Murder with Macaroni and Cheese (5 page)

CHAPTER 8

W
avonne, Momma, and I briskly follow Alvetta down the stairs and eventually enter the worship center. Alvetta continues to offer quick waves and hellos to the people she passes as she leads us to a small seating area directly in front of the stage.

“This is the Pastor's Circle. We reserve it for special guests.”

Unlike the rest of the seating in the worship center, the chairs in the Pastor's Circle have a significant amount of leg room and side tables next to them—each one equipped with a bottle of water, a crystal glass, a small bible, a church bulletin, and some mints.

“Girl, we flyin' first class,” Wavonne says as we all take our seats, and I must admit it is fun, for the first time in my life, to be in the VIP section of
something
. “Look at all those jealous heifers givin' us the eye. That's right, hookers, we in the Pastor's Circle! How you like that?”

“My God! We can't take you anywhere,” Momma whispers to Wavonne.

“Isn't that the truth,” I agree. “Now settle down and behave yourself, Wavonne.”

Wavonne raises her eyebrows at me before looking toward Alvetta. “Where's Omarosa Manigault-Stallworth? Won't she be joining us?” Wavonne says this in a hoity-toity voice, as if she's Tina Turner on one of her British accent kicks. I wonder who she's talking about, but Alvetta doesn't seem to have the same trouble.

“Raynell will join us after service. She doesn't really
do
mornings,” Alvetta responds.

Thinking about how there are probably all sorts of things Raynell doesn't do, I grab the church bulletin on the table next to me and start skimming it. There are notices about group meetings, church finances, and community events. There's also a column called “The Word” by Pastor Michael Marshall. It strikes me as clever that he writes it in longhand, and the church publishes it “as is” rather than typing it up. The cursive writing sets it apart from the rest of the word-processed text and gives his message a very personal tone. I'm about to give “The Word” a read when there's a dinging noise over the speaker that apparently is a signal for everyone to stand. As Momma, Wavonne, and I follow along with the crowd and rise from our chairs, we see no fewer than ten people take their seats on the left side of the stage and pick up their instruments . . . guitars, horns, saxophones. . . you name it. Growing up, my church had Mrs. Tebbler. . . and
only
Mrs. Tebbler, who played the organ at the nine- and eleven-o'clock services. Rebirth appears to have a full orchestra. We continue to look on as six people, two men and four women, all dressed in black, take their places behind as many microphones in front of the choir loft.

The orchestra begins to play an up-tempo melody, and the singers in black with
their own
microphones (I can only imagine what kind of church politics are involved in getting one of those coveted spots) begin to sing. It's not long before the entire choir, more than two hundred members strong, joins in, and the worship center fills with music emitting from a state-of-the-art sound system.

I'm not sure this type of over-the-top service is for me, but I can't help but feel . . . feel
something
with the sound of a few hundred stellar voices, accompanied by a talented orchestra, going at full volume.

“Sing it, girl!” Wavonne calls out as one of the vocalists dives into a solo.

I look around and see people swaying to the music—some with their arms raised like Eva Peron on the balcony of Casa Rosada. And, just when I think my senses of sound and sight have received their delights for the day, a team of women march in from all sides with glittery flags. They take positions at various spots around the main level and begin twirling the flags every which way to the beat of the music. I must say, the effect is striking. Alvetta catches me marveling over the whole grand display and beams with pride as if to say, “I may be the illegitimate daughter of a maid, but look at me now, presiding over one of the biggest congregations in the state of Maryland.”

When the music quiets we take our seats, and Michael steps forward from the back of the stage. He's more handsome than his photo online led us to believe, and he's only a few words into his address, when I realize why he packs them in by the thousands every Sunday. He's a gifted speaker with a deep baritone voice and immediately sets the crowd at ease with some self-deprecating humor. He moves about the stage with a headset microphone rather than speaking from behind a podium. Calls of “Preach, Preacher, preach!” and “Amen!” boom from behind us when he makes key points during his sermon. He talks about the heat of the summer and how everyone sweats . . . and then makes a joke about how he misspoke, and everyone but his lovely wife, Alvetta, sweats—“Alvetta's skin,” he says, “just gets more dewy and lustrous.” A silly joke, but it works because of his good looks, charisma, and command of the stage. He goes on to speak about how we really sweat when faced with temptations from the devil, and I'm not quite sure how he did it, but he uses this segue to seamlessly request that attendees give generously today to keep the air conditioning flowing in the building.

