops the back hatch. I watch her in the mirror for a moment before I get out of the van myself.

  “What are you doing?!” I ask as she starts grabbing phone books out of the back of the van and begins throwing them in the recycling bin.

  “What’s it look like I’m doin’?”

  I stand there for a moment as I watch in disbelief as she grabs phone book after phone book and tosses them in the bin.

  “You didn’t think I was actually goin’ to trek all over PG County dumpin’ phone books on people’s doorsteps, did you?”

  “What’s going to happen when people call and complain about not getting their books?”

  “Who you think is gonna complain? Who uses a damn phone book anymore? What do you do with the phone books that get left on our doorstep? You throw them on the recycling heap at the curb, that’s what you do. I’m just speedin’ up the process.”

  I don’t approve of what’s she doing, but she does have a point.

  “You gonna help me or what?”

  I sigh and take a long breath. Then, before I have a chance to answer, Wavonne steps into the van, picks up a book, and tries to hand it to me. I just look at her and leave my arms by my side.

  “Don’t get all high and mighty with me, Halia Watkins. Need I remind you of what I helped you with recently?”

  “Fine,” I say and accept the books as she hands them to me and start flinging them into the bin. We go about this for several minutes, and when we’re almost finished, I notice a BMW pull up behind us. It’s a shiny gold color and looks familiar. And we’re not talking tan or sparkling beige—we’re talking gold. The car is the same color and sheen of that gold foil they use to wrap chocolate coins. When the driver opens the door and steps out, I recognize Jacqueline. She doesn’t see me at first and walks around to the trunk of the car, pops it open with her remote, and lifts a large cardboard box filled with papers. She hurries over to the Dumpster, and after realizing that the box will not fit through the openings on the side, she lifts it over her head and lets in fall into the Dumpster from the top. I catch myself starting to giggle. The sight of Jacqueline in her fancy clothes and four-inch heels hauling around a box at a refuse center is something to behold. It’s not until she’s heading back to her car that she sees Wavonne and me. I can see her hesitate for a moment, as if she’s wondering if she can get away with pretending not to see us.

  “Hello,” I call over to her, not giving her the chance to ignore us.

  “Hi, Halia,” she responds, clearly embarrassed to be seen doing something that resembles manual labor. She nods at Wavonne, who’s still inside the van.

  “Can you believe I had to do this myself? Marcus’s cleaning lady usually handles the recycling, but I guess Marcus wasn’t there to let her in this morning, so she went home. I needed to get the home office tidied up for a meeting Marcus has tonight. I hope he comes back from whatever nonsense he’s been up to by then.”

  “Still no word from him?”

  “No. This isn’t like him to be out of touch for so long. And quite frankly, it’s annoying me. I’ve got papers he needs to sign, and clients keep calling me looking for him.”

  “Have you thought about contacting the police?”

  “If he doesn’t turn up today, I may have to, but I’m not sure it’s the best idea to get the police involved. The last thing Marcus needs is them poking around in his business. . . .” She lets her voice trail off as if she’s said too much. “Not that Marcus has anything to hide,” she adds, but the look in her eyes tells me she knows (and she knows that I know) that Marcus has plenty to hide. “He’s just very private.”

  “Of course,” I say. “I don’t think anyone wants the police poking around in their business. I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon enough anyway,” I lie, thinking how Marcus isn’t the only one with something to hide.

  She’s about to say her good-byes when she sees the remaining phone books in the back of my van.

  “What are you two doing with all those phone books?” she asks.

  “Nothin’,” Wavonne says defensively. “Just recyclin’. Bein’ green and all that jazz.”

  Jacqueline flashes a condescending smile. “If you say so. You two have a good day.”

  She gets back into her car, and I’m reminded of how much she hates it. I don’t know if Marcus bought it for her or just lets her use it as sort of a company car, but I overheard her talking on the phone a while back about how tacky a gold BMW was and questioning why Marcus didn’t let her pick the car out herself or at least get her something more dignified and elegant. “A gold BMW is so PG County,” I heard her say into the phone as if she wasn’t born and raised in the hood with the rest of us.

