“Are you having anything?” Alvetta asks as Darius departs from the table.
“I’m sure Darius will bring me an iced tea.”
“Aw. Don’t make a girl drink alone. Have a margarita with me.”
“I wish I could. I have a long night ahead of me. The dinner rush is just starting. I need to keep a clear head. I thought I’d just sit with you for a bit and say hi and then let you two enjoy your evening. I’m sure you could use a relaxing night out after . . . well . . . you know . . . events of late.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Halia. It has been a challenging time.”
“I don’t know if a few drinks and some good food can even put a dent in the grief I’m sure you’re feeling, but maybe it can help you take a little break from it for a few hours.”
“Truthfully, it would be nice to not think of Raynell’s death for a little while,” Alvetta says. “Wow, that sounded really selfish, didn’t it?”
Michael reaches for Alvetta’s hand across the table. “Not at all,” he says. “You were the best friend anyone could have been to Raynell. And let’s be honest, Raynell was not the easiest person to love. But you did love her, and you were a good friend to her.” He holds her hand for another moment or two before letting it go. “Now, let’s talk about something else.”
“Yes,” I say. “How about the retreat last weekend, Michael? How was it?”
“It was very nice . . . until we got the news about Raynell.” Michael pauses. “No. We said we would take a break from talking about Raynell.” He straightens himself in his chair. “It was actually very productive. If our church is going to continue to thrive, we need a strong online presence. We developed a strategy during the conference that I think will be quite effective.”
“That’s great,” I say. “Terrence was at the conference, too, wasn’t he? Was he involved in the discussions? I guess I don’t think of a former football player being a technical guru.”
Michael laughs. “No. Terrence is not terribly computer savvy, but I always ask him to attend our conferences. If churchgoers know Terrence Rollins is attending an event, we always get a sizable turnout. Terrence is professional sports royalty, and people just like to be around him. Like Saturday night at the hotel, he held court in the lounge until after two a.m.”
“Really?” I ask. “Two a.m.? That must make getting up for morning service a bit tricky.”
“Not for Terrence. That man has a lot of energy. I passed him on the way to the gym at six a.m. when I was going to help set up the hospitality room.”
“Raynell always complained about Terrence being a morning person,” Alvetta says. “Raynell would sleep until noon every day if she could.”
“I suppose I would, too, but that pesky need to earn a living is a bit of an obstacle,” I respond, grateful that I didn’t have to find a way to tactfully grill Michael about Terrence’s whereabouts the night Raynell died. If Terrence was hanging out at the hotel bar until after two a.m. and was later seen at six a.m., then he couldn’t have killed Raynell. There simply wasn’t time for him to drive back to Maryland, do the deed, and get back to Williamsburg by six a.m.
“Why don’t I go check on Darius and see what’s keeping those drinks.”
I mentally cross Terrence off my suspect list as I hop up from the table and head toward the bar.
“What’s the holdup?” I ask Darius.
“Word has gotten out about our margaritas. Everyone is ordering them. The blenders are backed up.”
“I guess I’ll need to order another one to get us through the summer.”
“I’ll bring the drinks to the table as soon as they’re ready if you want to get back to your guests.”
“Thanks! I’ll give them some time alone.”
“Found out what you wanted to know already?” Darius asks, a sly smile on his face.
“What do you mean?” I feign innocence.
“He means did you find out from Michael if Terrence had time to get back from Williamsburg Saturday night and lay waste to his cheatin’ ho-bag of a wife?” Wavonne says, seemingly appearing out of nowhere.
I sigh, annoyed that Wavonne has been discussing Raynell’s death and my little informal investigation with Darius. “If you must know, yes, I did get the information I was after. According to Michael, Terrence was in the hotel lounge until after two a.m. and was seen again on the way to the gym at six a.m., so I guess he’s in the clear.”
“What makes you think Terrence would want to kill Raynell anyway?” Darius asks.
“Because she was cheating on him all over God’s creation—not only with an old high school classmate, but also with Michael Rollins,” I say, and direct my eyes toward Michael.
“Yeah,” Wavonne says. “We found this note in Raynell’s house. It’s from Michael. It’s signed M, and it’s his handwriting.” Wavonne pulls the infamous note from her pocket.
“What are you doing with that?” I ask as Darius reads the letter.
“I just thought it might come in handy . . . be useful sometime. A certain someone”—Wavonne diverts her eyes across the room toward Michael—“might be willing to pay a sista a little something to keep his wife from seein’ it.”
I shake my head in exasperation. “That’s called extortion, Wavonne, and could land you in jail.”
I grab the letter when Darius is done reading it to keep it from getting back in Wavonne’s hands.
“You know,” Darius says. “This letter isn’t necessarily for Raynell.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look”—Darius points to the top of the note—“It just says ‘hey, good-lookin’.’ ”
“What are you getting at?”
“You found the note at the Rollinses’ home, right? Raynell is not the only one who lives there.”
“But the note was in her office.” Wavonne says.
“Actually, we really don’t know if it was her office where we found the note,” I counter. “Yes, her real estate paraphernalia was scattered about, but she had that stuff stored all over the house.”
