The Cornbread Killer

by Lou Jane Temple

  “That all makes perfect sense. Musicians would make good inside men. Besides, they always need more money,” Heaven said excitedly. “But no one around Kansas City has lots of fancy gems, or if they do they don’t take them out of the bank vault very often.”

  “Will people dress up for this gala?” Iris asked.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Just getting the white folks to go to Eighteenth and Vine is going to be enough of a chore. I doubt they’ll be wearing the family jewels when they get there. But, Iris, this is very helpful information. It’s going to be useful, I just don’t know how yet. Thanks, honey.” Heaven could see the dinner tickets lining up on the wheel.

  “Dad said to tell you we would run your European investigating office.”

  “Tell him thanks. I’ll let you know what happens when we talk on Sunday,” Heaven said as she hung up the phone.

  She was already three orders of risotto behind.

  It was late and Heaven had just finished calling in all the orders for the weekend to the answering machines of the various vendors. It was one of the more amazing things about the food business that chefs, could order their meat and produce and fish late at night and it would actually show up the next day. Lots of nights Sara Baxter did the phone work, but tonight she cleaned up Heaven’s station while Heaven made the calls. As she was writing notes on the prep list for the next day, the bartender called out. “Heaven, one of your friends needs to see you.”

  She looked out, expecting to see Jim Dittmar, but it was Bonnie Weber instead, giving her a tired little wave from a bar stool. Heaven was irritated at her disappointment. But it could be worse. Bonnie was the second-best person to have a nightcap with tonight. Heaven took off her chef’s jacket and slipped out of her clogs and into a pair of high heels. The heels might look silly with her black-and-white-checkered tights and her tee-shirt, but they made her feel better. She slipped out of the kitchen into the darkness of the almost-empty dining room. There were two deuces, both couples obviously on dates. Three four-tops were still occupied, one with a trio of gay men, the second with two older couples who had spent a bundle on good bottles of wine and were now talking about where they were going on holidays this summer, and the last with four women who were talking up a storm and drinking margaritas. Tom Waits was on the sound system.

  Heaven slipped onto the bar stool next to her friend.

  “How did the Cajun cooks behave?” Bonnie Weber asked as she took a slug of beer from the bottle.

  “How can you remember all my meetings and yours, too?” Heaven asked. “Tony, how about a glass of California sparkling? What’s open?”

  “Roederer Estate, Anderson Valley,” the bartender replied.

  “Perfect,” Heaven said. “The Cajun cooks—by the way, only one of them is actually a Cajun—were angels. They flipped a coin to see who would do the jambalaya, who would do the gumbo, the etouffee. No bickering at all. They’ll also deep-fry some turkeys and bring in some oysters that we decided to throw on the grill instead of serving raw. ‘This here’s Kansas City. We don’ want to scare the folks, no’ was the quote of the day from the one real Cajun.”

  “I think they call them barbecue oysters that way, don’t they? With hot sauce and butter? Yum.” Bonnie held her bottle up to Heaven’s glass and clinked. “Thanks for the tip earlier. I feel like an utter fool. I should have checked her cell phone, there’s no way I should have missed that. I looked at the list of her personals and it just didn’t register. And thanks to the stage manager at the Ruby for not telling me about the phone fight Evelyn was having.”

  “I hope you didn’t yell at him. After being around a horrible death, lots of people can’t remember a thing until later. You know that. Plus he was scared out of his mind because he thought that it was an accident that could have happened to him. Or not an accident that could have happened to him,” Heaven added.

  Bonnie nodded. “The sabotage theory. Someone is killing all the Eighteenth and Vine principals, a racist scheme perhaps, or a classical music lover gone mad. That theory took a hit today, thanks to you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Bonnie wagged her empty beer bottle at Tony and he delivered another. “It means that I checked those pay phones at the Ruby, where Mona spotted Nolan talking and Nolan spotted Mona going in to the auditorium. A call went from one of them to Evelyn Edward’s cell phone.”

