“No.”
“No?”
“Russell said, with Cynthia’s trial pending there are legal issues involved with airing any of the episodes that we taped. He said he wasn’t sure if the season would air at all, and he didn’t want to spend a bunch of time and money to film a final challenge that may never make it to the screen.”
“What?” Wavonne says. “I may not get on TV?”
“You may not.... We all may not. And, if the season ever does make it to air, it won’t be for a long time.”
“So no one gets crowned Elite Chef?”
“Yes and no. No one, neither Trey nor I, will win the official Elite Chef title, but Russell agreed to split the more tangible components of the competition. Trey will be the executive chef at Sunfish and I, get this, am fifty thousand dollars richer.”
“Fifty thousand dollars?!” Wavonne calls. “Drinks are on you tonight. Hell, drinks are on you every night.”
Vera laughs. “I don’t know about that. I sunk it all back into my business. Vera’s Fried Chicken and Doughnuts Food Truck is officially in the black. The startup costs really drained me, and I thought I might have to close the whole thing down. But now, with some fresh capital, I’m ready to peddle my fried chicken and doughnuts all over town.”
“Congratulations! That’s wonderful!”
“Thank you. I just wanted to stop by and share the good news. Who knows how things would have turned out if you hadn’t agreed to help me the day after Sherry was killed.”
“I think you would have been fine either way, but if you want to throw a little credit my way for helping you keep your business, I’ll gladly take it.”
“I’ll be parked on Twelfth Street in the city near Metro Center this week. I hope all of you will come by for free fried chicken and doughnuts.” Vera reaches for the door. “And thank you again for everything. I’m so glad it’s all behind us.”
“Now that all that nasty solving a murder business is over, and you have some extra time, maybe we can get you over to the CVS to meet my pharmacist. I was there yesterday and still no wedding band,” Momma says after Vera leaves the kitchen. “Maybe you can pretend you have asthma and get an inhaler prescription from your doctor.”
“I’m not making up an illness to try and snag a date with your pharmacist, Momma.”
“Because you have so many other suitors beatin’ down your door?” Wavonne jibes. “Because you’d hate to give up all those lonely nights watching Friends reruns, and the four black people that were on that show over the course of ten years.”
“There were more than four, Wavonne. Aisha Tyler was on there. And Gabrielle Union. And there was that waiter... and that self-defense instructor... and the guy at the tanning salon. And that neighbor who sang ‘Morning’s Here’—”
“If you bein’ able to name every black character on Friends is not testament to you needin’ a man, then I don’t know what is,” Wavonne decrees. “And the guy at the tanning salon was Puerto Rican.”
When I realize I do know all the black characters on Friends—the black man who played Chandler’s boss... and I think a black woman played a different boss, and there was the black nurse, and Ross’s divorce attorney, and I think the black nurse again—I start to think that maybe Wavonne is on to something. “Maybe you’re right,” I say. “No one, no non-sad, nonpathetic person should know this much about a twenty-year-old sitcom.” I look at Momma. “So, asthma, you say?”
Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits Page 23
