Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce

by A. L. Herbert

  “No need. I’ll run to the men’s room and get cleaned up.”

  “Okay.” I gesture for him to follow me and point to the restrooms once we’re back in the dining area. Alex thanks me and makes his way toward the far end of the restaurant, crossing paths with Monique and Odessa as they head in the other direction.

  As the men’s room door closes behind Alex, I see Wavonne emerge from the ladies’ room and barrel toward me. “Oooh girl, Diana Ross and Mary Wilson just had a throwdown in the bathroom,” she cackles, eyeing Monique and Odessa. They both look a little unsettled as they take their seats back at the table.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I happened to overhear them—”

  I cut her off. “You happened to overhear them? You mean you lifted your feet up in the stall the moment you heard someone enter the bathroom in hopes of getting some good gossip?”

  “Don’t hate on my curiosity, Halia. You are just as interested in the four-one-one around here as I am.”

  “What were they fighting about?” I ask, realizing that Wavonne may be right—maybe I am just as interested in gossip as she is.

  “I’m not sure. I only got bits and pieces . . . fruits and nuts. I heard Monique say, ‘You’re done hustling me, Odessa. Find someone else to leech off.’ Then Odessa said, ‘I’m not done with anything. Cut me off and I’ll—’” Wavonne takes a breath. “Then Monique interrupted her . . . didn’t let her finish. . . and said, ‘You’ll what? You’ll what, Odessa?! You make any trouble for me, and I’ll blow the lid off your entire operation.’ Odessa didn’t say anything back. She just stormed out of the ladies’ room with Monique following.”

  “Hmm. Wonder what that’s all about. Sounds like those two ladies weave a bit of a tangled web,” I say, and notice Monique and her guests begin to gather their belongings. “Oh well. As long as Monique paid the bill, I’m not too concerned about whatever happenings are going on between her and Odessa. She did pay the bill, didn’t she?” I ask.

  It’s been my experience that a significant number of famous personalities think they can run up a tab from here to next Tuesday and then skip out on the bill—like I’m supposed to comp a few hundred dollars’ worth of food and drinks because they have graced my restaurant with their presence. As you can imagine, my response to that nonsense, if I may borrow from Wavonne’s lexicon, is: “Oh hell to the no!”

  “Yeah,” Wavonne says. “She paid with an American Express Black Card. Only the second one I’ve seen since I started working here.”

  “Good,” I say. “Looks like they are getting ready to skedaddle. Why don’t we go say good night?”

  * * *

  “Thanks for joining us. It was a pleasure to have you,” I say to Monique as she pushes in her chair.

  “The pleasure was all ours,” Monique replies. “The smothered pork chops were to die for. And that banana pudding?!” She leans in toward me and lowers her voice so Nathan doesn’t hear her. “Girl, Idris Elba could have been standing here shirtless, lookin’ all fine . . . wanting to take me home, and I would have said, ‘Honey, that’s cool, but not until I finish this pudding.’”

  I laugh. “Can I pack you a serving to go?”

  “I better say no. There’s a fine line between voluptuous and plain old fat. One more piece of cake, and I may find myself on the wrong side of that line.”

  “Take the cake, Monique,” Odessa says. “The way that button on the waist of your skirt is straining, you may as well go up to the next dress size. I’ve been afraid all night that it’s going to pop off and take someone’s eye out.”

  “Pay her no mind,” Monique says to me rather than responding directly to Odessa. “Spindly man-less girls like Odessa are always hating on real women like us.”

  Us? Who’s us? It takes me a moment to realize that she’s referring to her and me. I guess my size fourteen self, according to Monique, must qualify me as a “real woman.”

  “Well, if you two are real women then I’m Queen Real Woman!” Wavonne says, opening her arms to showcase her impressive frame. “I got lumps and bumps that make all the guys wanna—”

  “Wavonne! Behave yourself,” I scold.

  Monique and Odessa laugh.

  “Girl, you got it going on,” Odessa says to Wavonne. “And you and your restaurant are both lovely,” she says to me. “I would never, as Monique put it, hate on either one of you. I save my hates for this one.” She flicks her eyes in Monique’s direction.

