Murder with Macaroni and Cheese (7 page)

 

4 sticks of butter, softened (2 cups)
2 cups powdered/confectioners' sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 jars marshmallow creme (14 ounces total)

Eight Servings

CHAPTER 13

“W
ould you come on,” I say to Wavonne as we approach the hotel from the parking lot. As usual, she's moving at a snail's pace as she tries to balance her Rubenesque frame on a pair of heels that clearly value form over function.

We've just stepped out of Momma's Toyota Avalon—it's not exactly a Mercedes, but it's better than showing up to the reunion in my aging utilitarian minivan. I had some things to take care of at the restaurant and was then running behind getting ready for the event, so we are later than I had wanted us to be. My catering team has been onsite for more than three hours setting everything in motion, but I had hoped to be here at least an hour ago to supervise the final food and serving preparations. I'm technically a guest at this event, but I'm sure I won't be able to help myself from checking in on the food here and there.

I don't like to think of myself as one of those women who cares what former classmates she hasn't seen in more than twenty years think of her, but I have to admit I made way more of a fuss over my appearance tonight than I have in a long time. Wavonne and I went for hair and makeup at my friend Latasha's salon this afternoon, and I bought a new outfit from Nordstrom last week—an Adrianna Papell purple lace overlay dress. It's lovely and a bargain at less than two hundred dollars. The sales lady in the Encore section even talked me into a Spanx waist and thigh shaper. It was quite the devil to get on, and it's not the most comfortable thing in the world, but it does help smooth out my curves. I think it even gives my caboose a lift. I thought it might help me squeeze my size fourteen frame into a size twelve dress, but I guess even Spanx has its limits. I've paired the dress with some low-key gold hoop earrings and simple black pumps. Tomorrow I'll be back in my khakis and no-slip unisex kitchen shoes, but, I must say, it does feel nice to be gussied-up like a real woman for the first time in a long while.

“These shoes are made for posin', Halia. Not walkin'. When Terrence tells all his football player friends about me the description needs to be off the chain.”

I guess my pumps would be considered high heels, but I'm managing a more hurried pace as mine are maybe two inches or so compared to the five- or six-inch beasts Wavonne has shoved those canoes of hers into. I don't even know how to describe them. I think Wavonne called them “platform booties.” They are bright yellow and, with no fewer than six straps, one wouldn't think they'd need a zipper in the back, but apparently they do. The outlandish shoes are an appropriate match for her dress—an ankle-length fitted sheath of a thing with a multicolored zigzagging pattern and a wide scoop neck that shows off Wavonne's ample cleavage.

“How do I look?” I ask Wavonne when we reach the door to the hotel lobby.

“Dope as hell. You might just get lucky tonight, Halia.”

I laugh. “Okay. Let's do this.”

We walk through the main entrance and down the hall, and I immediately recognize my friend Nicole Baxter sitting behind a welcome table in front of the main reception room.

“Halia!” She hops out of her chair, shimmies her full-figured self around the table toward me, and wraps me in her arms. “You look gorgeous!”

“Thanks. So do you.”

Nicole, who's white, was one of a handful of students, like myself, who crossed the racial divide at my high school. While the student body there is now almost exclusively African American, back in the late eighties there were still a fair number of white kids on the rolls. And, by and large, the black kids socialized with the black kids and the white kids socialized with the white kids. The few Asian and Hispanic students were generally lumped in with the white students. Outside of class, we mostly only crossed paths through student activities and sports. Off-campus outings and parties were not known for their racial diversity. But Nicole and I were both joiners with no athletic ability, so we served together on the debate team and the poster club and the drama club . . . and the student council . . . and who can remember what else. Nicole is naturally very social and, while I'm not exactly shy, her gift of gab was a good match for my somewhat reserved personality. We both share a sharp (some may say “caustic”) sense of humor. We became fast friends, and she's actually the only person from my senior class that I'm still in regular touch with. And, if there's one person to still be in touch with, it's Nicole.

