“How so?”
“I followed her to the rental car counter at that big hotel over by the bridge. She parked her Mercedes and rented a little Kia Rio. When she got inside, she put on a short curly wig and a pair of oversized sunglasses. She clearly did not want to be recognized.”
“Where did she go?”
“She went into the city... to an apartment complex called Brentwood Manors.”
“Brentwood Manors?” Wavonne says. “There’s a shooting there like once a week.”
“Yeah... it looked like a rough area,” Trudy agrees. “Cynthia parked the little Rio, went into one of the apartment buildings for a short stay, and came out a few minutes later. And then, as if things were not odd enough, she got back in the car, drove about two blocks down to another building, and did the same thing.”
“You think she was buying drugs?”
“Why else would someone of Cynthia’s means go into a crime ridden neighborhood? She hurt her back a few years ago... started on some OxyContin... and got hooked. She was essentially a junky for months. Before she went into rehab, she used to doctor hop to get her drugs.... She would even go to the emergency room with various contrived illnesses to get her fix. But, as far as I know, she’s been... or had been clean for over a year. Controls are tighter at doctors’ offices now. If she’s fallen off the wagon, she may have no choice but to get her pills on the street.”
“When she left the apartments she went into, did she come out with anything? A bag or a package?”
“No, but she had a nice size shoulder bag on her when she went in. I’m sure she would have just put any pills in there.”
“Has Russell confronted her about it?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“What?”
“It all went down the day before Sherry was killed. It wasn’t something I wanted to tell him over text or e-mail, and I hadn’t gotten a chance to speak to him privately before Sherry was shot. He’s had enough to deal with the last few days without being told his wife is back on the sauce. I suppose I have to tell him soon though, maybe tonight. Hopefully, he can intervene before Cynthia spirals completely out of control again. If she hasn’t already. She did some crazy stuff when she was hooked last time.”
“You think she might have already done something crazy? Something like off Sherry?”
“If she’s back on the pills and found out about the affair, anything is possible.”
“But she has a witness and was caught on camera in the lounge when the shots were fired.”
“Yes. That’s what I heard. But perhaps rather than killing Sherry herself, she arranged to have her killed and made sure she had an alibi when it happened. It’s awfully convenient that she just happened to be somewhere with a camera at the exact time Sherry was killed, no?”
“Maybe. But why kill Sherry? If Cynthia did find out about the affair, why not just divorce Russell?”
“Maybe they had a prenup, and she wouldn’t get any money if they divorced,” Wavonne says.
“They do have a prenup, but Cynthia would get plenty of money if they divorced. I manage all of Russell’s important papers. I’ve seen the prenup and, in the event of a divorce, Cynthia would get eighty thousand dollars a month for the rest of her life.”
That figure makes me swallow hard. “What does one even do with all that money?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Trudy says. “I don’t make that in a year.”
“You and me both,” Wavonne says. “Two years.”
“With this talk of earning a living, I guess Wavonne and I should get back to Sweet Tea. Thank you for the information, Trudy.”
“You’re welcome. I hope it helps. Please don’t tell anyone, especially Russell and Cynthia, what I shared with you. I shouldn’t be spreading gossip, but Cynthia’s behavior has me worried, and I can’t help but think it might be connected to Sherry’s death. Do you think I should share what I know with the police? I’m generally pretty respectful of my employer’s privacy, but someone’s been killed.”
“Of course we won’t tell anyone, but yes, I think the police need to know what Cynthia has been up to. Even if it’s just via an anonymous phone call or something.”
“You’re probably right. Maybe I will give that detective that’s been coming around a call tomorrow.”
“I really think you should,” I say, and decide I’ve taken up enough of Trudy’s time. “I guess we’ll be going. Have a good night,” I say, while at the same time wondering if it’s even possible to have a good night if that night is going to be spent with Russell.
