Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce

by A. L. Herbert

  “Wavonne, sweetie,” Latasha says, “Monique Dupree, the queen of all things hair, is paying a visit to my salon . . . my salon.” Her tone is measured, but there is no doubt that she means business. “You’re a good friend and a good customer, but I will not have you smelling like a carton of spoiled milk in her presence.” She pauses for a moment, before adding, “You head back to the sinks, or you head out the door.”

  Wavonne lets out a heavy breath, rolls her eyes, and reluctantly creeps toward the back of the salon.

  “Just go have a seat,” Latasha calls behind her. “Kerry will wash it for you as soon as she’s done helping us set up . . . then we’ll find you a hat . . . or turban . . . or something.”

  Chapter 4

  Latasha’s VIP clients begin to trickle in, and their excitement around meeting this Monique Dupree woman, someone I’d never even heard of a few days ago, is palpable. While Latasha greets her guests, I work with Kerry, one of the shampoo girls at Illusions, to get the refreshments table ready. Once all the trays of hors d’oeuvres are in place, I light the little tins of ethanol gel underneath them to keep everything hot and help Momma transfer her cakes from their travel containers to the table. I’m rearranging some napkins when I notice Latasha’s staff members and clients rush toward the front windows.

  “Oh my God!” I hear someone say. “Look at that!”

  Curiosity gets the best of me, and I scurry toward the windows with everyone else and take a look outside. I hadn’t given much thought to the mode of transportation in which Monique would arrive at Illusions, but, if I had, I would have guessed a limo or maybe a black SUV. Apparently, I would have guessed wrong . . . very wrong. As we look through the glass panes we are treated to a sizable bright pink tour bus winding its way through the parking lot on no fewer than ten wheels. It must be over twelve feet high and maybe forty or fifty feet long. Monique Dupree’s face is plastered on the side of the bus along with the Hair by Monique logo and the words WEAR IT STRAIGHT!

  The bus comes to a stop across a row of parking spaces, and we eagerly look on as the door flips open, and a stocky man with a professional video camera steps out from the vehicle. He takes a few long strides before turning to face the bus and focus his camera on the door from which he just emerged. He holds the camera’s focus on the empty bus stairs, and, just when you think no one or no thing could compete with the brilliance of the brightly colored vehicle, a figure that can’t possibly be anyone other than Ms. Dupree appears in the threshold. My eyes are first drawn to the glittering silver heels she uses to carefully descend from the bus like a First Lady disembarking Air Force One. Her flashy shoes complement an equally flamboyant knee-length black skirt with some sort of sparkle woven into the fabric. She completes the look with a white silk blouse and a wide silver belt that matches her shoes. It’s a look that might appear a bit garish on some women, but the way Monique carries herself, while followed by an entourage of minions, lets any onlookers know that she wouldn’t wear anything but the best.

  She’s a large woman in both height and stature—more thick than fat . . . the sort of woman Momma would call “big-boned.” She’s about five nine, but, at the moment, in her shimmering heels, she clears six feet. As she nears the salon, a wide smile never leaving her face, the cameraman walks backward in front of her, filming her every move. While she gives her fans an excited wave from the other side of the windows, I get a closer look at her jet-black hair, and, I must say, it is fabulous, falling in waves past her shoulders with long swept side bangs. I also get a better look at the big silver hoops dangling from her ears and what Wavonne would call some “serious bling” around her neck—a large pear-shaped red stone (I’m guessing a ruby) surrounded by what I assume to be pavé-set diamonds suspended from a silver chain.

  The cameraman steps into the salon before Monique and continues to film as she crosses the threshold to be greeted by Latasha.

  “Welcome to Illusions, Ms. Dupree. It’s truly an honor to meet you,” Latasha says, extending her hand.

  “Girl, I don’t do handshakes,” Monique says in a boisterous voice before leaning in and giving Latasha a hug followed by a kiss on each cheek. “You must be Latasha.” She pulls away and warmly grips Latasha’s hands. “What a lovely space you have here. No wonder you’re a top seller of Hair by Monique. You’re gorgeous . . . your salon is gorgeous.. . .” She turns her attention from Latasha to the rest of us. “And your clients are gorgeous.”