  “What did he—”

  “He admitted he talked to her, but said he didn’t keep her on the line until she was electrocuted. But I think he was still talking to her at the time of the power surge and he probably heard some horrible squeal or something. Then he ran into the stage area and panicked when she was dead, hung up the phone and put it in her briefcase, and ran away. I guess all that could have given him a half-ass heart attack.”

  Heaven was skeptical. “I know you probably hear this in every case, but I don’t see Nolan as a killer.”

  Bonnie grinned at her friend. “You, who had to fight for your life in the basement of the house of a cute little old lady, should know things aren’t what they look like.”

  “So, are you saying you think he rigged poor Evelyn’s accident?” Heaven knew she should tell Bonnie about Nolan’s sleeping with Evelyn, but Bonnie was a good detective. She’d probably found out by now and wasn’t tipping her hand to Heaven.

  Bonnie shook her head. “God knows, it would be much simpler if Nolan was the perp, instead of some nut who could make this weekend really unpleasant. I guess I’ve been watching too much television, but this project just seems ripe for some whacko who has a hard-on for Kansas City, or jazz—or both.”

  “Speaking of making this weekend unpleasant, our new best friend Ella Jackson has been very bad,” Heaven said. “And I have the feeling that she knew Evelyn Edwards before.”

  “Bad? Before? What are you keeping from me?”

  “Well, I don’t have any proof that would stand up in court, but—”

  “But that’s never stopped you before,” Bonnie pointed out.

  “Last night one of ladies from the social clubs called and said they had all been having trouble finding the food they needed for Friday night, simple things like sweet potatoes, collard greens, ham hocks. They were afraid they wouldn’t have enough food for five hundred people. Someone has been buying up the ingredients we need for this party.”

  “And you think it’s Miss Ella?”

  Heaven nodded. “My crew did a little investigative work, and Miss Ella and her boys were spotted all over town scooping up pork chops. She as much as admitted it when I went to talk to her about it.”

  Bonnie put her head on the bar counter and banged it a couple of times. “You not only let your Thirty-ninth Street gang loose on the city, but I bet you went over and made a scene at Miss Ella’s. And where did you get the idea Evelyn and Ella were in cahoots?”

  “Well, maybe not cahoots, but the first night that Ella was in town, the night that Evelyn died, she called Evelyn ‘Tulsa trailer trash.’ How would she know where Evelyn came from and where she lived, if she did live in a trailer, which I don’t know. That’s a personal kind of insult.”

  “Yes, I see your point, but it could be that Miss Ella calls everyone Tulsa trailer trash and this time it fit, at least the Tulsa part. But Miss Ella is definitely a suspect for something or other. She’s trouble with a capital T.”

  “I’d check it out, Bonnie. She’s sure making my life miserable right now. I’d love it if she was the mastermind who’s vowed to ruin Eighteenth and Vine forever!”

  “I will check it out if you promise to stop being so damn dramatic. Now, you came through the first soul food crisis like a champ. What are you going to do this time?” Bonnie asked.

  “I guess I could send someone to Saint Louis for neck bones,” Heaven said doubtfully. “I’ll come up with some creative solution, I hope. By the way, you might check out whether Ella Jackson is paying for Evelyn Edwards’s funeral.”

  “Now what aren’t y
ou telling me?”

  “I’m telling you. When I was leaving Ella’s, these two undertaker suits came in and thanked Ella for her consideration. There was a hearse outside. What else could it mean?”

  “I hate it when I get more information from you than I get from my own stellar police work. By the way, Mona called me up and spilled her guts. She has certainly done a good job of putting herself on the suspect list,” Bonnie said.

  Heaven was relieved but wasn’t going to ask exactly what Mona had spilled. “Well, that must prove something. Mona wouldn’t have told on herself if she’d actually done anything. Not that I thought for a minute she had.”

  “It happens all the time. A wiseass will think he can trick the dumb cops by acting honest. They won’t suspect me if I tell them I didn’t like Uncle Henry, who had his brains beat out with my favorite golf club,” Bonnie said darkly.

  “It sure must be hard, not being able to trust anyone,” Heaven said.

  Bonnie didn’t answer. They drank in silence.

