Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce

by A. L. Herbert

  “I just got my hair done,” Wavonne says. “I hate to waste my new ’do on a shift at Sweet Tea. I guess I’ll just have to go out after work and show it off. Maybe I’ll get some of the girls together, and we’ll go have some drinks. Why don’t you join us, Halia?”

  I laugh. “Did you just meet me?” I ask. “When was the last time I went out for late night drinks on a Wednesday?”

  “Live a little, Halia. There’s more to life than making waffles and brewin’ iced tea. And, Lord knows, you ain’t gonna find no man hauled up in the kitchen at Sweet Tea all day every day.”

  “You should go out tonight, Halia, and show off your fresh cut,” Latasha says.

  “The only thing I’ll be doing after work tonight is taking a quick shower and curling up with a good book . . . or a little late night TV.”

  “That’s our girl,” Wavonne says. “Party party party.”

  “I think you ‘party party party’ enough for both of us,” I say, and hand Latasha my credit card, which she runs through the machine. I sign the receipt and give her a nice tip in cash. Then we say our good-byes and head toward the door with Wavonne, once again, grumbling about wasting her “new ’do” waiting tables at Sweet Tea.

  Chapter 2

  “Hi, Momma,” I say as Wavonne and I enter the Sweet Tea kitchen. Five of her famous freshly iced butter pecan cakes are on display on the counter in front of her.

  “Those look divine,” I compliment, eyeing her creations—decadent cakes made with apple sauce, cinnamon, and finely chopped pecans, which Momma covers with a whipped frosting made from butter, confectioners’ sugar, and a touch of cooked caramel.

  “They smell good too,” I hear Wavonne say while I take a quick spin around the kitchen and greet some of my staff as they busily prepare to open the Sweet Tea doors in a few minutes.

  “Thank you, Wavonne,” Momma says. “How about giving me a hand with them? If you can finish smoothing out the base icing, I’ll go behind you and pipe some final swirls on the top.”

  “Only if I get to slice into one of these bad boys when we’re done.”

  “Those are for customers, Wavonne,” I scold, stepping over to the sink to wash my hands. “Why don’t you help Tacy with the cornbread?” I nod at Tacy, one of my prep cooks, who’s on the other side of the kitchen pouring cornmeal into a large stainless steel mixing bowl. “I’ll give Momma a hand with the cakes.”

  Wavonne groans at me and gives the cakes another look before stepping away. “Maybe we can get Aunt Celia to bake a few of these for Latasha’s little soirée on Friday.”

  “Latasha? Your hairdresser?” Momma asks. “What soirée?”

  “Latasha’s hosting a little meet and greet thing with some lady that supplies hair care products for her salon,” I say casually. “Wavonne volunteered me to make some refreshments.”

  “Some lady?” Wavonne calls as she lifts the lid off a tub of sour cream and hands it to Tacy, who then adds it to the cornmeal. “She’s not some lady, Halia. She’s Monique Dupree. She’s—”

  “Monique Dupree?!” Momma asks. “You mean the Monique Dupree of Hair by Monique? That Monique Dupree?”

  “None other.”

  “Oh, I love her!” Momma says. “She was on TV last night after my Living Single reruns. She’s so bubbly and fun. I’ve been using her relaxer . . . and shampoo and leave-in conditioner for years.”

  “Really? Well, Wavonne and Latasha seem very excited about her visit.”

  “Rightfully so. She’s lovely . . . so full of energy.” Momma scoops some frosting into a pastry bag and gives it a few good twists to keep any from coming out the back end. “She built a hugely successful business from the ground up and”—Momma lifts her eyes from the little drop flowers she’s piping along the outer edge of one of the cakes and steadies her gaze on me—“even she still found time to get a husband. If Monique Dupree can run a multimillion-dollar beauty empire and still land a man, one would think you could find some time to work on doing the same.”

