The Cornbread Killer

by Lou Jane Temple

  Hart glanced over his shoulder. Everyone seemed to be pointing in another direction. “It seems to make a difference to them.” He paused. “Can you talk about the Evelyn Edwards situation for a sec?”

  Heaven nodded. “The cookers can fight it out on their own. Did you find out anything interesting?”

  “Pretty much what you already know. Because the Ruby’s a road show venue, it has big power capabilities in those floor pockets, as opposed to a venue that has all the lighting and sound permanently wired. It was set up to meet requirements for lots of different kinds of stage shows.

  “I asked the stage manager about that day. He said he’d gone to get more gels because the chick, ah, the party planner, had come in out of nowhere, real interested in how the lights were going down for the first number and the grand finale of the concert. He was frustrated, he said, because she was a real bitch.”

  “And that brings up another point. Whoever did it would have to know that Evelyn was going to work on the lights that afternoon,” Heaven mused.

  “Well, Heaven, that’s true only if the accident was specifically meant for Evelyn. What if it was supposed to postpone the opening of the Ruby? Then it wouldn’t make any difference who got it, or when.”

  “Is that what the stage manager thinks?”

  “He thinks it could have been him lying dead on the stage, no matter who the accident was meant for,” said Hart solemnly.

  “Good point,” Heaven said reluctantly as her precious theories about motive went down the drain. “It’s kind of like the Unabomber. He didn’t know for sure who would open his nasty little packages. He just sent them to those who represented the enemy in his mind. If you really have a specific target, one person, you don’t booby-trap a whole city, or even a building.”

  “Unless your target is the whole city.”

  “Hart, you are a great junior G-man. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. The stage manager said that Evelyn was talking on a cell phone when he left the stage to get the gels. And she was upset, seemed to be having a big argument. He also said he got the impression she had an eye on the doors to the lobby, like she was watching for someone or expecting someone.”

  Heaven’s face lit up. “Hart, now, that’s a clue!” She hugged him. “I better get back to the barbecue boys. Thank you so much,” she said, turning toward the knot of angry-sounding people down the street.

  “Okay,” she shouted as she waved the paper that showed the layout of the street for the next Saturday. “The bands will be at the far west end of the blocked-off portion of the street. The food booths will be at the far east part. The middle will be filled up with tables and chairs. Who doesn’t like where their booth is placed?”

  Everyone but the person from Arthur Bryant’s held up a hand.

  It was going to be a long afternoon.

  Sam Scott closed the suitcase. She was ready. She’d packed Lefty’s suitcase, too, everything but the toiletries she would throw in at the last minute Thursday morning. Distracted, Sam sat down in the old-fashioned window seat and pulled her legs up to her chin, staring out at Central Park. What would this weekend bring? Her mind kept going back to the note she had received via her agent.

  Did she want to mend fences with Mona Kirk? She reached over to her desk and picked up the note.

  Dear Sam,

  Greetings from a part of your past. You probably want to leave me back there, but I thought I should warn you that Fm an active member of the committee putting together the Eighteenth and Vine dedication in Kansas City. I’d like a chance to talk to you alone sometime over the weekend. I owe you an apology.

  The Best,

  Mona Kirk

  It surprised Sam how hurt she still felt when she read the words. It was as if she were eighteen all over again and her best friend had turned out to be . . . not who she seemed. Even now, as she read the note for the fourth or fifth time, her eyes filled with tears. The first disappointments of a young life never go away, never even seem to diminish in their ability to hurt. But now Mona wanted to make amends, even if they both knew that wasn’t possible. So the weekend threatened a confrontation with her old friend, whether Sam agreed to meet with her or not.

  Not only that, she was very nervous about both Boots Turner and her husband being in the same city at the same time. Lefty’s health was, well, frail. He would deny it, of course. But she knew his arthritis made walking and using his hands painful. She also knew that Boots had undergone heart surgery last year. Would the two men act their age? Neither one of them should be taking a swing at the other, yet she could see it happening. If anything life threatening—or even an emotional scene—occurred, she would feel responsible. After all, she was responsible for the decision that had changed all their lives. Sam Scott got up and walked through the spacious apartment, looking around each room in turn. “Honey, where are you?” she called.