Chapter 29
“She said she would come?” Wavonne asks, scooping ice from the cooler into some glasses before filling them with sweet tea and dropping in a lemon wedge.
“Yes. I thought I might have to go to her, but when I called and asked her if she wanted to come by for lunch, she quickly agreed. She said she has a lot of downtime now that the show is on hiatus. I think she’s bored.”
“I guess spendin’ your husband’s money gets dull after a while?” Wavonne places the glasses of tea on a tray. “I’m happy to carry her burdens if she wants to send some coin my way.”
“I’ll let her know. There she is now,” I reply as Wavonne trots off to make a drink delivery.
“Cynthia,” I say as I move closer to her. “How are you?”
“As well as can be expected, I guess.”
As usual, she looks lovely. Her hair is pressed bone straight and falls just past her shoulders. She’s dressed casually, you might even say simply, in a pair of fitted plaid pants, a white blouse, and a beige blazer, but somehow she still looks as elegant as someone in a designer evening gown. I have a vague memory, from when she was here last, of her saying she’d been married to Russell for thirty years, which makes me think she must be at least in her late forties even though she doesn’t look a day over thirty-five.
“I’m sure it’s been a taxing few days. Maybe I can take your mind off things with some fried chicken and waffles, or we have a crab and sweet-corn quiche on special this afternoon.”
“That sounds really nice, but I eat pretty light at lunch,” she says, following me to a table by the front windows.
“We have some nice salads on the menu, and our homemade chicken noodle soup is pretty low calorie. Why don’t you take a look at the menu while I get you something to drink. Iced tea? Coke? Glass of wine?”
“A glass of chardonnay would be delightful.” She takes a seat. “You’ll join me, I hope?”
“Sure,” I say, grateful she asked me to sit with her, so I didn’t have to invite myself.
After fetching Cynthia’s glass of wine and an iced tea for me, I find Cynthia looking at the menu when I return to the table and take a seat.
“Anything catching your attention?”
“This Cobb salad sounds nice.”
“Is that what you’d like?” I wave Wavonne over.
“Wavonne,” Cynthia says when Wavonne reaches the table. “How are you?”
“I’m okay,” Wavonne answers, and cuts right to the chase. “It’s awful what happened to Sherry and all, but Halia and I are still goin’ to be on TV, right?”
Cynthia smiles. “I’m pretty sure we’ll air the whole season in the fall, but we’re still figuring out how we are going to end the competition and wrap up the final episode.”
“Okay... good to know. I was—”
“Wavonne,” I interrupt before she starts asking if she can be in the final episode or get a free weekend at the inn or a gift card for Sunfish. “I think Cynthia was eyeing the Cobb salad.”
“Salad? She does know we got fried chicken back there?”
Cynthia laughs. “That’s a bit heavy for me. I think I’ll go with the salad.”
“Suit yourself. You want the house dressing that comes with it?”
“It’s quite nice. We make it here,” I say. “Some shallots, red-wine vinegar, olive oil, and a little garlic and Dijon mustard.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Got it,” Wavonne says, and looks in my direction. “Since you’re pretendin’ you eat salads these days, should I put a Cobb salad order in for you too?”
“Yes, please.”
“So, are things calming down a bit since the... the incident?” I ask after Wavonne has left the table.
“I suppose. Sherry’s sister came to town to make arrangements to transport her body back to Chicago and collect Sherry’s things from the inn.” Cynthia takes a long sip of wine. “One of those crime scene clean-up companies came and did some clean up in the room, but I think we’re going to completely gut it... pull up the carpet and replace the furniture. So far, despite all the bad press, no one has canceled for our official opening weekend next month. I’m a little surprised.”
“I don’t know. I guess people are used to all sorts of things going down at hotels. I have so many stories from just owning a restaurant, and no one stays overnight here.”
“I’m sure you do. We’ve seen our share of antics at Russell’s restaurants as well. My favorite was the server who was running a prostitution ring from Cobalt Blue. Men would ask for her to be their server, and when she took their order they would ask if we had any Pepsi Blue and—”
“They stopped making that years ago.”
