Murder with Macaroni and Cheese (22 page)

As Christy continues to unravel, I see Detective Hutchins approach the living room window and signal to the officers outside. Neither Christy nor James appears braced to make a run for it, so I'm surprised when Detective Hutchins flips his jacket back to reveal his gun. “I'm placing both of you under arrest,” he says. “Don't make me take this out of its holster.”

The words have barely left his mouth when two armed police officers open the front door, and quickly step inside with their guns drawn. Detective Hutchins directs them to cuff Christy and James and take them outside to read them their rights.

“I have to hand it to you, Halia, you did it again,” Detective Hutchins says to me with a look of surprise. “But maybe from now on you should leave the detective work to the professionals. Or one of these days you may end up getting hurt yourself.”

“I'll do my best.”

While Wavonne and I watch him walk outside the apartment to check on his underlings, she leans toward me. “Think you can keep them distracted while I take a quick peek in Christy's closet for some of those hand-me-down Manolos?”

EPILOGUE

I
t's a crisp fall day, and I'm thankful to have a break from the heat we've dealt with all summer as Wavonne and I step out of my van and make our way to one of the event rooms in good old Rebirth Christian Church. I wasn't that eager to come, but Wavonne, for once in her life, has actually saved up money for the opportunity to bid on some of Raynell's things that are going to be auctioned off today, so I agreed to bring her.

It's been almost two months since Raynell's untimely death. I'm not sure if Terrence wanted to allow for a respectable amount of time to pass before putting Raynell's finer things up for sale, or if the lag time was due to Christy, the original curator, who was tagging everything and getting it ready for event, being hauled off to jail on murder charges.

I've been to Rebirth enough times now that I sort of know the lay of the land at this point; accordingly, it doesn't take Wavonne and me long to find the room reserved for the auction.

“I think I've died and gone to heaven,” Wavonne says as we enter the space.

“They really didn't spare any expense, did they?” I take a look around. I guess I shouldn't be surprised by how grand the displays are. I should know by now that Rebirth does nothing on a small scale. Many of Raynell's outfits are displayed on actual mannequins just like you'd see in a department store. Some of her shoes and handbags are displayed in groups on long tables draped in silk fabric while others are displayed solo on individual pedestals. Jewelry, wallets, and scarves are displayed in glass cases.

“I wonder if Tiffany & Co. is as well-appointed as this place,” I say to Wavonne as we begin to peruse the displays.

“I wonder if Tiffany is as expensive as this place.” Wavonne looks at the bidding form for a pair of T-strap Valentino pumps. “The bidding starts at five hundred dollars. And they want at least four hundred for those Fendi beaded sandals.” She sighs. “There're no bargains to be had here. I saved two hundred and fifty dollars for nothin'.”

“Let's keep looking. I'm sure there is something you can afford.”

I pick up a glossy color booklet from one of the tables and begin to thumb through it. It has a complete description of all the items up for auction, a brief bio about Raynell with her photo, and some information about her foundation. Once again I should not be surprised, but I find myself taken aback when I read the fine print at the bottom of one of the pages. It reads: “A portion of the proceeds from the event will go to the Raynell Rollins Foundation for Children in Need.”
A portion?
I think to myself. The idea that
all
the proceeds will not go to the foundation seems a little shady, not to mention tacky, considering the auction has been heavily promoted as an event to benefit charity. But given that Raynell was likely the major bread winner in the Rollinses' household, Terrence may be hoarding earnings from her estate auction to meet the shortfalls he's bound to face without her income coming in.

“Halia and Wavonne,” I hear come from behind as we move toward the jewelry display cases.

“Alvetta,” I say. “How are you? Clearly you've been very busy,” I add, looking around me.

She gives Wavonne and me a quick hug. “I'm fine,” she says. “Yes, I've been busy getting everything ready for tonight. We've attracted a good crowd. I think we'll raise a lot of money for Raynell's foundation. It's a great way to honor her memory.”

I'm tempted to ask exactly how much of the money made tonight is actually going to charity, but I decide to let it go. I'd rather just assume that most of it is slated for people in need.

“Yes. It looks like lots of people are placing bids.” I take another look around and notice a few somber-looking people seated in the rows of chairs positioned in the middle of the room. “I guess those folks have already placed all their bids?”

“No.” Alvetta laughs. “Those are the
serious
bidders. I doubt they are taking part in the silent auction at all. They are here for the live auction.”

“Live auction?”

“Yes. For the Sarah Vaughan painting. It's been officially authenticated as an Arthur Keckley original.” Alvetta points to the far side of the room, and I see the painting on display. Wavonne had me so caught up in Raynell's clothes and accessories I hadn't looked in the direction of the portrait.

“It really is stunning,” I say as the three of us begin to approach the portrait. “It looks even more exquisite now that it's displayed with the appropriate lighting.”

