Murder With Fried Chicken and Waffles

by A. L. Herbert

  “I seriously doubt any men in a Latin dance exercise class are going to be interested in buying what you’re selling, Wavonne.” I look her up and down one more time. “No matter. Let’s go.”

  We step out the front door just as Momma is coming in.

  “Where are the two of you going looking like that? Halia, you’ve got to make more of an effort if you ever expect to land a man. And Wavonne, why are you dressed like you’re performing at a burlesque club?” She looks us both up and down. “One of you isn’t trying at all, and the other one looks like she’s ready to give it away to the highest bidder.”

  “We’re goin’ to a Zumba class, Aunt Celia. We’re gonna get our exercise on.”

  Momma laughs. “No really. Where are you going?”

  “We are going to a Zumba class, Momma. Marcus’s sister, Jacqueline, is always asking us to try out one of her classes. We decided to take her up on it.”

  “You’ve left the restaurant in the middle of the day to take an exercise class? I don’t buy it, Halia. What are the two of you up to?”

  “Nothing. We just want to try it out.”

  “You’re not sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, are you? I don’t want them pulling your body out of Wellington Lake.”

  “Of course not,” I lie, and I can see from Momma’s expression that she knows it. “We’ve got to go, or we’re going to miss it.”

  “I’m serious, Halia. You two, be careful. For all we know, Jacqueline is the one who killed Marcus.”

  “Don’t be silly, Momma,” I say, even though she may very well be right.

  It takes Wavonne and me about fifteen minutes to trek across town and get to the gym. I don’t remember the last time I was in a health club, and I’m uneasy walking through the front door. The place is vast and a busy beehive of activity. I see people on treadmills and elliptical trainers and working out on machines that I wouldn’t even begin to know how to use. It’s a younger crowd of mostly African Americans, but there a few white, Asian, and Latino people milling about, as well.

  “Can I help you?” asks a cute young girl behind the counter.

  “Yes. We’d like—” I’m about to ask about buying a couple of day passes when Wavonne intervenes.

  “We’re thinkin’ of joining this gym. You know, we’ve heard good things about it.”

  “Great,” the young lady says. “I’d be happy to give you a tour.”

  “That’d be great, but we want to join mostly for the Zumba classes. We saw online that you have one startin’ in a few minutes. You think we could try out the class for free and get a tour and all that jazz after the class?”

  The girl looks at Wavonne as if she’s got her number, but doesn’t have the energy to argue with her. “Go ahead,” she says. “The studio is downstairs.”

  “I just saved you thirty dollars. Those day passes are fifteen bucks apiece,” Wavonne says. “And you know I like to gets me a commission on any savings I get for you.”

  “I’ll take it off your rent,” I say. “Oh wait, you don’t pay any . . .”

  Wavonne frowns at me, and we make our way to a big studio surrounded by mirrors on three walls and enclosed with a glass fourth wall just to be sure everyone in the gym can see me making me a complete fool of myself in an exercise class.

  We see Jacqueline talking to someone as we approach.

  “It’s all about discipline,” Jacqueline says to the slightly overweight, middle-aged woman. “You have to learn how to say no and make the right choices. Is it going to be a hamburger and a milk shake? Or a healthy salad with a cold glass of lemon water?”

  “You make it sound so easy,” the woman says.

  “It’s not that hard once you get into a health regimen and make it a way of life. You need to find healthy foods you like. I make a blueberry smoothie every morning with low-fat Greek yogurt, and it’s lovely. I enjoy salads and fresh vegetables. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything fried. If you go to my Web site, you’ll see some healthy recipes. I make them all the time, and they help me stay fit.”

  “I wish I had your discipline.”

  “Don’t we all,” I say, cutting into the conversation. I want to get a word in with Jacqueline before the class starts.

  “Halia!” Jacqueline says with a smile. “How are you? And I see you brought Wavonne. So good to see you both.”

