He takes a sip of the tea. “Very refreshing.”
“Glad you like it. What can I get you for lunch?”
“I’m going to behave myself and have the grilled chicken salad.”
“Sure. It will go nicely with the tea.”
Our grilled chicken salad is a fine offering—mixed greens, chicken, red onions, poached pears, and goat cheese tossed in a homemade balsamic vinaigrette that we sprinkle with candied pecans and fresh ground pepper . . . but a salad is a salad is a salad. It’s a necessity to offer a selection of them on my menu for my calorie-conscious diners, and I try to make the best of it, but I’ll be the first to admit my heart is not really in those particular menu items. My passion is for hearty soul food, so salads are sort of the redheaded stepchild of my menu—I offer them, but not with a lot of enthusiasm.
I depart the table to key in Maurice’s order, and when I return several minutes later with a heaping plate of greens and a pitcher of tea to refill his glass, he’s looking at his phone.
“Here we are.” I set down the plate and begin to refill his glass.
“Looks very nice,” he says, which is a far cry from the mouth drops, “wows” and “oh my Gods” I get when I set down a plate of my fried chicken and waffles or macaroni and cheese topped with bacon in front of my customers, but even the best salads are like my clothes from Eddie Bauer and LL Bean . . . practical and high quality, but they mostly just make you go “meh.”
“Mind if I sit with you for a bit?”
Maurice puts his phone down. “Of course not, but I hope you’ll have some lunch as well.”
“I’m not hungry at the moment, but I’d love to chat.” I take a seat across from him. “How have you been . . . you know, with the loss of Monique?”
“I’m trying to put on a brave face and get on with things. I’ve even got a new business venture brewing, but it’s hard to keep it together sometimes. I worked with Monique for years. We were dear friends and confidants, and I should have somehow made her leave Nathan.” There’s a change in his demeanor or his mannerisms . . . or something when he talks about Monique. The sardonic quality that usually abounds in his voice is absent, and there’s a look of longing or regret on his face. “He’d hit her as recently as last week. I had to help her cover a bruise when I did her makeup before the white party. She told me that Nathan had gotten a little ‘handsy’ with her in the elevator back in their apartment building in New York a few days earlier. She would always say that he got ‘handsy’ or ‘was in a snit and didn’t know his own strength’ or that ‘he meant to hit the wall’ and it was her fault that she didn’t get out of the way—she had a whole stable full of excuses to explain her bruises, but they all meant one thing—that Nathan had beat her. I know she would have killed me if I went to the police, and I’m sure she would not have cooperated with any investigation. But I will always wonder if she might still be alive if I had done something more than just encourage . . . push . . . sometimes beg her to leave Nathan.”
“Realistically, how could you have made her leave Nathan . . . or made her do anything? People have been trying to get women to leave abusive relationships since the beginning of time. It sounds like you tried, but sometimes you simply can’t help people who are not ready to be helped.”
“I guess,” he says, his eyes still distant. “But once she told me about Nathan buying a gun, I should have reported his abuse to the police . . . or . . . I don’t know, done something. She just would not hear of leaving him.” Maurice pokes his fork into the plate of leaves and takes a bite. As he chews, I catch him staring longingly at a plate of chicken and dumplings as it travels past him on the way to another table. “God, I am so hungry,” he says quietly to himself more than me while stabbing a piece of grilled chicken with his fork.
“Why wouldn’t she leave him?”
“I don’t know. She always said she was afraid it would hurt her image . . . her brand, if her customers found out about her tumultuous marriage, but I’m not sure if that was really why she . . .” Maurice lets his voice trail off. “You know, I really shouldn’t be talking about Monique’s business right now. The police asked me to keep what I know on the QT.”
“So you’ve spoken to the police?”
“Yes, they saw me talking about Nathan on the news and then showed up at my house asking questions.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Same thing I told the reporter—that Nathan was abusive and should be the prime murder suspect, and that . . .” He stops midsentence a second time. “I really need to shut up, Halia. I’m not supposed to be talking about this stuff.”