“And what do we have here?” Wavonne says when we reach the painting, and she takes note of a nicely built armed security guard standing next to it. “Mm-hmm,” she adds, looking him up and down.

“We're here to look at the
painting,
Wavonne.”

“Speak for yourself,” she replies as the guard cracks a smile.

“Is an armed guard really necessary?” I ask Alvetta.

“We're starting the bidding at a hundred thousand dollars, so yes, I'd say so,” she replies. “Sotheby's did the valuation, and they are handling the live auction. It should be starting soon. We're about to close the silent auction, so you two should get any final bids in.”

“I guess we should. It was nice to see you, Alvetta.”

“You too,” she says. “I hope you'll come to service again sometime soon.” She gives us each a quick peck on the cheek and darts off to speak with a gentleman near the podium, the auctioneer, I assume.

Wavonne and I continue to walk the room, and it's not long before we are both thoroughly frustrated at the starting bids on most of the items.

“There's nothin' here for me,” Wavonne says, defeated.

“They really did price things quite high.” As I say this I try to think of some of the less expensive items we've seen tonight. There was a very small Coach wallet that started with a bid of two hundred dollars, but it was a simple leather piece and way too conservative for Wavonne. Some of the scarves and belts had starting bids under one hundred dollars, but I think Wavonne really had her heart set on a purse or a pair of shoes.

“What about those Fendi pink sandals we saw when we first came in?” I ask. I'm sure they have a smaller heel than Wavonne would like, but they are florescent pink with a wide beaded toe strap. I don't think Wavonne has ever turned down a florescent anything.

“Those started at four hundred.”

“If no one has placed a bid on them, and they are still going for four hundred, I'll throw in the other one fifty,” I offer, hating the idea of Wavonne having actually behaved like a mature adult and saving some money amounting to her leaving empty-handed.

“You would?” Wavonne's face lights up, and she leads us back over to the sandal display. Fortunately, no other bids have been placed, and with the silent auction about to close, I think it's safe to say Wavonne will be the winner.

“Looks like I'll be leaving with these babies.”

“I think they have to reconcile everything tonight. You'll probably have to come back and pick them up tomorrow or another time.”

Only slightly deflated, Wavonne writes down her bid, while, from the corner of my eye, I see someone approaching carrying a flat package wrapped in brown paper. I turn my head to bring the individual into full view.

“Kimberly!”

“Hi, Halia,” she says while Wavonne is still distracted by the shoes. “I just came back for a quick visit to see my parents and to give you this.” She nods toward the package. “I went by Sweet Tea to surprise you, and they said you'd be here.”

“What is it?” I ask, intrigued.

“You'll see.”

I take the package from her and set it on one of the display tables, so I can unwrap it. My excitement builds as I gently remove the packing paper, and it becomes clear that Kimberly's gift is a portrait—
the
portrait that we discussed her painting of my grandmother.

“I have no words,” I say, smiling from ear to ear as I take in the painting of my hero and mentor and namesake . . . and all around special lady, Mrs. Mahalia Hix. “I love it!”

“Girl can throw down with a paint brush,” I hear Wavonne say behind me as she takes in the painting.

“Hi, Wavonne,” Kimberly says.

“Hey, girl. That painting's dope!”

Kimberly laughs. “Thank you,” she says to Wavonne, and then turns to me. “I figured I owed you one. If you hadn't put all the pieces together and figured out who killed Raynell, I could have been in a lot of trouble if the police figured out I was there the night she was murdered. It's the least I could do.”

“Well, I still insist on paying you.”

Kimberly lifts her hand at me. “I won't hear of it. How about just the occasional complimentary meal at Sweet Tea when I come to town?”

“You've got yourself a deal.”

“Perfect.”

“I can't wait to take this back to Sweet Tea and get it on the wall.”

I'm still gushing over the painting when Alvetta steps to the microphone and announces that the bidding has closed on the silent auction items, and that the live auction for the Keckley painting is about to begin.

“Can I entice you with one of those complimentary meals now?” I ask Kimberly. “You can help me hang the painting and see how perfect it looks at Sweet Tea.”

“You don't want to stay and see how much the Sarah Vaughan painting goes for?” Wavonne asks.

I look past her at the portrait, and, while it is lovely, I can't help but think how it ultimately played a role in the death of Raynell and the incarceration of Christy. In my mind it's hard to separate the beauty of the artwork with the dreadful series of events that unfolded because of it.

“You know,” I say to Wavonne as I pick up the painting of Grandmommy and gesture for her and Kimberly to follow me out the door, “the only painting I really have any interest in at the moment is this one. Let's get it back to Sweet Tea and admire it over a tall glass of iced tea and a few slices of whatever Momma has whipped up for dessert.”