  The woman Jacqueline was speaking to smiles at both of us, then looks back at Jacqueline. “Thanks for the tips, Jacqueline. I’ll check out your Web site.”

  “Please do. It’s has all sorts of resources for healthy living.”

  The woman smiles and walks off to find a place in the growing crowd in the studio.

  “So you two finally decided to attend one of my classes. I hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure we will.”

  “Now, just take it easy and don’t push yourself too hard. You can take breaks at any time. Don’t feel like you have to keep up with the regulars. If any moves are too strenuous or complicated, just take a break and march in place,” she says, doing a quick marching demonstration.

  Damn, do we look that out of shape? I wonder to myself as I hear her talk to us as if we haven’t worked out a day in our lives and might drop dead from the stress of a couple of jumping jacks. I guess I’d be upset if it weren’t pretty close to the truth.

  Jacqueline looks up at the clock. “It’s time to get started.”

  Wavonne and I find a spot in the crowd as Jacqueline slips a microphone on and presses some buttons on a console attached to the wall. Some high-energy Latin music begins to blare through the speakers while Jacqueline gets into position in front of the room. She faces the mirror rather than us, which I guess is supposed to make it easier for us to follow her moves.

  “Single, single, double,” she says as she waves her hands to the left and then to the right. “One, two, three, and clap.” She swirls her hips three times and claps.

  Well, this isn’t so bad.

  “Single, single, double,” she says again, but this time she’s lifting her legs and swinging her arms between them.

  “Two bends. To the left. Two bends.” Now she’s doing knee bends, shimmying to the left, and doing two more knee bends.

  I figure it’s not a great sign that I’m already starting to get winded. I look over at Wavonne, and I can tell she’s feeling it, too.

  “Elbows to belly buttons, ladies and gentlemen.” She’s plunging her elbows toward her stomach while thrusting her hips forward. I try to follow, but I feel ridiculous while my stamina continues to wane. We barely get another ten minutes into the class before I resort to marching in place.

  “Lord Jesus!” I hear Wavonne say as she continues to try to keep up, but she eventually joins in with my marching.

  “What’s that saying about a whore in church?” Wavonne says to me when she manages to get a breath. Even the low-key marching is doing a number on us.

  “I’m sweating like one, too, Wavonne.”

  We manage to make it through the rest of the class. But rather than taking occasional marching breaks from Jacqueline’s Zumba instructions, we take occasional breaks from marching and try to keep up with the class for few minutes at a time. I honestly thought that, given the fact that I move around all day at the restaurant, I wouldn’t have found this class so taxing, but boy, was I wrong. By the time Jacqueline takes us through some closing stretches and turns the music off, I think I’ve lost a pound of water and poor Wavonne is a mess of sweat and smeared makeup.

  “You got some scissors?” Wavonne asks me.

  “No. Why?”

  “ ’Cause I wanna chop the crotch out this leotard and take these hose off right now.”

  “I told you not to wear hose. Now come on. Let’s go try to get a few words in with Jacqueline.”

  Wavonne and I take some deep breaths as we approach the front of the room.

  “Thank you, Jacqueline. That was quite a workout.”

  “I’m glad you
enjoyed it. I hope you’ll come back. You’ll build more and more stamina each time.”

  “I’m sure we will,” I say, trying to shift gears. “Are you doing okay? I know it’s been a rough time for you.”

  “I’m hangin’ in there. Working . . . teaching my classes . . . staying active—that’s the best thing for me right now.”

  “They do say exercise is a great way to relieve stress. Can we buy you something at the juice bar?”

  “Thank you, but I’ve got another class on their way in now.”

  I look around and see that some people from the first class never left and other new attendees are walking in.

  “You’re doing this again?” Wavonne asks, floored that anyone would have the energy to teach two draining classes in a row.

  “Yes.”

  “I would like to check on you,” I say. “I know we don’t know each other that well, but Marcus helped me get Sweet Tea off the ground, and I’m sure he’d want to know someone was looking in on you.”