When the collection basket comes around Momma drops in ten dollars, Wavonne passes it to me without making a donation, and I, mindful of Alvetta's eyes right next to me, drop in forty dollars, and wonder if it's enough.
Should I have done fifty? A hundred?

After some additional singing from the choir and some general announcements about the church's ministries and classes, the service wraps with a final hymn. As I listen to the choir, I make a mental note to try and come back to Rebirth over the holidays. I don't think I'll be joining as a tithing member any time soon, but I'd definitely be up for a return visit in December—I bet this choir puts on a Christmas concert the likes of which I've never heard before.

At the close of the service, Michael descends the stage, walks toward us, and takes Alvetta's hand.

“We'll just be a few minutes,” Alvetta says as she steps away from her seat and joins Michael at the foot of the stage where they stand in a makeshift receiving line. Most of the church attendees are exiting the worship center from a number of doors on all sides, but a handful come down the walkways toward Michael and Alvetta, who graciously greet them with hugs and handshakes. Wavonne and I watch for a few moments as the two of them interact with church patrons like a well-oiled machine—an extremely good-looking well-oiled machine.

“If you two want to walk around for a few minutes while Michael and I finish up here, feel free,” Alvetta says after excusing herself from her adoring fans. “I'll meet you in the café in about twenty minutes.”

“Sure,” I reply, and, just before our little trio starts to make our way out to the main hall, we catch a glimpse of Alvetta returning to Michael's side. He's talking to two young ladies, both wearing short skirts and heels that might be even higher than Wavonne's. But, even in the towering pumps, the girls still look up at Michael, who stands at about six foot four. You can see the infatuation in their eyes as they listen to whatever words of wisdom he's sharing with them.

As we turn to leave, Wavonne leans in. “So which one of those thirsty hos you think he's cheatin' on Alvetta with?”

CHAPTER 9

O
nce we're out in the Grand Hall we meander around, scan the various booths, and eventually stumble upon a large table promoting a retreat. The banner hanging along the front of the display says:
POINT AND CLICK YOUR WAY TO THE LORD: USING TECHNOLOGY TO BRING US CLOSER TO GOD
. We're about to continue walking right on past the “point-and-click” table when Wavonne gets a look at the man behind all the promotional materials—a nicely built thirtysomething brother with an angled razor part on one side of his neatly cropped Afro.

“Hold up.” Wavonne stops in front of the table. “I need to check me out this retreat.” She looks the young man up and down. “What was it Salt-N-Pepa said about bein'
stacked and packed?
” she mutters to me.

“Shoop!” I say with a laugh. The upcoming reunion sparked me to pull out an old Salt-N-Pepa CD. I've had it going in the van lately as Wavonne and I drive to the restaurant.

“Hello, ladies,” the young man says to us.

“Hello yourself,” Wavonne replies as Momma and I stand behind her.

“I'm Rick Stevens. I'm part of the church's Retreat Ministry. We still have a few openings for next weekend's session if you're interested.”

Wavonne shamelessly looks him up and down a second time. “Oh, I'm
interested,
” she coos. “Tell me more.”

“We'll be spending the weekend at The Williamsburg Inn. It's really an impressive hotel.” He hands Wavonne a hotel brochure, and she begins to look through it. “There's a welcome reception on Friday evening, seminars throughout the day on Saturday, and an early breakfast on Sunday. We'll be discussing, among other things, the church's strategy to expand our outreach via social media. We'll be holding classes for members about how to effectively use Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and such to promote God's word and attract new members to the church.”

“Mmmm . . . fancy,” Wavonne says as she continues to thumb through the brochure. I look over her shoulder and see photos of the hotel—lots of wainscoting, colonial furniture, and heavy drapes. “Will you be attendin', Rick?”

“I will. I'm leading a focus group about the church's Web site. We'll be reviewing the site in detail . . . determining what works well, and what can be improved.”

“I know all about Web sites,” Wavonne brags. “I help my girl Jereme with her blog. It's called ‘Real, Wig, or Weave?' We put up photos of celebrities, and viewers post commentaries about whether Beyoncé or Viola or Mary J . . . or whoever are sportin' their own hair, a weave, or a wig. We've got hair-care tips and let readers know about specials on products. You should check it out.”

