Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits

by A. L. Herbert

  I force a smile back, hoping I didn’t audibly sigh when I heard my name. Sherry is very nice, and definitely more pleasant to be around than Trey, but I’m not sure I can really coach or advise her on cooking... on anything really. I suspect it will be like trying to teach a fish how to climb a tree.

  “Your turn, Trey,” Leon says. “By process of elimination I guess we know your region and your judge.” I see Twyla’s eyes light up as the word “judge” leaves his mouth. “But let’s find out what food choice you’ve been assigned.”

  Trey pulls the remaining slip of paper from the hat. “ ‘They’ve been called ‘the cement that holds the South together. ’ Southerners love them. Northerners can take them or leave them... mostly leave them. Grits are a breakfast staple below the Mason-Dixon line and more than 85 million pounds a year are sold in the American South. Your assignment is: The Agricultural South, grits, Twyla.” The corners of his mouth turn downward. He’s clearly less than thrilled about the words on the piece of paper before him, but it’s unclear if his annoyance is with his assigned region, his assigned food, or his assigned judge. “Not a lot to work with there, but I guess I will have to make do.”

  “So, there you have it,” Leon says to the camera. “Sherry, Trey, and Vera have their assignments, and now it’s up to them to turn some very lackluster food choices into something inventive and fun... and, of course, delicious.” He turns his attention back to the three contestants. “So, as part of this episode, we have a new name for your little trio: the Thrifty Three. ‘Why?’ you ask.” Leon pauses as one of the cameras pans across Sherry, Trey, and Vera. “Because, for this challenge, you will not have access to the Elite Chef pantry—for this challenge, we are sending you to the grocery store... and we’re putting you on a budget.”

  A camera again zooms across the contestants’ faces, getting their displeased reactions.

  “Shortly, we’ll be transporting you to a local grocer and each of you will be allotted a total of thirty dollars to buy all the ingredients you’ll need for your competition entry,” Leon says to what is now dubbed the Thrifty Three, but I’m not sure any of them are listening at this point. I think they’re all inside their heads, thinking about recipes and the price of flour and cheese and ham. “But first, let’s have you pair up with your assigned judge at the tables behind you for a quick culinary powwow.”

  Leon directs Sherry, Trey, and Vera toward the tables behind them where Russell, Twyla, and Wavonne and I are seated.

  “How fun! I’m so glad I got you two!” Sherry pulls out a chair across from me and Wavonne while Trey and Vera take seats at the two other tables. “So, I’m thinking maybe I should do some sort of deep-fried sandwich... some thick-cut white bread... a little ham... a little cheese... dunk it in some batter... fry it up nice and crisp. You know, like a Monte Carlo.”

  “I think you mean a Monte Cristo,” I correct, and try not to groan.

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a Monte Cristo,” Wavonne says, sensing my apprehension with Sherry’s idea.

  “No. Not at all,” I reply. “I like a nice deep-fried sandwich as much as the next person, but perhaps we can come up with something a bit more creative.”

  “Like?” Sherry asks.

  “We make these lovely biscuits at Sweet Tea. I call them Salty Sweet Cheese Nips.”

  “Salty. Sweet. Cheese,” Sherry recites. “You’ve got my attention.”

  “I use my grandmommy’s drop biscuit recipe as the base and add a little cheddar cheese to the dough. After I bake them, I brush them with some melted butter, sprinkle them heavily with salt, and top them with a few oversized sugar crystals.”

  “She essentially ripped off Red Lobster’s Cheddar Bay biscuits,” Wavonne says to Sherry.

  “I did not! Grandmommy was making her biscuits long before Red Lobster even existed.”

  “They sound really good, but I’m not sure I get the ham sandwich connection.”

  “You could use biscuits instead of regular bread for the sandwich. Just slice them in half and place the ham in the middle . . . or, better yet, maybe you can chop the ham and mix it right in with the dough. Then you could make a nice flavored butter or jelly to go with the biscuits.”