  “That’s sweet, Halia. It’s really not necessary.”

  “Will you be home later this evening?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I have an errand to run in the neighborhood. Maybe I could stop by and say hi?”

  Jacqueline smiles. “That would be fine, Halia. I should be home after five or so.”

  “Great.”

  “I’ve really got to get this class started, so if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Of course,” I say, and Wavonne follows me as we exit the studio and climb the stairs to the main level.

  “Hold up,” Wavonne says, grabbing my hand. “Wait until she turns around, or we’ll get stuck takin’ that damn tour.”

  “Now,” she says, pulling me by the hand as the girl turns toward a bin of clean towels and begins to fold them. “If she turns around, don’t look at her . . . and if she says anything, just keep walkin’.”

  I do as I’m told, and we slink past the young woman without a word.

  CHAPTER 37

  Welcome to Mitchellville says the sign I’ve just driven past. I’m on my way to what is now Jacqueline’s home—the home she used to share with Marcus that apparently became all hers upon his death. Mitchellville is not what most people picture when they think of Prince George’s County—stately homes and manicured lawns are not really part of the image the media has created, but Mitchellville is generally not the area of Prince George’s County featured on the news when drug deals and armed robberies are reported. By anyone’s definition it’s a “hoity-toity” neighborhood with oversized homes, landscaped yards, and luxury cars parked in three-car garages. It was named for John Mitchell, who owned a plantation in the area in the seventeen and eighteen hundreds. How ironic that a town named for a plantation owner is now one of the most affluent predominantly African American communities in the United States.

  When I reach Jacqueline’s house, I take in the grandeur of the place. I was here once before for a holiday party a few years ago, but that was at night. In daylight you can’t help but be awed by the expansive windows, rooftop dormers, and three-car garage. One thing about Marcus: he liked to live high on the hog.

  After I park the van on the street I walk up the driveway to the house and knock on the door. I’m only a little anxious at this point. In general, my nerves have been frayed since the night Marcus met his maker, so being restless has become the new normal for me.

  It might not have been the best idea to come out here alone, especially if Jacqueline really did off her brother, but one of my other servers is out sick. I needed Wavonne to stay at the restaurant and help out. Besides, I’m just going to do a little questioning . . . nose around a bit and see what I can find out . . . and, just in case, my pepper spray is within easy reach in my front pocket.

  “Halia. Hi,” Jacqueline, dressed in sweatpants and a tight spandex top, says when she comes to the door. She has a big glass of water in her hand.

  “Hi, Jacqueline. Thanks for letting me come by and say hello. We really didn’t have a chance to talk at the gym.”

  “Sure. Please, come in. I was finishing up a workout.”

  She just taught two exercise classes earlier today, and she’s working out again? I think to myself as I follow her into the house and see a mat and some free weights in a mostly empty room to my right.

  “You’re so committed. Today was the first time I’ve exercised in forever.”

  “It just becomes a way of life,” she says, and I know she’s not trying to sound condescending, but it sure feels that way. “And it helps with stress release . . . and, God knows, I’ve needed some of that lately.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Would you like anything? A glass of tea? I was just about to whip up a salad for dinner.”

  I feel like saying, “Does this body look like it eats salads for dinner?” But, instead, I politely decline. “No. Thank you. So, how are you? It must be a difficult time.”

  “It is, but I was busy planning the funeral, and now I’m buried in paperwork, trying to clean up Marcus’s business dealings. I haven’t had much time to grieve. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.”

  She really doesn’t look like a grieving sibling. Despite supposedly just working out, her hair is styled nicely, and her makeup is intact. She’s looks well rested and almost what you might call perky.

  “It’s so hard to lose a loved one,” I say and feel a bit ridiculous, as I’m not sure how much Jacqueline really loved Marcus. “I hope you’ll come by the restaurant anytime if you need support or want to be around friends.” I feel even more ridiculous now as I really consider Jacqueline more of an acquaintance than a friend, and she probably feels the same way about me. But it’s hard to just jump into questioning her about why she was sitting in the parking lot of Sweet Tea when Josh came back to the restaurant.

