Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits

by A. L. Herbert

  “Let’s take it into the Musical Crossroads section, folks. We need to amp up this party.”

  Chapter 12

  At this point I’m starting to feel like a sheep being herded around by a border collie named Cynthia as she nudges us into the Musical Crossroads section, but I figure that’s how these sort of things go, and follow the rest of the group into the music gallery, which is a sea of competing sensory stimulations. When we first walk in we are greeted by Chuck Berry’s bright red Cadillac Eldorado, but it’s competing for attention with a multicolored costume worn by Jermaine Jackson in the early seventies; a sparkling purple, pink, silver, and gold dress owned by Celia Cruz; Michael Jackson’s black sequined jacket; and, yes, even the P-Funk Mothership.

  “Wow,” Wavonne says. “What’s this? It’s like Star Trek meets disco.”

  “It’s the P-Funk Mothership, Wavonne,” I say. “It was legendary when I was a little girl... and considered high tech in the seventies. It used to descend, lights flashing, as part of Parliament-Funkadelic’s shows.”

  “High tech?” Trey says in a mocking tone, interrupting the rendition of “Give up the Funk” going in my head. “Looks like a child’s school project.”

  “Well, we thought it was cool,” I reply. I’m liking this guy less by the minute when I hear Vera’s voice from behind.

  “Oh my God!” she says, approaching with Twyla. “Look! The Soul Train sign,” she offers about the electric dancing train on the wall. “After the cartoons went off, that was must see TV on Saturday afternoons when I was coming up.”

  I smile. “Me and some of the neighborhood kids used to recreate the Soul Train line in my basement.”

  “I used to pretend I was Madame Butterfly. Remember her? I’d put a butterfly clip in my hair and do the robot to ‘Dancing Machine.’”

  “What about Don Cornelius and that sexy deep voice?” I ask, thinking how much more fun it would be to tour this exhibit with Vera rather than Trey.

  “Of course. He was an early crush.”

  “He was fine,” Twyla chimes in before eyeing Trey. “Not as fine as this young man though.”

  Trey smiles awkwardly while Vera and I exchange glances. “I think Soul Train was before my time,” he says, and takes a few steps closer to Wavonne and me, in what I assume is an effort to stifle Twyla from touching all over him again.

  “I think it ran into the two thousands, but its heyday was definitely the seventies and eighties,” Vera says.

  Much as I’d like to reminisce about the seventies and eighties with Vera, I catch Cynthia, hovering next to a denim suit worn by Charley Pride, shooting a look of disapproval our way. I suspect it’s her way of telling me that I’ve had my time with Vera, and I’m supposed to be getting to know Trey now.

  “How about we meander over to the Taking the Stage section?” I say to Trey before turning to Vera. “Let’s catch up on all things P-Funk and Soul Train later.”

  “Sure thing,” she says. “Maybe Twyla and I can see what the Neighborhood Record Store section is about.”

  “Girl,” Wavonne says as we stride into the area celebrating all things stage and screen. “They have the costumes from The Wiz. I auditioned to play Dorothy when we did a production in high school. Can you believe they didn’t give me the part?”

  I refrain from saying, “Yes, considering you can’t sing, and they probably thought it was unlikely that you would show up to half of the rehearsals.” Instead, I offer, “Well, singing was not one of your stronger talents, Wavonne. I remember that production. The lead they ended up choosing did have a really strong voice.”

  “That was mousy ole Lavenia Monroe. Yes, she could sing, but she didn’t have any star quality. What I lacked in singing capabilities I made up for in presence.”

  “Presence?” Trey asks.

  “It means she takes up a lot of space.”

  “You be quiet, Halia,” Wavonne counters. “It means people take notice of me. I light up a room when I walk in.”

  “I think that’s more the sequins adorned on practically everything you own, than you exactly,” I joke.

  Wavonne is about to respond when Cynthia appears. “I guess you were being truthful earlier. You two do bicker all the time.”

  “I wouldn’t call it bickering. We’re just playing. Wavonne knows I love her, sequins and all. And I will say she did do a bang-up job with the part she did get in The Wiz.”

  “Don’t you tell them about the part I got!” Wavonne orders.

  “What?” Trey asks. “What was the part?”

  “It was nothing, and it was a long time ago.”

  “Oh, come on, Wavonne. Tell them. After all, it was quite fitting.”