Nicole married well, doesn't work, and has no kids—all of which leaves lots of time for collecting gossip. She knows the skinny on all our former schoolmates. A few days ago she and her husband came to Sweet Tea for dinner, and I got an earful about how Candy Bennett and John Moore are now engaged, but only after a torrid affair in which they were sleeping together while still married to other people. I learned that Tim Bell, who is not expected at the reunion, is now Tina Bell, an advocate for transgender rights. Nicole also told me that Sasha Montgomery probably won't make it to the reunion, either, as this soon after her surgery even the best concealer won't cover the scars along her hairline.

“You look lovely as well, Wavonne.” Nicole hugs Wavonne and starts shuffling through the name tags on the table before handing one to each of us. Mine has my senior photo on it, while Wavonne's simply has the word “Guest” under her name.

“Go on in. I'm going to staff the table just a bit longer. I'll find you.”

“Okay.”

As I pin on my name tag, I see Wavonne shove hers in her purse. “I'm not pinnin' nothin' on this dress. I'm takin' it back to Gussini tomorrow and gettin' my nineteen dollars back.”

I take a second look at the dress and, even at nineteen dollars, I suppress the urge to tell Wavonne that she overpaid. One look, and you can see how poorly the stitching has been done around the neckline, and the fabric is so sheer that . . . well, let's just say I'm glad Wavonne has Spanx on as well. The shapewear is performing double duty tonight—not only is it smoothing out all of Wavonne's lumps and bumps, but it's also keeping certain anatomical parts from being visible through the thin material.

We walk through a set of double doors into the ballroom and see that the party is already in full swing. We stop by the bar and order two servings of Sweet Tea's signature drink, Mahalia's House Cocktail, a refreshing blend of my homemade berry syrup, Sprite, grapefruit vodka, and lemon juice (Check out
Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles
for the recipe.
). As I take a sip of my drink, I'm pleased to see my servers, dressed in black pants, crisp white shirts, and pink ties, making the rounds with the hors d'oeuvre trays.

“Hi, Joslyn,” I say to one of the servers who approaches as soon as she recognizes us. “How's it going?”

“Good. We're passing out the appetizers now and dinner preparations are in progress.”

I take a moment to examine the selections on her tray and admire my handiwork. My team and I were up late last night preparing the finger food. While I do love the peapods' stuffed cheese filling and the smoked salmon deviled eggs, I decide to taste test one of the fried chicken salad tartlets while we are still on the sidelines of the room. I take a bite and am reminded why they are such a favorite of mine—shredded fried chicken (seasonings, breading, and all), a bit of mayonnaise, sour cream, some sliced seedless red grapes, and a touch of salt and sugar—all mixed together, delicately placed into crispy mini-tart shells made from Grandmommy's pie crust recipe, and topped with a sprinkle of chopped candied pecans.

“That is
good!
” I say as Wavonne takes a napkin from Joslyn and begins to pile it with a hefty sampling of items from the tray.

“All the starters seem to be going over very well with everyone.”

“Great. I'll check in with the kitchen in a little bit.”

Joslyn steps away, and I take a moment to give the ballroom a once over. I know it's more than two decades since graduation, but you'd think I'd recognize more than just a handful of faces. I see Beverly Wolfe, who was on the debate team with me, and Matthew Dyer, who I remember routinely getting shoved into his locker by some of the school bullies . . . and Tisha Hammond, who sat next to me in home economics and was completely worthless when it came to cooking. I'm still scanning the crowd when Alvetta, who is standing with Raynell and two other women, catches sight of us and waves us over.

I approach Alvetta and Wavonne toddles behind me as best she can given her snug dress, steep shoes, beverage glass, and napkin full of food.

“Hello, ladies,” Alvetta says when we reach her little gaggle. “Halia, the appetizers are exquisite.”

“Yes,” Raynell chimes in, and almost spills her cranberry-colored cocktail on me when she leans in and gives me a quick air kiss. “This bunch does seem to be enjoying them. Perhaps the more sophisticated cuisine I suggested on Sunday would have been wasted on this crowd after all. Your . . . how do I put it . . . ‘down home' vittles seem to be more their speed.”

