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

by Herbert, A. L.

  “Turn it up, Tacy,” I say. He does as he’s asked and, let me tell you, I get my groove on! I do love to dance and never get the chance to do it anymore. Women my age are hardly welcome in the clubs downtown, and I wouldn’t have the time or energy to go even if we were. But in my twenties, I’d hit Zanzibar on the Waterfront in Southwest D.C. with my girlfriends and shake my moneymaker with the best of them. As the music cranks up, I start swinging my hips and moving my shoulders. Wavonne gets in front of me and gives new meaning to the words “jiggly parts.” I’m laughing and dancing and snapping my fingers . . . feeling the most relaxed I have in weeks. Our dancing is contagious, and it’s not long before the whole kitchen has abandoned their burners and fryers and dirty dishes, and we’re all jamming to the tune. Even Tacy, who clearly has no rhythm, is giving it a shot. He looks like he’s having a bad reaction to some medication, but you’ve got to give the guy credit for trying. It’s a fun time, and I’m glad I have a chance to prove to my staff that I’m not a complete stick in the mud, but as the song ends, I motion for Tacy to turn it back down and steady my feet.

  “Okay, ladies and gentleman . . . and Wavonne,” I say. “Back to work. We’ve got a restaurant to run.”

  The gang returns to their duties, and I touch Darius on the arm on his way out to the dining room. “Take good care of the couple at table sixteen. Let me know when they order dessert.”

  “Sure,” he says. “That’s the same guy who was here the night Marcus went missing, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  Darius smiles. “Okay. If you want to play it that way. You’re the boss.” He scoots out the kitchen door.

  I spend the next hour and change between the kitchen, the dining room, and the host station, making sure everything is running smoothly, saying hi to regulars and some new customers, running checks for hurried servers . . . whatever needs to be done. When Darius finally lets me know that Charles and Pamela have ordered dessert, I head to the kitchen to fill the order myself. Shortly after, I emerge from the kitchen with two slices of three-layer caramel cake.

  As I walk by a table Wavonne is waiting on, I overhear one of the customers ask about the desserts I have in my hands.

  “My aunt Celia made that fresh this morning. It’s her caramel cake. We also have these big-assed cookies that Aunt Celia made, too. We serve ’em with—”

  I backtrack to Wavonne’s table. “Wavonne, would you please not refer to our desserts as ‘big-assed,’ ” I say to her before I turn to the four-top with three ladies seated at it. “We have some hearty-sized cookies for dessert. Three chocolate-chunk cookies served warm with vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, and fresh-made whipped cream. Wavonne will be happy to tell you about the rest of our selections tonight.” I smile at the women and, before heading over to Charles and Pamela’s table, I give a Wavonne a look that will hopefully remind her to choose her words more carefully when speaking with customers.

  “Two slices of caramel cake. Made in-house today.” I place the plates on the table and take a seat next to Pamela. “Thanks again for agreeing to talk with me tonight. I know the police are doing their thing, but the last place anyone saw Marcus was here in my restaurant. It just makes me uneasy, and I’d really like to do anything I can to help figure out what happened.”

  Darius had followed behind me and is just now finishing pouring us each a cup of coffee.

  “That makes perfect sense, Halia,” Charles says. “And I wish I could help you, but I’ve told you and the police all I know.” He takes a bite of the cake. “Wow. This is really good.” There is a more friendly tone in Charles’s voice than when I’ve spoken with him recently—must be the power of Momma’s caramel cake.

  “Can you go over the events with me one more time after Wavonne and I left the restaurant?”

  “I’ve heard him recount it to the police so many times, I can go over the events the night Marcus disappeared,” Pamela interjects. “And I wasn’t even there.”

  “Have at it,” Charles says.

  “You and Wanda left—”

  “Wavonne,” I correct her.

