Murder with Macaroni and Cheese (18 page)

“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 after 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

“S
o 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?”

“Sure,” she says, a curious expression on her face. “I'm due at a choir meeting. Let me just text the director and let her know I'll be a few minutes late.”

Alvetta sends the text and leads us toward the elevators, which whisk up to the third level. When we reach her office, she takes a seat on the long sofa by the window rather than behind her desk. Wavonne and I sit down next to her.

“Lawd.” Wavonne takes in the office. “Cookie Lyon don't have an office this nice on
Empire
.”

Alvetta laughs. “It is a nice space. Took me months to furnish and decorate it. I wanted everything ‘just so.' ” She looks around the room as if to remind her how lovely it is. “I'm very blessed.”

I want to say, “I'm not so sure about that.” Instead I remain quiet, and there is a lengthy and awkward silence among the three of us.

“So?” Alvetta eventually asks. “What can I help you with?”

I clear my throat. “Gosh. I'm trying to figure out how to say this . . .”

“Say what? You're starting to make me nervous. Is something wrong?”

“Possibly,” I say. “Possibly
very
wrong. Your husband . . . Michael . . .” I struggle for words. “He . . . well, he and Terrence. How do I put this—”

“Vetta, girl,” Wavonne says. “Michael and Terrence are doin' the nasty, and Halia here thinks they may have teamed up to ice Raynell. And your bougie ass might be next.”

“Very
tactful,
Wavonne.” I glare at her while Alvetta does the same. She seems to be letting Wavonne's words settle in. “What Wavonne was trying to say is—”

“I know what she was trying to say, Halia. I may be a minister's wife, but I don't live in a bunker. I'm aware of what ‘doin the nasty' means. But that's silly. I mean . . .
really
. . . where did you ever get such an idea?”

Though she claims to think the idea of her husband having an affair with Terrence is ridiculous, the look in her eyes and slight tremor in her voice betray her. Clearly, we've unsettled her.

“We came upon this note at the Rollinses' residence.” I hand the incriminating love note to Alvetta. “I recognized Michael's handwriting from his column in the church bulletin. At first I thought it was from him to Raynell, but given some recent events, I'm quite certain it was from Michael to Terrence.” I spare Alvetta the details about the little experiment we conducted at Sweet Tea that established that Michael was clearly more interested in the goods Darius was peddling than the ones Wavonne put on display in front of him.

Alvetta takes the note from my hand and begins to read it.

“And it's not just the note.” I take a breath. “Wavonne and I did a little checking today with Rick Stevens at the retreat table in the main hall. That's really why we came by today—to see him. According to him, Michael was not being truthful about his and Terrence's whereabouts the night Raynell died. Rick said neither one of them socialized in the lounge that night. In fact, he didn't see them at all after dinner.”

Alvetta puts the note down on the table in front of the sofa and stands up. “Wow. Not much gets past you, Halia, does it?” She walks toward her desk.

“I'm sorry we had to be the ones to tell you this, but if you're in danger you need to know.”

“Know?” Her back is toward us, and her hands are lightly resting on her desk. “Know? Oh, Halia, I've
known
for years. I knew before I married Michael.”

“Sista, say what?!” Wavonne asks.

Alvetta turns around and leans against the desk, more looking at the floor than at us. “As with most things nefarious, it all started with Raynell—that woman could scheme a fat kid out of cake.” She lifts her head and looks at us. “I don't follow sports, so I knew nothing about Terrence, football player extraordinaire, back in the day. But apparently, in the nineties, when Terrence was at his height with the Redskins, rumors were swirling that he . . . that he . . .”

“Prefers hot dogs to taco shells?” Wavonne says.

Alvetta nods. “This was almost twenty years ago. Professional football isn't exactly welcoming to gay men now, but back then, it was absolutely unthinkable for the truth about Terrence's sexual orientation to get out. His career would have been over. The rumors had to be squelched, and Raynell signed on to do the squelching. In exchange for helping Terrence keep up appearances, Raynell gained the celebrity of being a star football player's wife and, more important, access to his millions.”

“So what does this have to do with you and Michael?”

“It wasn't long after Terrence married Raynell that he met a deacon with a gift for public speaking at a small Baptist church in Camp Springs.”

“Michael.”

“Yes. I guess one thing led to another, and Terrence and Michael became an item—an item that had to be kept on the down low. As Michael became more and more successful and moved to progressively larger congregations, he found himself in the same position Terrence had years earlier—he was also a star in his career field. But, unfortunately, much like Terrence, he chose a career that, at the time . . . maybe even now, could have been ruined by gay rumors. Thankfully this was before TMZ and Perez Hilton, but apparently a tabloid photographer had begun snooping around and noticing the extensive amount of time Terrence and Michael were spending together with no women on their arms. The attention was not good for either of them. So, once again, it was Raynell to the rescue.