  “I think we can agree that all of you ladies are beautiful.” Maurice gets up from the table and steps toward us. “Now go to your corners and don’t come back until you can play nice,” he says to Monique and Odessa. “I just nibbled on grilled fish and broccoli while the rest of you indulged in pans of cornbread and fried chicken . . . and pork chops covered in gravy. If anyone’s going to be bitchy, it’s going to be me,” he adds. “Those two,” he quips to Wavonne and me. “I’ve seen wet cats be more pleasant with each other.”

  “Speaking of wet,” Monique says as she catches sight of Alex coming back to the table with a lemonade stain on his shirt. “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing. A little accident when Halia was showing me the kitchen. I dried off as best I could in the men’s room. I’ll throw the shirt in the washer when I get home. Hopefully, there’ll be one free.”

  “One free?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I live over at Iverson Towers in Temple Hills. We have a central laundry room, and sometimes one or two people take up all the washers.”

  “Did you spill somethin’ on him on purpose, so he’d take his clothes off?” Wavonne whispers to me as Alex puts a light jacket on over his sullied shirt.

  I ignore her question before, once again, apologizing for the spill.

  “No worries. Really,” he says, and turns toward Monique and the rest of the group. “I guess we’d better get moving. We have an early day tomorrow.”

  “We certainly do. I want to be at the convention center by seven a.m.,” Monique says. “I need to be on-site while they set everything up.”

  “Oh yes, the big hair convention is tomorrow,” I say. “Maybe I’ll see you there. We’re running a food stall at the event. I’ll be there in the morning to help my team set up.”

  “How nice. I hope you can sneak away and visit my exhibit. We’ll be there all day.”

  “I’m sure we can,” Wavonne responds before I have a chance. “I’m guessin’ there’ll be a lot of free samples?”

  “Of course . . . samples, prizes, items for sale.”

  “We should really be leaving,” Nathan says. He then grabs Monique’s hand and starts to lead her toward the door. “It’s getting late. You need your rest.” His words are innocuous enough, but there’s something in his tone and the way he grabbed her hand that makes it seem like he’s giving commands to Monique.

  Wavonne and I walk the group to the exit and say some final good nights to everyone. Nathan and Monique head out first, followed by Odessa, Maurice, and Latasha. Alex momentarily lingers behind and, before he heads out the door, he looks at Wavonne. “It was very nice to meet you, Wavonne.” He then turns to me and takes each of my hands in his. “Thank you for the tour. I’ll be at Monique’s exhibit tomorrow. I really do hope you’ll come by and say hi.” He then raises my hands to his full lips for a brief kiss. “Good night, Halia,” he says.

  “Um . . .” I say, a little befuddled. “Good night.”

  He turns to leave and the door has barely swung shut behind him when Wavonne starts with the questions. “What was that about? What happened during your little kitchen tour? If I didn’t know better, I’d think Rico Suave was into you.”

  Chapter 9

  “I have never seen anything like this before in my life,” I say to Wavonne and Momma. We just finished helping some of my staff set up our food stall at the Unique Chic Hair Convention, and Wavonne has coaxed us into taking a look around before we head back to the restaurant.

  As a woman w
ho doesn’t fuss much with my hair, I’m in awe of the sheer magnitude of the event as we walk down the aisles of the 2.3-million-square-foot Walter E. Washington Convention Center in DC. There are thousands of products on display, makeshift salons set up in neat rows along the convention center floor, hair care books and DVDs on sale, booths featuring local radio personalities, and other exhibits showing off wigs, and weaves, and cosmetics, and salon equipment. On the lower level, there is a lengthy catwalk for models showing off the latest hairdos. I hear the announcer describing their styles as the ladies strut down the runway. Words like the “Pretty Pixie,” the “Short and Sassy,” the “High Bump and Straight Ponytail,” and “Peek-A-Boo Highlights” come over the speaker as I take a moment to look through the program and see that the stage will be used later in the day for all sorts of demonstrations and competitions. With so much going on in every direction, the place is a bastion of overstimulation.

