Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce

by A. L. Herbert

  “Lovely story, Wavonne.” I’m still only half listening as I toggle through websites for cosmetology licensing agencies.

  “Not goin’ through that again. Now I make sure I got a comb in the back of my wig, and that the straps are pulled nice and tight. I think I might get me one of those wig gripper thingamajigs, too.” Wavonne looks in my direction as she turns the van into the parking lot in front of Odessa’s salon. “You’re not listening to a word I’m sayin’, are you?”

  “Bits and pieces,” I respond, still skimming the screen on my phone. “You were ‘kickin’ it’ with Jerry or Jason . . . Johnathan? Your wig came loose . . . something about ‘shimmying’ and a ‘wig gripper.’ ” I put the phone down. “Other than his current and a few former home addresses, I can’t find much of anything on Maurice . . . no history at any salon, no Facebook page, no Twitter account. And I can’t find any record of him even having a license as a hairdresser,” I say as Wavonne and I step out of the van. “That seems odd, don’t you think?”

  “Which part? The no Facebook page? The no Twitter account? The no license part?”

  “All of it, I guess,” I respond as we step up to the sidewalk in front of Salon Soleil. “Oh well . . . whatever. We’re here, so I guess we’ll turn our focus over to Odessa,” I add, opening the door and holding it for Wavonne. “Let’s see what we can find out.”

  Chapter 28

  “You are paying for this, right?” Wavonne confirms as the door to Salon Soleil swings shut behind us. “I can’t afford a bottle of nail polish at this uppity place.”

  “Yes. I’m paying . . . but only for a roller set . . . don’t get all crazy and stay away from the hair extensions display case. I’m not made of money.”

  “Well, hello,” Odessa says with a smile when we reach the counter. “I saw you guys on the books. What can we do for you today?” she asks, looking at us curiously.

  Odessa’s no fool—I’m sure she’s aware we are really only at her salon on a fact-finding mission and getting our hair done is just an excuse to be here, but she’s playing along for now.

  “We were so impressed with the salon last time we were here, we figured we’d treat ourselves. I’m just looking for a trim, and Wavonne wants a wash and set.”

  Odessa comes around to our side of the counter and looks closely at my hair. “May I?” she asks, stopping just shy of touching my hair.

  “Of course.”

  She runs her fingers through my hair. “I had you scheduled with Andrea, but I have some time between clients. I can do the trim. How about we add a little volume while we’re at it? No extra charge.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Odessa moves on to Wavonne. “Hmmm,” she muses, reaching for a lock of Wavonne’s hair and running the frayed ends through her fingers. “You’re scheduled with Amber. How about I ask her to do a quick dry cut to clean up these ends, and then we’ll have you spend some time under the steamer before we start with the curlers.”

  Wavonne looks at me. “You paying for all that, moneybags?”

  Odessa answers before I have a chance to. “No extra charge. Consider it a freebie for your first of what will, hopefully, be many visits.”

  Odessa calls Amber over and discusses the details about what she wants her to do with Wavonne’s hair. Amber then asks Wavonne a few questions while walking her over to a styling chair, and Odessa escorts me to the washbasins.

  “Use Monique’s Sheer Volume shampoo and conditioner,” Odessa says to the shampoo girl, and then turns to me as I get settled in the chair. “I’ll see you in a few minutes. Tracy will take good care of you.”

  After Tracy washes and conditions my hair, and gives me a scalp massage like I’ve never had before, she accompanies me to Odessa’s chair, lays a smock over me, and snaps it behind my neck.

  “Naturally straight hair, eh?” Odessa says as she gently towel-dries my head and starts running a comb through my hair. “Much as natural curls are becoming more popular, women with hair like yours are the envy of most of my clients. Why do you keep it so short?”

  “It’s not that short,” I protest with a smile. It’s not like I’m sporting a crew cut or a Grace Jones flat top—I’ve got a good six or seven inches of length before it starts tapering on the sides.

