Neither one of us seems to know what to say next, so to break the silence and steer the conversation away from women’s shapewear I ask, “So, how long have you been working for Monique?”
“A few months. I cook for her and Nathan three or four nights a week, and they’re taking me on the road to cook for them during the tour. I’m figuring out how to make the best use of that little kitchen on the bus now.”
“Must be very different from working in big commercial kitchens.”
“Yes, but mostly in good ways. Monique pays me well, it’s definitely less hurried and stressful, and she and Nathan still spend a lot of time in New York, which amounts to many days off for me.”
“Sounds like a good gig. Where do I sign up?” I joke. “How long have you been a chef?”
“About six years. I came here from my home country on a student visa and studied at L’Academie de Cuisine in Gaithersburg. From there, I worked as a sous chef at a number of restaurants before working my way up to head chef at the little bistro where I met Monique. She enjoyed my food and asked to meet me. She was looking to hire a personal chef as she doesn’t have time to cook and is trying to eat healthier. We got to talking and eventually worked out a deal. So far, it’s working out pretty well.”
“Your home country is the Dominican Republic?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“One of my employees is from the DR so I recognized the accent, which is lovely by the way,” I say. “Where are you from in the DR?”
“Villa Jaragua. It’s on the western side of the country next to Lake Enriquillo,” he says. “Would you like to see some photos?”
“I’d love to.”
Alex retrieves his phone from his pocket and begins to show me some pictures. “These are from my last trip back home in August. It’s cheaper to go in the summer months when tourism slows down.” As he swipes through images, I see him with an array of other young men and women mostly in bright-colored clothing suitable for tropical weather. There are lots of palm trees and blue skies in the backgrounds . . . and apparently a beer called Presidente that comes in a green bottle is very popular on the island—it seems to be the beverage of choice for most of the people in the photos. He shows me his mother and a brother . . . and some cousins, and, even though Momma grilled him about it already, I must admit I have my eye out for anyone who seems like a girlfriend in the photos, but I don’t see anyone who fits the bill.
“These are great,” I say as Alex continues to swipe. “Looks like a beautiful country.”
“It is . . . not as much wealth and opportunity as there is here, but I do miss it.” He’s about to continue through the collection when we hear the doorbell ring. “Sounds like more guests are starting to arrive.” He lowers the phone. “I guess I’d better get back in the kitchen.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll go find Wavonne and try to keep her out of trouble.”
The doorbell rings again as I step away. And, just like that, Monique’s white party is underway.
Chapter 13
“We got the who’s who of PG County in da house tonight.” Wavonne looks around at Monique’s guests while I watch her place her long-stem glass underneath the champagne fountain on display in the foyer. I must say I’m impressed by the crystal champagne glasses—clearly Ms. Dupree is having nothing to do with those “assembly required” plastic flutes from the Party Store I see at most events.
“That’s your third glass, Wavonne.”
“I know how to count, Halia. Thank you very much.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little early in the evening to be on drink number three?”
“These glasses don’t hold much and, if you haven’t noticed, Halia, this is a party.” She takes my glass, my first of the evening, which is not even half-empty, and plunks it under the fountain as well. “Take a few swigs. It’ll do you some good.” She hands it back to me, filled to the rim. “Seems that Puerto Rican brotha in the kitchen really does have a thing for you.” Wavonne pauses for a moment. “It is okay to call a Puerto Rican a brotha, right? You know, if he’s black and all?”
“I don’t know, Wavonne, and I don’t particularly care . . . and he’s Dominican, not Puerto Rican.”
“Dominican . . . Puerto Rican. Tomayto . . . potahto.”
“That’s not even how the saying goes, Wavonne. It’s tomato . . . oh, forget it.”
“Whatever. They’re both on the same island.”
“No, they aren’t. Puerto Rico is its own island. The Dominican Republic shares an island with Haiti.”