  “Marcus and I had our differences, but he was my brother. And it’s just so horrible how he died. The police say he took a blow to the head before he was thrown in Wellington Lake. No one should die that way.”

  “Have the police told you much about the investigation?”

  “Just that they have a few leads that they are following up. What about you? Have you heard anything?”

  “Not really,” I lie. “The police have questioned everyone at the restaurant the night we last saw Marcus alive. I don’t think they got much useful information, though. I also talked with Charles Pritchett . . . you remember . . . Marcus’s business associate ?”

  “Yes, I know Charles. Why were you talking to him?”

  “I was just trying to see what I could find out. A man was seen for the last time in my restaurant. It makes a girl curious about what happened to him.”

  Jacqueline nods.

  “Other than you, he said he was the last one to leave Sweet Tea the night Marcus died.”

  “Yes. He and Marcus chatted for a bit after everyone else left, and then I left about ten minutes after he did.”

  “After you left, did you come back here?”

  “Yes. I went home and went to bed.”

  “So I guess you didn’t wait up for Marcus?”

  “Marcus was a grown man. Besides, he usually spent Saturday nights at Mother’s. Why all the questions, Halia?”

  I’m silent for a moment, wondering if I should play my hand and tell her I know she came back to the restaurant later that night and ask for an explanation or just see what I can find out through further questioning without telling her what I know. “Did you really come back here, Jacqueline? Straight back here?”

  Jacqueline raises her eyebrows at me. “Of course I did. Where else would I go that late at night? What are you getting at, Halia?”

  I remain quiet for a second or two before speaking. “Jacqueline, I know you came back to the restaurant later that night.”

  Jacqueline stops sipping on her glass of water, and there’s a noticeable change in her demeanor. “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said.
I know you came back to the restaurant the night Marcus was killed.”

  “Do you care to explain how you know what you think you know?” She’s trying to appear calm, but I’ve clearly agitated her.

  “Is that really necessary, Jacqueline?”

  She looks at me intently, and her unease seems to be morphing into something more. I’m starting to see panic in her face, and my own heart starts to pound. Did she really kill Marcus? Why else would she look so flustered? Am I sitting next to a murderer? I place my hand in my pocket and grasp my pepper spray.

  “Halia, you can’t tell anyone. Really, you can’t.”

  Oh my God! She really did do it. She killed him!

  “Please, Halia! I don’t want anyone to know.”

  Is she really asking me not to tell anyone that she killed her brother? “Jacqueline, how can I not tell—”

  “I would just die, Halia . . . I would just die if anyone knew that I snuck back to the restaurant to get some of your fried chicken.”

  “Jacqueline, I have to tell the police that you—” I cut myself off as what she says begins to register. “Wha . . . What? Wait a minute.... What did you say?”

  “It just looked so good . . . all juicy and crispy . . . and the others at the table were eating it and enjoying it so much . . . and I had that damn salad with grilled chicken. Do you know how tired I am of salads with grilled chicken?! Your fried chicken was all I could think about the whole way home.”

  I don’t say a word. I still can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  “By the time I got home, my mouth was watering . . . hell, I was practically clucking like a chicken myself. Then I remembered that you told Marcus you had left a tray of fried chicken in the walk-in refrigerator. I’ve got copies of all of Marcus’s keys, so I went back, let myself in, and got me some of that fried chicken.”

  Got me some of that fried chicken? Did Jacqueline, prim and proper Jacqueline, just say “got me some”? I know my fried chicken is good, but I didn’t know it was good enough to make Jacqueline start talking like Wavonne.

  “Oh Halia, it was so good! I grabbed a few pieces and was in and out of the restaurant in a flash. I didn’t think anyone would know. I should have waited until I got home, but I couldn’t help myself. I started chowing down right there in my car in the parking lot under cover of night.”