  Odessa laughs. “It’s very nice . . . sort of Robin Roberts . . . or Angela Bassett on that 9-1-1 show. It’s just that I have clients spending hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars to have hair attached to their head that you could simply grow.”

  “I’m too busy for long hair. I need something I can run a hair dryer over, give it a little spritz for hold, and get out the door. Maybe when I retire, I’ll grow it out.”

  “Okay . . . and if you ever get tired of it, you can cut it off and sell it,” Odessa jokes. “For now, we’ll just clip off the tips and give it a little more bulk.”

  “Is the Hair by Monique shampoo and conditioner Tracy used supposed to help with that?” Of course, I’m only asking to try to steer the conversation toward Monique, and question Odessa a little more gracefully than I did last time.

  “Yes. The shampoo is great for clearing any residue that can weigh down your hair and the conditioner has silk powder in it, which helps to separate hair for increased fullness. They’re great products. If you like them, we have them on sale. The smaller bottles are fifty dollars.”

  “Each?” bounds from my mouth almost involuntarily. I’m used to spending about four dollars a bottle on shampoo.

  “Yes, but, you’ll see . . . once we’re done. These products are worth the price.”

  “I guess that’s the reason Monique was worth millions.”

  Odessa chuckles. “Part of the reason anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her products are great. I’d carry them even if she didn’t give me a deal on them, but there’s plenty of high-quality brands on the market,” Odessa says. “You were at the hair show last week . . . you saw the thousands of products out there . . . many of them are just as good as Hair by Monique. Monique’s genius was in the marketing. She sold herself as much as her products.”

  “She did know how to grab the spotlight, so to speak. Was she always like that?”

  “A drama queen who hogged all the attention? Yes. She’s been like that since I met her.”

  “You met her in high school, right?”

  “Yes. We went to high school together, cosmetology school together, and worked at the same salon for a few years.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Nathan,” Odessa says, as if something in the room suddenly smells bad. “Nathan happened. She met him at a nightclub. . . Classics in Camp Springs . . . back in the nineties.”

  “Oh my God. I remember Classics. That was back in the day when I had the time and energy to get all gussied up and go out to the clubs.”

  “You probably crossed paths with Monique and me on more than one Friday night then.” Odessa gives my hair another comb, runs a lock through her index and middle fingers, holds it in place, and shears the ends. “She hooked up with Nathan there one night. He was visiting from New York. One thing led to another and, next thing I knew, she up and moved to New York with him. We gradually lost touch . . . you know, those were the days before texting and Facebook. It was harder to keep track of out-of-town friends back then.” Odessa releases a big dollop of mousse into one hand and works it into my hair. “I hadn’t seen or heard from her in years until I came upon her at the Bronner Brothers show in Atlanta when she was first launching her product line. I had recently opened Salon Soleil. We were at a smaller location in Largo back then. We talked, and I agreed to sell some of her first products, one being Sleek, her straightening cream that became so popular.”

  “If Sleek worked so well and was such a success, why do you think Monique chose not to use it on her own hair?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe, much like yourself, she didn’t have time to style long hair every day.”

 
As Odessa reaches for the hair dryer, I roll my shoulders back in the chair and lift my head so my eyes meet hers in the mirror. “Did you really not know Monique had been wearing wigs for the past several years?”

  “I answered that question last time you were here, Halia.”

  “I know, but you told me some other things last time I was here as well . . . at least one of which turned out not to be true.”

  “And what was that?”

  “You said you and your friends went to Pose after the white party. Apparently, Pose closed a few months ago.”

  “Did it?” Odessa asks. If being caught in a lie has unnerved her, she sure isn’t showing it. “I guess it wasn’t Pose. Who can keep the names of nightclubs straight? Maybe it was Bliss or Ultrabar. One of the girls picked it. I just went along. I’d spent a small fortune on my dress. Seemed a shame to go straight home from the party. I was keen to go anywhere.”

  “Speaking of your dress, can I ask you another question?”