  “Yes, Momma,” I sigh, not looking up from the spatula in my hand. “I’ll get right on that ‘finding a man’ thing just as soon as I can. But, at the moment, I’ve got a restaurant to open for the day.” I step closer to her and change the subject. “These cakes really do look gorgeous. I bet we sell out.” My words are offered mostly to distract Momma and get her to shut up about the lack of any romance in my life, but I mean them just the same. Momma really is a talented baker, and I’m grateful every day that she agreed, so many years ago, to make the desserts for Sweet Tea. And I’m even more grateful that she comes in very early to create her delights and is usually gone from the restaurant shortly after I arrive for the day. I love Momma, but I already share a house with her and Wavonne. I’d been out of my parents’ house for years when I agreed to move back in about fifteen years ago when Wavonne came to live with Momma a few years after Daddy died. Wavonne was too much for her to handle alone, and the two of us have been trying to keep her out of trouble ever since. Between us living together and our few overlapping hours at Sweet Tea each day, during which I get an earful about my lack of a husband (and Momma’s lack of any grandchildren), I get more than enough “Momma time.”

  Sometimes I worry that, at her advanced age, it’s too much responsibility for her—to come in six days a week and be on her feet all morning preparing the desserts that make my customers swoon. But she shows no signs of or interest in slowing down anytime soon and claims that baking keeps her young . . . it also adds to her many means of keeping tabs on me and my goings-on.

  “I think we’ll have enough desserts to go around. I made red velvet cupcakes and apple cobbler this morning, too. And we have a few slices of sour cream coconut cake left over from yesterday.”

  “Red velvet cupcakes,” Wavonne calls to Momma from the other side of the kitchen. “That’s what you should make for Latasha’s reception on Friday.”

  “I don’t think I’m inclined to make anything unless I’m extended an invitation to attend the gathering,” Momma decrees.

  “I’m sure Latasha won’t mind if you come,” Wavonne offers. “Especially if you bring some desserts.”

  “I’ll call Latasha and let her know there will be three of us attending.”

  “Oh how fun,” Momma says. “I’m going to meet Monique Dupree and get to tell her how much I love her products.”

  “Speakin’ of products, I hope she brings some freebees. I could use some of that stylin’ milk I saw her hockin’ on TV last week . . . and some of her hair butter, too,” Wavonne says.

  “Styling milk? Hair butter?” I ask. “Why do her products sound like they belong in the dairy aisle at the Harris Teeter?”

  “That shouldn’t be any surprise,” Wavonne remarks. “She got her start whippin’ up creams and potions from ingredients in her kitchen . . . right here in Prince George’s County, Maryland.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Have you honestly never heard her rags to riches story?” Wavonne asks. “She’s always talkin’ about it on her infomercials. . . those things run on late night TV all the freakin’ time. Many nights, after I watch me some Martin or Bernie Mac reruns, I’ll click around and come across Monique peddling her wares. She’s usually doin’ a demo of one of her products and talkin’ about her bygone days as a local hairdresser and her bygone nights sitting at the kitchen table testin’ hair remedies.”

  “It was the topic of conversation last night while she was running a hot comb through a model’s hair, showing off one of her conditioners . . . or her pressing oil . . . I don’t remember. She—”

  Wavonne cuts Momma off. “Aunt Celia, you act like Halia knows what pressin’ oil is. She ain’t never used a hot comb in her life.”

  Momma laughs. “She got that naturally straight hair from her late father’s side of the family,” she says while both she and Wavonne enviously eye my hair.

  “I know what pressing oil is, Wavonne, but never mind about that. You were saying about
Monique?”

  “That she got her start making hair creams in her kitchen. Her first conditioner was made from avocados and honey . . . and yogurt, I think . . . or sour cream.”

  “That must have smelled nice on a hot day.”

  “Hush, Halia,” Momma says. “Sleek, her flagship relaxer—the one I’ve used for years—still has avocado and olive oil in it. Leaves my hair really soft.” Momma pauses for a moment and looks up from her pastry bag. “Oh, I simply can’t wait to meet her! What do you think I should prepare, Halia?”

  “I think cupcakes or tartlets would work out well.”

  “Maybe my pink lemonade cupcakes . . . or red velvet like Wavonne suggested. I’ve been toying with a chocolate bourbon pecan pie, but the recipe is not quite ready for prime time . . . still tweaking that one.”

  “Your chocolate marshmallow cake is always a hit. Why don’t you use that recipe and make cupcakes with it?”

