Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce

by A. L. Herbert

  The program cuts to a reporter in front of a brick row house in the city. “Thank you, Leslie,” she says. “We believe that is Maurice Masson, Monique’s hairdresser and personal stylist, approaching us now.” The camera shifts toward the sidewalk, and I see Maurice—he’s hard to miss in salmon-colored pants and a yellow shirt. His bright choice of clothing, however, does not match his demeanor. He’s walking slowly with a troubled expression on his face that only intensifies when he catches sight of the reporter and her camera operator.

  “Mr. Masson, do you have any comments on the murder of Monique Dupree and the allegations that she led her adoring public to believe that wigs were her natural hair,” she asks when Maurice is within earshot.

  Maurice refuses to acknowledge her as he picks up his speed and quickly strides past her to open the creaky iron gate that separates what I assume is his property from the sidewalk. The reporter keeps flinging questions at him as he walks up his front steps and puts a key in the door. He continues to ignore each one until she hurls a final inquiry in his direction.

  “Mr. Masson, do you know who killed Monique?” This question seems to strike a nerve, prompting Maurice to turn around.

  “Of course I don’t know who killed her, but the police need to be looking at her husband as the prime suspect. He was emotionally and physically abusive to Monique.”

  “Abusive?” the reporter asks.

  “Yes,” Maurice replies. “Abusive.” He had a steadfastness about him when the reporter first approached, but I can see that unraveling, and it strikes me as almost cruel for this reporter to be hounding him when he just lost someone to whom he was very close. “I begged her to leave him time and time again, often while I was helping her cover her bruises. But she always refused.” I can see his face faintly contorting, the way one’s face does when someone is trying to keep from crying. “He had some sort of sick hold on her, and she was afraid of the damage a messy divorce would do to her image.”

  The reporter takes it upon herself to open the gate and join Maurice on the steps. She puts one arm around him, and it would almost be a moment of kindness—one stranger comforting another—if it were not for the fact that she uses her other arm to make sure there is a mic in front of Maurice’s mouth.

  “But she finally seemed ready to leave when she found out he had bought a gun. Yes, Nathan had a gun, and Monique was afraid he might kill her!” Maurice starts to completely break down. “I should have pushed her harder. I should have somehow forced her to leave. But I didn’t,” he says through heavy breaths. “And now she’s dead.” He continues to breathe deeply. “I have to go,” he says, and quickly lurches away from the reporter, stepping inside his house and closing the door.

  The reporter goes on to say something, but I’m not really listening anymore. All I can think about is how I came upon Monique last night in her room and found her applying concealer around her eyes . . . how she tried to explain away the bruise with a story about plastic surgery—it seemed to make perfect sense at the time, but now, not so much.

  My attention vaguely goes back to the television as they return to the news desk, and I hear something about how no arrests have yet been made and the gun that shot the offending bullet has not been found.

  “Okay . . . enough.” I use the remote to switch the television to ESPN and turn the volume down. “We’ll check the news later for any updates. Back to work.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Wavonne says, and starts walking with me as I head toward the storage closet. “So you didn’t tell me what happened over at Monique’s house?”

  “I didn’t really get any good information.” I refrain from mentioning what Nathan said about Odessa driving back toward the house after the party. Wavonne is all wound up and distracted as it is. I don’t need to add to her state when we have a restaurant full of customers who need waiting on. “The police were there, and they told me I’d have to come back another day for my stuff.”

  “Can I go with you, when you go back?”

  “What for?”

  “Oh . . . no reason,” she says while unknowingly giving her wig a quick adjustment.

  “Seriously, Wavonne?!” Her little wig tug gave away her motive. “The woman’s body is barely cold, and you’re already after her wigs?”

  “I only want to see them, Halia. If I, of all people, didn’t know she was showin’ instead of growin’, those have to be some good wigs.”

  “I suppose that’s true, but even if I took you with me, what makes you think we’d get access to Monique’s wig closet when we’re there to pick up catering supplies?”

  “I don’t know,” Wavonne replies. “But you’ll think of something. You always do.”

  “I suppose that’s true, too,” I say. “And sometimes that gets me in trouble . . . sometimes that gets me in heaps of trouble.”

  Chapter 21

  It’s been three days since Monique’s death, and I got a call this morning from Lena, Monique’s housekeeper—or former housekeeper—letting me know I could come by and pick up my things today.

  On weekdays, we close Sweet Tea for a couple of hours in the late afternoon to give us a breather between the lunch crowd and the dinner service, so I’m using that time to drive over to Mitchellville and get my supplies. Truth be told, the items I left at Monique’s are probably worth less than fifty dollars. Under normal circumstances, given the time and hassle involved in retrieving them, I likely would have let them go and written them off as part of my expenses related to catering the party. But, as both Momma and Detective Hutchins so keenly surmised, serving trays and chafing dishes are the least of the reasons I’m interested in returning to Monique’s home.