“Sure. I understand.”
Once again, his eyes wistfully follow a plate of food bound for another table—this time it’s our smothered pork chop platter, the same one we had on special the night Monique dined here. I think he actually frowns when his gaze leaves the gravy-laden chops paired with fried apples and coleslaw and returns to his salad.
“Why don’t we talk about something else,” I suggest as he grudgingly lifts another forkful of lettuce to his mouth. “How about Odessa?”
“What about her?”
“I’m curious about her relationship with Monique. Do you think she could have had something to do with Monique’s murder?”
“No. I don’t think so. It seems pretty clear that Nathan is the killer, but I probably shouldn’t be running my fat mouth about Odessa, either.”
“So the police told you to keep quiet about her as well? Do you think maybe they haven’t closed the book on Nathan? Maybe they are looking into Odessa as well?”
“Really, Halia. I’m sorry, but I just can’t talk about it.” He slightly lifts his nose. “What is that wonderful smell?”
“I think it’s the pan of cornbread that was just delivered to the table behind you.”
I watch as Maurice takes in the scent of cornmeal and butter and sour cream, and that’s when I get an idea. “You know, maybe I will have some lunch,” I say, and signal for Darius, one of my long-time servers, to come over and ask him to bring me today’s special.
“What sides can I bring with it?” Darius asks.
“Surprise me,” I respond. “Maybe bring some cornbread as well.”
I make small talk with Maurice about our shopping trip and the white party . . . and the weather, until Darius returns and sets down a cast-iron pan of piping hot cornbread and a plate stacked with two breaded and fried pork chops covered in a rich gravy seasoned with salt, black pepper, onion powder, garlic, paprika, allspice, and a touch of cayenne pepper to give it a little heat. I’m also treated to some side plates of thick-cut fried sweet potato wedges and collard greens.
I can’t help but feel sorry for Maurice, his half-eaten salad in front of him, as I see his mouth ajar while I use my knife to slice into the cornbread and lift a piece to my plate. It settles into the gravy as I cut off a little portion. Maurice’s eyes follow my fork, heavy with gravy-covered cornbread, as it moves from my plate to my mouth. He looks like a hungry puppy waiting for a crumb to drop from the table.
“Monique really liked my cornbread when she was here last week.” I start to cut into one of the pork chops, through the thin coating of flour into the tender meat, and, from the way Maurice is looking at my plate, you would think there was a million dollars in cash on it. “Odessa did as well. Wavonne and I went to see her the other day.”
“Oh,” he replies, and I can tell my little plan is working—he is clearly distracted by the sight and fragrance of my food.
“She mentioned rumors of an affair between Monique and Alex. Do you know anything about that?”
“Between who?” he asks, a little dazed, too fixated on my plate to hear what I’m saying. He’s wearing the same expression I’ve seen on Wavonne’s face when she’s on whatever silly diet plan she’s signed up for (and sticks with for all of about three days). It’s the look she gets when she’s eating some prepackaged nonsense from Jenny Craig or Nutrisystem in
front of the television, and a Red Lobster commercial comes on. I guess it’s the look anyone would get when they’re forcing down something healthy and low calorie while the TV is showing plates of fried fish and snow crab legs being cracked open and dipped in drawn butter.
“Alex and Monique? Do you think they were having an affair?”
“Probably,” he says, watching me lift a sweet potato wedge and dip it in some sour cream. “Who wouldn’t have an affair with Alex if given the chance? I stumbled upon them a time or two when they abruptly ceased conversation as I walked into the room. In those moments I always got the feeling that whatever they were discussing did not have to deal with meal planning or other chef duties.” His mouth is now hanging open as he stares at me while I pop a sour cream–covered piece of crispy sweet potato in my mouth.
For the next few minutes, I continue to eat my lunch and ask Maurice questions while he’s too busy trying to keep from drooling to have his wits about him. He observes my every move . . . from my plate, to my fork, to my mouth, and back again. Feeling like I’ve more than adequately distracted him from the police instructions to keep quiet about Monique, I decide to inquire about the topic I’m most curious about.