“Sure.”

“I think I'd like to attend this retreat. How much does it cost?”

“The church subsidizes some of the expenses, so it's only five hundred dollars for the weekend, which includes your hotel room, a complimentary breakfast on Saturday and Sunday morning, and access to all the classes, seminars, and discussion groups. And it's a great way to meet other church members.”

“Halia.” Wavonne turns to me. “Loan me five hundred dollars, would ya? So I can go on this retreat with Rick and help him with the church's Web site . . . and
anything else
he may need some help with.”

Knowing that one, Wavonne has no interest in the helping with the church's outreach via technology and just wants to go to Williamsburg to get all up in Rick's business, and two, that “loan” and “give” mean the same thing to Wavonne, I respond, “Umm . . . no.”

“Come on, Halia. Tell her, Aunt Celia, I'll be doin' the Lord's work.”

“Not getting involved,” Momma says.

“We have the reunion next weekend anyway, Wavonne. You promised to help me with that.”

I watch as Wavonne tries to determine if her time will be better spent chasing Rick around at a retreat in which she has no interest or tagging along with me to my reunion where she can spend some time with a retired professional football player who may be able to introduce her to some real live Redskins.

“That's right.” She puts the brochure back down on the table. “I need Raynell's husband to set me up with some football.. . .” She lets her voice trail off as she notices Rick looking at her. “With some
footballs
. . . yeah, some footballs . . . to give to needy kids.”

“Yes, we all know you are all about helping needy kids.” I try not to roll my eyes as I say this.

Wavonne glares at me before turning back to Rick. “How about I leave you my phone number, and you can call me if you ever want to talk Web sites . . . or whateveh.”

“Sure. Of course.” Rick taps a few times on his phone and hands it to Wavonne. She grabs it from him, enters her contact information, and gives it back to him.

“Whatever happened to a pen and paper?” Momma asks, looking on.

Rick extends his hand to Wavonne. She shakes it and then holds it a tad longer than is really appropriate before I remind her it's time for us to meet Alvetta in the café.

“There's a bible-study group meeting now,” Momma says, looking down at the bulletin as we walk through the hall. “I'll check that out while you two discuss reunion plans with your friends.”

“Okay. Why don't we plan to meet in front of the bookstore in an hour?”

Momma nods and goes looking for the bible-study group while Wavonne and I continue to walk the lengthy perimeter of the church in search of the café.

CHAPTER 10

W
avonne and I reach the café, and as we step inside, we realize the
café
is really more of a full
cafeteria
with a long line of people making their way through the serving area.

“Over here,” Alvetta calls to us from a table along the wall. Raynell is seated with her. Michael and another man who I recognize from TV as Terrence are standing next to the table.

“Hello again,” I say to Alvetta as we reach the table and turn and smile at Raynell. “Hey there,” Alvetta says. “This is my husband, Michael, and Raynell's husband, Terrence.”

“Halia Watkins.” I shake their hands. “And this is my cousin, Wavonne Hix.”

The gentlemen smile, and we exchange a few words. I tell Michael how much I enjoyed his sermon, and how beautifully I thought the choir sang. Then I chat a bit more with Michael about how impressive the church is while Wavonne cozies up to Terrence.

“So, you're a former Redskins wide receiver?” Wavonne asks him.

Terrence is slighter than I imagined. By no means is he a little guy, but when I think “football players” I think of big burly men—Terrence is built more like a baseball or soccer player. I'm guessing he stands at around six feet tall, and I wouldn't put him at any more than one hundred and eighty pounds or so.

“Yes,” Terrence says. “Guilty.”

“What a career. Three hundred and one catches for 5,220 yards and forty-one touchdowns.”

Wavonne knows less about football than I do, which is almost nothing. Clearly, she's been studying up on Terrence.

Terrence laughs. “Very impressive.”

“I've followed your career since you started with the Skins in ninety-five,” Wavonne lies. She was probably scanning his Wikipedia page when I saw her sneaking looks at her phone during the service.

“Ninety-five? You had to have still been a child.”

