Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce

by A. L. Herbert

  “Rodney Morrissey?”

  “Yes. So you’ve heard about that?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for me to answer. “He’s been rumored to have killed clients who haven’t paid him back in a timely fashion, but the feds have never been able to get enough solid evidence on him to make an arrest. He knew I was working on getting the money I owed him, though. Monique and I simply didn’t have that much liquid cash—it’s all tied up in the company. It was going to take some time, but Mr. Morrissey was well aware that it was coming. I didn’t need to kill my wife to get the money.”

  “And I’m guessing you don’t have an alibi or the police would not be holding you here.”

  “I do have an alibi . . . mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  “Plenty of people can vouch for me being at the convention center until eleven thirty Saturday night, and I was on my way back from there when Monique was shot. But the police say I had time to get home, fire the gun, and wait several minutes before calling them. They say, given traffic conditions, it should have only taken me about a half hour to get home, but it was late, and I wasn’t paying attention. I missed the exit onto Suitland Parkway and had to go farther up 295 to turn around . . . and I was tired and driving slowly, so the whole trip took almost an hour. I got home about twelve thirty and called the police as soon as I found Monique.”

  “That’s a lot to . . . um . . . a lot to believe.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s the truth. The last time I saw my gun, it was on the top shelf of the bedroom closet. Monique could have told any number of people where I kept it. There were seventy-some odd people in our house the night of the white party. Any one of them could have snuck up to the bedroom and taken it.”

  “But you think it was Odessa?”

  “I don’t know why else she’d circle back to our house after the party. But I guess I don’t know exactly why she’d kill Monique, either. They sparred with each other all the time, but I think they both got a kick out of it. They’d been . . . what’s the word? Not rivals exactly . . .” He thinks for a moment. “Frenemies. They’d been frenemies for well over twenty years.” He adjusts himself in the chair. “I don’t know who else would have killed her. And you found that sparkly bauble thing from her dress. I heard you tell Detective Hutchins that you found it on the lawn.”

  “The sequin. Yes, it was at the far end of the lawn.”

  “How else would it get there if it didn’t come off Odessa’s dress?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe I could do a little checking around and see what I can find out, but before I do, I need to ask you something.”

  Nathan looks back at me but doesn’t respond.

  “I’m assuming you have access to a TV in here. You must have seen the footage of Maurice on the news, making claims about you being abusive toward Monique. I actually saw a bruise underneath her eye the night of the party when I was up in the bedroom with her.” I hear Nathan take in a deep breath. I can tell he’s anticipating my question. “I have to ask: Is what Maurice said true?”

  Nathan’s response is a long silence. He seems to be trying to think of something to say . . . some way to spin his behavior, but I know enough to know that if the allegations were not true, he would have immediately denied them. He opens his mouth, about to offer whatever version of the truth he’s concocted in his head, but I don’t give him the opportunity.

  “I’m not sure I can help you, Mr. Tucker,” I say as I get up from the table, when what I really want to say is “I’m not sure I want to help you.”

  Chapter 24

  “So, you really think Nathan is innocent?” Wavonne asks me from the passenger seat in my van.

  “Not necessarily, but I’m not convinced he’s guilty, either . . . especially given the evidence implicating Odessa,” I respond as I turn into a small shopping center off of Crain Highway. “Whether Nathan actually murdered Monique or not, I would expect him to deny it. But it’s the look that came over his face when I asked him about being violent toward her that makes me think he may not have killed her. When I asked him about the rumors of his abuse, he had guilt written all over his face. That look—that ‘face of guilt’—was not there when he denied having anything to do with Monique’s murder. I just don’t think he’s a very good liar.”

  “So you agreed to help him? That’s why we’re goin’ to see Odessa?”

  “Honestly, Wavonne, I’m not that interested in helping a man who beat his wife, but I won’t be able to sleep at night if I don’t at least feel out Odessa and see what I can find out. Abusive men like Nathan belong in prison, but if he didn’t kill Monique, I’d like to make sure whoever did joins him there.” I slide the van into an open space and move the gear shift to park. “All right, let’s go see what we can find out about one Ms. Odessa Thornton,” I say as we step out of the car and approach the shopping center.

  “Fancy,” Wavonne says when we walk into Salon Soleil.

  “Sure is.” I look around and take in the granite floors, sleek white furnishings, and modern chandeliers dripping with long rectangular crystals. “I hate to say it, but it sort of puts Latasha’s shop to shame, doesn’t it?”

  “Yep. But I’m sure you have to pay for all this swank. A wet set probably sets you back seventy bucks at a bougie place like this.”

  “A hundred actually,” we hear from a voice behind us. “Wet sets start at a hundred dollars. Bricklay rollers or flexi rods are even more.”

  We turn around. “Odessa! So good to see you,” I say. “Where did you come from?” The woman is like a cat—I didn’t see her anywhere when we walked in and, next thing you know, she’s right behind us, listening to our conversation. Of course, she’s impeccably dressed in a form-fitting floral print dress and suede heels.

