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

by Herbert, A. L.

  “So you won’t tell anyone?”

  “Who would I tell? We don’t exactly run in the same circles, Pamela.”

  “No. I guess not.”

  Clearly neither one of us has any idea of what to say to one another at this point so I break the growing silence between us. “I think you’ve told me what I needed to know. I guess I’ll be on my way. You really do have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you. And thanks again for dropping the jacket by.”

  “No problem.” I make my way quickly to the front door and can’t exit the house fast enough. The longer I stayed and the more I talked with Pamela, the more the negative energy either emitting from her or the house (or both of them) began to overwhelm me. As I get in the van, I think about how it’s tempting to feel jealous of people like Charles and Pamela with their grand home, designer clothes, and fancy cars, but spending time with them makes me pity rather than envy them. I might not be rich, but at least I earn an honest living and don’t live in fear of my friends and neighbors finding out about any shady businesses I’m running.

  CHAPTER 42

  I’m feeling melancholy on my way back to Sweet Tea. It’s been a long week and a half since Marcus was killed. The shame on Pamela’s face when she spoke of the Odyssey Lounge makes me sad, and hearing Mrs. Whitlock’s story earlier today about how she stands to lose her house is really weighing on me. I’m not far from the restaurant when I decide I’m not up to going back just yet. I need a few minutes to regroup and process everything I’ve learned over the past few days. I see a Starbucks on the other side of the highway and decide to make a detour, get a latte or Frappuccino, and sit and think for a few minutes.

  I pull into the turn lane at the next stoplight and make my way over to the coffeehouse. Once inside, I order a tall mocha Frappuccino and take a seat at a small table in one corner by the window. I sip my drink and watch the traffic go by . . . so many people going so many places. I ponder the events of the last few days and how my amateur sleuthing has gotten me nowhere. Well, maybe not nowhere. At least I feel fairly confident about who didn’t kill Marcus. I just still have no idea who did kill him. Maybe I’ve been going down the wrong path all along. Maybe none of the people having dinner with Marcus the night he was killed had anything to do with his death. Perhaps he was killed by someone who was not there at all. His murder might have had nothing to do with the mortgage program. Only God knows what other sort of mayhem Marcus was involved in both personally and professionally.

  I’m feeling like I’ve failed, and that I’ve wasted huge amounts of time for little, if any, real return when I see a familiar face in line at the counter. My first instinct is to try to pretend I don’t notice her. I’m just not in the mood to have polite conversation. But before I have a chance to look away, Régine’s eyes meet mine, and neither one of us really has the option of acting like we don’t see each other.

  I force a smile and get up from my chair.

  “Hey, Régine. So nice to see you. How are you?”

  “I’m okay,” she says. I notice that she’s not alone. She’s with another woman with short hair who’s about the same height as her. I look at the other woman, waiting for Régine to introduce us. There’s an awkward pause before she finally says, “This is my friend Cherise.”

  “Halia,” I say and extend my hand.

  As Cherise’s grasp meets mine, I have this feeling that I’ve seen her somewhere. I can’t place where, but she definitely looks familiar to me. “Have we met before?”

  “No,” she says with a smile. “I don’t think so.”

  “I feel like I recognize you from somewhere.”

  She laughs. “Maybe I have one of those faces.”

  “Maybe,” I respond before turning back to Régine. “How are you doing, Régine? I know it’s been a rough time for you.”

  “I’m holding up okay. I’m trying to get out with friends some . . . take my mind off things.” She gestures toward Cherise.

  “Good. I’m glad. Being around people is probably the best thing.”

  At this point we’ve made it to the front of the line. Régine orders coffees for both of them and hands her credit card over to the barista.

  “Come by the restaurant anytime. There’re always plenty of people there.”

  “Halia owns Sweet Tea, you know the restaurant over by the—”

  “I know where Sweet Tea is, Régine. I’ve been there a number of times,” Cherise says as the barista gives Régine the credit card slip to sign. She takes the receipt from the clerk, grabs a pen from the counter, and signs the little slip of paper. Then I follow them as they walk over to the cream and sugar station.

