Murder with Macaroni and Cheese (13 page)

CHAPTER 25

T
his morning's antics took up so much time that by the time Wavonne and I finally get to Sweet Tea the brunch rush is long over. We have only a few customers when we walk through the front door.

I see Jack Spruce, a local police officer and Sweet Tea regular, having a late lunch at a table in the corner. He has one of our summer specials on his plate—fresh corn on the cob. I buy it by the truckload from June through August. We steam it and let customers decide if they want one, some, or all of the following on it: salt, pepper, Old Bay seasoning, butter, lemon, shredded cheese, and/or spicy mayonnaise. It's hugely popular with the customers despite the price, which I set at a premium—not because the corn is expensive, but because shucking hundreds of corn cobs a day cost me a mint in labor expenses.

Wavonne and I smile and wave hello to Jack on our way to the kitchen.

“Aren't you gonna go chat with your boyfriend?” Wavonne jokes. She's convinced Jack has a crush on me, and, I'll admit, she's probably right. I'm sure he really does love the food here, and we offer free soda and coffee to all the local police officers if they feel like stopping in when they're making their rounds. But Jack comes in the most of any of them and has asked me out a time or two. I've always declined as politely as I can. I do like him as a person. He's very nice, but I guess we all know “very nice” is the kiss of death when you're talking about someone with a romantic attraction to you. He's about my age with a dark brown complexion, closely cropped black hair, and a bit more of a belly than a police officer should probably be carrying—if he ever had to chase down a reasonably fit criminal, I'm afraid I'd have to bet on the criminal. But his being overweight isn't a problem for me. It's not like I'm not carrying around my share of extra pounds as well. There's just something a little
too
nice . . . or simple . . . or easy . . . or
something
about him. Much as I'd like to be attracted to him, I'm just not. I hate to admit it, but I need a man with a bit more of an edge.

“I'm so sorry you had to come in and deal with the Sunday-morning crowd after I left you here alone last night,” I say to Laura after stepping inside the kitchen.

“No worries. We were busy and short a server with Wavonne being out, but we muddled through.”

“Thank you, Laura. Why don't you take the rest of the day off? I'll be here until closing.”

Laura gladly agrees to leave Sweet Tea to me, and Wavonne and I go to the break room to drop off our purses. When we return to the dining room I see Tacy at a booth along the wall rolling silverware into linen napkins for the dinner service. Tacy's official title is prep cook, but he's sort of a jack-of-all-trades and just helps out with whatever requires some attention.

“Why don't you help Tacy with the silverware while it's slow?” I say to Wavonne.

Wavonne groans.

“What's with the groaning? Good Lord. I'm not asking you to mine coal in West Virginia. Come on. I'll help, too.”

“What up, Tace-Man,” Wavonne says when we reach the table.

“Nothing much. Trying to get the silverware done, so I can finish up the prep work in the kitchen for tonight's special.”

“What's the special this evenin'?”

“Shrimp and grits.”

“Ooooo, I'm gonna have me some of that,” Wavonne says.

“It looked like we're almost ready with the special when I was in the kitchen with Laura a few minutes ago,” I say to Tacy.

“There's still some chopping to do . . . parsley, scallions—”

“Bacon?” Wavonne asks. “I didn't hear you say nothin' about no bacon.”

“The bacon has been chopped, Ms. Hix.”

“Good. That's what makes it so delish.”

Wavonne is at least partially right. We fry up the bacon first and then use the bacon fat to sauté the shrimp with some cream, lemon juice, fresh corn, parsley, scallions, garlic, just a touch of dry sherry, and, of course, chopped bacon. We serve the shrimp and sauce over two homemade triangle-shaped grit cakes. All the ingredients play a role in making the special so popular, but, like Wavonne said, the bacon, which I get from a local pig farmer just south of Frederick, is key—it gives the dish a different kind of richness than we would get from butter or olive oil.

“Tacy, why don't you go on back to the kitchen and finish your prep work, and Wavonne and I will take care of the flatware.”