“
Down home vittles?!
” Wavonne questions. “You gonna let her talk about your food like that?” Alvetta and the other girls suddenly look uncomfortable. I vaguely recognize them as former Whitleys, and, no doubt, they are not used to people who don't shamelessly cater to Raynell.

I laugh. “Oh, Wavonne. Raynell is only . . . well . . . being Raynell.” I give Raynell a little wink. “I'm glad everyone is enjoying the food.”

“Halia,” Alvetta says. “You remember Tamika and Nesha.” She nods toward the two ladies standing next to her.

“Of course.” I extend my hand to each of them, and we exchange greetings. “This is my cousin, Wavonne. She's my date for the evening.”

Raynell looks at Wavonne and then me. “Your date? I guess the man shortage is affecting so many these days.”

“Speakin' of men,” Wavonne says to Raynell. “Where's yours?” Wavonne looks around the room.

“Terrence couldn't make it tonight.”

“He and Michael are at the church retreat this weekend,” Alvetta says. “They are both leading some discussion groups, and Michael is giving the keynote address at the main reception tonight. They wouldn't have known too many people here anyway. They would have been bored.”

“What do you mean Terrence ain't here?” The disappointment shows in Wavonne's voice.

“He's away for the whole weekend,” Raynell says. “Sorry, no football player introductions tonight. Walter, over there,” she adds, pointing toward an overweight bald man popping a deviled egg in his mouth, “is an appliance salesman. You'd probably stand a better chance with him anyway.”

I can sense Wavonne about to counter Raynell's catty comment, so I pull her aside, excuse us, and take her for a little walk to the other side of the ballroom before she has a chance to really start something with Raynell.

“That stubby little oompa loompa be trippin', Halia. I got a mind—”

“Let it go, Wavonne. She's not worth it,” I advise. “Why don't we go check out the auction room?”

Wavonne lets out a long groan before responding. “Fine . . . as long as it's a ho-bag-free zone.”

I begin to lead the way out of the ballroom with Wavonne following. “I can't make any promises with regard to ho-bags, Wavonne, but let's hope for the best.”

CHAPTER 14

“I
see Raynell snagged the best spot to display her desk and all her real estate promotional crap,” Wavonne says as we step into a room about a quarter of the size of the one we just left.

“Wow. She really is shameless.” I eye the desk, which, of course, is exhibited closer to the ballroom entrance than any other item. Christy and I displayed the poster that Raynell gave us when we were leaving her house earlier today on one side of the desk, but, since then, it has been joined by a multitude of business cards, brochures of homes Raynell is listing, and promotional magnets, calendars, and notepads.

“Some retoucher worked overtime on that.” Wavonne takes note of Raynell's oversized photo on the poster. “Who ever did it should get an award. She almost doesn't look like a Rottweiler.”

“Almost,” I agree. “Let's see if this desk has gotten any bids.” I find the sheet of paper where people write down their bids among all of Raynell's marketing paraphernalia and review the numbers. “So far, the desk has only fetched two bids: one for five hundred dollars and one for five hundred fifty dollars.”

“That's not even the minimum bid. Sista girl is not gonna be happy about that.”

“I'm not sure she cares what the desk fetches. Clearly her donation was just a vehicle for marketing her business.”

We step away from the desk and begin perusing the other items on display and find there is quite a variety. Leonard Durey donated a certificate for complete auto detailing at his car wash in Marlow Heights. Jamie Stacks (who is apparently a massage therapist these days) is giving away a sixty-minute massage. Karla Sable is offering a dozen cupcakes from her bakery to the highest bidder, the list goes on and on....

“Here's yours,” Wavonne says when she comes across the display for the one-hundred-dollar Sweet Tea gift card I donated. It includes the gift card (unactivated in case some fool tries to steal it) and a Sweet Tea menu. “Look, it's already reached ninety dollars.”