  Banana Pudding Trifle

  1 cups sugar

  ¾ cups flour

  ¼ tsp. salt

  4 cups milk

  8 egg yolks, beaten

  1 T. vanilla extract

  2 boxes vanilla wafers rum

  6–8 bananas

  6–8 Heath Bars or some real English toffee covered with chocolate, or toffee bars without chocolate and 1 cup good-quality semisweet chocolate, shaved.

  2 cups whipping cream

  cup sugar

  1 tsp. vanilla extract.

  Make a large double boiler with a large saucepan half full of water and a stainless steel mixing bowl that will sit on the rim of the pan. While the water is heating in the saucepan, combine the dry ingredients, then add the beaten egg yolks, then the milk gradually, whisking as you go to make a smooth mix. Put this in the bowl over the simmering water, stir occasionally, and let cook until it thickens and the pudding coats a wooden spoon. Remove from heat and add vanilla. Cool to room temperature.

  Whip the cream to soft peaks, adding the vanilla and sugar when it starts to stiffen.

  Smash the candy with the flat side of a Chinese cleaver or a hammer while still in the candy wrappers, then unwrap the pieces. Slice the bananas as you need them.

  Now you have all the parts to layer your trifle: bananas, rum, vanilla wafers, pudding, toffee and chocolate bits, whipped cream. Using a clear glass bowl for effect, build your trifle by lining the bottom and sides of the bowl with vanilla wafers. Splash them with a little rum. Add a layer of pudding, bananas, then candy, then whipped cream. Start over with wafers, rum, pudding, bananas, candy, and whipped cream until you reach the top of your bowl. I usually like to end with the whipped cream and throw some candy on the very top. Chill at least 2 hours—but not overnight, as the bananas will start to turn.

  This is a great party dessert; it requires no fancy plating. It also eliminates the hard part of a true southern banana pudding, baking the meringue on the top, which many times turns the banana slices brown.

  Ten

  So, Murray called last night and said I should ask you about City Hall first thing this morning. What’s that all about?” Heaven asked Sal.

  Sal was giving a twelve-year-old a crew cut. He transferred the unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “Murray’s worried you and Mona here are gonna end up with egg on your face this weekend.”

  Mona and Heaven were slumped next to each other in the Naugahyde chairs that lined the barbershop wall, eating bagels spread with an inch of cream cheese. They tried to protest this questioning of their competency but kept eating instead. Neither one could say that it wasn’t a possibility. The way things were going, they might be lucky to have only egg on their faces.

  “I checked out how this Eighteenth and Vine thing is set up,” Sal continued, surprised he didn’t at least get a rise out of Heaven. She was usually so easy to bait.

  “What do you mean, ‘set up’?” Mona asked.

  “When they started all the renovation, they had a committee of ‘civic leaders’ they called ’em, to oversee the project since they had federal money and state money and city money to spend. Plus the mayor knew that if he doled out the construction contracts and such, he’d be accused of favoritism, like usual. So the committee kept a pretty tight rein on the whole thing, money wise. But, now, this dedication weekend is a different matter,” Sal said as he pulled the striped cotton cape off the boy. The kid gave Sal a handful of quarters. Sal eyeballed them and threw them into a Mason jar full of change. The kid, who lived around the corner on Bell Street, ran off down the sidewalk. Going to Sal’s by yourself for a haircut was a rite of passage in the Thirty-ninth Street neighborhood.

  Sal swept up the hair on the floor. “They hit up the big corporations for this dedication,” Sal continued.

  “We know that because they all have someone on the committee—the Kauffman Foundation, Hallmark, Kansas City Southern Railroad . . .” Mona said. She didn’t want Sal to think they were totally out of the loop.

  “Even though there’s thousands of dollars involved in this dedication,” Sal explained, “it’s not millions like the renovation, so the mayor’s office is taking care of the nuts and bolts of the dedication, leaving the rest up to you big-time committee members. That’s how Evelyn Edwards got the job. There was no bidding process. Nolan just hired her.”

  “Don’t they have to have bids if they spend over a hundred dollars or something?” Heaven asked.