“Sure thing, Ms. Watkins.”

“Why'd you send him away? Now we're gonna have to do all this ourselves.” Wavonne gestures toward the basket of forks and knives on the table.

“It's not that much. And he's got work to do in the kitchen if we're going to have the shrimp and grits ready to go by dinner.”

Wavonne grabs two forks and a knife and starts to wrap them in a napkin before shifting the conversation back to Raynell. “So, what do you think Kimberly was doin' at Raynell's house?”

“I wish I knew, but she must have been up to no good. Assuming Raynell was, in fact, murdered, the only reason I can come up with is that Kimberly killed her, and must have come back to try and cover her tracks.”

“Too late for that considerin' the popo have already been there and canvassed the place.”

“True, but she may not have known that Raynell's body had already been discovered until she got there. She could have thought she still had some time to go back and alter the crime scene. Suppose she killed Raynell in a heated moment and fled last night. Once she regained her senses this morning, she might have decided to come back and try to get rid of her fingerprints in the house . . . or maybe she was going to try and hide Raynell's body to buy some time. Who knows. Whatever the reason, the police should really know she was snooping around.”

“You ain't thinkin' of tellin' them?”

“No. Of course not. We can't tell the police about Kimberly breaking into Raynell's house without telling them about
us
breaking into Raynell's house. Maybe I'll just give Kimberly a call, and see what I can find out. I'll be right back.”

I get up from the table and make a run to the break room to retrieve my purse.

“What do you need your purse for?” Wavonne asks when I return to the table and sit back down.

“Kimberly gave me her contact info last night. It should be in here somewhere.”

My purse tends to be packed with stuff, and I really have to dig to find Kimberly's business card. While I'm looking around in my bag past makeup and tissues and ChapStick and notepads, I come across the church bulletin from Rebirth. I thoughtlessly stuffed it in my bag after I attended the service there last weekend. Putting my hand on it sparks a memory.

“You know what?” I pull the bulletin from my purse. “I think I remember where I've seen the handwriting on the note we found in Raynell's office.”

“Where?”

I unfold the bulletin and hold it up for Wavonne to see. “ ‘The Word,' by Pastor Michael Marshall,” I say, as I once again search through my black hole of a purse to find the note I took from Raynell's desk.

“Look.” I lay the letter on the table next to the church bulletin featuring Michael's handwritten weekly column. “The handwriting is an exact match.”

Wavonne walks over, sits next to me, and looks at the two papers. “Ba-bam!” she says. “That ho-bag was doin' the nasty with Michael. A
minister!
”

“Not to mention her best friend's husband.”

“Damn, that Raynell was gettin' busy all over PG County.”

“No kidding. If she was having an affair with Michael, that opens up a whole series of motives for killing her. The affair could have gone south, and Michael wanted her dead. Alvetta may have found out that her supposed best friend was sleeping with her husband and lost it. Or Terrence could have found out and flipped out as well. The possibilities are endless.”

“Yeah, but, unlike Kimberly, none of them were slinkin' around Raynell's house today.”

“Good point.”

Wavonne's words remind me of why I was digging through my bag in the first place, and I continue my search for Kimberly's business card. Just as I'm pulling it out of my purse, Jack appears at the table.

“Hey, Jack. How are you today?” I ask. “Working on a Sunday?”

“Hello, ladies,” he says to Wavonne and me. “Yes. I'm just finishing up lunch. Then I've got to get back out there and make my rounds. I thought I'd say hi and let you know that the fried pork chop I had for lunch was delicious as always. And that fresh corn on the cob hit the spot.”

“Glad to hear it. I only use really thin chops so they fry up nice and quick and don't get too greasy.”

“Is that why they come out perfect every time?”

I smile. “I guess so.”

“Well, it was good to see you. I hope you have a good day.”

“It can't get no worse,” Wavonne says.

“Oh?”

“Let's just say it's been a long day already.”