“Well . . . aren’t you just Jenequa Geography.” Wavonne shifts her weight on her high heels. “Either way, he’s sexy as hell. And why his hot self is into you and not me, is for only God, Jesus, and Dionne Warwick’s Psychic Friends to know.”
“I don’t think he’s into me,” I respond, even though I do actually think he might be. “He’s so much younger than I am. We just have the cooking thing in common, so he’s chatty.”
“Maybe . . . maybe not. But if you want to go flirt with him in the kitchen, and see if you can get you some, I won’t be mad atcha,” Wavonne offers. “I can go off on my own and scope out the other eligible men. There are some money’d folks at this party, Halia. I recognize a lot of faces from the social pages.”
By “social pages” Wavonne is referring to the obituaries in the Washington Post, which she occasionally peruses for the death of women who were married to rich men; Washingtonian magazine, which she flips through looking for articles about the communities’ most successful businessmen; and a host of other periodicals and online social media outlets that follow the lives of the local elite and help Wavonne keep tabs on bachelors with fat bank accounts. Her attention, however, is not limited to single men—she monitors couples as well, keeping a watchful eye for impending separations and divorces. If Wavonne hears of a wealthy couple splitting or the untimely demise of a rich man’s wife, she uses any connection at all to the affected gentleman as an excuse to be the first to darken his door with a casserole (that I’ll have to make), a low-cut blouse, and some comforting words. Unfortunately for her, she has to get in line with all the other shameless opportunists.
“I think I’ll stay put for the time being,” I say. “I’m sure Alex is busy, and I sort of like this spot, but feel free to mingle while I hang back.”
We’ve mostly been hovering in the dining room or the foyer since the party started. At one point, we tried to muscle our way into the main living room, but, despite the generous size, it was super crowded—a sea of mostly brown skin and pale clothing . . . everyone very chic and elegant in expensive-looking white fashions. We could barely get through the threshold and ended up spilling back into the foyer where we’ve been chatting amongst ourselves and a few other guests as they partake in the flowing champagne. We’ve also done a fair amount of people-watching as Monique’s guests pass through the foyer from the living room to the dining room to refill plates.
“Okay, I may circulate in a few minutes and—” Wavonne stops talking as a stream of guests, likely wanting a little space, begin to exit the living room and congregate in the foyer. “Look,” she says, nodding her head in the direction of a handsome older gentleman. “That’s Charles Norman. He’s a county executive or sits on the council or somethin’ . . . made a ton in real estate.” Wavonne then eyes the mature woman next to him in a snowy silk gown. “Unfortunately, that is a Mrs. Norman,” she adds before less than discreetly pointing in another direction. “That’s Cedrica Harper. Remember, we catered a Fourth of July party at her house. That lucky heifer married Clarence Harper, who owned a bunch of small bidnesses . . . laundromats, pizza places, hair salons. He croaked a few months after they got married. She sold most of his companies and made a bundle. And over there”—Wavonne eyes another couple making their way into the foyer—“that’s Tim and Treena Simms. They own the Oasis Spa in Bowie and some other salons around town. Word on the street is that their marriage is on the rocks
. My girl Melva gets her weave done at one of their salons, and her stylist said that the two of them bicker like crazy. If they’re headed for splitsville, maybe I should go over there and introduce myself.” Wavonne adjusts her breasts. “Are my girls even?” she asks.
Before I have a chance to answer, she pulls a little spray bottle from her evening bag and hands it to me. “Give me a quick spritz, would ya?” She sticks out her chest.
“No!” I say. “Go in the bathroom and do that yourself.”
“Oh, just do it, Halia. Hurry. Treena is steppin’ away.”
I groan but accept the bottle, grudgingly angle it properly, and give her cleavage a quick spray of glitter.
“Thank you.”
I hand the bottle back to her, and she tries to slink away, but more guests keep piling into the foyer, tightening the space. That’s when I realize that Maurice is the impetus for the migration toward the base of the grand staircase. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since we arrived. He’s engaging with other party attendees, gesturing for them to enter the foyer.