  When I turn into Monique’s driveway for the third time in less than a week, I’m surprised to see that police cars are back on the property—unlike the horde of official vehicles that were around when I was here last, there are only two squad cars parked in front of the house today. I stop my van behind them. One car is empty, but there is an officer seated in the other one. He must have caught sight of me in his mirror because as soon as I put the van in park, the door flings open, and out steps Jack Spruce, a local policeman and Sweet Tea regular . . . and someone I’d probably even call a friend. We’ve had a mild flirtation thing going on for years, but I’ve always politely declined his invitations for dates—he’s just not my type. He’s nice enough and not bad looking, but the chemistry simply isn’t there for me. I do like him as a person though, so it’s not hard to engage in some friendly banter when he comes into the restaurant on a lunch break or after a shift. And, I’ll admit, the little crush he has on me has resulted in a favor or two when I’ve needed some inside information from within the police department . . . or maybe it’s the occasional complimentary slice of peach pie or sweet potato cheesecake that I offer him after a meal that keeps me in his good graces.

  “Jack,” I say. “Hey. Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Me? I’m a cop. More like fancy meeting you here.”

  “I have official business,” I reply with a laugh. “I helped cater the party that was held here over the weekend.”

  “Yeah, I know. Hutchins told me you were here the other day.”

  “Did he mention how happy he was to see me?”

  Jack grins. “Yeeeah . . . not so much. He’s in the house now with two other officers.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Um . . . I’m not sure.”

  I tilt my head and raise my eyebrows at him, giving him my “cut the crap, would you?” look. “No, really . . . what’s happening? I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I really don’t know much. Since they found the gun—”

  “They found the gun?”

  “Oh gosh. I’ve already said too much.”

  “When did they find the gun?”

  “I think I’ve said enough, Halia. You should probably go until we wrap things up here.”

  “Wrap up what?”

  “Honestly, Halia, I’m not
sure. I was asked to wait outside and told Hutchins would radio if he needs me.”

  “So he’s in there with two other officers, and you’ve been called to the scene, too? Something must be going down.”

  “Probably.”

  I smile and sort of reprimand him, but in a joking way. “I know you know more than you’re telling me, Jack. Come on, it will be all over the news in an hour, so I’m going to hear about it sooner or later.”

  “I really don’t have all the details, Halia. All I know is that, based on the condition of her body, we’ve determined that Monique was shot about midnight . . . somewhere between eleven forty-five and twelve fifteen. And the team did some more searching this morning and found the gun under some leaves in the little wooded area between the road and the house. They traced it back to Monique’s husband.”

  “Nathan shot her?”

  “Not necessarily. We traced the gun to him as the owner, but that does not necessarily mean he discharged the bullet that killed Ms. Dupree.”

  “Huh.” I try to process what I’ve just learned. “They said on the news that they think she was shot from the front lawn, right?”

  “Yeah. I guess that’s public knowledge. With all those trees along the road, the killer would not have been able to get a clean line of sight to the front of the house from anywhere else. Forensics determined the gun was likely shot from the far end of the lawn . . . either from barely inside the wooded area or at the edge. That’s really all I know, Halia. Hutchins is in there now questioning Mr. Tucker. I’m just waiting around in case they need backup.” Jack turns and looks at the house and then back at me. “You really should go before Hutchins comes back out. You can return another time and snoop around.”

  “Why does no one believe me when I say I’m here for my stuff? Why does everyone assume I’m here to snoop around?”

  Now it’s Jack’s turn to give me the same “cut the crap” look I sent in his direction moments earlier.

  “Okay . . . fine,” I groan, and take a few steps toward my van, only because it actually will be better for me to come back and poke around when Detective Hutchins is not here. I won’t be able to obtain any good information with the detective babysitting me. “It was good to see you, Jack. You’ll come by the restaurant soon, I hope?” I open the door to my van and step inside.

  “Of course.”

  “We’ve got spare ribs and fried okra on special tonight.” I am hoping to entice him to come by Sweet Tea this evening, so I can find out firsthand if anything noteworthy happens after I leave here.

  “Really?” he says. “That sounds so good, but I’m on until midnight.”

  “Okay. Swing by another time.” I close the door, give Jack a quick wave, and start the ignition. The driveway is quite wide, which gives me space to turn the van around rather than try to steer it in reverse all the way to the road.

  When I reach the end of the driveway, I think about what Jack said . . . about the murderer shooting Monique from the edge of the wooded area. I look both ways, and I’m about to pull out onto the street when I just can’t help myself—I put the car in park, quickly hop out, and begin walking along the tree-lined edge of the expansive front lawn. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but another pair of eyes scoping out the area where the fatal bullet was likely shot can’t hurt.

  “You really shouldn’t be doing that, Halia,” Jack calls to me.

  “I’ll only be a minute,” I holler back, and continue to mill about on the grass. I’m alternating between looking down at the well-kept lawn and to my right into the trees to see if anything catches my attention. I don’t see anything out of the ordinary until I notice something sparkling near my feet. At first it looks like a tiny bead or button, but when I bend over and examine the object more closely, I find the source of the reflecting late afternoon sunlight to be a single red sequin. I pick it up, give it a closer look, and immediately think of Odessa in her flashy red gown. Sequin in hand, I walk briskly back to the van, turn it around, and head back up the driveway. I’m barely out of the car when I see Detective Hutchins emerge from the house, looking, shall we say, “less than thrilled” to see me.