“Why?”

“One of Halia's old classmates croaked, and we were the sad suckers who found her body.”

“Oh wow. I'm sorry to hear that,” Jack says. “Wait. Your classmate wasn't that Rollins woman I heard some chatter about over the radio this morning, was she? The woman who was severely inebriated, slipped in the bathroom, and hit her head?”

“I'm afraid so. Although I'm not entirely sure she slipped. She had a lot of enemies, so her being
pushed
rather than
slipping
is not out of the realm of possibilities.”

“Hmm,” Jack says. “I know Detective Hutchins was at the scene. I'm sure he'll check out all the angles.”

“I hope so.”

“Well, I've got to run. Again, I'm sorry about your classmate, and what you had to go through this morning.”

Jack's about to be on his way when he notices Kimberly's business card sitting on the table. “Who's that?” he asks.

“Another one of my high school classmates, Kimberly Butler.”

“No kidding?” Jack picks up the card and looks at it closely. “I had an encounter with her late last night . . . early this morning really . . . about two a.m.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I came across her sound asleep in her car at the Herald Shopping Center.”

“The Herald Shopping Center? That's over by Raynell's neighborhood.”

“I tapped on the window to see if she was okay and tell her the shopping center does not allow overnight parking or sleeping in your car on the property. It took a few hard taps to rouse her. She didn't look good. She said she wasn't feeling well and needed to pull over for a bit.”

“Was she drunk?” Wavonne asks.

“No. She didn't appear well, but I wouldn't let her drive without a sobriety check. She passed a breathalyzer test and insisted that she was okay to drive home.”

“That's very interesting,” I say.

“How so?”

“Let's just say high school cruelties are not easily forgotten, and Raynell committed many of them against Kimberly. Isn't it a little suspicious that Kimberly was found asleep and out of sorts so close to Raynell's house the same night she died?”

“Hmmm . . . maybe.”

“You'll pass this information on to Detective Hutchins?” I ask.

“Sure, sure. I'll tell him, but from what I heard coming across the radio today, all indications lead to an accidental fall that resulted in Ms. Rollins's death.” Jack sets Kimberly's card back down on the table. “I really do have to run. I hope your evening is better than your morning.”

“Thanks Jack.”

“This is startin' to get interestin',” Wavonne says as Jack steps away from the table.

“It is.” I grab my phone and start typing in Kimberly's number. “It certainly is.”

CHAPTER 26

I
try to sweep thoughts of Raynell from my brain as I walk into an Italian restaurant in Camp Springs. It's the day after Wavonne and I found Raynell's body, and I'm having a hard time letting go of her death and my feelings about whether it was an accident or the result of foul play.

I'm anxious to talk with Kimberly and find out what on earth she was doing prowling around at Raynell's house, so I invited her to come to Sweet Tea for lunch today, but she had already made plans. She did, however, agree to swing by the restaurant tomorrow. Until then, I'm in sort of a holding pattern with the whole thing. Given the events of late, I'm not really in the mood to go on a date, but I agreed to meet Gregory tonight nonetheless—he's in town for only a week or two, and some conversation with an old friend will do me good.

The smell of wood-fired pizza pleasantly wafts in the air as the door closes behind me. When I eat in restaurants other than my own I tend to favor ethnic establishments that offer food that's completely different from what I cook and serve all day. Now, don't get me wrong—I make some of the best food around, but sometimes a girl gets a hankering for something other than soul food. My tastes run the gamut—Italian, Greek, Chinese, Thai, Middle Eastern . . . I enjoy virtually any cuisine but Indian (not a fan of curry . . . the taste or the smell) or Ethiopian (never had it, but it looks disgusting).

The host is about to greet me when I see Gregory at a table behind him. I smile at the host and point to Gregory in an “I'm with him” fashion and make my way into the dining room.

“Hello.” Gregory stands and greets me.

“Hi. Sorry I'm late. Trying to drive anywhere around D.C. this time of day is an exercise in frustration. Traffic is terrible.”