“This way, ladies and gentlemen,” he says over the loud murmur of voices. “Monique is about to make her entrance.”
I chuckle quietly to myself. I have catered more parties than I can count, but I’ve never been to one during which the host makes an entrance. The over-the-top nature of this party . . . the-over-the top nature of anything related to Monique is a bit comical to me.
“Shhhhhhh.” Maurice puts a finger to his lips, the party quiets down, and the chandelier dims . . . and, I kid you not, a young man wheels in a spotlight. You’ve got to be joking . . .
“Girl is about to throw down,” Wavonne says, deciding against homing in on Mr. Harper for the time being.
Before I have a chance to agree with Wavonne, the lights go black, and Bruno Mars’s “24K Magic” begins to boom from some speakers mounted in the corners of the walls. Someone flicks on the spotlight and directs it to beam toward the top of the steps. Monique strides into the light just as the song switches from its slow-pulsed intro to its upbeat groove.
“I doubt Eva Perón made this much of a fuss when she came out on the balcony of the Casa Rosada.”
“Casa who?” Wavonne asks.
“Never mind.”
Monique waves and begins sashaying back and forth along the landing like she’s just been crowned Miss America, her yappy little dog following behind her while the cameraman films the whole thing.
“I’m surprised Ms. Thang doesn’t have a tiara on her head,” Wavonne says as Monique continues to strut back and forth with occasional stops to pose in the gown that Maurice described to us earlier . . . and I must say, Maurice was right—it is gorgeous!
For anyone else, this whole spectacle would be obscenely ridiculous . . . embarrassing even. I don’t think I’ve seen as much posturing when they run the red carpet footage before the Academy Awards. But Monique has a way about her that makes her antics at the top of the steps endearing. It’s like she’s in on the joke—she knows how silly she’s being, and she knows her guests know the same. But everyone is having a great time, so it’s all good. We’re all laughing as Monique places one hand behind her head and the other on her hip, posing like Jessica Rabbit. But we’re laughing with her, not at her.
As the music fades and the lights go up, Monique slowly descends the steps and stops mid-staircase.
“Hello, hello!” she calls to us. “Thanks so much for coming. You know I always try to put on a grand affair and tonight is no exception. Is everyone having a good time?”
There are some claps and a mix of affirmative words before she speaks again.
“Now how about this dress?!”
More claps and a few cheers.
She looks down at her bright blue gown. “Oh my!” she says facetiously. “Was this a white party? No one told me.”
We all laugh again as Monique throws her hands up to her cheeks and drops her jaw in mock horror. “Oh well. I was never one to blend in,” she offers with a broad smile before lightly fluffing her tresses. “And the hair?”
More applause.
She teases us with a look of disappointment, insinuating that we can do better with our show of appreciation for her famous mane. “You guys do know I’m in the hair business? What does it take to get some love?” she playfully asks before repeating her question. “And the hair?!”
Stronger hand claps . . . more cheers and a loud “Fierce!” from Wavonne.
Again, this would all seem absurd coming from anyone else . . . like a sad Real Housewife of Atlanta demanding compliments at her own party, but Monique makes it work.
“Tonight we celebrate past successes for Hair by Monique,” she says when we’ve quieted down, “and look to the future for—”
The doorbell rings and a “Who dares interrupt me?” expression appears on Monique’s face.
All eyes look toward the door and then back up at Monique, who is still for a moment before nodding at her housekeeper to answer the door.
As instructed, Lena moves toward the front door and swings it open, treating Monique’s guests to yet another splash of color amidst masses of stark whites, ivories, and creams. Odessa is standing in the doorway in a dress the color of a fire engine. She carefully steps into the foyer in a dramatic red gown adorned in sequins and finished with a thick band of feathers at the bottom. She plants herself right next to Wavonne and me before uttering the same words used by our hostess moments earlier . . . the same words I suspect Monique uses every year when she debuts at this event. “Oh my!” Odessa says, an evil twinkle in her eyes. “Was this a white party? No one told me.”