  “Ms. Watkins! Please remove yourself from the premises now.”

  I don’t have a chance to respond before I hear Nathan shouting, “I will sue you! I’ll sue the entire police department. You have no idea who you’re dealing with!” he yells as he’s led out of the house by two policemen. His hands are cuffed behind his back as he rants, but he doesn’t seem to be physically resisting the officers.

  As the two men direct Nathan toward the empty squad car, Detective Hutchins hastily approaches me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say before he has a chance to read me the riot act. “Lena told me to come by today to pick up my things . . . my catering supplies. I had no idea the police would still be on the property. Really!” Nathan continues to bluster while I’m talking, so I raise my voice to be heard over his barking. “But I had a quick look around and actually did find something.” I hand the sequin to Detective Hutchins.

  “What’s that?!” Nathan calls, squinting from the short distance to see what I’m handing the detective as one of the officers lowers him into the back seat of the police car.

  “Hmm.” Detective Hutchins holds the item between his thumb and forefinger and gives it a look.

  “That’s one of those sparkly things . . . one of those sparkly things from a dress . . .” Nathan calls, apparently unfamiliar with the word “sequin.” “Odessa!” he yells. “She had that glittery red dress on the night of the party, and I saw her headed back in this direction on my way to the convention center.” He looks up at the officer who’s about to close the car door. “You should be going after her, not me!” He then shouts, “What other reason would Odessa Thornton have for being on the front lawn? That red twinkly thing came off her dress. Every other guest at the party was in white. It had to be her!”

  When the car door finally closes, drowning out Nathan’s words, Detective Hutchins takes another look at the sequin and hands it to Jack. “Bag this, please,” he says.

  Jack takes the sequin and walks toward his car while the other vehicle, with Nathan still raging in the back seat, begins to pull out of the driveway.

  “Is that true?” Detective Hutchins asks me as we watch the squad car make a left onto the road. “What Mr. Tucker was saying about Ms. Thornton wearing a red dress with those sparkly things on—”

  “They are called sequins,” I say. Apparently, the detective is not familiar with the term either. “And yes, Odessa’s dress was covered in them the night of the white party.”

  “If it was a white party, why was she wearing a red dress?”

  “Because women are complicated, Detective,” I respond.

  “So I’ve learned.” He shifts his eyes in a way that seems to imply that he’s learned of such complications via his interactions with me. “What was the nature of Ms. Dupree and Ms. Thornton’s relationship?”

  “Odessa was a friend . . . or a . . . um . . . honestly, I don’t know what she was to Monique. She owns Salon Soleil, which isn’t far from here. She and Monique used to work together many years ago and still had some sort of business relationship. Odessa seems to have been in Monique’s social circle, but at the same time, they appeared to dislike each other immensely. As I mentioned the other day, I heard them arguing about some business dealings the night of the party.”

  “Interesting,” he says. “Thank you for the information.”

  “Are you going to check her out?” I ask.

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’ll see?’” I ask. “Monique was shot from the front lawn, and a sequin that could have only come off Odessa’s dress is found on that lawn a few days later. It definitely seems like she should be a suspect.” I regret my words as soon as I’m done saying them. I know from experience that Detective Hutchins does not like it when I tell him how to do his job.

  “Oh, i
t does, does it?” he asks. “Not that I owe you any explanations, Ms. Watkins, but from this armchair detective work of yours, care to explain how Odessa got Nathan’s fingerprints on the gun . . . or how she got gunpowder residue on his hands?”

  I look at him feeling a little ridiculous. “Um . . . no. I guess not.”

  “Well then . . . perhaps you should get the catering supplies I’ve heard you mention a few dozen times and head home.”

  “Perhaps I should,” I agree, and excuse myself before walking up the front steps to the house and knock on the door.

  “Hello,” Lena says. “I’ll get your things. It will just be a minute.”

  “Thank you.” The door is open just wide enough for me slip through, so I step inside despite the lack of an invitation. “Do you mind if I wait here?”

  She doesn’t answer my question. She simply says, “I’ll be right back.”

  I take advantage of my brief time alone to give the foyer a quick once-over and poke my head into the living and dining rooms. All seems to be in order, but Monique was not killed in any of those rooms. What I really want to see is Monique’s den.

  I keep an ear out for any approaching footsteps, and when I don’t hear any, I hurry down the hall to the den to take a quick peek. At first glance, I don’t see anything of interest. The sofa has been removed from the room, and I wonder if it’s being held somewhere as evidence, or if Nathan threw it out given the debasing it must have suffered the night of Monique’s murder. If there were bloodstains anywhere else, they have since been cleaned up. I figure I’m about out of time when I see something red and fluffy on the rug next to one of the coffee table legs. I dash quickly into the room, see that the something is a red feather, and pick it up. I guess it’s nowhere near as incriminating as the sequin on the front lawn—Odessa was losing feathers all over the house the night of Monique’s death, but she was a guest at the party and had a reason to be in the house—she didn’t have a reason to be on the front lawn at the edge of the woods . . . at least not an honorable reason.