“No worries. I was just answering e-mails on my phone.”

“E-mails?” I inquire with a grin, eyeing his phone, which is currently lying on the table displaying an animated dragon and some colorful medieval scenery.

“Ah . . . you caught me.” Gregory laughs. “Once a video game nerd. Always a video game nerd.”

“Were you into video games in high school? I don't remember that.”

“Into them? That's pretty much all I did outside of schoolwork. I didn't have much of a social life in those days. I spent many a Saturday night in front of Nintendo playing
The Legend of Zelda
and
Super Mario Bros
.”

“Really? I knew nothing about video games in high school . . . and I guess I know nothing about them now.”

“I'll admit I still enjoy them. They help me relax.”

“Hmm . . . maybe I should take up video games then. I could use some de-stressing here and there myself.” I take a seat at the table, and Gregory does the same. “So, I'm guessing you've heard about Raynell?” I ask.

“I did. Word gets around fast these days. Such horrible news.”

“It really is. I feel so bad for her husband and her family.”

“It's just awful for her to die so young. I didn't really get the details, though. From what I know, someone found her at home . . . she'd had a bad fall or something.”

“That's about all I know as well.” I refrain from telling him that Wavonne and I were actually the ones who found Raynell's dead body. He doesn't appear to know, and I just don't feel like getting into all those details.

I find myself thankful when the waiter arrives at our table, giving us an excuse to cease conversation about Raynell.

“Hello. My name is Sam, and I'll be your server this evening. Can I start you off with a beverage?”

“Up for sharing a bottle of Chianti?” Gregory asks.

“Sure,” I reply. “And some water as well, please,” I say to the waiter.

“So, there must be something more pleasant to talk about than Raynell,” Gregory says.

“Yes. There must be.” Part of me would like to linger on the subject a bit longer, so I can ask him about his secret high school relationship with her and why he chose her, of all people, to help with his local real estate ambitions. But I can't begin to imagine that Gregory had anything to do with her death, so I don't really see any reason to bring it up and make him uncomfortable. Besides, Raynell has been on my mind for almost two days straight, and, quite honestly, I need a break. “So, tell me more about South Beach Burgers.”

“Some people have spouses . . . children . . . pets. I have a restaurant chain. It's pretty much my entire world at the moment. It doesn't leave time for much else.”

“I hear that. I only have one restaurant, and it's my world as well. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it.”

Gregory laughs. “Me too. Every day is different. I love the variety and the challenges . . . of which there are
many
.”

“That's for sure. I could do without the irrational customers who want a free meal because a server messed up their drink order or brought them the wrong salad dressing . . . or the ones with substance abuse issues who pitch a fit when we cut them off at the bar . . . or the parents who think I'm supposed to magically make squash appear in my kitchen, so my already overloaded staff can stop everything to make custom zucchini fries for little Malik or Jayla instead of French fries.”

“I'm sure we could trade all sorts of horror stories—the customers who use the bathroom for sexual trysts, employees showing up to work high as a kite reeking of marijuana—”

“Kitchen staff purposely messing up orders because they don't like the server who put the order in, employees with fake social security numbers, water leaks, broken equipment . . . we could go on for days.”

“I'm sure we could, but overall it's a rewarding career, and it beats sitting in an office in front of a computer all day.”

I agree with Gregory, and we spend the next hour trading stories over ravioli Florentina and pesto primavera. I had planned to stick with only one glass of Chianti, but I don't protest when Gregory refills my glass. I'm not much of a drinker, so two glasses of wine is enough to give me a little buzz.

By the time Sam sets down a large serving of tiramisu in the middle of us the conversation turns more personal.

“How is it you're still single?” Gregory asks as we both dip our forks into the dessert.

“I might ask you the same question.”

“There have been a few relationships here and there. I had more time for that sort of thing before I opened South Beach Burgers. Now I mostly work and spend what little free time I have with good friends.”