  Wavonne rolls her eyes and figures she may as well share the information before I do. “They gave me the part... the part of the . . . the Tornado.”

  Trey and Cynthia laugh.

  “The Tornado? I love it!” Cynthia says, and turns to Carl. “You’re getting this, right?”

  “And she was a damn good tornado, too,” I compliment. “Probably the only tornado to swirl around in five-inch platform pumps in the history of the show’s production.”

  “I never once fell on those pumps either,” Wavonne brags.

  “Walking in high heels is one of Wavonne’s many talents,” I say to Trey. “Speaking of walking, why don’t we head over there.” I point toward a display case titled “TV Pioneers.”

  “Not diggin’ any of these outfits,” Wavonne comments about a jumpsuit worn by Diahann Carroll in Julia and a button-up dress worn by Esther Rolle in Good Times. “I didn’t realize George and Weezy were so short,” Wavonne adds, taking in a suit and dress worn by Sherman Hemsley and Isabel Sanford in The Jeffersons.

  “Did you watch any of these shows?” I ask Trey. “It would have been in reruns, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” he asks.

  “Good Times. The Jeffersons. Were you a fan?”

  “I’ve caught a few episodes here and there. They were okay I guess.” He takes a second to clear his throat. “Sorry, I’m a little distracted. It’s interesting and all, but this tour is really dragging on. I thought it was only supposed to be a couple of hours.”

  So much for my earlier heartfelt joy about young people taking an interest in history.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Trey elaborates. “I’d love to come back and spend more time here one day, but my mind is on the competition. I wish we could just get started on today’s challenge. The more we walk around the more ideas I get about what Cynthia is going to throw at us. At first, I thought they might ask us to prepare some standards from the old South, but when we were looking at Leah Chase’s chef jacket I thought they might ask us to prepare Creole food.... Then I started mulling over shellfish recipes when we came upon that oyster basket. And now I’m wondering if they may have found out the favorite foods of Motown singers or something and will ask us to prepare those. It’s hard to focus.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’ve made it this far.”

  “I’m not doubting that I’ll do well. I’m just strategizing in my head, so I’m prepared later,” Trey says, a cameraman getting his every word. “I’ve studied at one of the top culinary schools in the world and have worked at some of the best restaurants around. I know I can win this, but I’m still trying to stay one step ahead. Maybe I’ll go check out that Black Hollywood case. Knowing Cynthia and the production team, they may find some way to tie today’s challenge to Whoopi Goldberg in Sister Act.”

  “Pretty boy can get on a sista’s nerves,” Wavonne whispers to me as Trey saunters toward the display of costumes from Stormy Weather, The Mack, and as he already mentioned, Sister Act. “So full of himself. I think I’m gonna go check out that Diana Ross Lady Sings the Blues ensemble we saw in the other room. I bet I can piece something like it together at Marshalls. I’ll let you listen to him yammer about how he studied under Julia Child or the Pillsbury Doughboy... or that lady in the Popeyes commercial
s.”

  While Wavonne heads back to the music display, I rejoin Trey. I’m not that eager to spend more time with him, but Cynthia made it clear that she wanted me to get to know him.

  “You’re pretty confident in your culinary capabilities,” I say, walking up next to him. “I guess that’s a good thing. I didn’t have that kind of confidence when I was first starting out.”

  “Where did you go to culinary school?”

  “The Learn-as-You-Go Academy for Wayward Chefs,” I say with a laugh. “Everything I know I either learned cooking Sunday dinners with Grandmommy or on the job at the handful of restaurants I worked at before opening my own place.”

  “Maybe that’s why it took you some time to be surer of yourself—it probably would have come quicker if you had studied at a top culinary school. But your restaurant serves soul food, right? Like cornbread, and mac and cheese, and fried stuff? I guess you don’t really need to do a stint at the Culinary Institute of America to make that kind of stuff, huh?”

  My eyes widen in response to his words, and I’m not sure if I’m glad or sad that Wavonne has stepped away. She would be much better than me at giving this cocky little brat a good “what for,” but there are also cameras all around us, so it would be hard for her to deny the physical assault charges.

  “Well, what we serve at Sweet Tea, a restaurant that, if I may say, has outlasted local venues opened by Richard Sandoval and Wolfgang Puck and Mike Isabella, may not be as ingenious as... What was it you were describing earlier? Hummus with lemons and cinnamon or something? But we do okay.”