  “Her name is Wavonne?” Pamela asks in a “what the hell kind of name is that” tone, which makes me dislike her even more. “So you and Wavonne left about eleven forty-five. Marcus’s girlfriend left a few minutes later. The rest of the party stayed while Marcus and Charles discussed the Reverie Program with their clients . . . I can’t remember their names. . . .”

  “That would be Heather and Josh Williams,” I say. “My understanding was they left roughly a half hour or so after I did, followed by Charles. Then Jacqueline left and Marcus was here alone.”

  “That’s pretty much covers it. After Régine and the Williamses left, I stayed and talked with Marcus for a few more minutes. We had hoped another client would join us that night, but she wasn’t able to make it, so we needed to make plans to have a meeting with her and assure her that the Reverie program was sound. Her checks had been interrupted much like they had been for Heather and Josh.”

  “Yes, the Reverie Program,” I say, and, from Pamela’s reaction, my feelings about the program must have shown on my face or come through in my voice.

  “Don’t say it like that. It’s a sound program. We have invested ourselves.”

  I wanted to say that I bet they have. Much like Marcus, they figured they could keep swindling investors into the program long enough to get their house paid off and make a lot of money on commissions in the process. But the Reverie program is not my concern. Finding out who killed Marcus is.

  “Who is the other client? This is the first I’ve heard of him or her . . . or them.”

  “Audrey Whitlock.”

  “So her payments had stopped coming, as well? Have the police talked to her?”

  “I’m sure they have, but believe me, Mrs. Whitlock did not kill Marcus.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because she’s in her eighties and can barely leave her house.”

  I want to ask Charles how . . . how he can sleep at night when, during the day, he’s duping eighty-year-old women out of their homes, but I stick to the business at hand.

  “I knew she was calling Marcus regularly about her concerns. We just wanted to reassure her that the checks would resume soon.”

  “Have they?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

  “We’re having some cash flow issues, Halia. We’re trying to stabilize the program with some new investors, but that’s been hard these days, especially when people like Heather and Josh show up at our presentations and scare off new recruits.”

  “Where does Mrs. Whitlock live?”

  “She has a little house in Hyattsville. I can get you the exact address if you’d like, but I’m telling you, it’s a dead end.”

  I want to lay into him . . . him and that wife of his who are living the high life off the homes of senior citizens, but it will be much easier for him to give me Mrs. Whitlock’s address than for me to have to hunt it down online, so I decide to play nice. “I would appreciate that, Charles,” I say. “So getting back to that fateful night, after you left Sweet Tea, did you go straight home?”

  “Yes. I’ve told you that already, Halia.”

  “And I can confirm it,” Pamela interjects. “He was home by twelve forty-five. I remember it very clearly. I was sitting in bed watching TV. I was wearing my pink silk nightshirt. I had curlers in my hair. I can even tell you what Charles was wearing when he came in—khaki pants, a green polo shirt, and his brown loafers. He told me he had a very nice meal here . . . fried chicken and waffles and pineapple upside-down cake for dessert.”

  Pamela’s lengthy description makes me uneasy. All that detail was certainly not necessary, and isn’t that what people do when they’re lying? Invent a bunch of detail?

  “What was on when he came home?” I ask.

  “On?”

  “On TV. You said you were watching TV when he came in.” Surely if she remembered the color of her night
shirt and what Charles was wearing, she’d remember what she was watching when he came in the bedroom.

  “Um,” she stumbles, likely realizing that whatever program she mentions should be regularly scheduled to run on Saturday nights at twelve forty-five. Granted, in a time of TiVo and DVRs, that might not be true, but the question seems to throw her. “I . . . I don’t remember offhand . . . maybe The Tonight Show . . . no, it was Saturday . . . you know, I’m really not sure. Why?”

  “Just curious. The only time I have to watch television is late at night before bed. I was wondering if we liked any of the same shows.”