While Wavonne laughs and curls a strand of synthetic hair, Raynell, who has barely acknowledged us thus far, decides it's time to put the kibosh on Wavonne's flirting. “I hate to break up Wendy's little rehash of my husband's career, but—”

“My
name
is
Wavonne
.”

“Yes.
Wavonne,
” Raynell says, then looks at her husband. “Aren't you and Michael due in the theater for the big football game?”

“It's just a preseason game, but I guess we are,” Terrence says.

“Theater?” I ask

“It's more of a large media room,” Alvetta clarifies. “It has a big projection screen . . . seats forty people . . . leather recliners. . . it's quite nice.”

“It was good to meet you.” Terrence shakes my hand again and then Wavonne's.

“You too,” Wavonne says. “Before you jet, let me axe you somethin'. Do many Redskins players attend church here? Ever have any . . . any meet and greets?”

“We actually do have quite a few players on the rolls here. Meet and greets? Hmm . . . we don't have anything specific planned with the players at the moment, but if you join some of the church's ministries and come to service regularly, you're bound to run into some of them.”

Raynell rolls her eyes at Wavonne's obvious attempt to gain some introductions to professional sports players. “Terrence. Get!” she says. “We have reunion plans to discuss.”

Terrence smiles and looks at Michael. “Guess we better do as the boss tells us.”

“Pleasure meeting you,” Michael says before he and Terrence make their exit.

“Please have a seat,” Alvetta says, and Wavonne and I slide into the booth across from her and Raynell. We've barely gotten settled when a lanky young man wearing an apron appears at the table.

“Good morning, Mrs. Marshall,” he says to Alvetta while setting down a coffeepot, a bowl of creamers, various sweeteners, and a carafe of orange juice. “What may I get for you and your guests?” He fills each of our mugs with steaming coffee and pours orange juice into four crystal glasses.

“Why don't you just fix us a few plates with the works?”

“Of course, Mrs. Marshall.”

As the young man steps away I see Raynell discreetly elbow Alvetta.

“Kenny,” Alvetta calls. “Extra bacon please for Mrs. Rollins.”

“For the
table
. Not just for me,” Raynell says. “So, let's talk reunion plans. Is everything all set at the Marriott?”

“Yes. My connection there gave the committee a very nice rate, but that's about all I know. Christy was managing the details.”

“Where is Christy?” Raynell asks no one in particular, irritation in her voice. “She was supposed to be here by now.”

“There she is,” Alvetta says as Christy hurriedly makes her way to the table.

“Sorry, Raynell. Traffic getting into the parking lot was crazy.”

“What's the latest on the venue for the reunion on Saturday?” Raynell says, not bothering to greet Christy properly or even reprimand her for being late.

Christy grabs a chair from a neighboring table, sits down at the end of the booth, and pulls a manila folder from her bag. “It's all set. We have the Grand Ballroom reserved. Twenty-five round tables. Each table seats eight people. Standard centerpieces and candles. The buffet tables—”

“Fine, fine.” Raynell cuts Christy off. “Sounds like it's under control. You've confirmed the deejay?”

“Yes.”

“The staging area for the silent auction?”

“Yes. There's a small conference room next to the ballroom. We'll display the items there.”

“Silent auction?” I ask.

“Yes. I thought it would be a good idea for classmates and some local businesses to donate items. All the proceeds will go to the Raynell Rollins Foundation for Children in Need.”

“It's a great charity. Raynell raised sixty thousand dollars last year.” Alvetta beams.

“Well, you know, I'm a giver.”

“You are, Raynell. You do so many good things.”

I stifle a laugh while Wavonne leans in and whispers in my ear. “Was Alvetta this far up Raynell's ass in high school?”

I ignore her question. “So, Raynell. Tell us more about the charity.”

“We focus outreach on children in the D.C. metro area, but it's open to everyone. We identify children of unfortunate means and provide funds for virtually anything that might improve their situation: food, clothing, school supplies, scholarships, summer camps, you name it.”

“Sounds like a great resource.” I can't help but notice the way she looked directly at Alvetta when she spoke of “children of unfortunate means.”

“It is. The silent auction at the reunion will be the perfect way for us to raise funds,” Raynell says. “You'll have to donate an evening at your restaurant. What's it called again? Salty Tea?”

“Sweet Tea,” I correct. “Of course, I'd be happy to donate a gift card.”