  “Hummus with lemongrass and ginger,” Trey corrects. “I didn’t mean any offense. I think it’s great you’ve had some success without formal schooling, but don’t you think—”

  “She has had more than some success, you little twit.” I guess I was distracted by my annoyance with Trey’s comments and did not hear Wavonne approaching from behind. I assume she had decided on whatever Diana Ross and Whitney Houston ensembles she might be able to mix and match at the local discount stores and found herself headed back in our direction. Apparently, she caught at least some of what Trey said... and the thing about Wavonne and me (and Momma too) is that we will disparage each other left and right, but the moment someone outside our family does it to one of us, watch out—hell will be paid! “Since Sweet Tea opened many years ago, about a bazillion fusion-nonsense restaurants have come and gone—most of the places opened by young hot-shot chefs who thought they knew it all now have signs for Applebee’s and Cheesecake Factory hangin’ over the doors while Sweet Tea still has a line of people waitin’ for tables.”

  “Okay, Wavonne,” I say, trying to stifle a smile. “That’s enough.”

  “Enough? I’m just getting started.”

  “If that’s just getting started, I better batten down the hatches,” Trey says with a chuckle. He seems to be more amused by Wavonne’s tirade than unnerved. “But you’ve made your point. I’m sorry. I should be more respectful of my elders.”

  “Excuse me?!” I say, unsure if I heard him correctly. At this point, with his little “elders” jibe, I, rather than Wavonne, may be the one facing assault charges. But before I have a chance to say anything, Cynthia, who has been a few feet away making sure this little exchange with Trey is getting on film, steps closer to us.

  “Okay,” she says in a loud voice. “Maybe it’s time for Halia and Wavonne to hook up with Sherry.” She looks at Trey. “Why don’t you find Russell? Last I saw he was on the phone in the Visual Arts section. Why don’t you two mill about the Community Galleries for a little bit, and I’ll send the ladies to the Oprah exhibit. Then we’ll regroup in the café in a half hour.”

  “Fine with me,” Trey says, and then turns to me and Wavonne. “Ladies,” he says in lieu of good-bye, nodding his head at us before departing.

  “What a pompous jerk,” I say in a low voice once Trey’s out of earshot.

  “True-dat,” Wavonne says, watching him exit the area. The scowl on her face fades as her eyes linger on his backside. “But, dayem,” she adds, “he’s a pompous jerk who looks as good goin’ as he does comin’.”

  Chapter 13

  “Cynthia sent me over here to meet up with you guys,” Sherry says to me and Wavonne. “How’s it going?”

  “Good... good,” I say. “She said something about us touring the Oprah exhibit now, so I guess we head in that direction?” I point to my left.

  “Fine with me,” Sherry says. “I love Oprah, but I never quite understood her show.”

  “What’s to understand?” Wavonne asks.

  “It was just weird how it ran at different times in different cities. It was on an ABC station here at four o’clock in the afternoon, but when I moved to Chicago it was on an NBC station at nine o’clock in the morning.”

  “The show was syndicated so...” I let my voice fade, deciding it will take way too much time to explain syndication to this one. Instead I go with a simple, “Yeah, that is weird.”

  “Oh-Em-Gee!” Sherry says as we enter the area of the museum dedicated to Her Majesty and see the Harpo Studio sign. “Harpo is Oprah spelled backward! I never noticed that before.”

  I’m quite certain the cameraman in front of us just zoomed in on my face to get my reaction to Sherry’s comment. I feel like Jim Halpert on The Office getting a close-up after one of Michael Scott’s zany comments. “Um... yes. Clever.”

  “It’s not that clever.” Wavonne is clearly not trying as hard as I am to patronize Sherry, who starts scurrying ahead of us.

  “Look,” she calls out. “The ‘You-Get-a-Car! You-Get-a-Car! ’ outfit!” She points to a red suit displayed on a headless mannequin, like a child enthralled with a holiday window display at Macy’s. “I remember that episode. I was like ten years old... I had just gotten home from school... and my mom was on the phone with one of her girlfriends screaming about how ‘They all got cars! She gave every last one of them a car!’”