  Lefty Stuart was in the book-filled room he called his office. He loved to kiss Sam good-bye at the breakfast table and say with a wink he was going to the office. There he made his calls, read the newspapers, worked on the book he was writing about his days in Negro League baseball. Now, when Sam poked her head in the door, he looked up from a pile of newspaper clippings. “Come in, sugar. Boy, a lot of these guys are feeding the tulips,” Lefty said sadly.

  “You must be looking at photos of the bands I used to sing with. Half of ’em are dead,” Sam said. She glided into the room, perched on the arm of Lefty’s roomy leather chair, and put her arm around his shoulder.

  “No, I’m lookin’ at the men I used to play ball with. Look, here we are the year the Kansas City Monarchs won the championship. That was 1941,” Lefty said.

  Sam studied the photo and pointed at Lefty’s image. “There you are. You were just a teenager.”

  “It was my first year.” He pointed at the player standing next to him in the photograph. “There’s Rainey Bibbs. He was my roommate that year. Snored louder than a church choir can sing. We had a time.”

  Sam snorted. “Yeah, when you could find a place that would let colored baseball players stay. It sounds like you spent most nights sleeping on the bus.”

  Lefty nodded. “In the heyday of the Negro Leagues, before the Depression, that sure was true. I came aboard when the whole thing was almost over.”

  “The Depression really hurt black baseball, didn’t it?”

  “The old-timers told how they would have twenty, thirty thousand fans at the games,” Lefty said with a glimmer in his eye. “The Baltimore Black Sox, the New York Black Yankees, the Chicago American Giants, they drew big crowds. The Depression comes along, that twenty-five-cent admission was grocery money.”

  “Next thing that happens, integrating the majors finishes off the black leagues. Even though we’ve talked about it a million times, it still seems a little too ironic,” Sam said as she sorted through the clippings on her husband’s lap.

  “The crowds really never came back after the war. Then when Jackie Robinson made it to the big leagues . . .”

  “Followed by you,” Sam interjected.

  “Followed by me, Satchel Paige, and the rest. The black families went with us to the majors. It was like the players left in the Negro League, and there were plenty of good ones, were the second string. No one wanted to see the second string.”

  “So fewer black baseball players had jobs,” Sam said sadly.

  Lefty Stuart looked up at his wife. “Now, what’s the use of crying over milk spilt that long ago? Are you feelin’ all right, Sam?”

  Sam got up and kissed the top of Lefty’s head. “I’m just a sentimental fool today, honey. Our past is waiting for us in Kansas City. It’s just got me thinking. And the thinking has got me hungry. I’ll make lunch.” And she slipped out of the room before Lefty could question her further.

  Sam went back into the guest bedroom, where two suitcases lay on the bed, packed and ready. She opened the closet and rummaged around on the linen shelf. When her hand emerged, it w
as holding a small .22-caliber pistol. She opened her own suitcase and slipped the weapon in between the carefully folded clothes. “Just in case,” she murmured, and headed for the kitchen.

  Heaven hurried to the kitchen. It was four, almost time for dinner service, and she had promised to be back by three. If this gala wasn’t over soon she would have a kitchen rebellion on her hands. “Sorry,” she muttered breathlessly as she slipped on her chef’s coat. “What can I do?”

  Sara Baxter was tossing a pan full of pecans as she fried them in olive oil. “Stop feeling guilty, that’s what you can do. It’s Tuesday, the slowest night of the week. If we can’t get ready for Tuesday night without you, then you need a new kitchen crew.”

  “I know, but I wanted to make the stuffed cabbage. I know how irritating it is to fiddle with those leaves. You have to keep dipping them in the boiling water to soften them, then try to peel them off without tearing them . . .”