  “You know what would be good on them?” Wavonne asks. “That pineapple–red pepper jelly you made a few weeks ago.”

  “That would go quite nicely.”

  “I like the biscuit idea... and the jelly, but do you think I can do all that with thirty dollars?”

  “A small thing of flour will run you about three dollars... a bag of shredded cheese will be another three. Garlic powder can be kind of expensive—I’d factor in at least five dollars for that. I like to use sour cream to hold it all together... that will be another two or three bucks. Factor in at least another ten for sugar and salt... and, of course, butter.”

  “That’s twenty-four dollars right there.”

  “See what I mean about Wavonne not being stupid?” I ask Sherry.

  “You learn to add numbers quickly in your head when you’re at the salon with fifty dollars getting a wet set... and want to know if you’re gonna have enough left over for a mani-pedi and an eyebrow wax,” Wavonne says. “The answer is ‘no,’ in case you’re interested.”

  “How much are pineapples these days?” I ask, starting to think about the jelly.

  “I don’t know,” Sherry says. “I think you can get one for about three bucks.”

  “You’ll also need a red bell pepper and a lemon... some cornstarch... and some pineapple juice. All that may throw you over budget. If it does, just buy some honey—you can mix it with the leftover butter for a nice spread.” I grab some paper and a pen at the table. “Let’s make a list.” I start jotting a few things down. That’s when I notice Wavonne looking at me with a smirk on her face.

  “What?”

  “Nothin’” she says. “I’m just getting a kick outta watchin’ you do what you do best—take over.”

  “I’m not taking over,” I protest, but the words are barely off my lips when I realize that I am actually doing just that. I’ve done it since I was a little girl. Even in elementary school my friends called me “bossy,” but as Momma always said, I just had “strong leadership skills.” My take charge nature has served me well over the years, and I doubt I’d be running a highly successful restaurant if I didn’t have a certain amount of assertiveness, but my role in this situation is supposed to be one of coach and mentor. Sherry is the contestant, not me. “Okay, maybe you’re right,” I admit, and turn to Sherry. “I didn’t mean to commandeer your challenge. Perhaps we should go with your idea for a Monte Cristo.”

  “Oh please... commandeer all you want. Your biscuit idea was much better than mine,” Sherry assures. “Why don’t we get back to making a list, and then you can go over your recipe with me.”

  I write out the ingredients for my recipe for Salty Sweet Cheese Nips. I’m about to add the preparation instructions when Leon pipes up. “Okay, folks! That’s all the time we have. Contestants, gather up the grocery lists you made and follow me.”

  “I wish I had time to write down the instructions for you.” I hand her the piece of paper that spells out everything she needs to make the biscuits, but nothing about the preparation.

  “Thank you.” Sherry takes the list from me. “I’ll figure it out.”

  I watch Sherry join up with Vera and Trey and follow Leon toward the café exit.

  “I’m not too optimistic about the girl who thought filet mignon was a fish ‘figuring out’ my recipe.”

  “I’m not too optimistic about her being able to read your recipe.”

  I laugh. “It’s not a complex dish and anything with enough cheese and butter is bound to be good. I can’t imagine she could screw it up,” I rationalize. “But, then again, I didn’t think there was a grown woman out there who doesn’t know Manhattan is part of New York City. I guess all we can do is hope for the best.”

  Chapter 16

  “I c
ould get used to this,” Wavonne says. “I feel like a celebrity bein’ driven around town in the back seat of a Lexus.”

  “It’s definitely an upgrade from my ramshackle van,” I reply.