  Monique removes her wide-rimmed sunglasses, revealing kind eyes below expertly painted lids and lush fake lashes. “Hello, everyone,” she says, easily taking command of the room without waiting for an introduction. “I look forward to meeting each of you and personally thanking you for making my Hair by Monique line such a success. I’m nothing without your support.” She looks down at her clothes and shoes before extending her arms as if she’s presenting herself to the crowd. “As Dolly Parton says, ‘It costs a lot of money to look this cheap.’” She pauses while the crowd laughs and takes us all in. “It’s good to be home. You guys know I’m a local girl, don’t you? Born and raised right her in PG County. That’s right . . . I hung out at PG Plaza after school, went to the movies over at Andrews Manor . . . I even ran the blender at the Orange Julius in Landover Mall while I was in cosmetology school.”

  You occasionally hear about how some people have “presence,” but, until now, I’m not sure I had ever met anyone who actually had such a thing. She definitely has an energy . . . an aura about her that makes people instantly like her. Though larger than life with her perfect hair and makeup, flamboyant fashions, and expensive jewelry she somehow still comes across as unpretentious and relatable.

  Latasha escorts Monique through the crowd and introduces her to her customers and employees, who, along with Momma and me, have formed a makeshift receiving line. While Momma and I patiently wait for our introduction to Monique, my eyes shift toward the gentlemen who followed her into the salon. There is a handsome, though somewhat gruff-looking black man with a neatly trimmed Afro and a solid build. He’s wearing a conservative dark suit and appears to be giving directions to the cameraman. The other man in Ms. Dupree’s entourage is a portly white man with heavily gelled light hair. He straddles the line between stylish and ridiculous in a pair of tight patterned pants that I would call “leggings” if they were on a woman, a purple sweater with black trim, and a pair of shiny black boots with purple buckles. I can’t help but stare at his quirky footwear for a moment or two before diverting my attention back to Monique, watching her move from person to person. I’m listening as she graciously expresses her gratitude for her fans’ support, when a familiar, though unpleasant, odor begins to waft around me. The scent has barely had a chance to register when Wavonne wedges herself between Momma and me.

  “Good grief, Wavonne!” I say. “Latasha told you to stay back there until we can get your hair washed.”

  “I ain’t missin’ my chance to meet Monique.”

  I’m about to insist that Wavonne return to the rear of the salon when Latasha and Monique appear before us.

  “This is Halia Watkins,” Latasha says. “She is responsible for the fabulous refreshments on hand today.”

  “So nice to meet you,” Monique says, and reaches out to hug me, a gesture that seems a bit intimate from someone I’ve never met before, but if anyone can get away with such a thing, it’s Monique.

  “And this is Wavonne.” Latasha hesitates for a moment, clearly unnerved to see that Wavonne has defied her instructions. “She’s been a loyal customer for years.” Latasha keeps a stiff smile, but simultaneously shoots Wavonne a potent glare, the kind a mother gives a petulant child when she is misbehaving in public . . . one that says, “I can’t whoop your ass right now because there are witnesses, but just you wait until we get home.”

  Monique leans in to embrace Wavonne, and the smile she’s been wearing since she stepped off the bus abruptly disappears. “What is that odor?” she asks, looking around th
e room for an angry skunk. “My God! It smells like Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras.”

  Chapter 5

  Wavonne leans in toward Monique. “Girl, the smell is rank, ain’t it? I think it’s comin’ from sista girl over there.” Wavonne directs her eyes toward one of Latasha’s stylists. “Now why, when we have all that good food on the refreshments table, did she go and wolf down a tuna fish sandwich and some Doritos? Somebody best get her a breath mint before we all pass out.”

  Monique narrows her brows and offers Wavonne a bemused nod. She is about to continue down the line when Wavonne, fearful she may miss her only chance to engage Monique, blurts out, “Do you like my hair?”

  Monique takes a step back and gives Wavonne’s hair a look. “Ummm . . . hmmm . . . it’s quite . . . quite slick.”

  “Thank you! I invented my own cream.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And my own gel, too. Pretty nice, huh?”