“Really?” I walk over and take a look. I'm pleased to find that seven people have bid on it already.

“Who are the dummies who've bid a bunch of money on this tacky-assed T-shirt?” I hear Wavonne say a few steps ahead of me. I look up and see her bent over to take a better look at the shirt. “The bidding is up seventy dollars.”

I join her in front of the table and smile. “Oh my God! I have not seen one of those in forever.” I take in the white T-shirt featuring a black Mickey and Minnie Mouse decked out in FILA sportswear with the words “Yo Baby, Yo Baby Yo” across the top and “Mickey & Minnie, Good to Go” across the bottom. “These shirts were all the rage back in the day.” I laugh thinking about it. “Everyone had one. I think Disney ended up suing whoever made them.” I lift the shirt from the table. “This looks brand new . . . like it's never been worn.”

“Probably cause it's butt ugly.”

“We didn't think it was ugly in the eighties.”

“No, we sure didn't,” I hear a voice behind me say.

I turn around. “Robin Fillmore.”

I wouldn't have called Robin and I great friends. She was more of a partier than I was, but she also had a studious side and served in the student government with me, so we were sort of casual friends.

“Hi, Halia. So good to see you again.”

“You too.”

“I was just telling my cousin Wavonne here about how popular these shirts were when we were in high school.”

Robin smiles at Wavonne. “Believe it or not, she's telling the truth. They were just one of many stupid things we took a liking to in the eighties.” She looks back at me. “Remember those horrible jelly shoes . . . and stirrup pants . . . sneaking out to an M.C. Hammer concert . . . driving down to freakin Waldorf to cruise the parking lot at Waldorf Shoppers World?”

“I had forgotten all about that.” It wasn't something I did often as I really was pretty straightlaced in high school, and cruising Waldorf Shoppers World was mostly a white-people thing, but I did partake a time or two.

“Cruise Waldorf Shoppers World?” Wavonne asks.

“We'd just circle . . . and circle . . . and circle the parking lot of a strip mall down in Charles County. On the first loop you might notice a guy you like the looks of in another car, make eye contact with him on the second loop, maybe exchange a few words with him on the third loop. People did it for hours . . . often until the police came and cleared us all out.”

Wavonne looks at us, decidedly unimpressed. “You circled a parking lot to get dates?”

“I guess we did,” I confirm. “We didn't have iPhones back then, Wavonne. We couldn't just fire up Tinder and start swiping through photos.”

Wavonne rolls her eyes. “Life in the olden days.”

“If we weren't cruising and no one had a party we were usually at The Oak Tree drinking and smoking . . . and doing God knows what else.”

“I don't think I ever went,” I say to Robin, but I do remember hearing about the infamous tree. It was a big tree in a field that everyone just called The Oak Tree . . . over in Cheltenham I think . . . where a lot of the area high school kids would converge to blare boomboxes and party. The field was down a hill, so drivers couldn't see it from the road.

“Really? Why?” Robin asks.

“Because, just like now, she's a stick in the mud,” Wavonne says.

“I wasn't . . .
am
not a stick in the mud, Wavonne.” I turn back to Robin. “But I didn't really run with the kind of crowd that hung out at The Oak Tree.”

“I wonder if that tree is still there.”

“I doubt it. That field is probably a tract housing development by now,” I say, and Robin and I continue to chat as we move along to the next display table with Wavonne.

“This is nice,” Robin says when we come upon a small painting of a farm scene. It's an oil painting of a pasture with a big red barn in the distance. There are some animals grazing in the field—a horse, two cows, some chickens, and a pig. “It's quite well done. The artist perfectly captured the feeling of early evening with the sun setting behind the barn.”

I took an art class in high school, and I remember being taught how to capture light using yellow and orange paints. I was never good at it, but I do recall sitting next to a girl who was good at it—
very
good, actually.

I leaned over to read the place card describing the donated painting, and, as I suspected, it was painted by my former painting classmate. “Well, look here.” I say. “Kimberly Butler painted it.”