“No woman in your life? I find that hard to believe, Gregory. The girls in Florida must be all over you. Every woman at the reunion was practically tripping over each other to talk to you—like you were the last Cabbage Patch Kid at Toys ‘R' Us on Christmas Eve.”

Gregory laughs. “That's not true.”

“Please. You had to have noticed all the attention.”

“Maybe.” Gregory takes another bite of the tiramisu. “But, you have to understand, Halia. All this attention from women—it's new to me. I haven't looked like this for that long. I'm sure you remember me in high school. I was definitely
not
a looker.”

“Nonsense. I always thought you were handsome,” I cajole, even though “handsome” isn't exactly the right word. In high school, I found Gregory “cute” in more of an endearing sort of way. He was gangly with big ears, but he was nice, and smart, and quite witty when he wasn't being shy.

“That's sweet of you to say, Halia, but we both know the truth. It wasn't until I started making some real money that I began to grow into myself. I think my success in business boosted my confidence, and women can sense that sort of thing. The financial rewards of my work also allowed for a personal trainer and a nutritionist . . . and better clothes . . .” Gregory lifts his hands behind his ears and pushes them forward. “And surgery to get these babies pinned back where they belong.”

I chuckle as Gregory lets his ears fall back into place. “So you're just a different kind of handsome now.”

“You sound like a politician, Halia.
You,
” Gregory says, putting his fork down on the table and leaving the last bit of the dessert for me, “on the other hand, were lovely in high school and have barely changed at all.”

“Now who's the politician?” I ask even though I guess I don't think I've changed that much since high school. I was a thick girl back then, and I'm still one now. And if there is one advantage of being a full-figured sister, it's that it adds some plumpness to your face and keeps away the wrinkles.

“No. I mean it.” Gregory smiles and gives me a long stare, and I'm not sure if it's the wine, or fatigue after a long day, or just the fine-looking man across the table from me giving me the eye, but I'm starting to feel light-headed.

When the check arrives I grab my purse and begin to pull out my credit card, but Gregory insists on paying. I thank him for dinner, and he walks with me to my van.

“I'm really glad we had this chance to reconnect,” Gregory says as I reach for my keys and hover next to the car door.

“Me too.”

Gregory lingers in front of me and, suddenly, we are like two awkward teenagers trying to navigate a good-night kiss. It's actually amusing to see traces of a clumsy adolescent emanating from such a polished man. “Sorry. I'm really bad at this,” he says, and we both laugh. “So what now? A kiss, a hug . . . a handshake?”

“I think I'd feel a little slighted if all I got was a handshake,” I joke, and a lumbering moment or two passes before Gregory leans in and kisses me. It's not an especially long kiss, but it is a nice one. I feel myself getting light-headed again as our lips part, and I place my hand on the car to steady myself.

“I hope I can call you again before I head back to Florida.”

“Sure.”

“Great. I'll be in touch then. Drive safe.”

“I will. See you soon.”

I step inside my van and watch Gregory walk to his car. As I start the ignition I hear my phone chirp. I pull it from my purse and see a text from Wavonne.

 

 

I text back.

 

 

The evening definitely went better than “okay,” but if Wavonne tells Momma that Gregory and I had a great evening topped off with a good-night kiss, Momma will have me in David's Bridal first thing in the morning trying on wedding dresses and talking baby names.
No,
I think to myself.
It's much better to play it cool and not let Momma get too excited.
But as I pull out of the restaurant parking lot it occurs to me that maybe it's not Momma who I'm worried about getting too excited after a promising first date with a handsome, single, gainfully employed man. Maybe it's
me
I'm worried about getting too excited. I haven't been on a good date in a long time, but I have been on some, and, needless to say, they have not led to anything significant.

What's it matter,
I think to myself.
If nothing else it was a nice evening with an old friend over some good Italian food. If it doesn't lead to anything more, that's fine
. Yep, that's what I told myself... now if I could just believe it, too.