  “Um . . . well, it’s unique.”

  “It’s a secret formula,” Wavonne boasts, lightly patting her hair. “But, you know, I might be willing to share it for the right price.”

  Monique laughs graciously. “Is that so? Well, I wish you much luck with it.” Monique places a finger under her nose and lifts her eyebrows as another rush of the unpleasant aroma radiates from Wavonne’s head. “I might suggest adding some rosemary oil extract . . . or vitamin E to that secret formula. They will help keep it . . . keep it from . . . turning,” she adds, her eyes rapidly blinking as one’s eyes do when they begin to water.

  “What a great idea. Maybe Wavonne can try out her potions another time after she’s made them a bit more . . . shall we say shelf-stable,” Latasha suggests before calling to the shampoo girl. “Kerry, can you take Wavonne back to the sinks and freshen her up a bit. Now, please.”

  “But I haven’t had a chance to tell Monique about—”

  “Now!” Latasha insists through clenched teeth.

  “It was very nice to meet you, Wavonne. You keep working on your creams,” Monique says right before Kerry gives Wavonne a tug on her arm, and she grudgingly allows herself, much like a cat on a leash, to be led toward the washbasins.

  “Good Lord, that girl is stubborn,” Latasha says to me while Monique proceeds down the line to Momma.

  “You have no idea.”

  Latasha is about to introduce Monique to Momma, when the man in the suit who followed Monique into the salon brusquely invades our space with the cameraman following. Based on the way he’s been milling about the store and giving direction to the videographer, I assume he is the de facto director of whatever it is Monique is trying to capture on film. Rather than introducing himself or saying hello, he simply points at me and spouts off to the cameraman, “This one. She has nice hair. Let’s get some footage.”

  Next thing I know there is a microphone in my face and Monique, who I notice already has a lapel microphone on her blouse, goes into reporter mode. With the camera centered on us, she slides closer to me and puts her arm around my waist.

  “Hello to all of my Hair by Monique fans,” she begins. “We are kicking off my cross-country Wear It Straight tour here in the Washington, DC, metro area. Today we’re at Illusions in Prince George’s County, Maryland.”

  I notice that the director fellow is holding up a cue card of sorts with the words “Illusions” and “Prince George’s County, Maryland” printed on it as if Monique needs reminding of where she is. I guess this makes sense, given that she will be visiting hundreds of salons all over the country, but you’d think she’d remember where she is while in her hometown.

  “This is my new friend Halia,” Monique says just after the director flips to another cue card with my name on it. I didn’t even know he was within earshot when I was introduced to Monique, but it must be his job to keep track of names for her as well.

  Monique turns toward me. “You have truly exquisite hair. So soft and silky. What Hair by Monique products do you use?”

  “Oh . . . umm . . . I keep it simple . . . a little Johnson’s Baby Shampoo and some conditioner that was on sale at CVS . . . Pantene, I think. Sometimes I add a little—”

  “Cut!” yells the director, a cross expression on his face. “Halia, is it?” There is clear annoyance in his tone. “What are you doing here if you don’t use Hair by Monique products?”

  “Relax, Nathan,” Monique says. “I’ve been told that Halia supplied the refreshments for the event.” Nathan looks at Monique crossly—the way a mother might look at a child that just got smart with her. And, just for a second, I sense a crack in Monique’s jovial veneer.

  “Yes,” Latasha says. “Halia owns her own restaurant . . . Mahalia’s Sweet Tea, a few doors down from here. Best soul food in town. She kindly prepared a few treats for us.”

  Nathan is not impressed and, rather than expressing any enthusiasm or gratitude for my catering, he points to Momma. “Who’s that? She has nice hair as well. Does she use Hair by Monique products?”

  “This is Halia’s mother and baker extraordinaire, Celia Watkins. Wait until you try her brown butter lemon poppy seed cake,” Latasha says.

  “Butter and cake. Two of my favorite words,” Monique replies, leaning in toward Momma for a hug. “Lovely to meet you, Celia.”