  As I watch Cherise grab a packet of sugar, dump its contents into her cup, and stir it around with a little wooden stick, I have what Oprah would call an “aha” moment. Suddenly, there’s a domino effect going on in my mind—one piece of the puzzle has started to make sense of the other pieces of the puzzle . . . the pieces of the puzzle I’ve been collecting for over a week. Suddenly, I can feel adrenaline pulsing through my veins.

  “If you’ve been to Sweet Tea, that must be where I’ve seen you before,” I lie.

  “It’s always delicious. I hope to go back soon.”

  “How about this evening?” I say to Cherise and then look at Régine. “I’d be happy to host you and Cherise as my guests tonight. It’s the least I can do. You’ve been through so much. Come by with Cherise and have a nice meal.”

  “Thank you, Halia, but I’m not sure—”

  I put my hand up. “I won’t take no for an answer. Let’s say seven thirty?”

  “If you insist,” she says.

  “Then it’s settled. We’ll see you both at Sweet Tea tonight. It really was good to see you.”

  I force a smile and turn to leave. As I walk out, I’m excited and nervous . . . and even a little afraid. After all the questioning and snooping around and, now, following a chance encounter at Starbucks, I’m ninety-nine point nine percent certain I know who killed Marcus.

  CHAPTER 43

  “I don’t want to go into details over the phone. I’d really rather discuss it in person,” I say. I’m on the phone with Detective Hutchins, trying to convince him to come by the restaurant tonight. I left a message for him earlier, but he’s just getting back to me now, and it’s nearly seven thirty already.

  “Ms. Watkins, I can’t drop everything and head over to Sweet Tea because you have a hunch or think you’ve found a new clue. This isn’t an episode of Scooby-Doo.” I’ve asked him to call me Halia, but I’ve noticed he reverts to calling me Ms. Watkins when he’s annoyed with me or thinks I’m wasting his time.

  “Very funny, Detective. I assure you it will be well worth your time. We have my spare ribs on special tonight . . . rubbed in my own seasoning, then cooked low and slow . . . the meat falls right off the bone.”

  I only hear silence on the other end of the phone.

  “Did I mention we also have an orange Creamsicle cake tonight?”

  He breaks his silence. “What time?”

  “In about a half hour?”

  “Fine. I’ll stop by on the way home.”

  “You may want to bring some backup, Detective,” I say before I hear a click on the other end of the phone. I’m not sure if he didn’t hear me, or if he got every word and just didn’t bother responding to what he probably deems as my hysterical antics before he disconnected.

  When I hang up the phone, I fill two pitchers with iced tea and take them to a table in the back of the restaurant.

  “Wavonne, can you get some glasses for the table? Four please.” I set the two pitchers of tea on a table: one with unsweetened tea and one with sweetened tea.

  “Four?” Wavonne asks. “You said you were expecting Régine and her friend . . . and Detective Hutchins. Countin’ you and me, won’t we need five glasses . . . and a bigger table?”

  “Wavonne, I think Detective Hutchins and I can handle this on our own.”


  “You can set a place for me now, Halia, or I can pull up a chair and squeeze in when they get here. It’s your choice.”

  I let out a sigh. “Well, then help me move this table over.” I don’t have the time or energy to argue with Wavonne, and God knows the girl’s going to do what’s she’s going to do regardless.

  “So what’s goin’ on, Halia? Why are we hostin’ the detective and Régine? I know you got somethin’ up your sleeve.”

  “You’ll find out when they get here, Wavonne.”

  “Why can’t you tell me now?”

  “Because some things need to be handled with kid gloves . . . some things need to be done carefully. And let’s face it, Wavonne, tact is not your strong suit.”

  “You must think Régine knows somethin’ . . . either that or you think she did it. And who’s this friend of hers?”