  “Come here, Halia,” Momma calls, having gotten ahead of me while I was flipping through the event guide.

  I approach Momma while Wavonne hangs back, shoving as many samples as she can in her purse.

  “This is Karl,” Momma says to me, gesturing toward a tall middle-aged man as he runs some clippers up the side of a young man’s head. “What is it you’re demonstrating again?” Momma asks him.

  “This is called the ‘Frohawk,’” Karl says, laying down the clippers and starting to comb the hair of the young man in the barber chair in front of him. “It’s a great cut for men who want to keep things short and neat, but not too conservative. We clip the sides and fade them nicely into the curls on top. It’s a great look with tight curls . . . or, sometimes, we finish it with wide ringlets.”

  “It looks very nice,” I say.

  “This is my daughter, Halia. She’s a business owner, too.” Momma shifts her eyes in my direction. “Karl owns his own barbershop in Waldorf. And he’s single.”

  “That’s really great.” I’m trying to hide my embarrassment as Momma attempts to move me like I’m about to go on clearance.

  “Why don’t you take one of his cards.” Momma picks up a business card from the table next to Karl and hands it to me.

  “Sure.” I accept the card and offer an apologetic smile to him.

  “Halia owns Sweet Tea . . . the restaurant. Do you know where it is? In the King Shopping Center off of—”

  “I know where it is,” Karl says. “I’ve heard great things about it.”

  “I’m glad. I hope you’ll come by and try it sometime,” I say, and, honestly, as much as I don’t care for Momma’s pushiness, I wouldn’t mind if he did. He appears to be only a few years older than me, and he’s a nice-looking man with kind eyes, and, apparently, a steady job. I could do worse.

  “Give him one of your cards, too, Halia.”

  “He said he knows where Sweet Tea is, Momma,” I respond, but start looking through my purse anyway. I dig out a card and hand it to him. “Clearly, you’re busy, Karl. We’ll let you get back to work. And I should really do the same. It was nice to meet you.”

  He takes the card, while Momma looks on, quite pleased with herself.

  “We really should get back to the restaurant,” I say as Wavonne rejoins us.

  “Let’s find Monique’s display before we go,” she insists.

  We’ve all had our eyes out for Monique’s booth since we got here, but have yet to come across it.

  “Do you happen to know where the Hair by Monique display is?” I ask Karl. “We’ve been up and down most of the aisles and haven’t seen it.”

  Karl doesn’t have a chance to answer before a woman doing a banana braids demonstration next to him lets out a loud laugh. “You all must be new here,” she says. “Monique Dupree has not had a paltry exhibit on the main floor in years.”

  “Really? I thought she was supposed to be here promoting—”

  “Oh, she’s here,” the woman says. “Not on the main floor though.” She lifts her comb and points up and to the left.

  Wavonne, Momma, and I turn our heads in unison to find a large neon sign over a set of double doors at the far end of the aisle. The sign reads: MONIQUE’S HOUSE OF STYLE.

  I thank the hairdresser for pointing out what was in plain sight all along, and the three of us begin to work our way through the crowd. When we reach the double doors we see that there’s a line of more than fifty people waiting along the wall to get inside whatever the hell Monique’s House of Style is. A burly man in a tuxedo is letting small groups in as others exit. Momma and I are about to take our place in the queue, when Wavonne makes a beeline for the bouncer.

  “We’re friends of Monique,” she says to the man. “Surely we don’t have to wait in that line with all those sad-lookin’ heifers.”

  A curt “End of the line, please,” is the bouncer’s reply.

  “This is my cousin,” Wavonne says, motioning toward me. “Monique had dinner at her restaurant last night.”

  “End of the line, please.”

  “Come on, Wavonne, let’s get in line,” I say.

  We are about to join the masses when Odessa approaches. She’s wearing a short beige skirt and a silk white blouse with a plunging neckline. What little of her breasts that the shirt leaves to the imagination are clearly being kept at bay with some double-sided tape.

  “Well, hello, ladies. Thank you for such a wonderful dinner last night. And who is this?” Odessa asks, looking at Momma.