  “If it’s the city’s money, yes,” Sal explained. “But this was private donations. No bids necessary. Nolan probably hired her and told the other honchos about it later. If it meant less work for them they didn’t squawk.”

  “So that’s why she just appeared one day,” Mona said. “But it doesn’t explain why Nolan hired her instead of someone who has lived here longer than a few months. Maybe she gave Nolan a kickback to get the job, knowing she’d make up for it when she started squeezing all of the vendors herself.”

  “Or maybe she has something on him,” Sal mused.

  “Had something on him. She doesn’t have anything on anybody anymore,” Mona said cynically.

  Heaven didn’t like that tone in Mona’s voice. She wanted to tell Sal and Mona about Evelyn and Nolan and too many margaritas at the convention, but she didn’t want to be the one to leak the story. Maybe the whole world, and specifically Nolan’s wife, wouldn’t have to know about how Evelyn got her big job. “I better go to work; it’s already nine. Thanks for the information, Sal. Now, if you could just find us some ham hocks,” Heaven said as they left the barbershop.

  “Heaven, what are you going to do about the food?” Mona asked. “Have you talked to Julia and the rest of the social club ladies?”

  Heaven and Mona headed across thirty-ninth Street. “No,” Heaven said, “and I need your help. Will you call all the clubs and tell them to cook what they can find? Make as much as they can, not to worry about feeding five hundred.”

  “And what will you be doing? Calling two or three hundred people and telling them to stay home?”

  “Well, I will be making phone calls, but it won’t be to ask people to stay home. Mona, if this works, tomorrow night will be great, even better than it would have been two plans ago.”

  “I guess you’re not going to tell me what plan C is,” Mona whined.

  “Not until I see if it works,” Heaven said. “Wish me luck.”

  “Wish me luck, too,” Mona said. “I left a note at the hotel for Sam Scott and asked her to have a drink with me tonight. I figured it would be best to get this out of the way. Then, if we do make up, I’ll enjoy myself more. And if she won’t accept my apology, then I won’t have to fret about what I’m going to say to her all weekend.” Mona waved good-bye to Heaven and unlocked the door to her shop. Heaven walked around to the kitchen door of the restaurant.

  Everyone seemed to be working quietly and there were no major crises, so she slipped into the off
ice and started her calls.

  An hour later, Heaven hung up the phone and let out a whoop. She went directly next door to the cat store and danced around, still whooping. “This is going to be so cool,” she said, doing a little jig. Two women buying Siamese cat posters and statues stared at her as if she were a large dog. They took their packages and departed quickly.

  Mona couldn’t help but laugh at her friend, who now was wearing a fish-shaped cat food dish on her head like a chic, surrealistic hat as she spun around. “What has gotten into you, H?”

  “I’ve solved the food shortage problem.”

  “How?”

  Heaven laughed and put the fish dish back on the counter. “It’s a surprise. And we can still have banana pudding. Luckily, Ella couldn’t corner the market on bananas. I requested the recipe that has crunchy toffee in it, not exactly traditional southern, but what the hell. I had it once in New Orleans, and it was so good.”

  “Heaven, you’re positively giddy. Calm down. Do you want to go to the walk-through together?”

  “No, we each need a car in case Sam Scott wants to meet with you tonight. Besides, I have another errand to do,” she said without volunteering any further information.

  “You sure are secretive,” Mona observed.

  “Isn’t it great? Usually I tell everything I know. See you later,” Heaven said, and took off out the door.

  Heaven pulled into the Jones Brothers Funeral Chapel parking lot and looked around. “Now what are you going to do?” she asked herself out loud.

  Surely funeral homes had a code of ethics. Just because she was curious about who was paying for Evelyn Edwards’s burial costs didn’t mean they would pop with that information. And it would be pretty hard to pass herself off as a relative. She got out of the car and entered the door marked VISITATION. If Evelyn hadn’t been shipped back to Oklahoma for burial, Heaven guessed she’d be in one of those viewing rooms that were such a part of death in the Midwest. Having been born an O’Malley, even a Presbyterian O’Malley, she’d been going to look at dead people in their caskets all her life.