  I’m sure she knows that was not my reason for asking the question as much as I do . . . and as much as Charles does for that matter. There’s a hint of tension between the three of us now as they both clearly know I’m trying to determine Charles’s whereabouts after he left the restaurant that unfortunate Saturday night. And the more I look at the two of them, the more it makes me think of Heather and Josh . . . and Mrs. Whitlock . . . and all the other people they have swindled out of their savings and homes. I really don’t care to be in their company anymore, and I figure the evening has been about as fruitful as it’s going to be in terms of me drawing out useful information. I know from Jacqueline that Charles had motive to kill Marcus, and it now seems that he might not have gone straight home after he left Marcus and Jacqueline at the restaurant. Either his wife has a very detailed memory when comes to everything other than what she watches on television, or she’s lying to cover for him.

  “I’ll let you get to those desserts. You have my number, Charles. If you can get me Mrs. Whitlock’s contact information as soon as possible, I’d really appreciate it.” I get up from the table and look at them. I note the Rolex on Charles’s wrist and the David Yurman necklace nestled in Pamela’s cleavage—spoils obtained off the backs of people who trusted them with their money and their homes. “And thanks so much for agreeing to talk with me. Enjoy the cake.” I refrain from adding, “I hope you choke on it.”

  RECIPE FROM HALIA’S KITCHEN

  Celia’s Banana Pudding

  Vanilla Wafer Cake Ingredients

  ½ cup softened butter

  1 cup sugar

  2 eggs

  3 teaspoons vanilla extract

  2 tablespoons honey

  1 cups all-purpose flour

  ¾ teaspoon baking powder

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  • Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease bottom and lower sides of a 13in x 9in x 2in glass pan.

  • In large bowl, cream together butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, and honey using an electric mixer at medium speed.

  • Mix flour, baking powder, and salt. Add to wet mixture.

  • Stir until well combined.

  • Spread into prepared pan.

  • Bake for 20–25 minutes or until golden brown.

  • Cool.

  Pudding Ingredients

  1 cup sugar

  teaspoon salt

  2 tablespoons cornstarch + 2 teaspoons

  3½ cups milk

  4 eggs (beaten)

  1½ teaspoons vanilla extract

  ½ stick butter

  4 medium bananas

  • Mix sugar, salt, and cornstarch.

  • Begin heating milk and eggs in a double boiler over medium high heat. Slowly add mix of dry ingredients. Whisk constantly while adding dry ingredients and until pudding thickens (about 7 minutes).

  • Remove from heat and stir in vanilla and butter.

  • Strain pudding through a fine mesh sieve/strainer.

  • Let pudding cool to room temperature.

  • Spread cooled pudding over vanilla wafer cake.

  • Place a layer of sliced bananas on top of pudding.

  Meringue Ingredients

  5 egg whites

  ¼ teaspoon cream of tartar

  3 tablespoons sugar

  • Preheat oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit.

  • Beat egg whites, cream of tartar, and sugar using an electric mixer at high speed until stiff peaks form.

  • Spread over pudding.

  • Bake for five minutes or until delicately browned.

  • Cool final dish at room temperature for 30 minutes. Then chill in the refrigerator for 1 hour prior to serving.

  Eight Servings

  CHAPTER 40

  “I don’t know why I agreed to do this. We shouldn’t be getting involved in something like this, Halia.”

  “It’s no big deal, Momma,” I respond. We’re on our way to Mrs. Whitlock’s house. I thought it might help if I brought Momma along. I don’t know much about this woman and have no idea if she’ll even let me in when I show up on her doorstep. I thought I might have a better chance of her opening up to me and telling me about her relationship with Marcus if Momma came along. If I can’t relate to her and get her talking, I’m hoping Momma can—one old lady to another.

  “This is work for the police.”

  “I told you the police already talked to Mrs. Whitlock and Jack . . . you know, Jack Spruce . . . he’s in the restaurant all the time . . . he said she was very guarded and didn’t give them any useful information. I simply offered to chat with her myself and see if she might be less anxious around someone who isn’t in a police uniform. I thought having you with me might make her feel more comfortable.”