  “It’s nice to see you two as well.” She seems to struggle with how to physically greet us—like she doesn’t know us well enough for a hug, but knows us too well for a handshake, so she just keeps talking. “I was in the supply closet doing a little inventory when I saw you come in. What can I do for you?”

  “We were in the neighborhood and saw the sign. I guess we figured, after meeting you and hearing about it, we should come in and see what all the fuss is about. Salon Soleil is a charming place.”

  “Thank you. It’s pretty much my life’s work.”

  “You done good, girl,” Wavonne says. “This place is high-class.”

  Odessa laughs. “So you said. I believe the term I heard you use was ‘bougie.’ ”

  “Nothin’ wrong with bougie. I’d be bougie as all get-out if I could afford it.”

  “Thank you, Wavonne. Things around here may not be quite up to snuff at the moment. I haven’t been giving my business the attention it needs the last few days . . . you know . . . with Monique’s death and all. It’s been hard to focus and be professional. But, when you own the salon, you don’t really have the luxury of bereavement leave. I have to keep going. If I don’t, clients will find other hairdressers.” She turns her head to me. “But I guess I don’t need to tell you about the trials of owning a business.”

  I smile. “No. I can definitely relate to what you said. Time off is rare. Sick days, snow days, vacation days . . . I haven’t seen any of those in years.” I let my smile fade. “I am so sorry to hear about Monique. Were you two close?”

  Odessa lifts her chin and looks up as if she’s pondering my question. “Close? Yeah, we were definitely close. That doesn’t mean we always got along, though. Monique and I . . . we had a complicated relationship, but I’ve known her for more than twenty years. She was like my sister . . . sometimes more of a wicked stepsister than devoted sibling, but we met in high school and started out in the cosmetology trenches together back when box braids and the finger wave were all the rage—that’s how long we’ve known each other. I’m honestly having trouble imagining life without her.”

  I’m trying to read her the same way I did Nathan when he talked about Monique, but she’s not giving anything away. She doesn�
�t seem to be stricken with grief, but she does seem to be genuinely affected by Monique’s death.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d really rather not talk about it right now. I’ve got a long day ahead of me, and I don’t want to get distracted. Losing focus leads to leaving the relaxer on too long or moving too slow with the hot comb. Sisters might forgive lying, stealing, cheating with their husbands, but if you screw up their hair you better get out of town and find a good witness protection program.”

  “Of course,” I say with a chuckle. “We understand. We won’t keep you. We just thought we’d take a peek at the place while we were out this way.”

  “I don’t have a client for a few minutes. I’d be happy to give you a tour.”

  “That would be great.”

  “So this is the reception area. As you can see, we’re well stocked with Hair by Monique products.” Odessa points toward the shelves behind the reception counter and along the walls in the waiting area. “And that’s our moneymaker,” she says pointing toward a locked glass case stocked with bundles of hair. “We’ve got Brazilian hair, Malaysian hair, and Peruvian hair . . . sew-in extensions, tape-in extensions, clip-on extensions . . .”

  “Damn, girl. That case must be worth a few thousand dollars,” Wavonne says.

  “Which is why it’s locked,” Odessa replies. “It’s all one hundred percent real human hair. No fake hair added. No shedding or tangling. The cuticles are all going in the same direction for a natural look. It can be styled with a flat iron, cut, curled, bleached, and dyed any color,” she adds, clearly giving us the same sales pitch she must give her clients. “Starts at a hundred dollars a bundle.”

  “You can close your mouth now, Wavonne,” I say, catching sight of Wavonne practically drooling at the display of hair.

  “I could do some damage in this place.”

  “I’m sure you could,” I agree as Odessa leads us away from the reception area and stops in the middle of the main hub of the salon. “And this is where all the magic happens,” she says, spreading her arms to showcase the two rows of styling chairs on either side of her.

  I recognize some of the stylists from the convention center, and from Monique’s party. Much like Odessa, they all have perfect hair and makeup and are dressed to the nines in stylish clothes and high heels. Not a single one of them is wearing a smock over their designer threads while they cut, cream, and curl.

  “Your stylists are so put together. They all look like they recently stepped out of a salon after getting the works themselves.”

  “Thank you. I run a tight ship. They know better than to show up to work looking less than perfect. Image is very important. If you want to be the best, you have to look the part.”

  “I guess, but my feet hurt just looking at them. How do they work on their feet all day in those heels?”

  Odessa laughs. “You’d be surprised what you can do with a little moleskin, some padded inserts, and an anti-blister stick.”

  Odessa continues the tour and shows us the washing stations, the manicure tables, and the chemical mixing counter before taking us down a small hallway lined with doors in the back of the salon.

  “These are the treatment rooms for massages, waxings, and facials.”

  Odessa knocks on one of the doors and pops it open. Wavonne and I peer inside and just seeing the room gives me a sense of calm. A soft, almost misty light shines on a massage table situated against a wall paneled in a light buttery wood. Some candles (battery-operated, I assume) are flickering on the counter next to a pile of fluffy white towels while new age music plays softly in the background.

  “It’s so inviting. I could crawl in there and take a nap.”

  “I’d be lying if I say I never did that,” Odessa admits. “That’s pretty much the tour. Can I get you ladies anything before you go? We have a cappuccino maker, or can I offer you some sparkling water.”