  “We’re not here for a bake sale,” Nathan bemoans, his eyes going from Momma to me and then back to Momma again. “Hmmm . . . a mother and daughter, both with nice hair, raving about Hair by Monique. Now that would be some great marketing.” He waves his hands at Momma and me. “Can you make some space for Monique in the middle?” He says this in the form of a question, but it’s really more of a command. “We’ll have Monique ask you a few questions. We merely need you to gush about her products. You,” he says to me as Monique slides in between Momma and me. “You’ll say how much you love her thickening and texturizing mousse. And you,” he barks at Momma. “You’ll rave about her deep moisturizing shampoo.”

  “I actually use Ms. Dupree’s moisturizing shampoo . . . and her relaxer and restoring conditioner,” Momma says. “I’ve got a bathroom full of Hair by Monique products.”

  “Perfect. Mention them all. We can edit it down later.”

  “Maybe it’s best if Momma does this alone,” I say. “I’m not sure I’d know what to say. I’m certain they are very nice products, but I’ve never used that mousse you mentioned.”

  Nathan sighs. “It’s not rocket science, lady. Just say you’ve been using it for years . . . that you love the product . . . that it leaves your hair soft and shiny with lots of body, blah blah blah.”

  “I think I have to pass,” I say flatly, in part because I don’t want to make up lies about a product I’ve never used, but more because this Nathan guy is rude and condescending.

  “Ignore him, Halia. Nathan went missing the day God was handing out manners,” Monique says, getting yet another heated look from Nathan. “How about I have my own personal stylist give your hair a quick touch-up with some of my products. Then you’ll have an idea of how good they are and can offer some honest comments.” She then calls to her associate in the purple shirt and man-leggings. “Maurice,” she beckons toward the other side of the reception area. Maurice walks toward us, and, without waiting for me to agree to her plan, Monique says to him, “Can you give Halia here a quick style? Maybe work in a little frizz-free mousse, quickly blow it out, and give it some staying power with my flexible hold spray.”

  Maurice says nothing before reaching for my hair, separating a few strands, and running his fingers through them. “How much time do I have?” he asks, a displeased expression on his face. “I can take it to a B-minus in about twenty minutes, but it would be hours to take it to an A-plus.” He turns to me. “No offense, sweetie. Your hair is very nice, but you know the ole saying: ‘I’m a beautician, not a magician.’ ”

  Before I have a chance to say that I, in fact, am not familiar with that saying, Monique intervenes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Maurice. She has love
ly hair. Just give it a quick restyle for the camera.”

  “Fine, fine,” Maurice sighs, and looks at me. “Come with me. Holly, was it?”

  “Halia,” I correct as I follow him back to one of the chairs.

  “Like ‘hell yeah?’” He snaps his fingers.

  “Um . . . no. Like Halia. It’s short for Mahalia.”

  “Oh . . . like the gospel singer. Mahalia Jackson. Got it. They were playing a remix of ‘Respect’ at the club last night.”

  “That’s Aretha Franklin.”

  “Huh . . . I guess you’re right.” He stops next to a vacant styling chair. “This one is as good as any.”

  He gestures for me to sit in the chair, looks around, and raises his voice to no one in particular. “Can I get a smock, please?”

  Kerry, who has finished combing out Wavonne’s freshly shampooed hair, rushes over with a cape and snaps it around my neck. “May I get you anything else?” she asks.

  “Ummm . . .” Maurice starts rifling through the tools on the counter. “I suppose I can make do with this . . . this paraphernalia,” he adds with an upturned nose. “Can you bring me some of Monique’s mousse? The frizz-free . . . not the texturizing.”

  “I didn’t realize people used mousse anymore. I thought it was a thing of the eighties,” I say.

  “Monique has reformulated it and brought it back. It’s nothing like the canned fluff from back in the day. Monique’s mousse adds volume and calms frizz without making your hair crunchy. You’ll love it.”

  As Maurice begins spritzing my hair with a water mist sprayer, I see Wavonne’s curious reflection in the mirror.

  “Oh Lord . . . here we go,” I say quietly as she gets up from the shampoo chair and walks over, clearly wanting to know what’s going on and how she can become a part of it.

  “What’s happening over here?” she asks, finally free of any offensive odors.