“Did it ever occur to you that the note could have been for Terrence?” Darius asks.
“From Michael to Terrence? But that would mean—”
Wavonne cuts me off. “What are you sayin’? That Terrence likes his bread buttered on both sides?”
“He’s been rumored to be one of‘my people’ since he was an active player back in the nineties. I have friends that swear he was a regular at The Bachelor’s Mill back in the day . . . before everyone had cameras on their phones to snap photos of a closeted football player.”
“The Bachelor’s Mill?”
“It’s a gay bar in D.C. Before he married Raynell, whenever reporters asked him about a girlfriend he always said he was too busy to date, or just hadn’t found the right girl. When his engagement was announced everyone ‘in the know’ assumed it was just an arrangement. Besides, from what I’ve heard, why else would anyone marry Raynell Rollins?”
“So what you’re saying is that Michael may have been having an affair with Terrence? Not Raynell?”
“Word on the street has always been that Terrence’s marriage to Raynell was just for convenience. She got access to his wealth and status, and he got a beard to have on his arm at the ESPYs.”
“Wow. This just gets more and more complicated.” I stop to think for a moment. “But Michael is married to Alvetta. I just can’t believe it. They are so good together. If what you’re saying is true, then Michael must also . . .”
“Get the hots for the brothas?” Wavonne says. “Well, I know how we can find out for sure. Look, Alvetta’s goin’ to the ladies room.” We watch as Alvetta heads toward the back of the restaurant. “I’m gonna saunter over there with my girls on display.” Wavonne looks down at her chest, loosens her tie, and unbuttons her blouse. “If he’s straight, you know he’s gonna wanna get down with all this.”
Darius and I observe from the bar as Wavonne sashays toward the table where
Michael is looking at his phone. I can tell she’s asking about changing out the salt and pepper as she jiggles her bazoombas in front of his face while she reaches for the shakers. Michael barely looks up from his phone and can’t be bothered to stare at all when Wavonne drops her pen and bends over right next to him to pick it up.
“Gay as a pink feather boa,” Wavonne says once she’s back at the bar.
“Maybe you’re just not his type,” I protest.
“Of course I’m not his type. I don’t have a—”
I look at Darius and break in before Wavonne has a chance to finish her tirade. “Why don’t you try it?”
“Me?” Darius asks.
“Yeah,” Wavonne says. “Go over there and strut your stuff. See if he bites.”
Darius lets out a quick laugh. “All right. I’ll play along. Looks like their drinks are ready anyway.” He places Alvetta’s margarita and Michael’s beer on a tray.
“Serve the drinks and then turn around, put your hands in your pockets on the way back, and pull your slacks forward,” Wavonne instructs as Darius walks toward Michael. “Show off what your momma gave you.”
Darius reaches the table and sets the drinks down. Wavonne and I discreetly observe as Michael looks up from his phone and steals a quick look at Darius’s chest. When Darius accidentally drops the tray on way back to the bar and bends over to pick it up, Michael’s eyes follow and linger on Darius’s backside way longer than any straight man’s should.
“So Michael is having an affair with Terrence,” I say to Wavonne as we see the spectacle unfold in front of us. “This changes everything.”
CHAPTER 33
“I think I’ve stepped foot in this building more than most tithing members during the last several days,” I say to Wavonne as we walk down the main hall of Rebirth Christian Church. I didn’t want to be away from the restaurant too long, so we timed our visit to coincide with the end of the eleven a.m. service.
“I don’t know why you made me come,” Wavonne says. “That fool never called me . . . never texted me . . . nothin’,” she adds about Rick Stevens, the gentleman we chatted with two weeks ago at the retreat table who tried to recruit Wavonne for the event in Williamsburg. “Now you want me to try and wrangle some information out of him.”
“Who knows why he didn’t call you, Wavonne. It hasn’t been that long. Maybe he still plans to.”
“Fine. But I’m gonna play it cool with him this time. I think I came off too eager when we were here last. Maybe that’s why he didn’t call.”
“Just do whatever seems to make him comfortable. Whether he’s called you or not, I could tell he was attracted to you. I figure you’re my best bet for getting his version of what happened at the hotel in Williamsburg the night Raynell died. Surely, we can’t trust Michael’s version, knowing what we do now about his relationship with Terrence.”
“Raynell was bangin’ Gregory. Michael and Terrence are hookin’ up. The rate these thots are goin’ at it, I wonder if there was a retreat at all. Maybe it was just a big swinger’s convention.”
I snicker. “It doesn’t seem to be a very righteous group, does it?” I comment as my eyes catch sight of Rick looking dapper as ever in a beige suit, light blue shirt, and a patterned silk tie. Once again he’s staffing the Church Retreat Ministry table.
“Well, hello, so good to see you again. . . .” He’s clearly struggling to remember our names.
“Halia,” I say, coming to his rescue. “And this is—”
“Wavonne,” he says before I have a chance to. I guess he at least remembered Wavonne’s name. “I owe you a phone call.”
“Do you?” Wavonne asks, acting as though she hasn’t been checking her phone every hour on the hour for more than a week. “So what goods are you peddlin’ this week, Rick?” she continues, feigning disinterest.