“Exactly. That was the code word to let her know they were there for something other than smoked salmon and tuna tartare... or anything that was actually on the menu. It seemed odd that so many men who were dining alone would specifically ask for her, but she really tipped her hand when she drove up one evening in a car nicer than mine. Russell’s restaurants are high-dollar, so our servers do well, but not show-up-to-work-in-a-Mercedes-E-class kind of well.”
I laugh. “Yeah... I’m not sure who’s done worse... my employees or my customers. I had a customer who wanted to bring his emotional support iguana in here one day, and another guy who offered Wavonne fifty dollars for her underwear—”
“Don’t think I wasn’t tempted.” Wavonne sets down a pan of piping hot sour-cream cornbread. “Fifty dollars is fifty dollars. A sista’s got bills.”
“Thankfully you chose your dignity over fifty dollars.”
“Good thing he didn’t offer me a hundred. My dignity is only worth so much.”
Cynthia chuckles. “So much for eating light,” she says, looking at the cornbread.
“Sorry, it’s complimentary. I’m used to bringing it out to all the tables. I can take it—”
“No, no,” Cynthia says. “It’s here now. I’d hate to see it go to waste.” Cynthia looks up from the cornbread to me. “It smells heavenly, and I’m sure we could trade stories about the restaurant business for days, but somehow, I don’t think you invited me to lunch to eat cornbread and talk about support iguanas and Wavonne’s underwear.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“Russell said you grilled him last night, and Trey said you came by his room as well. I figured I would probably be next, and if I didn’t come to you, you’d come to me. Besides, Detective Hutchins told me not to talk to you, and I don’t like people telling me what to do or not do.”
“He did what?”
“He said you might start asking questions... that you had a bit of a . . . what did he call it? A ‘Columbo complex.’”
“A Columbo complex? Oh, he’s going to get an earful the next time I talk to him.”
“I don’t know about Columbo. I’ve always thought of her more as the African American answer to Velma on Scooby-Doo. Velma was sort of frumpy with no fashion sense, too,” Wavonne says. “And I’m Daphne, because, you know, she was the pretty one.”
“Don’t you have other tables, Wavonne?”
“They can wait.”
“Columbo, Velma,” Cynthia says. “Either way, I clearly didn’t listen to Detective Hutchins, or I wouldn’t be here. If you’re able to find out anything he isn’t, I’m all for it. It’s creepy knowing that whoever killed Sherry is still out there, especially when you’re sleeping a few doors down from the scene of the crime.” Cynthia helps herself to a slice of cornbread and spreads a dollop of whipped honey butter on it. “So, what is it you want to know, Halia?”
I take a moment to collect my thoughts and try to find a diplomatic way to ask her such a sensitive question. “Um . . . well... lots of things I suppose. But first and foremost I guess I’m wondering if...?” Gosh, how do you ask a woman, who may or may not know about her husband’s infidelity, if she knows about her husband’s in fidelity? “It’s a difficult question to ask, but... did you know... were you aware that—”
“Did you know Russell was doin’ the horizontal bop with Sherry?” Wavonne blurts.
“What?! What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m sorry Wavonne, who clearly has some other tables that need tending to, asked the question so callously.” I give Wavonne a “beat it” look and continue as she walks off. “But it’s important information. If you knew about the affair, and honestly, I’m not sure how you couldn’t, given that everyone else seemed to know about it, that knowledge would give—not that I’m accusing you of anything—but it would give you a motive to kill Sherry.”
“Me kill Sherry?! Maybe you’re not as good at this detective stuff as you think. If you’d done your homework, you’d know that I was in the lounge when Sherry was killed. I have proof on video, and Jerome, the attendant, was in there with me when the gunshots went off, so I have a witness as well. So, whether or not I knew about my husband’s philandering is not relevant.”