  “I’ll take one more question, Halia. Then I’m turning this hair dryer on to drown out the sound of anyone.”

  “I’m sure this seems like a strange thing to ask, but, by any chance, were you on Monique’s front lawn the night of the party?”

  “Her front lawn? No. Why?”

  I inhale deeply, and let it out, buying time to figure out how to politely bring up what I want to ask her about. “I found a red sequin, like the hundreds of red sequins on your dress the night of the white party, on the front lawn . . . at the far end, close to the road. Do you have any idea how a piece of your dress might have ended up there?”

  “No. Can’t say that I do.”

  “So you weren’t, at any point in the evening, on Monique’s front—”

  “I said one more question, Halia.”

  Odessa flicks on the hair dryer.

  “Fair enough,” I call over the loud roar.

  “Looks very nice, if I do say so myself,” Odessa says once she’s done drying my hair and has given the style a spray to hold it in place.

  “It really does,” I agree as she unsnaps the smock and lifts it away from me. “How come I can never get it to look this way at home?” I ask, wondering if maybe I should invest in a hair dryer like the one she used. “Where can I get a hair dryer like that?”

  “This a prototype Monique’s company was developing. It hasn’t gone on sale yet, and I’m not sure what will happen with it now that Monique is . . . is no longer with us.” Odessa lifts the hair dryer from the cabinet next to her and gives it a look. “It’s really something, though . . . 1,875 watts of power, and I think the airflow reaches eighty or ninety miles per hour.”

  “I’m not sure my van goes that fast,” I joke following her back toward the reception area. “I’ll take a seat in the waiting area until Wavonne is done.”

  “I hope you’re happy with the cut and style,” Odessa says, before pausing for a moment. “Though we both know that getting your hair cut is the least of the reasons you came here.”

  I smile awkwardly, but don’t say anything.

  “And just to confirm,” Odessa says. “No, I was not on Monique’s front lawn at any point during the night of the white party. I have no idea why there was a red sequin in the grass . . . maybe her landscaper bedazzles his mower or something. And yes, I got my nightclub names mixed up, but I assure you I had nothing to do with Monique’s death. And why are you still nosing around about Monique’s death anyway? The police wouldn’t still be holding Nathan if they were not convinced that he did it. Word on the street is that it was his gun with his prints that killed her . . . and his hands tested positive for gunpowder residue.”

  “Thank you, Odessa. I appreciate the information and do really like the haircut. You’re very talented,” I say, trying to make nice rather than actually answer her question.

  “You’re welcome,” Odessa says. “It was nice to see you again, Halia. Amber can check you and Wavonne out when they’re done.”

  After Odessa steps away, I read through a few magazines and am about to toggle through my phone again to see if I can find anything more about Maurice when I see a young man who just finished up with one of the stylists perusing the shelves in front of me. I watch as he grabs four bottles of the same shampoo and four bottles of the same conditioner and takes them to the register. He cradles them between his left arm and his chest to get them to the counter. I look down at my phone, but I’m still listening when I hear his stylist say, “That comes to three hundred and thirty dollars.”

  Seems odd that he’s buying so many bottles at once, but I guess three hundred and thirty dollars is what a gaggle of designer shampoo and a haircut costs at a place like this. I briefly wonder how long it will take a man with short hair to use so much product, but after he pays via credit card and exits the salon, I switch my attention back to my phone and try a few different queries: “Maurice Masson hairdresser,” “Maurice Masson cosmetology,” “Maurice Masson Monique Dupree.” But it’s not until I type in “Maurice Masson wigs” that a new site comes up. I hit the link to www.mmmwigs.com and find myself staring at a web page with a banner at the top that reads: MAURICE’S MAGNIFICENT MANES.

  “What’s got you so focused that you aren’t lookin’ at my new ’do?” Wavonne asks as I stare down at my handset.

  “Look at this.” I hand her my phone.