  “Hmm . . . maybe . . . I wish I knew what Monique liked. I think I’ll do some research and see if she’s mentioned some food preferences in any interviews. I know she likes cocktails. She’s always sipping those on TV, but I’ve never—”

  Momma stops midsentence as she and I both take note of Wavonne, who has abandoned her duty assisting Tacy and is pulling jars from the shelves—mayonnaise, honey, coconut oil—and plopping them down on the counter. She’s doing something she typically does not do—hurry—which has both Momma and me perplexed. I’m sure Momma, like myself, is wondering why Wavonne, who only moves quickly when things like discounted shoes or all-you-can-eat buffets are involved, is scurrying around the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” I ask as she scuttles toward the walk-in refrigerator and opens the door. She doesn’t answer as she steps inside and quickly emerges with some avocados and Greek yogurt.

  “Monique hit it big making her own hair care products, right?” Wavonne places the avocados and yogurt on the counter. “We’ve got a whole kitchen full of stuff that’s good for hair. I’m gonna concoct somethin’ for Monique’s visit and sell her the formula,” she says, opening one of the jars in front of her and looking under the counter for a bowl.

  I’m about to reprimand her, remind her that we are about to open, and tell her to make hair potions on her own time, but I figure she’ll lose interest once the first batch of whatever she’s throwing together is a bust and move on to the next thing.

  Momma and I take a break from finishing up the butter pecan cakes to stand and watch the spectacle that is “Wavonne on a Mission.” I see her dump a heaping tablespoon of mayonnaise into the bowl and squeeze in some honey. As she starts to slice into the avocado I have the same thought I have at the start of most of my dates: This is not going to end well.

  Chapter 3

  “What is that foul odor?” Momma asks as we step outside the restaurant on a chilly October afternoon.

  “I don’t know.” I scrunch up my nose. “It smells like a can of opened cat food that’s been sitting out too long.”

  “I think you need to call the property management company. Maybe that trash can needs to be emptied.” Momma nods her head in the direction of one of the small receptacles dotted along the front of the shopping center that houses Sweet Tea.

  “I’ll call Tacy from the salon and ask him to empty it. It could be hours if we wait on the leasing company to take care of it,” I respond, before turning my attention to Wavonne. “Be careful with those,” I say to her. “I don’t want you dropping them.” She’s carrying a tray of deviled mini potatoes as we hurry toward Illusions with the refreshments for the Monique Dupree Welcome Party. The salon is a few doors down from Sweet Tea, so we’re only going a short distance, but Wavonne, unsteadily teetering along the sidewalk in a pair of high heels while holding my carefully crafted hors d’oeuvres, is making me nervous.

  I thought her towering shoes were peach, but Wavonne corrected me and instructed that they are “coral” in color—one could argue whether or not the shoes are peach or coral, but I think all would agree that they are absurd. They are open-toe with a series of straps that start behind her brightly painted red toenails and go well past her ankle. She’s paired them with a snug mint-colored minidress adorned with a zipper that runs from the plunging V-neck to the hemline—one unzip and all of Wavonne’s voluptuous “parts” would spring out like a jack-in-the-box. Oddly, she is without a wig this afternoon, and her God-given hair is styled in a much more subdued fashion than usual.

  “Your hair looks nice, Wavonne,” I say even though that is not entirely true. It is an improvement from her usual teased-up styles, but, even slicked back behind her ears (a sort of “wet look”) you can tell that her hair has tussled a few too many times with do-it-yourself Dark and Lovely relaxers.

  “You think so?” Wavonne asks, a hopeful tone in her voice.

  “Of course. It’s very chic.”

  “It’s my own hair potion . . . perfected it last night.”

  “Is that what all the racket was in the kitchen after I went to bed?”

  “Sorry. I had to run the food processor to grate the carrots.”

  “Carrots?”

  “Uh-huh. I was makin’ carrot oil. I saw online that it’s good for your hair.”

  “I wasn’t aware you even knew how to work the food processor.”

  “I figured it out. It ain’t that hard.”

  “You left a mess on the counter,” Momma offers, walking along behind Wavonne and me with two brown butter lemon poppy seed cakes, stacked, one upon the other, in plastic cake carriers. I’m toting a tray of spicy crab balls to go with the potatoes in Wavonne’s hands and the cheese puffs I dropped off at the salon about an hour ago.