“Isn’t it though?” I ask. “Again, I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just exploring possibilities. But, hypothetically, just because you didn’t kill Sherry yourself doesn’t mean you were not involved in her death some way.”
“Oh my. I came here because I thought I might be able to offer you some help in finding out who did actually kill Sherry. I had no idea I would be a suspect in your little inquiry.”
“I’m just trying to cover all the bases, that’s all. A wife suddenly finding out about a husband’s affair could provoke her to do almost anything.”
“Let me ask you this, Halia.” Cynthia sits up straight in her chair. “How could I have suddenly found out about something I engineered?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I set up the affair between Russell and Sherry.”
I’m quiet for a moment while I try to make sure I heard her right. “I’m sorry... what?”
“If you must know, every season of Elite Chef I find a little . . . a little playmate for Russell. This last time it just happened to be Sherry.”
“You purposely set your husband up to have an affair?” I ask with disbelief. “Why would you do that?”
“Um... you’ve seen him, Halia,” she says. “He’s disgusting. Every night he’s on top of some little dim-witted hoochie is one less night he’s on top of me.”
She’s waiting for me to say something, but I’m too stunned to respond. I’ve seen a lot of crazy stuff in my day, but I’ve never heard of anyone setting up extramarital affairs for their own husband.
“You looked so shocked, Halia. Like you’ve never met Russell.” She casually takes a bite out of her cornbread as if what she just told me should make perfect sense to anyone who has met her husband. “And it’s not just that he’s hard to look at with those jagged teeth and that belly hanging over his pants... and that ridiculous hair. He’s about as interesting and fun to be around as a wet cat and sometimes he even smells bad. The less time I have to spend with that man, the better. Let me tell you, any night I do not have to share a bed with Russell Mellinger is a good night. If he isn’t gross enough already, he smokes a cigar every evening before bed and gets under the covers smelling like a musty tobacco barn. Let him get in Sherry’s bed smelling that way.” Ms. I-Eat-Pretty-Light-At-Lunch slathers some more honey butter on her cornbread and takes another bite. “I thought he was out smoking his cigar when Sherry was killed, but I guess h
e got sidetracked talking to the contractor.”
“If you find him so distasteful, why not divorce him?”
“Being Mrs. Russell Mellinger comes with a lot of perks, Halia. I say ‘jump’ and people ask, ‘how high?’” Do you think I’d really be the producer of a national television show if I was not his wife? If staying married to a hobgoblin gets me treated like royalty, I can put up with a fat belly and cigar breath.”
“Well, this is certainly not the information I expected to get today.”
“Maybe not, but it should be useful in clearing my name. Why would I kill someone who was doing me a favor and taking my husband off my hands a few nights a week?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But let me ask you about something else.”
“What was I doing at Brentwood Manors last week?”
“How did you know that was going to be my next question?”
“Because I saw you talking with Trudy, that meddling old marm, in the parking lot last night before she went to see my husband. Funny how right after talking with her, he comes back to the room and starts asking what I was doing in the city last week at a rough and tumble apartment complex. He wouldn’t say how he found out I was there, but I’m sure Trudy had something to do with it. She either followed me or had someone follow me.”
“So why were you there?”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Russell,” she replies. “Given all your digging around, you may or may not know that I used to have a problem with prescription drugs, but I’ve been clean for over a year. Last week I had a bad spell. I’d fallen out of touch with my sponsor, and I let the cravings get the best of me. I got a tip that I could get some OxyContin from a dealer in Brentwood without having to go to the doctor and get the third degree, so I went and made a purchase.” Cynthia shifts around in her seat. “But there’s something about scoring drugs in a seedy neighborhood that makes you take stock of things and realize you don’t want to go down the addiction rabbit hole again, so I called my sponsor, and she convinced me to flush them as soon as I got home, which I did. As of today, I’m still one year, three months, and two days sober.”
Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits Page 17