The light from the overhead chandelier reflects off the sequins, creating a sparkle that mesmerizes the entire room. Everyone is quiet as they try to make sense of Odessa’s entrance. Even the dog seems bemused by her clear attempt to upstage Monique at her own party.
All eyes are on Odessa until they realize that the look on Monique’s face as she glares at the new arrival might be the more interesting view. Gazes lift back toward Monique, who only momentarily lets the scorn show on her face before making a quick recovery and reclaiming her winning smile.
As Monique purposely descends the stairs I think about what Maurice said about her distaste for anyone taking attention away from her and can’t help but stare as she reaches the bottom of the staircase. Her heels meet the granite tile and nimbly click along the stone in Odessa’s direction.
As she leans in to embrace Odessa and give her a kiss on the cheek, Wavonne and I are the only ones close enough to hear her say, through gritted teeth, “I’m going to get you for this, you evil bitch.”
Chapter 14
Everyone at the party knew that Odessa would have hell to pay at some point in the future, but once it became clear that, in the here and now, Monique was going to handle Odessa’s attempt to so boldly upstage her with measured grace, the crowd lost interest in the pair. They began to disperse throughout the main level before Monique got a chance to restart her welcome speech.
After their forced embrace and the exchange of a few stony pleasantries to keep up appearances, Monique and Odessa parted company. Monique sauntered off to hold court in the living room, and Odessa made her way to the dining room.
At the moment, the foyer has mostly cleared and, as Wavonne has crept off to prey on some unsuspecting couple’s failing marriage, I find myself standing next to the champagne fountain alone. I’m a pretty social person—I enjoy being with people and don’t generally struggle with mingling—but I feel a bit out of my element at this “see and be seen” affair. Everyone is so attractive and wealthy . . . and likely on the hunt for the next person they think can do something for them—so not my people.
I’m trying to decide what to do with myself when I see Maurice emerge from the living room and walk over to him. “Thank you for all your help today. I’m not much of a fashionista. God knows what sort of white ensemble I would have come up with if left to my own devices.�
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Maurice takes a quick look at his watch before responding. “You’re welcome, hon. It’s what I do. It’s all about accentuating the positive and bringing out someone’s personality. When you look good, you feel good. And you, my dear, are looking quite fetching in that dress.”
Maurice turns to one of the servers who has just approached with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “No, thank you. Dieting,” he says to the young lady before she teeters off on her high heels. Between her svelte figure, long legs, and flowing chestnut hair, she looks more like she should be at a photo shoot for some high fashion magazine rather than schlepping finger food from room to room at a party.
“She’s one of Odessa’s stylists?” I ask Maurice.
“Yes. I believe so.”
“Alex mentioned they were working the party. I think I may have seen her at the convention this afternoon, too. So, what are all these beauticians doing manning tables at hair conventions and passing out nibbles at white parties?”
“Making some money,” Maurice says as if the answer is obvious. “I’m sure they make a decent living doing hair at Odessa’s salon, but, you know, life is expensive, so they moonlight. And when you look the way they do, opportunities abound.”
“They are all quite striking.”
“Yes . . . well, that is sort of Odessa’s ‘brand.’ The same way Abercrombie and Fitch only hires attractive sales associates, Odessa only hires beautiful woman to work at her salon, and she occasionally helps them land moonlighting gigs. I assume she takes a cut of their fees. Extremely good-looking people are always in demand. They do car shows, and local fashion shows, and even host open houses with real estate agents . . . anything that can benefit from a pretty face. Monique prefers that her event staffers have a certain look . . . valuing their level of attractiveness over any catering experience, so Odessa hooked her up . . . another example of their mutually beneficial relationship.”
“I thought you said Monique didn’t like people being prettier than her?”
Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce Page 9