“We have another retreat scheduled for September . . . this one’s in Baltimore. It’s called ‘Journey to Reinvention.’ It will focus on transforming our lesser qualities into strengths through focused self-improvement.”
“Hmm . . . wonder if a certain gay minister can reinvent himself as a straight man,” Wavonne says under her breath to me.
“What was that?” Rick asks.
“Nothing.” I turn to Wavonne. “ ‘Journey to Reinvention. ’ That sounds like something you might be interested in.”
“Me? I ain’t got no lesser qualities I want to change.”
I give Wavonne a look that asks her to drop the attitude and play along. When you spend as much time together for as long as Wavonne and I have, sometimes a look is all you need.
She reluctantly changes her disposition. “Okay . . . well, maybe a weekend in Baltimore wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I could get me some crab cakes and some of them Berger Cookies . . . you know, those shortbread cookies with the chocolate frosting on top.”
“Yes. We do like our retreats to be all about the available local food options,” Rick jokes.
“I’ve heard good things about the retreat last weekend in Williamsburg. If the Baltimore retreat is half as good, maybe Wavonne should check it out.” I take my best stab at turning the conversation in the direction I want it to go.
“Really?”
“Yes. Pastor Marshall was at my restaurant the other night. He said the sessions during the day were very effective, and everyone enjoyed the social time afterward. I think he even mentioned some attendees mingling in the hotel lounge until the wee hours.”
“We probably did stay up a bit too late Saturday night.”
“So you were part of the after-hours crowd?” Wavonne asks.
“Guilty as charged. The day was intense. So it was nice to relax with friends.”
“How late did the evening go?”
“I packed it in about two a.m.”
“So I guess you didn’t outlast Michael and Terrence Rollins . . . you know Terrence, right? The football—”
“The football player. Of course. Everyone knows Terrence. He’s one of our celebrity members. Great guy. And what a career! But no, I think I outlasted him and Michael. Terrence isn’t much of a partier. Michael, either.”
“So how late did they hang out with you and the others in the lounge?”
“They didn’t. I think they both retired to their rooms early. I’m sure they were tired. It was a busy day for them.”
“So they weren’t in the lounge on Saturday night? At all?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason,” I say. “When Michael mentioned people gathering until very late, I assumed he, and probably Terrence, were part of the group.”
Wavonne and I exchange looks . . . looks that say the same thing: so Michael was not only lying about Terrence’s whereabouts the night of Raynell’s demise, he was lying about his own.
All three of us are quiet for a moment, before I take an obvious look at my watch. “Look at the time,” I say. “Wavonne, we really need to get going. Why don’t you take some of the promotional materials and give some thought to the retreat in September.”
“Yeah . . . okay.” Wavonne haphazardly grabs a brochure and a couple of flyers.
“Let me know if I can answer any other questions . . . and I still owe you a phone call,” Rick says to Wavonne. “You were going to give me some ideas about the church’s Web site.”
“Sure . . . whateveh,” Wavonne says.
“Thanks again for the information,” I offer before Wavonne and I begin to walk away from the table.
“He was lying,” I quietly say to Wavonne.
“I know he was. He ain’t gonna call me.”
“Not Rick! Michael. Michael was lying about him and Terrence partying in the lounge until two a.m. From the sound of it, they went missing after dinner. You know what that means?”
“You think I played it okay with Rick . . . you know . . . actin’ all indifferent?”
“Are you listening to me at all!? Michael lied about his and Terrence’s whereabouts. They were not seen afte
r dinner on Saturday night, which would have given one or both of them plenty of time to drive back to Maryland, furnish Raynell with a one-way ticket to being facedown on her bathroom floor, and be back at the hotel in Williamsburg in time for breakfast.”
“So you think they both could’ve had somethin’ to do with Raynell buyin’ the farm?”
“They are both wealthy men. If they really wanted to be together, they would need to get divorces—divorces that might cost them half or more of their fortunes.” As I say this, my eyes catch sight of Alvetta several yards down the long hall in front of us. Earlier, I was hoping to avoid her and figured it wouldn’t be hard given that a few thousand people are milling about, but now I’m glad to run into her. When her eyes meet mine, and she waves in our direction, it occurs to me that if Michael and Terrence want to be a real couple and avoid messy divorces, getting rid of Raynell only solved half the problem. As the other half of the problem is walking toward me in a smart gray pantsuit with a familiar smile on her face, all I can think is ticktock . . . ticktock.
CHAPTER 34
“So good to see you back here,” Alvetta says after she gives both Wavonne and I a quick hug. “You should have told me you were coming. I could have arranged for you to sit with me in the Pastor’s Circle. Did you enjoy the service?”
“Um . . . we didn’t actually make it to the service.”
“Oh . . . no worries. What brings you by then?”
“Well . . .” I try to come up with some words. How do you tell someone that not only is her husband cheating on her . . . he’s cheating on her with a man . . . and not only is he cheating on her with a man, but he and said other man may be plotting to kill her? It’s not the sort of thing you just blurt out in the middle of a crowded church hallway. “Do you think we could talk to you in private, Alvetta? Maybe in your office?”
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