  “This is my mother, Celia Watkins.” I turn to Momma. “Momma, this is Odessa. She owns a salon in Upper Marlboro.”

  Odessa shakes Momma’s hand before focusing her attention on the bouncer. “Don’t worry. They’re with me,” she says to him, and gestures for us to follow her through the doors.

  “Whoa . . . wait a minute! And you are?” the bouncer asks Odessa as she starts to step away. Odessa looks her flawless figure up and down, gives her hair a quick toss, and lightly rests the back of her hand on the bouncer’s cheek.

  “Does it really matter?” she coos before pushing one of the doors open and casually walking through without incident. Momma, Wavonne, and I quickly follow while we have the chance.

  Chapter 10

  “If you’ll excuse me, ladies,” Odessa says to us, “Some of my stylists are working the tables, and I need to check on them.”

  “Of course,” I reply. “Thanks for helping us jump the line.”

  While Odessa walks away, Momma, Wavonne, and I look around and take in the scene . . . and I think it’s safe to say we are all quite impressed. The crowd control happening on the other side of the doors, along with a string quartet softly playing in the far corner of the spacious ballroom make Monique’s House of Style a tranquil oasis away from all the commotion on the main floor. The tables displaying the multitude of Hair by Monique products are draped in varying shades of pink fabric. Fresh flower arrangements are strategically placed between the hundreds of pink boxes, bottles, and tubs of follicle-boosting serums, scalp infusion treatments, hair lotions, deep conditioners, and, of course, Monique’s marquee product, Sleek. The displays are manned by attractive young women sporting tailored sleeveless dresses made from the same pink-colored fabric used to cover their respective tables. I see Odessa chatting with one of them.

  At the front of the room, Monique is busy posing for photos with fans while Nathan directs the same cameraman who filmed at Latasha’s salon yesterday, making sure he gets footage of Monique interacting with her adoring public.

  We’re each handed a flute of sparkling cider while we peruse the room and look at the displays. We move from table to table, getting an earful from the attendants about the products on sale and the magic they will work on our hair. One of the attendants, a salesgirl really, talks Wavonne into buying Monique’s Moisture Growth Shampoo and another one persuades Momma to purchase her Nourishing Deep Conditioner. They both pick up a few more items and are probably out more than a hundred bucks between them by the time we stumble upon Alex. We find h
im manning a refreshments table. He’s talking in Spanish with one of the maintenance workers. They seem to be trying to fix an issue with the electrical cords for one of his chafing trays.

  “Mmmm,” Wavonne hums as we approach the table. “Free snacks.”

  “Hey there,” Alex says to us as Wavonne begins to fill a plate. “So glad you came by.”

  “It’s nice to see you, too,” I reply, introduce him to Momma, and check out his food. “What a great spread you’ve got here,” I say, although I don’t really mean it. The table is a mix of basic fruit and veggie trays, crackers with a salmon spread, various chips and dips, and a couple of chafing dishes filled with some sort of cheese-based concoction—it all looks fine, but certainly nothing to write home about.

  “Thank you,” Alex says. “Are you enjoying the event?”

  “Yes. It’s quite something. Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it. There are hair products on display that I didn’t even know existed. I’d never heard of a humidity shield or a scalp exfoliator before today.”

  “Well, clearly you don’t need any of them. You have beautiful hair.”

  I see Wavonne and Momma exchanging glances after that remark, which falls from Alex’s lips like honey. His rich voice and Dominican accent make everything he says sound sensual, but compliments are particularly emotive.

  “So you’re Monique’s private chef?” Momma asks. “Does that entitle your wife to a discount on her products?”

  I give Momma a look that she pretends not to see. I already caught her checking out his left hand to see if a wedding band was on it, but I guess she wants to be sure he’s unattached before she starts playing matchmaker. You’d think her trying to fix me up with the barber on the main floor would be enough humiliation for one day, but apparently Momma does not see it that way.

  “I’m not married.”

  “Girlfriend?” Momma asks.

  Alex laughs. “No. Monique keeps me pretty busy. There isn’t much time for all that.”