  Sara whistled. “Hold it right there. Didn’t I cook for a Hungarian count back in 1972? You think a little stuffed cabbage is going to set me back?”

  “How foolish of me,” Heaven said with a grin as she opened the hotel pan filled with cabbage rolls simmering in a sweet-and-sour tomato sauce. She took a big sniff. “This smells like heaven right here on earth, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  “Hank has called twice and said he’d call back,” Sara said as the kitchen phone buzzed.

  Heaven had mixed feelings about even having a phone in the kitchen. It was a terrible temptation for the crew. When the night was slow they were supposed to take a quadrant of the kitchen and clean, not talk on the phone. But the fact that Heaven worked in the kitchen made it imperative to have a phone. She’d never get anything done if she had to go to the bar every time she got a call. It also meant she had no privacy.

  Heaven hunched toward the wall as she talked. “I was hoping it was you. Oh, just fine. No, they don’t know any more about the victim. Well, I don’t at least. Of course, my friend Hart Kenton, the lighting designer, said . . . You know, I should call you back. I’m late and it’s almost time for service. The most wonderful kid came in last night. Russian, eleven years old, and he can play jazz piano like nobody’s business. I’ll tell you all about him later. Hank, I miss you. Me, too.”

  Everyone in the kitchen acted busy.

  “I just have one more call,” Heaven said apologetically. She dialed quickly. “Bonnie, did you find a cell phone with the . . . with Evelyn’s stuff? Well, if I were you, I’d go to the evidence room and see if there’s a cell phone and if it has redial. Why? Because the stage manager told a friend . . . Just check, please? I don’t know, maybe he just remembered. He said Evelyn was arguing with someone on her cell phone. Maybe we’ll catch a break. Call me later—or tomorrow,” Heaven said, and hung up. The crew didn’t even try to act like they weren’t listening this time.

  “So, who do you think the dead broad was talking to?” Sara asked.

  The kitchen phone buzzed again. Chris Snyder poked his head in the kitchen window. “Heaven, you’ve got to take that call. It’s one of the social club ladies. I told her you couldn’t talk now, but she said it was really important.”

  Heaven wheeled around toward the phone and picked it up. “Yes? Hello, Julia. What’s up? Oh, that can’t be. Did you call everyone on that list I gave you? Well, there has to be some explanation. I’ll call Pisciotta’s and the other wholesalers in the morning. We’ll figure out something. Now, calm down and tell everyone not to worry.” She hung up the phone slowly.

  “Well, what now?” Sara asked.

  Heaven shrugged her shoulders and walked toward the sauté station. “Someone has bought up all the vital ingredients for the Friday gala buffet. There’s not a black-eyed pea left in town.”

  Mona Kirk turned the sign on the shop door over, from OPEN to CLOSED. Then she checked her watch for the tenth time in the last five minutes. “What could be taking her so long?” she muttered.

  Suddenly, Detective Bonnie Weber appeared at the door. “What’s up, Mona?” she asked as the door opened. “You sounded upset.”

  “Well, I am. I’ve been upset ever since this horrible Evelyn Edwards thing began. So, now, I’m ready to confess. There’s something I haven’t told you.”

  Bonnie Weber looked surprised, something she rarely did. She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. “Let me have it, Mona. I hope this isn’t going to ruin our friendship.”

  It was well past midnight. Jim Dittmar parked the van he had purchased earlier in the day two blocks away. He had the temporary license plate taped on the back window, but he could take it down quickly if necessary.

  Jim had spent several days looking for the perfect situation.

  It had to be a familiar house, one where he had played a party or been inside as a guest. The homeowners had to be older and preferably have a cat. Older people with cats often didn’t turn on the interior component of their alarm system, fearing they or their cat might set off the motion sensors. But it couldn’t be an older woman alone. They always turned on the alarm, even if it meant putting the cat out for the night. And the house most certainly had to be on the Missouri side, not in Mission Hills in Kansas, where the biggest mansions were. The Mission Hills, Kansas, police were to be avoided. They kept watch for stray cars, especially vans, and strangers walking when or where they shouldn’t be. They were there to prevent crimes against property, something their residents feared more than a gunfight in the front yard, which was rare over there.