  As she drives off, I start to wonder about her as I’ve been wondering about everyone since the night of the murder. Could she have been the one to kill Marcus? They might have been siblings, but while Marcus did seem to have a certain fondness for Jacqueline, he was a demanding boss and o
ften dismissive with her. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard Jacqueline say a positive thing about Marcus, and she was probably on a fresh low from Marcus making her track down two hundred ears of corn the day he was killed. Did he make a final demand of her the night he was murdered? Did Jacqueline snap, grab a frying pan off the counter, and whack him with it in a fit of rage? She did say she was the last one with him at the restaurant, and she certainly had the strength to hit him hard and maybe even move his body on her own. She’s very fit and just lifted a heavy box of paper over her head like it was it nothing.

  All these thoughts are milling about in my head until Wavonne brings me back to the task at hand.

  “You gonna stand there starin’ off into space or you gonna help me get rid of the rest of these buggers?” She hands me another book.

  I take it and throw it in the bin.

  RECIPE FROM HALIA’S KITCHEN

  Halia’s Extra Light and Fluffy Belgian Waffles

  Ingredients

  2 cups all-purpose flour

  3 tablespoons sugar

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  ½ teaspoon salt

  teaspoon ground nutmeg

  ¼ stick melted unsalted butter

  ½ cup sour cream

  1½ cups whole milk

  4 large eggs

  ½ teaspoon vanilla extract

  • Whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and nutmeg in a large bowl.

  • Add butter, sour cream, milk, 2 eggs, and vanilla extract to dry ingredients and mix using an electric mixer at medium speed until smooth.

  • Separate whites from remaining 2 eggs. Discard yolks. Whip egg whites until stiff peaks form and fold into mixture.

  • Lightly brush a preheated Belgian waffle iron with cooking oil. Pour in enough of the mix so that the batter just barely fills the bottom of the iron. Cook according to your manufacturer’s instructions.

  Six Servings

  Note: For best results use a Belgian waffle maker with a 180-degree rotating function. Immediately rotate the waffle grids after filling with batter.

  CHAPTER 18

  Wavonne and I have only been back from our little phone book jaunt for a few hours when I step out of the kitchen at Sweet Tea and see a tall man in a pair of khakis and a navy blue blazer talking with Jacqueline and Laura. From the looks on their faces, I can tell the conversation is serious.

  I approach them, and Jacqueline’s eyes turn toward mine. “It was him. The body they pulled from the lake—it was Marcus.” She’s not crying, but there is a look of anguish in her eyes.

  “What? What are you talking about?” I ask, as if I have no idea.

  “Marcus. The police found him over in that little lake by Wellington Acres. He’s dead. After we talked I decided to call the police. I’ve just come from identifying the body.” Again, she doesn’t sound frantic or distressed. She seems more cold and spacey, like she’s in shock.

  I narrow my eyebrows as if I’m processing what she’s saying. Before I have a chance to speak, Wavonne opens her big mouth.

  “What? Marcus is dead!?” she says, raising her voice. “When? How? I don’t believe it! I just don’t believe it!” she adds and starts sniffling for effect. I can tell she’s trying to force tears. She’s doing exactly what I was afraid she’d do. She’s going all Real Housewives of Atlanta drama queen on me and trying to pull out a show-stopping performance. Wavonne and Marcus were not close. Her acting like a grieving widow over the news of his death will just seem peculiar.

  “Wavonne, baby. Let me take you in the back. You need to sit down.”

  “I don’t need to sit down, I—”

  I gently but firmly pull her by the shoulders toward the back of the restaurant before she has a chance to continue her charade.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say to Jacqueline as I guide Wavonne to the break room, which, fortunately, is empty.

  “Would you knock it off?! Why are you out there acting crazy in front of everyone? You and Marcus were little more than casual acquaintances. Why on earth would you behave like you lost your best friend? Are you trying to get both of us thrown in jail?”

  “I was acting like I was upset that Marcus has been killed.”

  “Upset is one thing, but you were about to take it too far. We’ve talked about this. We don’t want to do anything that will draw attention to us. We should act the way we really feel. Neither one of us was a fan of Marcus, but we didn’t want to see him dead, either. Of course, we’re sad for the loss of a human life, but don’t overdo it, Wavonne.”

  “Okay. Slow your roll, Halia. We’ll do it your way.”

  “Now you stay here while I go back out there and find out what everyone knows.”