  “I remember that, too. Aunt Celia was goin’ crazy!” Wavonne says, and turns to me. “She called you at the restaurant. I remember her bein’ like, ‘Yes! Every single member of the audience got a car!’ Then she was like, ‘I don’t know... some crappy Pontiac they probably couldn’t sell anyway, but still—a new car for everyone!’”

  “Let me guess, she ended the conversation by reminding me that if Oprah can finagle giving away three hundred cars and still have time to find a man, what’s my excuse?”

  Wavonne laughs. “I can’t remember, but I’d say that’s a pretty safe bet.”

  “My mom is always on me about getting married, too,” Sherry says. “ ‘Your looks aren’t going to last forever, Sherry,’” she adds, mimicking her mother. “‘Land a man with money while you can.’”

  “You’re so young,” I offer. “You have plenty of time.”

  “That’s what I tell her. I’m not ready to settle down. I still want to see the world. Did you know there is a Portland, Maine, and a Portland, Oregon? I want to go to both!”

  “Dream big,” I reply feebly.

  “And I want to learn to do the hula in the Bahamas and to speak Spanish in Brazil.”

  “I think Hawaii is where you want to learn to hula.”

  “Hawaii, Bermuda.” She makes a weighing gesture with her hands. “What’s it matter? You know what they say: If you’ve been to one Caribbean island, you been to them all.”

  And the camera zooms to my facial expression yet again. Listening to this young woman is making my head hurt.

  “You know they speak Portuguese in Brazil. Not Spanish,” Wavonne says, and notices me looking at her quizzically. “Don’t look so surprised. I know stuff. You learn a thing or two when you hang out at Club Rio—half price caipirinhas from five to seven every night.”

  “Caipirinhas?” Sherry asks. “Those fish that bite you?”

  “Those are piranhas, dear. I think a caipirinha is a Brazilian cocktail.” I turn my head toward Wavonne. “And, believe me, I know you k
now stuff. But that stuff usually has more to do with wigs and makeup than what languages are spoken in South America.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Sherry says to Wavonne. “People just assume that girls like you and me... girls with big boobs . . . that we’re stupid. I’ve been getting it since puberty. Before I started training as a chef and learned more about food, a waiter once asked if I’d like to try the filet mignon. I asked him what sort of fish mignon was, and the whole table laughed at me—everyone at that table has treated me like an airhead ever since. I’m sorry... I hear ‘filet,’ I think fish. If I had been some petite emancipated thing with a flat chest and glasses, they all would have considered my little faux pas a one-time gaffe and moved on. But because I have a killer rack, they label me as stupid.”

  “I think you mean emaciated, not emancipated.” Boy does my head hurt now. “And, I, by no means, think Wavonne is stupid,” I protest, feeling like, to be polite, I should probably add that I don’t think that Sherry is stupid either, but I’m not sure I can pull that off with a straight face. “Quite the opposite. Wavonne may not be, shall we say, ‘academically inclined’ or the foremost authority on current events that don’t involve Normani or Cardi B, but anyone who can come upon a sign advertising a thirty-five percent discount on a pair of Nine West pumps and immediately calculate the final price in her head is far from stupid. Wavonne’s smart as a whip—she just selectively uses her intelligence when the mood strikes her.”

  “Hmmm,” Sherry says. “Maybe that’s my problem, too.”

  Neither Wavonne nor I know how to graciously respond to this, so I just point and say, “Look, the dress Oprah wore to the Legends Ball,” and try to move on to a new topic. “So, Sherry, how did you come to be a part of this whole thing?”

  “Whole thing?”

  “The show. How did you end up getting cast on Elite Chef?”

  “I just applied through the website, filled out the questionnaire, and sent in a head shot. Then I went through a couple rounds of interviews and, next thing you know, I’m packing my bags for DC. It’s fun to be back. I worked at restaurants here a couple of years ago, but never really got to know the city. My sister is coming to town this week to watch the finals, and then we’ll stay for a few days and do some touristy stuff. She wants to see the Capitol building, and the memorials, and go to the spy museum. I’ve been book marking stuff on my phone.” Sherry pulls out her phone and starts swiping through photos of various landmarks. “The Jefferson Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial, Arlington Cemetery...” She slides her finger across her phone again and then turns the screen toward me. “I’m not sure what it is, but this octagon-shaped building keeps coming up when I search on tourist attractions. Looks pretty plain.”