  I decline the offer before Wavonne has a chance to say anything, and as we fall in step with Odessa back to the reception area, I try to think of a way to bring Monique up again. The tour was nice, but it’s certainly not the real reason I came here. I need to determine if what Nathan said about Odessa going back to Monique’s house after the party is true. If she has an alibi that would basically show Nathan to be a liar, and we can put this whole thing to rest.

  “Must be hard not to think of Monique,” I say when we reach the front counter, “with all her products on display.” I look around at all the bright pink boxes and bottles with Monique’s face on them.

  “It can be, but I try to keep busy, which isn’t hard around here.”

  “You heard that Nathan was arrested?” I ask while Wavonne steps away to peruse the glass case of hair and the shelves lined with Monique’s brand of beauty supplies.

  “Yes. I saw it on the news. I’m not surprised. That man was no good from day one.”

  “I can’t say I found him terribly likable myself, but I’m not sure it’s a closed case at this point. I think the police are still interviewing guests from the big white party. I guess any one of us could be a suspect. I’m glad I have Wavonne as an alibi,” I joke. “I imagine the police may even come by here. I’m guessing you have an alibi as well?” I ask, and yes, it does come off as awkward and accusatory as you think.

  There’s a shift in Odessa’s demeanor, and it’s not a good one. “Are you seriously asking me if I have an alibi for when Monique was killed? Is that why you came here?”

  “No . . . well, not exactly. Please don’t take offense. I’m certainly not insinuating that you killed Monique, but if I end up being interviewed by the police, I’ll have to let them know what I heard the night of the party,” I say even though I already told Detective Hutchins about her argument with Monique.

  “What are you talking about? What did you hear?”

  “I happened to overhear you and Monique arguing in the hallway near the basement steps.”

  “So what? Monique and I argued all the time.”

  “Monique said something about ending an arrangement you two had, and you didn’t seem too happy about it. Clearly, the arrangement she spoke of had something to do with money.”

  “We were just talking business. Monique always yammered about ending our arrangement when she had a few cocktails and was annoyed with me. It was nothing.”

  “May I ask what this arrangement was?”

  Odessa groans. “If you must know, I was one of the first salon owners to carry Monique’s products. I had her stuff on my shelves long before she became a national phenomenon. She rewarded me by selling me her line at a steep discount on the wholesale price. In exchange I agreed to only carry Hair by Monique products. As you can see, there are no competing brands in my store. Whenever she got in a snit, she threatened to end our little deal, but she always came around. Even with the discount, I was making a lot of money for Monique and giving her great exposure. I run the top salon in the wealthiest majority–African American county in the country. She wanted her products on my shelves as much as I did.”

  “I guess that all makes sense, and I’m sure you’re telling the truth,” I lie—I’m not sure of anything at the moment. “But if the police start making rounds, you do know they are going to ask where you were at the time Monique was shot?”

  “That’s fine by me. I went out with the girls after the party. I was rockin’ that dress and looked too good to go straight home. We had a nice time at Pose, didn’t we, Amber?” Odessa asks one of the stylists, who’s stepped behind the counter to check out a customer, an older gentleman in khaki pants and a polo shirt.

  “Pose?” Wavonne says stepping back over in my direction. “I’ve been meaning to go there with some of my girls. What’s it like?”

  “Meh. Expensive drinks. Hip-hop music. Elbow-to-elbow crowds,” Amber says as she pulls a few of Monique’s products off the shelf and starts ringing them up for the man. “But we had a good time. Drank a few cocktails, danced a little . . . broke a few hearts. We ended up closing
the place down,” she adds, taking notice of the curious looks Wavonne and I are giving the products on the counter—products clearly meant for women. She points to one of the boxes, and says to the man, “Remind your wife that this is the one she should work into her hair after shampooing, from front to back. Then she can do the double strand twist I showed her last week.”

  “If I can remember all that,” the man replies, and hands Amber his credit card, which she slides through the reader. She prints a receipt to which he adds a generous tip. Then he exits the salon with his bag of goodies.

  “We should let you get back to work,” I say to Monique while Amber steps away from the counter and moves on to her next client. “But can I ask you one more question?”

  She offers no verbal response. Instead, she cocks an eyebrow at me as if to say, “You’re really getting on my freaking nerves, but go ahead.”

  “The night of the white party, when you and Monique were talking, I heard her say that she wasn’t the only one with secrets. What did she mean by that? Did you know about her hair? Or lack thereof?”

  “If I told you about my and Monique’s secrets, they wouldn’t be secrets, now would they?”

  “She’s got you there, Sherlock,” Wavonne says.

  “I told you, Monique and I have known each other for decades. Of course we have secrets, but I can assure you, Halia, they certainly did not involve anything so salacious that they would lead to murder.” Odessa says this in a tone that makes the whole idea of her killing Monique sound absurd. “But I will say our secrets had nothing to do with her hair—I was as in the dark about the little Florida Evans situation she had happening on her head as anyone. That was apparently a closely guarded secret.”

  “It sure was, but I guess the thing about secrets is . . . they always seem to come out.”