“Great. We've collected several donations so far.” Raynell looks to Christy. “Remind me of some of the items.”

“Everything from free dry cleaning to a complimentary oil change at Middleton's Garage . . . to a dozen roses from Sienna's Floral Arrangements in Oxon Hill. One of your classmates donated a sculpture, and John Thomson, who owns a photography studio, donated a free portrait setting. Another classmate—”

“Meh,” Raynell groans. “Such paltry items. Meanwhile I'm donating an antique desk worth a couple thousand dollars.”

“Not everyone is as successful as you,” Alvetta says. “And the reunion is still a week away. I'm sure more donations will come in.”

Alvetta is about to continue reassuring Raynell when Christy's phone rings.

“Raynell Rollins Real Estate. This is Christy. How may I help you?” Christy is silent for a moment before she nicely asks the caller to hold. “Raynell, it's Gregory. Confirming you are meeting him to show properties at two.”

“Yes. Tell him I'll meet him at the Brandywine location.”

As Christy passes on Raynell's words to the gentleman on the phone, I realize I haven't once heard her use the word “please” or phrase anything as a question when she speaks to Christy. Everything she says to the poor girl is simply a command.

“Like I was saying,” Alvetta interjects when Christy wraps up the call. “Michael and I will make some donations, and while I doubt we'll get anything as valuable as the desk you contributed, as some of our former classmates who live outside the area arrive for the event, I'm sure they'll check in and make some donations.”

“I hope so. I'll have Christy make some more calls this week . . . shake a few trees,” Raynell says, her eyes suddenly pointed in my direction. “Speaking of the desk. I was going to hire someone to take it to the hotel to display at the reunion, but it's not that large and, surely, you must have a van or a truck or something for that little lunch counter of yours . . . no? Would you mind picking it up on Saturday and taking it over to the hotel?”

“Um . . .” I'm not sure what to say. She already has Christy and Alvetta acting as her lackeys. I'm really not eager to add my name to the list, but it is for charity and, honestly, I'm a little curious to see Raynell's house. “I guess so. I'm sure we'll be running back and forth to the hotel a few times on Saturday anyway to get the catering set up.”

“Great. Christy, write the address down for Halia.”

As Christy writes Raynell's address down on a piece of paper, the young man who approached the table earlier returns with two others, and the three of them, all holding trays, begin laying down plates. While I watch people who were in line at the counter when we first stepped inside the cafeteria continue to wait for their turn at the serving station we enjoy table service—the perks of being guests of the First Lady I suppose. Dishes loaded with eggs, bacon (pork
and
turkey), sausage, English muffins, pancakes, and oatmeal land in front of us. They're accompanied by containers of whipped butter, syrup, and a selection of jellies.

We enjoy our breakfast and begin discussing the menu for the reunion. I present Raynell and Alvetta with a list of options for appetizers to be passed around during the cocktail hour, main and side dishes for the buffet, and desserts. I also suggest that I whip up a few pitchers of our house cocktail to be served at the cash bars.

Generally this approach works well when planning a menu for catered events—customers review the options, make a few selections, and we wrap things up. Such is not the case with Raynell Rollins, though. Alvetta is mostly agreeable to my suggestions, but Raynell doesn't like any of the appetizer recommendations. She wants to know if I can arrange for chilled shrimp cocktails, but when I inform her of the cost of quality fresh shrimp and the effect it will have on my catering price, she lets it go. She's decided she doesn't want fried chicken on the buffet as “fried chicken has no business at a formal event.” But apparently macaroni and cheese does have every business at a formal event because she insists that it be part of the menu. She goes on like this for about an hour, and I politely explain why most of her requests (e.g., a staffed raw oyster bar, chocolate soufflés, Kobe beef sliders) are not feasible within the available budget.

I think she believed she was going to be able to bully me into taking a loss on the event and preparing dishes way beyond what my fee would cover. I might have been a little timid around Raynell in high school, but I'm certainly not afraid of her now. I'm not looking to make money on this catering job, but I'm not going to lose money, either. So, after a lot of hemming and hawing, we eventually finalize the menu and come to an agreement over a nice selection of appetizers, entrées, and desserts. And, if I do say so myself, come Saturday night, my old high school classmates are in for a real treat when they get a sampling of some of my tastiest recipes.