  Okay, so only some of what I said is true. Jack told me nothing about the police speaking with Mrs. Whitlock, and he has no idea I’m planning on meeting with her, but I needed to tell Momma something to get her on board. I certainly can’t tell her that Wavonne is a prime suspect in Marcus’s killing, and that I’m trying to figure out who the murderer really is before Wavonne ends up in jail. It would worry her to death.

  “Why would I make her more comfortable? Because I’m old, too?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Momma glares at me.

  “Oh, come on, Momma. I’m just kidding. But you do have old lady friends all over town. Don’t you drive a whole gaggle of them to church every Sunday? I just thought you might help keep the conversation going.”

  My van smells of fried chicken as Momma and I pull into the driveway of Mrs. Whitlock’s house. It’s a typical Hyattsville home—a small one-story brick rambler probably built in the forties or fifties. The lawn is mowed, but you can tell it’s done by a cheap service rather than a caring home owner. The shrubs are a little overgrown and the areas up close to the house have not been edged.

  I tried calling Mrs. Whitlock, but she didn’t answer the phone, and there was no machine or voice mail. When we get out of the car, I can see her looking at me and Momma through one of the front windows. I walk over to the other side of van, open the sliding side door, and grab a small tray of fried chicken, a container of coleslaw, and another of macaroni and cheese.

  When we reach the door, I decide to knock rather than ring the doorbell. Somehow it seems less intrusive. She doesn’t come to the door, so I tap on it again.

  “No thank you,” I hear her call from the other side of the door.

  “Mrs. Whitlock. My name is Halia Watkins. I’m a friend of Marcus Rand’s. You know . . . from the Reverie Homes program?”

  I hear her unbolt the door, and she opens it just enough for us to see her face. I’m not a tall woman, but even I tower over her. I don’t think she clears five feet. Her hair is a mix of black and gray, and the years show on her face. She stands slightly hunched over in a loose-fitting floral print dress.

  “Hi, Mrs. Whitlock,” I say. “I was wondering if we could talk to you for a few minutes about Marcus and the Reverie Program.”

  “I’ve already spoken to the police. I’ve told them everything I know about Mr. Rand.” She begins to shut the door.

  “Wait . . . wait,” Momma says and takes the tray of fried chicken out of my hand. “My name is Celia Watkins. Halia here is my daughter. She owns Sweet Tea, the soul food restaurant at the King Town Center a few miles from here. Maybe you’ve hear
d of it?”

  Mrs. Whitlock doesn’t say anything, but she does look at the tray in Momma’s hand with curiosity.

  Momma peels back the foil on the fried chicken to show it to Mrs. Whitlock and let some of the scent waft to her nose. “We brought a few goodies with us . . . some fried chicken and coleslaw . . . and macaroni and cheese.”

  Mrs. Whitlock lifts her eyes from the chicken toward me and Momma, and then looks back at the food again. “What is it you want to know?”

  “As you’ve heard, Mr. Rand met an untimely death over a week ago.” I try to think of what to add next. I don’t want to focus on Marcus’s murder and scare her into closing the door in my face. I’m stumbling for words when Momma pipes up.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Whitlock. The last place anyone saw Mr. Rand was at my daughter’s restaurant, and they seem to suspect that my niece has something to do with his death. I assure you, she’s innocent. Halia here is doing a little investigating on her own, and we’re just wondering if you might have any information that could help us.”

  I look at Momma, surprised that she knew what was going on all along. You can’t keep anything from that woman.

  “What? You think I don’t know what goes on just because I’m getting on in years? Just like when you were a girl—you thought you could get one by me. I’ve got eyes in the back of my head and the hearing of a bat, Halia. And don’t you forget it.”

  Mrs. Whitlock opens the door a bit wider as Momma reprimands me like I’m a child. I guess she figures a bickering mother and daughter can only be so dangerous. “What did you say your names were again?”