“So . . . if I may ask, what was the deal with Monique’s hair . . . or lack of hair? You had to know about it if you were her hairdresser.”
“Of course I knew, but I’m about the only one who did. And she wanted to keep it that way. That’s why I was the only person who styled her wigs. And the only person, other than herself, who did her makeup . . . she didn’t want any other artists getting that close to her face and detecting any mesh.”
“Why did she wear wigs . . . you know, instead of using her own products to straighten her hair and wear it long?”
“She never would give me the full story on that. She said it just took too much time and work to manage long hair for all her appearances, but I always sensed there was something more going on. It was convenient though—her not having to be present when her hair was styled. I could coif her wigs while she was off doing one of any number of things and then take a few minutes to switch them out, place them properly, and give them a quick touch-up . . . no fuss, no muss.”
“You said you were about the only one who knew about Monique’s situation. Who else knew? Nathan had to know. Anyone else?” I ask, realizing I’ve finished my entire lunch and am out of culinary diversions. “Did Alex know? Odessa?”
Maurice, now free of the quasi-hypnotic spell I had him under, halfheartedly stabs his fork into the salad he’s largely been ignoring up until now. “I think I’ve already said too much,” he says. “Why all the questions, anyway?”
“I’m just a curious person and, honestly, despite all the evidence pointing in Nathan’s direction, I’m not one hundred percent convinced he killed Monique.”
“Really? Why is that?”
I take a breath. “You shared some information with me, so I’ll do the same for you. I went back to Monique’s house a few days ago, and it’s a bit of a long story about how I ended up at the edge of the front lawn, but while I was there I came across a red sequin in a spot that could have very likely been where Monique’s fatal shooter fired the gun.”
“A red sequin? Like the ones all over Odessa’s dress the night of the white party?” he asks. “Hmmm . . . very interesting.”
“When I saw Odessa the other day she claimed to have an alibi at the time Monique was killed . . . that she and some of her stylists went to a club in the city after the party. They said they stayed until closing. I think the club was called Pose.”
“Pose?” Maurice questions. “That tired club closed months ago.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. You know how it is with nightclubs in DC. They come and go with the wind.”
“Not really. My nightclub days are long gone, but that’s very interesting that the club Odessa used as her alibi is out of business.”
“Interesting and quite suspicious.”
“Indeed,” I say, and I’m about to start with my questions again, but if I’m going to get any good information out of Maurice, I need to bring out the big guns.
Once again, I wave for Darius. When he arrives at the table I motion for him to stoop down, and whisper in his ear. Shortly thereafter, he returns to the table with a heaping slice of Momma’s warm pineapple upside-down cake topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. I look on as Maurice glances down at the remnants of his salad, before lifting his head and eyeing the warm golden cake as the ice cream begins to ever so slightly melt on top of a lightly browned, glazed pineapple ring.
“You’ve been so good and had the salad for lunch. If you feel like treating yourself, please, have some.” I scoot the plate closer to him, feeling a little guilty for playing him like this, but it seems to be an effective way to gather information from him. And it’s not like I’m enticing him with dessert to get some juicy gossip or fashion tips—this is murder we are dealing with.
Maurice licks his lips, moves his fork in the direction of the cake, and then pulls it back again. “I really had better not.”
“Okay. I admire your discipline,” I compliment, before taking advantage of his altered state of mind and asking more questions. “So, do you happen to know anything about any secrets between Monique and Odessa? Odessa claims she didn’t know Monique was wearing wigs.” I scoop up a spoonful of my dessert, careful to get a little bit of cake, pineapple, and ice cream on the spoon. I hold it in front of my lips, about level with Maurice’s eyes.
“She did, did she?” His gaze is glued to the tip of my spoon.
“She said she was as in the dark about Monique’s lack of hair as anyone.” I scoot the plate toward him again. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”
He tries to resist for another second or two, but his hankering gets the best of him. He grabs my plate and slides it all the way over to his side of the table.