  I leave the room, and barely ten seconds pass before Wavonne defies my order and appears in the main dining area. My God, she’s worse than Otto, the dachshund I had growing up. Just like Otto, Wavonne can’t stand the thought that she might be missing anything. I swear if I’d locked the break room door, she would have started squealing and scratching at the door just like Otto, as well.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” I say in a low voice after whipping my head around to look at her.

  When I return to Jacqueline, I put my hand on her shoulder. I feel like I should hug her, but I’m not sure it would be a welcome gesture. Jacqueline is not a huggy type of person.

  “I’m so sorry, Jacqueline. What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” she says flatly. “He’s been gone without a word for days, so I finally decided to call the police. By the time I called and reported him missing, they had already found the body and put two and two together. As far as anyone seems to know, no one has seen him since he was here for dinner on Saturday night. I didn’t think to look when I was here the other day, but we checked when we drove in, and his car is still in the parking lot.

  “Everything was fine when I left him here about twelve thirty. Did anything seem out of the ordinary to you Saturday night, Halia?”

  The unknown man with Jacqueline turns to me as if he’d like to know the answer to that question, as well. I suspect he’s with the police department even though he’s not in uniform. I know a lot of the police officers in the area. They have lunch here, patrol the parking lot, and stop in here and there for coffee or sodas on the house, but I don’t think I’ve ever met the gentleman here with Jacqueline.

  “No. Everything seemed fine. As you know, we left before you did.” I look at the man in the blazer. “It was late, and he was still talking business with his guests, so Wavonne and I asked him to lock up. We left shortly after midnight.”

  “You’re the owner of this restaurant?” the man asks.

  “Yes. Halia Watkins,” I respond and extend my hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Watkins. I’m Detective Hutchins. So who was still here with him when you left?”

  I’m not sure if he’s asking me or Jacqueline, so I go ahead and respond. “Gosh. Let me try to remember. He had five guests with him. They filled a six-top. Other than Jacqueline, there was a casually dressed black man, a young white couple, and Régine, his girlfriend.”

  “I set up the dinner for Marcus,” Jacqueline says. “Charles Pritchett was the man by himself at the table. He was one of Marcus’s business contacts. Marcus was working on some deals with him. The white couple is married. They’re very young; Josh and Heather, but I forget their last name. I’m sure I have it in my records. Marcus and Charles were meeting with them about the mortgage program.”

  “The mortgage program?” Detective Hutchins asks.

  “Yes. Charles is the head of a company . . . or at least the head of their operations in this area. It’s called Reverie Homes. People make investments in his company, and then he uses the returns to pay off their mortgages in just a few years.”

  Detective Hutchins and I exchange curious looks before he asks, “Pay off their mortgages in just a few years?”

  “Yes. I’ve only attended one of his seminars,
but some people there said they had their entire mortgages paid off in seven years.”

  “How much do you need to invest?”

  “The minimum is thirty thousand dollars.”

  “Thirty thousand dollars?!” I hear Wavonne shriek from behind me. “Where in hell did those people find thirty thousand dollars?”

  “Some people take it out of their 401(k)s or borrow money from relatives.”

  “So they invest in Reverie Homes, who, in turn, takes over their mortgage payments?” I ask.

  “Yes, and supposedly they pay it off really quickly.”

  “Supposedly?” Detective Hutchins asks.

  “I don’t ask questions. Marcus doesn’t . . . didn’t pay me to ask questions.”

  Neither Detective Hutchins nor I say anything, but I can tell we are both thinking the same thing: This has scam written all over it!

  “And where does all this money come from to pay off the mortgages so quickly?”

  “Allegedly, Reverie Homes invests it in ATM machines . . . you know, the ones they put in convenience stores and other places . . . and calling card kiosks, and some other things. The profits from those investments go to paying off investors’ mortgages . . . or at least that’s what Marcus says when he tries to get people to buy in to the program. I have the literature back at Marcus’s office.”

  “I’d like to see that literature,” Detective Hutchins responds. “So what do you mean when you say Marcus tried to get people to buy in to the program?”

  “He recruited investors for Charles. Charles gave him a commission.”

  “So the young couple who was having dinner with Marcus and Charles . . . they were investors that Marcus recruited ?” I ask.