  We just left the museum. After the contestants were taken to whatever grocery store paid a fee to get showcased on Elite Chef, we took in a few more of the exhibits and filmed a little interview segment that will be used to introduce Wavonne and me at the beginning of the episode. We’re barely out of the city and across the Maryland line when our driver exits the interstate and takes us a few miles down the local highway. We drive by the glittery attractions at National Harbor—the Capital Wheel Ferris wheel, the massive MGM resort and casino, the Gaylord Convention Center, a slew of overpriced restaurants with river views—and make a right onto a side road. We pass a couple of shopping centers and a 7-Eleven before the road becomes more residential. The further we proceed, the tract houses on small lots start to give way to more stately homes on several acres. It’s not long before we approach a wide, secluded driveway flanked by decorative stone pillars, each one outfitted with an elaborately carved sign that reads WILLOW OAK INN. An assortment of flowers around the base of the structures provide waves of color offering a cheerful welcome to the property.

  “Looks like they are still working on the landscaping,” I say as we see some workmen planting shrubbery along the driveway.

  “They did say the place has only had a... what did they call it? A lazy opening?”

  “A soft opening,” I correct as the main building comes into view, and we whirl around into the circular drive in front of a quaint three-story building, clearly designed to have a rustic feel and complement the wooded area that surrounds it. The facade, a mix of gray stones and pale planks of wood, looms underneath a slanted roof the color of clay. An abundance of large picture windows and sliding doors that open to patios or balconies break through the natural exterior. A breezeway connects the main hotel to a one-story building encased almost entirely in glass. The words SUNFISH BY RUSSELL MELLINGER are tastefully etched into the glass.

  “I guess that’s Russell’s new restaurant.”

  “Yes. I think Trudy said they plan to open soon.”

  Wavonne and I step out of the car onto a pattern of intricately laid bricks, and the driver removes our bags from the trunk.

  “May I take them in for you?” he asks.

  “No thank you,” I say. This is my first experience being chauffeured around in a company-hired car, so I have no idea if tipping is appropriate, but I give him a few bucks anyway. “They’re small. We can manage them.”

  As we approach the hotel entrance, I can smell the sea air, but it’s not until we walk into the lobby that I see the grand view of the Potomac River. We emerge through the main doors to the sight of floor-to-ceiling windows along the back wall of a reception area that showcases what appears to be a not-quite-finished swimming pool at the top of a hillside that rolls into a stunning view of the river.

  “I honestly did not know that such tranquility existed this close to the city,” I say to Wavonne as we stop to admire a mix of grass and trees and flowing water—things that start to seem somewhat elusive when you spend the bulk of your life tooling around Washington, DC, and its densely populated suburbs.

  “It is quite nice, isn’t it? That’s one of the perks of my job—I get to look at this view all day,” a young man behind the counter says to us. “You’re with the show?”

  “Yes. Halia Watkins, and this is Wavonne.”

  “Welcome. I’m Mitchell Long, the hotel manager. We have a room ready for you on the concierge level—this level actually. It’s the only one with rooms ready for occupancy. The rooms upstairs are still getting their finishing touches.”

  “Yes, we heard the hotel was open but not quite ready for prime time just yet,” I reply, and take another look around. The lobby has the feel of a mountain lodge with lots of rustic paneling, exposed wooden beams, and skylights in the high ceiling. There’s a grand fireplace encased in stone and a plethora of dark leather sofas and chairs. To my right is the breezeway that connects the hotel to the restaurant, and to my left is a long hallway, lined with doors, one of which I assume will open up to our room for the night.

  “It looks like somewhere they’d film a Hallmark movie,” Wavonne says. “Maybe a big city girl comes with plans to tear the inn down but falls in love with the hotel handyman and decides to keep it open.”

  “Or the inn’s owned by her family, and her parents want her to take it over, but she wants to stay at the big New York law firm... but she runs into an old high school flame—”

  “Who wears flannel... They always wear flannel.”

  “Of course. And she falls in love with Mr. Flannel and decides to stay,” I say. “And maybe there’s an orchard or a vineyard that needs saving....”

  “But it can only be saved by pretty white people,” Wavonne says with a laugh. “Maybe one of us could be Candace Cameron or Lacey Chabert’s black friend who gets four minutes of airtime.”

  “I think Kim Fields has a monopoly on those roles,” I say.