  “All in due time.”

  I walk away from Wavonne toward the kitchen before she can question me further. I doubt any of my invited guests will be in the mood for dinner after our discussion this evening, but we have a restaurant full of other customers to feed, so I make a check on tonight’s special, my slow-cooked spare ribs. Laura is pulling them out of the oven as I come through the kitchen door, and the air is fragrant with the sweet smell of tender pork. I buy it from a local farm in Hanover, Maryland, that breeds Hereford pigs with Black pigs (yes, there are different breeds of pigs . . . who knew?).

  Before we cook the ribs, we rub them with a mix of brown sugar, paprika . . . some garlic, salt, and black pepper, and a hint of cayenne pepper to give them a little kick. Then we cook them on low heat for hours. The result is ribs so tender they make you want to slap your momma. Before we serve them, they get a quick brush of my apple cider vinegar-based barbecue sauce followed by a light coating of my sweet brown sugar sauce. This gives them a tangy sweet flavor that might just make you want to slap your momma a second time.

  “They look pretty good, don’t they?” Laura asks.

  “Pretty good? They look delicious. I’m sure they’ll go fast.”

  “Hopefully your guests will enjoy them.”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure they’ll be eating. We’ll see.”

  “Really? What do you have planned?” As Laura asks this, I see Wavonne make her way into the kitchen and saunter over toward us, clearly hoping to overhear our conversation and see if she can get any details about how the evening may unfold.

  “I’m still trying to figure that out myself, Laura. I’d rather not go into details.”

  “I’m assuming this has something to do with Marcus?”

  “I’ll neither confirm nor deny,” I say with a smile.

  “Okay. I won’t press, but are you okay? You seem anxious.”

  “I’m just trying to figure out how to play my hand tonight. I think I’ve figured out what I want to say, but now I’m thinking a visual aid would be helpful.”

  “Visual aid?” Laura asks.

  “Yes. A wig. If I could just get my hands on a wig before they all get here, that would be perfect.”

  “Halia, this is PG County. There’s a wig store on every corner,” Wavonne interjects.

  “There’s not enough time for that.”

  “Well . . . you could go with a more readily obtainable resource,” Laura says and points her eyes toward the top of Wavonne’s head. My gaze follows, and when Wavonne notices two sets of eyes staring at her bangs, it only takes a moment for her to register what Laura and I are thinking.

  “Oh, hail no,” she says. “You ain’t takin’ my wig!”

  I look at her with eager eyes.

  “Don’t look at me that way, Halia. This is gen-u-whine synthetic hair. I paid forty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents for this at Lolita’s Lavish Locks.” She starts backing away from me as I approach her.

  “Come on, Wavonne. I assure you it’s for a good cause. I’ll get it back to you as good as new.”

  “The answer is no.”

  “Hand it over, Wavonne.” I’m starting to lose patience. “Don’t make me snatch it off your head.”

  I continue to approach her, and she puts her hands on her head and presses down on the wig, backing away from me more quickly now.

  “No. You can’t make me.” I guess she realizes I mean business because she darts out of the kitchen to the dining room with me following her.

  “No, no, no, no!” she yells, running through a restaurant full of customers with her head down and her hands on her wig.

  “You get back here, Wavonne!” I call behind her. I’m not proud of this, but I chase after her with my customers looking on. Both of us are “healthy” girls, if you know what I mean, and between the two of us running through Sweet Tea . . . well, let’s just say bowls of Jell-O have jiggled less.

  Wavonne bolts toward the ladies’ room and runs inside.

  When I reach the restroom door, I catch my breath and try the handle. She’s locked the door. I’m about to call out to her, but I remind myself to keep my voice down. It’s bad enough that I just chased a waitress clutching her wig for dear life through my own restaurant. I certainly don’t need to be screaming to said waitress through the bathroom door.

  I knock softly. “Wavonne, honey, open the door,” I say in a low voice.