  Jim felt good about this mark. It was a couple in their late sixties, a retired insurance executive and his wife. They were actually acquaintances of Jim’s parents. He had been in their house several times. It was situated right off Ward Parkway, where the mansions on the Missouri side were located. Thanks to a good memory for details, he knew where he was going. Even if the alarm started ringing the minute he slipped the lock, he was confident the couple wouldn’t leave their bedroom. They would stay there and let the police handle it. They wouldn’t try to be heroes. If he was lucky and the alarm wasn’t set, they wouldn’t even know until they got up in the morning that someone had stolen their Jasper Johns painting, leaving them only an empty frame.

  Jim Dittmar slipped on his black stocking cap, his surgical-quality latex gloves. He had a smile on his face. Despite his promises to himself to reform, he would miss the excitement, the adrenaline rush. And with what he was facing in the near future, he needed the practice.

  Chicken with Green Dumplings

  2 whole chickens, or 10 lbs. of bone-in chicken breasts if you can’t stand dark meat

  2 onions

  4 carrots

  1 stalk celery

  2 flat cans sliced water chestnuts, or one 10 oz can.

  1¼ cup flour

  ½ cup yellow cornmeal

  2 eggs

  1 tsp. each baking powder and kosher salt

  cup milk

  2 T. melted butter

  1 10 oz pkg. frozen chopped spinach that has been defrosted by running warm water over it in a colander, then squeezed to remove most of the moisture kosher salt, white pepper

  Option: 1 cup heavy cream

  Stock

  To make stock, you really need two large stockpots so you can transfer the broth back and forth as you do these steps. In your largest stockpot, place the 2 chickens, the end and leaves of the celery, 1 carrot, washed but unpeeled, and an onion, quartered, with the onion skins. Cover with cold water, bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to keep the pot simmering until the chicken is falling off the bones. Remove from heat, drain the chicken and vegetables out of the stock. You can separate the chicken and the broth by using long kitchen tongs and fishing it all out piece by piece, or by putting a colander or china cap (a cone-shaped strainer) over pot number two’ as you pour the contents of pot number one into pot number two, thus saving the chicken parts and the aromatics in the colander. This sounds much harder than it is. I’m just mentioning it so you will
be prepared with the equipment you need. Let the chickens cool, then separate the meat and coarsely chop. Strain the stock and let cool, then remove the fat that has gathered on the top. This step can be done anytime and the stock frozen in plastic bags. You want about a gallon of finished stock.

  Dumplings

  Combine the dry ingredients (flour, cornmeal, salt, and baking powder) in a mixing bowl, beat eggs and add to the dry ingredients along with the milk, the butter, and the drained spinach. Combine and let set while you make the sauce.

  Sauce

  In a large sauté pan, sauté 1 cup each diced and peeled onion, celery, and carrot in 4 T. butter or a combination of butter and canola oil. When the onions are turning translucent, cover the vegetables in stock and simmer until the carrots are tender. Add the water chestnuts and remove from heat.

  To finish the dish, heat remaining stock to simmer in a large pot. Drop tablespoons of the dumpling dough into the stock, making sure each dumpling gets submerged. Let simmer about 5 minutes, then add the chopped chicken and the vegetables, salt and pepper. If you want the rich version, add the cream now and simmer another ten minutes. Serve in bowls. This dish freezes well.

  Nine

  Sal’s Barber Shop was packed. Joe, Chris, Mona, Murray, and Heaven were drinking coffee that Heaven had brought to Sal’s, along with glazed donuts from Lamar’s Donuts. This meeting was too important to drink Sal’s coffee. Mona was scanning the morning Kansas City Star “Someone broke into a house out on Ward Parkway and stole a painting worth . . .”she said to no one in particular.

  Heaven snatched the paper away from Mona. “We don’t have time for the news,” she declared. “Has everyone made their calls?”