“Really?” Robin asks as the three of us take a closer look at the canvas.

“Yes. She was in painting class with me. She definitely had an artistic talent back then. It looks like she's really continued to develop it. The painting really is lovely,” I say, but as I continue to look at Kimberly's work something about it is bothering me—I can't put my finger on what it is, but there is just something odd about the painting.

We give the painting a last look before continuing to peruse the rest of the auction items. Before too long we reach the end of the rows of display tables, and Wavonne and I decide to make our way back to the main ballroom while Robin stays behind to place a few bids.

“You ain't goin' to bid on anything?” Wavonne asks me.

“No. Nothing really interested me,” I say as we rejoin the party. “Now just try to have a good time and stay away from Raynell. You two seem to bring out the worst in each other. There are plenty of other people to talk to.” And no sooner have the words left my lips when a striking woman with flawless medium-brown skin moves toward us. She's wearing a “barely there” red strappy slip dress that shows off a near perfect figure.

“Halia? Halia Watkins, right?” the woman says to me.

“Yes.” My eyes linger on her face. I look for a name tag, but she's not wearing one. “I'm sorry. Offhand I don't recognize you.”

“Kimberly. Kimberly Butler.”

“Oh my gosh! We were just talking about you. We saw your painting in the auction room. It looks lovely . . . and so do you, I might add. Really, you look amazing,” I say, and actually mean it. “What a difference from when we were . . . I mean you looked nice back then, but
now
. . .”

Kimberly smiles. “Thank you. I guess it just sort of happens. . . one eventually fills out.”

And “happen” it did indeed. In high school Kimberly was shapeless and dowdy. I remember her hiding her flat chest and nonexistent behind under heavy sweaters and baggy corduroys. The white girls could get away with boyish bodies, and some of them actually dieted themselves down to boney petite frames, but a black girl without curves—that had to be a tough pill to swallow.

“You look great as well, Halia.”

“That's sweet of you,” I say. “Kimberly, this is my cousin Wavonne. I'm actually catering the event tonight, and Wavonne works at my restaurant with me. She came to help me keep an eye on things, so I could enjoy being a guest.”

Kimberly greets Wavonne, shakes her hand, and then turns back to me. She looks at me awkwardly for a moment before speaking. “While I have a chance, Halia, I just want to say thanks.”

“For?”

“I don't know . . . for being one of the nice ones. I know we weren't exactly friends, but at least you were never mean to me. Let's face it—I wasn't the most popular girl in school to say the least. Hell, I hate half the people here . . . especially the women. The only reason I came is to show these bitches that I turned out pretty well in spite of them and their nastiness.”

I'm about to agree that she did turn out pretty well and maybe compliment her on her dress when a male classmate on his way to the bar, unlike me at first, actually does seem to recognize her. He taps her on the arm and begins to engage her in conversation. He ignores Wavonne and me.

“
Rude,
” Wavonne says as the man continues to pay us zero attention and keep his focus on Kimberly and her voluptuous figure. She really seems to shine these days, and it appears Wavonne and me are getting lost in her light.

“Come on, Halia. We ain't gonna stand here bein' treated like no Kelly and Michelle.” Wavonne grabs my arm and pulls me a few steps back.

It actually works out well that we've put a little distance between us and Kimberly, so I can give Wavonne a little backstory on Ms. Skimpy Red Dress. I'm about to tell her how homely Kimberly looked in high school and what a dramatic transformation she's made, but before I do, I catch Kimberly's eyes scanning the room as her companion speaks to her. As he's going on and on about God knows what, I see Kimberly's pleasant expression suddenly evaporate. I wonder what the gentleman she's speaking to said to make her look so abruptly agitated, but then I realize that it wasn't something she
heard
that distressed her. I can tell from her eyes that it's something she
saw
. . . something she's
seeing
at this moment. I turn around to find exactly who or what her line of vision is fixed on, and, let me tell you, if I could draw a line from Kimberly's eyes to the focus of her hostile attention, it would run straight as an arrow to one Raynell Rollins.