  “I’ll clean it up when we get home,” Wavonne moans. “I was too tired by the time I finally got it right last night.”

  “So what is it that you finally got right?”

  “I made my own smoothing cream with coconut oil, avocado, carrot oil, eggs, and some apple cider vinegar . . . and a hair gel from some gelatin and olive oil. I dampened my hair a little bit with water, worked in some of the smoothing cream with my fingers, and then brushed in the gel to slick it back.” Wavonne turns and looks at Momma and me. “Looks pretty fly, eh?”

  “Looks pretty ‘like it might attract some flies,’” Momma says under her breath to me before adding, louder and uncomfortably, “Yes, it’s very . . . um . . . yes . . . fly.” Momma looks down from Wavonne’s hair to her dress. “How about pulling that zipper up a little higher, honey? You’re one wrong move away from a . . . what are they calling it these days? A wardrobe malfunction?”

  “Fine.” Wavonne lifts the zipper between her cleavage about a millimeter. “I do want to stand out from the crowd, but it’s my hair I want on parade this afternoon, not my bazoombas . . . lovely as they are.”

  “Your hair?”

  “Yes. I want Monique to ask about it, so I can tell her about my concoctions. Who knows, she may want to buy the formula.”

  “Wavonne, she probably has a team of chemists at her disposal. I don’t think she’s going to be interested in some mush you threw together in the food processor,” I advise as we approach the entrance to Illusions.

  “I’m still getting that smell,” Momma says before Wavonne has a chance to respond to my comment.

  “It must not have been the trash can over by Sweet Tea if we’re smelling it all the way over here. What do you suppose it is?” I ask while balancing my chaffing dish of crab balls on my hip freeing up a hand to open the salon door.

  I hold it open and Momma walks through followed by Wavonne . . . and that’s when I realize where the dreadful odor is coming from. As Wavonne patters through the door past me the highly unpleasant scent wafts to my nostrils.

  “Wavonne!” I say in a strong whisper as I step inside. “It’s your hair.”

  “What’s my hair?”

  “It’s your hair that stinks.”

  “It does not! I don’t smell nothin’.”

/>   “Well, you’re the only one,” Momma says. “You can’t meet Ms. Dupree with your hair smelling like the cheese section at Wegman’s.”

  “No, she can’t,” I agree. “That ingenious purée of oils and vegetables you put on your head has started to spoil, Wavonne. Fortunately, we’re at a salon. You can wash your hair before Monique gets here.”

  “I ain’t washin’ nothin’. It doesn’t smell that bad.”

  I’m about to insist that Wavonne walk herself to one of the shampoo chairs pronto, when Latasha approaches. “Hey, ladies,” she says to me and Wavonne, before greeting Momma. “Mrs. Watkins, so good to see you. What have you got there?” she asks in reference to the cake containers in Momma’s hands.

  “Two of my special—”

  Before Momma can finish her sentence, I see Latasha’s eyebrows narrow. “Something smells . . . um, I’m sure it can’t be your food, Halia . . . but . . . do you smell that?”

  “Smell what?” Wavonne takes a few steps back from Latasha.

  “What do you mean what? It smells like the dumpster behind Long John Silver’s.” Latasha looks around. “My God. I hope there isn’t a gas leak on today of all days.”

  “There’s no gas leak, Latasha,” I assure. “Wavonne was experimenting with some homemade hair creams last night and tried a sample of her creations today. Clearly, the formula still needs a little work . . . maybe some preservatives. But she’s going to wash it out before Monique gets here.” I shift my eyes in Wavonne’s direction. “Aren’t you?”

  “You heifers go ahead and hate, but I’m still perfectin’ my miracle creams. Don’t expect me to share any of my millions with the likes of you when I sell the formula to Monique.”

  “Unless she’s looking for something to attract mosquitoes, I wouldn’t start counting my money just yet, Wavonne,” I say. “Now go wash it out. I don’t want that stench around my food.”

  “I can’t wash it out. I don’t have any of my wigs, and I can’t get my hair restyled before Monique gets here . . . and how am I gonna sell her my formula if I can’t show her how well it works?”