  We’re both quite amused with ourselves as Mitchell looks on, waiting for his chance to get a word in.

  “Maybe not via a Hallmark movie,” I say to him. “But I guess this place is going to get on TV, right?”

  “I’m sure Mr. Mellinger will make sure we get plenty of exposure on the show, once it’s fully camera ready. You do know we’re still under construction, right?”

  “Yes, Russell said the official grand opening would not be for a few weeks but, looking around, there does not seem to be much left to do.”

  “Not on this floor. Mr. Mellinger made sure the first floor was ready for guests before the show started taping. He and Mrs. Mellinger have been staying in the presidential suite since they began filming and the contestants have rooms just down the hall from them.”

  “The presidential suite is on the first floor?”

  “Yes. I know, it’s on the top level of most, but for this property, it made sense to place it on the first level so it—and all the concierge-level rooms—could have a spacious patio right off the pool rather than a balcony. It’s just one of many ways that Willow Oak is unique. We expect to be the choice for exclusive travelers who want a more intimate lodging experience. Mr. Mellinger didn’t have the option of building a big tower, so our whole marketing approach is to bill ourselves as the preferred alternative to the over-sized, impersonal hotels over at National Harbor.”

  “Why couldn’t he build a big hotel?”

  “Actually, he had trouble building anything at all here. He had a very difficult time acquiring this land for any sort of commercial use. We’re in a rural preservation zone, and it took all sorts of wheeling and dealing to secure the approvals and permits. That’s why Willow Oak has such a rustic feel. The county board... or council... or whatever insisted that the building top out at three floors, and that the exterior be made of only wood and natural stone. The board has been trying to lure more upscale businesses to the county for years—you don’t get much more upscale than a Russell Mellinger restaurant. So when he was scouting locations in the area for his latest hospitality venture, they did what they could to woo him. They agreed to let him develop protected land, so long as he agreed to construct buildings that would not distract from the natural scenery, and I think he offered to make some investments in the neighboring Fort Washington Park, and hire county residents like myself to staff the resort . . . things like that.”

  “Sounds like a win-win for Russell and the county.”

  “Yes. At least it should be once we’re fully up and running. As you can see, the pool is still under construction, the rooms on the upper levels are being finalized, and, of course, the restaurant has a way to go before it’s ready to seat any diners.”

  “The restaurant must be somewhat finished, right? We’re filming in there shortly, aren’t we?” I ask. “I thought that’s where all the challenges hav
e taken place.”

  “The network has outfitted the dining room with cooking stations for the contest, so at the moment it’s a mess of cables and hoses and lighting equipment. Once the show is done filming, the contractor will start to lay the carpet and bring in the tables and artwork.”

  “I wonder if that was the contractor I heard Mr. Mellinger yelling at on the phone the other night.”

  “Hard to know. Mr. Mellinger yells at everyone. He does not like delays, so the lead contractor, more than anyone, has been getting an earful lately. He and his team have been working really long hours to make sure this place is finished down to the last detail in a few weeks.”

  “Complete or not, I can tell this place is gonna put the swank in swanky,” Wavonne says.

  Mitchell laughs. “On that note, here are your key cards.” He points to his right. “Your room is just down there... first door on your right after you pass the concierge lounge and the presidential suite.”

  “Concierge lounge?” Wavonne says. “We need to get a photo of me in there for Instagram.”

  “We serve breakfast in there in the mornings, and there are snacks and a full tended bar available in the evenings. It used to get pretty lively in there at night when we had a bigger group here. But most of the show’s contestants have been sent home, so it’s been pretty quiet lately.”

  “Come on, Halia,” Wavonne says. “Let’s get that photo. I can’t wait for all those jealous heifers to see me in the concierge lounge at Russell Mellinger’s hotel. Linda thought she was all that with her pictures at the pope’s table at Buca di Beppo . . . and let’s just see if Melva keeps braggin’ about that stupid Carnival cruise she’s goin’ on for her honeymoon.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Let’s drop our bags in the room first.”