“I was trying to make it as a model at the time, but I was spending more time waiting tables than booking photo shoots. Raynell recruited me to silence the rumors about Michael just like she had for Terrence. I was broke, and my mother was sick . . . and my modeling career was going nowhere fast. It was the right offer at the right time. Rebirth was not in this mammoth building back then, but it had already become a force to be reckoned with, and Michael had amassed a tidy fortune. And I liked him . . . I
still
like him. We're good friends . . . we enjoy each other's company . . . I enjoy my work here . . . and, yes, I'd be lying if I said I didn't revel in the status of being the First Lady of one of the largest churches on the East Coast. It's a mutually beneficial relationship for both of us.”

“I guess I'm a little relieved you already knew about Michael and Terrence. I wasn't thrilled about having to be the one to break the news to you. But isn't it still possible that maybe they've decided they wanted to be together in a more . . . I don't know . . .
official
or
open
manner and could have killed Raynell to avoid a costly divorce?”

“No,” Alvetta says without hesitation. “Both Raynell and I signed airtight prenuptials. Under the terms of the agreement, Raynell wouldn't have ended up destitute in the event of the divorce, but Terrence would have held on to the bulk of his fortune. The same goes for me and Michael. I would get a little something if we divorced, but definitely nowhere near enough to keep me living in the manner to which I've become accustomed. And, in reality, the legal agreement between Raynell and Terrence is irrelevant at this point. Raynell kept it a closely guarded secret, but several years ago she and Terrence made a series of bad investments and lost the bulk of Terrence's fortune. Terrence does pretty well doing local television, but he's certainly not making millions. That's why Raynell got into selling real estate and was so rabid for new clients in the market for expensive homes. They needed to supplement Terrence's earnings if they were going to keep up the same lifestyle they had before they lost most of their savings.”

“So, even if you take money out of the picture, do you think Terrence and Michael's relationship could have had something to do with Raynell's death?”

“No. I can assure you Terrence and Michael have no plans of going public with their relationship. I know things have changed over the years. But Terrence is involved in the world of professional sports, which can still be a rough place for gay men. And Michael . . . well, you can't exactly be an out gay man and also lead a church with an Out of the Darkness ministry.”

“What's that?”

Alvetta rifles through some brochures on the table, picks one up, and begins reading. “Out of the Darkness provides healing for individuals suffering from same-sex attraction with the goal of releasing these men and women from the bondage of these feelings.”

Alvetta continues reading for another moment or two while Wavonne and I sit there speechless. And, honestly, the deceit and manipulation . . . Raynell and Alvetta marrying gay men for the fringe benefits . . . Michael running a ministry to rid people of same-sex attraction when he's, as Wavonne would say, “gettin' some” on the side with Terrence. It's all making my stomach turn.

When Alvetta is done reading aloud she sets the brochure back on the table only to have Wavonne pick it up and shove it in her purse. “For Darius.”

“I don't think Darius is interested in changing anything about himself.”

“I know. I'm just trying to hook a brotha up. He's been complainin' about a dry spell—sounds like a good place for a gay man to get a date.”

“Have at it. I've never been terribly comfortable with the ministry, and given the way the tide is turning, I suspect its days are numbered,” Alvetta says, and looks at me. “So you see, Halia, you're chasing a dead end if you think Terrence and Michael killed Raynell. The four of us had a good thing going, and it worked for all parties. Michael and Terrence were free to pretty much do whatever they wanted. There was no reason to take Raynell out of the picture.”

“So, if Michael and Terrence were free to do whatever they wanted, does that mean Raynell was free to do whatever—”

Wavonne interrupts. “And
whoever
she wanted?”

“Yes, she was. Raynell had no shortage of her own affairs and, believe me, Terrence couldn't have cared less.”

I let out a sigh. “I can honestly say this is not what I expected to hear when we asked to talk with you.”

“It is a tangled web. I know. But you do what you have to do.”

“Of course your relationship with Michael . . . Raynell's relationship with Terrence—they are really none of my business. I really just wanted to make sure you were not in danger.”

“Michael is my best friend. He would never hurt me.” She pauses for a moment. “At least not in that way.” The look in her eyes tells me that perhaps she is
his
best friend, but he is a bit more than that to her . . . and that maybe this arrangement doesn't work quite as well as she was trying to have us to believe. . . at least not for her.