  Wavonne takes a look and begins reading from the web page. “The styling genius behind the flawless wigs of Ms. Monique Dupree is pleased to introduce Triple M Wigs, your exclusive resource for high quality human hair wigs engineered with Maurice Masson’s patented technology—wigs so natural-looking, no one will ever know it’s not your own hair.” Wavonne hits a few links within the site. “Girl . . . I gotta get me one of these wigs.” She continues to scroll through the site, taps on the phone a few times, and lets out a gasp. “Thirty-five hundred dollars?!”

  Odessa hears Wavonne’s yelp, steps over to see what the fuss is about, and looks over Wavonne’s shoulder at my phone. “Well. Isn’t that interesting,” she says.

  “How so?” I ask.

  “Oh . . . I don’t know . . . considering Maurice was one of the only people who knew Monique was wearing wigs, I imagine she would have made him sign some sort of airtight agreement to keep his mouth shut about it. Seems a little suspect that he’s launched an exclusive . . . and likely highly lucrative wig business on the heels of her death, doesn’t it? He never could have done that if she were still alive.”

  “If that’s true, it does seem awfully convenient that he had a website for his business ready to be up and running barely a week after her death,” I say.

  “So Monique bites the big one,” Wavonne says, “and word gets out that she’s got about as much hair as a freshly sheared poodle . . . and the dude that’s been makin’ the world think she had one of the best heads of hair in the country launches his own wig line a few days later . . . that is some shady bidness right there.”

  “Can’t say I disagree. Talk about cashing in on someone’s death,” I say. “I can’t imagine someone would murder another human being merely to get a wig business off the ground, but people have certainly killed for lesser reasons.”

  “That’s for sure,” Odessa says. “So now maybe you can go bark up Maurice’s tree and leave me alone.”

  “Maybe I can,” I reply before turning toward Wavonne. “Let’s check out and get going.” I take my phone back from her, look up Maurice’s number from when he texted me the day of the hair convention, and press the call button.

  RECIPE FROM HALIA’S KITCHEN

  Halia’s Purple Rain Iced Tea

  Ingredients

  5 hibiscus blueberry tea bags

  8 quarts of water

  2 tablespoons of honey

  ½ cup frozen or fresh blueberries

  1 lemon

  • Heat four quarts of water to a rolling boil. Pour over tea bags. Let tea bags steep for seven minutes.

  • Add honey to hot tea. Stir
until dissolved.

  • Use a blender to puree blueberries in remaining four quarts of water and mix resulting liquid with hot tea.

  • When cool, pour over glasses filled with ice, and garnish with a lemon wedge.

  Tip: This recipe used “The Republic of Tea Hibiscus Blueberry Superflower” tea bags, which contain stevia. If using a berry tea without a sweetener in the tea bags add additional honey.

  Chapter 29

  “Look at you all hoochied up,” I say to Wavonne as I step inside the ladies’ room at Sweet Tea. She’s in front of the mirror in a snug pair of black jeans, a glittery green top, and a pair of shiny four-inch black heels. “Where are you off to?” I ask as she applies some makeup. It’s after ten and, although we are open until eleven on Saturday nights, the crowd started to thin out at about nine thirty. So I, at her request, cut Wavonne from the floor about a half hour ago. She’s been in here ever since, changing clothes and getting what she calls “club ready.”

  “Me and Melva . . . and Linda are goin’ downtown . . . to Club Timehri for some mango martinis and reggae music . . . and then probably to Black Cat or The Park for some dancin’. Don’t wait up.”

  “Club Timehri, eh?” I respond, as if I know anything about it . . . or any nightclub, and quickly scan her and her flamboyant outfit. “I thought maybe somehow we were back in 1982, and you were off to dance on Solid Gold.”

  “Ha ha.” Wavonne rolls her eyes at me as she grabs a small brush from her bag and applies some sort of gel or glue to her eyelid. She then dips the same brush in a little jar of green glitter and paints it over the gel. “Don’t be hatin’ just cause you’re goin’ home to watch reruns of The Golden Girls while I go out.”