“Well, Odessa is lying,” he blurts out as he uses his fork to hurriedly slice off a hefty scoop of cake and shove it in his mouth. He shuts his eyes and a look of pure delight comes across his face. Then he swiftly attacks the cake with his fork again . . . and again . . . and again. “Of course she knew Monique was wearing wigs.”
Chapter 27
“If Nathan didn’t do it, someone needs to find out who killed Monique soon because I can’t keep leaving the restaurant trying to chase down information,” I say to Wavonne from the passenger seat of my van. I asked her to drive so I can poke around on my phone on the way to making a second visit to Odessa’s salon.
“I know you think Sweet Tea will crumble to the ground if you ain’t there for an hour or two, but I suspect it will still be standin’ when we get back.” Wavonne adjusts herself in the driver’s seat. I always insist that she wear her seat belt and seat belts were simply not made for women with breasts as abundant as Wavonne’s. “So, per Maurice, Odessa knew that Monique was totally frontin’ with that bogus straight hair? How’d he know that?”
“He didn’t say. I tried questioning him further, but once he devoured the pineapple upside-down cake, he regained a little self-control and wasn’t so free-flowing with the information anymore. That’s why I want to go back to Salon Soleil. I checked, and Maurice was right—the club Odessa said she was at when Monique was killed closed back in August. So not only did she lie about her whereabouts when Monique was shot, if Maurice is telling the truth, she also lied about not knowing that Monique was going au naturel under some wigs.”
“Some really good wigs. I don’t know much . . . but I know wigs. And the ones Monique wore were grade A. I had no idea she had a mesh cap full of hair from some bald-headed chick in China on her head. Although Monique had some coin, so maybe she got the really good Eastern European stuff.” When I don’t respond, Wavonne turns her head away from the road toward me. “What are you looking for?” she asks while I scroll through the screen on my phone.
“I’m poking around for some information on Mauric
e. I got to thinking about him after he left our little lunch, and I remembered that, when we went shopping, he was pretty keen to gossip, but I had to practically put a spell on him with my food to get him to talk about Monique yesterday. I’m wondering if his being so tight-lipped was really about instructions from the police, or if maybe he’s not completely innocent when it comes to Monique’s murder, and he didn’t want to say anything that might implicate himself. He was awfully quick to throw Nathan under the bus, and he admitted to knowing there was a gun in the house. But, at the moment, I’m not aware of any motive he’d have for killing Monique. He seemed to genuinely like her, and she signed his paychecks. I can’t think of a reason he would want her dead.” I put the phone in my lap.
“Did you find anything?”
“Not yet.”
“See if you can find out where he learned to style wigs. I’d like to pay that place a visit.”
I pick the phone back up and start pecking on the screen again. “You raise a good point. It might be interesting to know where he went to cosmetology school.”
“Maybe I can find a hairdresser who went to the same school as Maurice and get a few of my wigs styled like Monique’s. I’d call up Maurice himself, but I doubt I can afford whatever he charges. I do the best I can with my wig comb and spritz bottle, but some professional styling would be nice. And I could use some wigs that are a bit sturdier and stay in place better,” Wavonne says while I continue to try to dig up whatever information I can on Maurice. “They can be very com-promisin’ in certain situations. Sometimes when I start gettin’ busy with a date, I’ve got to tell him to take it down a notch, unless he wants to pay to have my wig detangled. Remember Jerome . . . that guy I dated for a few months who used to work at the sporting goods store a few doors down from Sweet Tea?”
“Uh-huh,” I respond, not really paying attention to what she’s chattering about.
“One night me and Jerome were, you know . . . kickin’ it on the sofa . . . messin’ around a little bit . . . things got a little heated,” she says. “Next think I knew, my wig came loose against the sofa arm. I spent the next ten minutes trying to act all eager and enthralled when what I was really tryin’ to do was shimmy my way back into my wig without him noticing it came off.”
Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce Page 17