  “No!”

  “Wavonne, I think you know what’s at stake here.” I’m just loud enough for only her to hear me. “You’re the cops’ number-one suspect in this whole dog and pony show. Going wigless for an hour or two seems a small price to pay if it helps clear your name.”

  I hear only silence from the other side of the door before she speaks. “You really think you can get the police off my ass?”

  “Yes . . . yes, I do.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Wavonne, really. I’m sure of it.”

  Once again, she’s quiet on the other side of the door.

  “Let me borrow the wig, Wavonne, and I’ll buy you a new, better one.”

  “A new one?”

  “Yes.”

  “With European hair?”

  “Yes, Wavonne. With European hair.”

  Silence yet again for a moment or two before the door opens just wide enough for Wavonne to stick her arm out, wig in hand, from the other side of the door.

  CHAPTER 44

  “Hello,” I say as Régine and Cherise step inside the restaurant. “I have a table all set for you.” I motion for them to follow me. They are all smiles until we reach the table, and they see Detective Hutchins already seated.

  “I think you’ve met Detective Hutchins,” I say to Régine as he stands to greet them.

  “Yes. We . . . we talked after Marcus’s death. This is my friend Cherise.” Régine is plainly rattled by seeing Detective Hutchins. “I didn’t realize you would be here,” she adds, first looking at Detective Hutchins then at me for an explanation.

  Rather than explain Detective Hutchins’s presence, I ask the girls to take a seat. As they sit down, I slide into a chair across from them, next to Detective Hutchins. “Can I pour you a glass of tea?” I ask. “We have unsweetened and sweetened.”

  “Either is fine,” Cherise says as they both eye me and the detective curiously.

  I pour glasses of tea all around, and while I’m topping off my own glass, Wavonne appears at the table wearing one of my napkins as a scarf. “What up, ya’ll?” she says to Régine and Cherise and sits down next to them. “You don’t mind if I join you, do you?”

  The girls don’t answer Wavonne’s question. Instead Régine asks, “This wasn’t a simple dinner invitation to enjoy your cuisine, was it?”

  “No.” I take a deep breath. “I wanted you to come here to tell me and Detective Hutchins what really happened the night Marcus was killed.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Halia.”

  “I think you do, Régine.”

  Both Régine and Cherise remain silent so I decide to try to get things rolling. “You know, Régine, all along some things about you just di
dn’t add up.”

  “Once again, Halia, I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “She means she thinks you’re a phony baloney,” Wavonne pipes in.

  “I mean,” I say, eyeing Wavonne with a look that says Leave the talking to me, “that the more I investigated you, the more I thought something . . . several things about you were not quite . . . shall we say, authentic.”

  “Like what?”

  “Where to begin?” I ask and pause for a moment. “You told me that you’ve been a hairdresser for more than ten years, but what you did to my hair last week says otherwise.”

  “You ain’t lyin’,” Wavonne declares. “I’ve seen sistahs on hot ghetto mess with better dos.”

  Everyone at the table does what I often do when it comes to Wavonne—we ignore her.

  “And your name, Régine. It didn’t occur to me until Wavonne and I borrowed names from Living Single ourselves during a certain delicate situation last week when—”

  “What didn’t occur to you?” Detective Hutchins interrupts.

  “It’s common knowledge that new parents are notorious for naming their kids after popular television characters, and Régine didn’t become a popular name for babies until Living Single premiered in 1993. In fact, it was fairly uncommon before then,” I say to Detective Hutchins before turning back to Régine. “Now, you’re holding up pretty well, but I’m quite certain you were born well before 1993. So, while it’s possible that Régine is your real name, it’s not likely.”

  “That proves nothing.”

  “It sure doesn’t. But that’s not all. I noticed your Jimmy Choo bag sitting on the counter at your station the day you were cutting my hair and remembered what Wavonne told Detective Hutchins about it when he first questioned us and asked what we knew about you.”