I laugh as that is likely what I would be doing if I didn’t have something else in mind this evening. “I’m not sure I’ll be home in time for The Golden Girls tonight.”
Wavonne puts her brush down dramatically and turns to look at me straight on instead of via the mirror. “You have plans after work on a Saturday night?! A late date? Please tell me you have a date.”
“Afraid not. I’m just going to do a little exploring . . . investigating.”
“Related to Monique, I assume. If you worked half as hard at catchin’ a man as you did nosin’ around in dead people’s bidness, Aunt Celia might have you married off by now.” Wavonne turns back toward the mirror and starts glittering the other eye. “Where are you goin’ exactly?”
“I’ve been trying to reach Maurice since we left Salon Soleil this afternoon to find out more about this new wig business of his. He won’t answer my calls. I found his address online, so I’m going to let Laura close the restaurant tonight so I can drive by his house, and see if he’s home.”
“This can’t wait until daylight?”
“I suppose it could, but I’m anxious to talk to him, and if he’s not home tonight, maybe I can shine a flashlight through a few windows, and see if I see anything suspect.” I’m silent for a moment while I shift my weight on my feet. “But I’d really prefer to not go alone.”
Wavonne puts the brush down again. “I got plans, Halia.”
“Maurice’s house is in the city. You can come with me, and then I’ll drop you off at that Club Tim Tom or Black Bear or wherever your friends are.”
“It’s Club Timehri and Black Cat.” She pulls out a tube of lipstick and runs its bright red balm over her mouth. “The girls will be here any minute to pick me up . . . although Linda’s probably still shovin’ some day clothes in her purse, so she doesn’t have to go home from wherever she wakes up tomorrow in a strapless black mini. She ain’t got no standards, so she hooks up a lot. Last time she got lucky, she had to go home the next day in her club clothes—her Uber driver thought she was a day shift stripper. He was all set to give her a ride to the Royal Palace or Good Guys Club. Can you imagine? It’s bad enough bein’ mistaken for a stripper,” Wavonne says in a way that makes me think it’s happened to her. “But one that works the day shift? Those are the bottom-of-the-barrel heifers.”
“Sometimes you overshare, Wavonne. A simple ‘Linda may be running late’ would have sufficed.” I’m trying to make my reflection in the mirror look sort of needy and pathetic, hoping she’ll take pity on me. “I just need to check in with Laura and make sure she and the team can manage the few customers still here and help the kitchen staff shut everything down. You and I can be out of here in a few minutes, and I’ll have you with your friends in no time. I’ll even give you a few bucks to buy a round for the girls, assuming you have a designated driver.”
“No one has designated drivers anymore, Halia. That’s what Uber and Lyft are for.” She turns around, looks at me, and then starts digging through her makeup bag again. “Fine,” she says, running a black eyeliner pencil along her bottom lash line. “Give me a few minutes to finish my face, and I’ll run your little fool’s errand with you, but you’ve got to have me at the club by midnight. And I need fifty bucks for a round a drinks . . . martinis cost a lot more than they did in your day.”
“Agreed,” I say. “I’ll go check in with Laura and then we can go.”
“I need some time. I think I want to pop on my party wig. I am not sure my new ’do from Odessa’s salon today works with my outfit. I need something with more flair . . . more . . . what’s that French word?”
“Panache?”
“Yeah, that. I need something with more of that.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you at the front door in about twenty minutes,” I say, and head out the door.
By the time I wrap things up at the restaurant and Wavonne styles her wig, it’s almost eleven o’clock when we cross the line into DC and approach Maurice’s house.
“That’s it,” I say as we turn onto a residential street off of Rhode Island Avenue. “I recognize it from when he was on the news.”
“So are we just goin’ to park and go knock on his door at eleven o’clock at night?”
“I’m not sure. Let’s drive by first and see if it looks like he’s home.”
“Oh, he’s home, all right.” Wavonne catches sight of him walking past a bay window as I slowly move the van along the street in front of the old, but well-maintained, row house.
“Okay. So we know he’s home.”
“You mean he was home.” Wavonne’s got her head turned around looking out the back window after we pass his house. “He’s steppin’ outside.”
I pull the van over, put it in park, and turn around myself to see Maurice tossing a few things into the back seat of his car before settling into the front seat. We lay low while he pulls out of the parking space and wait a few seconds after he passes to pull out ourselves.
“This is some Dick Tracy stuff right here,” Wavonne says. “Can I say it? Please can I say it?”
“Go ahead,” I respond, not taking my eyes off of Maurice’s vehicle.
“Follow that car!” Wavonne calls, and we both start to laugh as we tail Maurice. We follow him along a few side roads to Fourteenth Street and onto Massachusetts Avenue as he makes his way over to the Southwest Quadrant of the city. After about twenty minutes or so, we end up on South Capitol Street near the Nationals stadium, and Maurice makes a few turns that lead us into a mostly industrial neighborhood. It’s here that he slides his car into an open spot on the street.
I pull the van over a few car lengths from where Maurice parked, and Wavonne and I look on as he emerges from his vehicle, grabs some garment bags from the back seat, and approaches what appears to be a nightclub with the name ENIGMA spelled out in bright neon lights on the side of the building. There is a line of people waiting to get inside, but Maurice bypasses them, exchanges a few words with one of the club’s bouncers, and goes inside.
Once Maurice is out of sight, I pull up closer to the building. “Well, I guess this was a wild goose chase. I don’t think we’re going to learn anything related to Monique’s death in there.”
“Maybe . . . maybe not. But, what the hell. We’re here, and I’ve never heard of this place—I’m curious,” Wavonne says. “Let’s go in. You could use a drink . . . a cocktail would do your tight self some good,” she insists. “Maybe we’ll meet some men.”
“I think we’ll meet some men all right.” I point at the line waiting to get into the club. It’s about fifteen people deep, and I only see one woman. “I don’t think any of those guys are buying what we’re selling, Wavonne.” I nod toward two young men holding hands.
“Huh. I should’ve noticed.” Wavonne takes in the nearly all-male line in front of the club. “That’s an awful lot of hair gel and tight shirts,” she says. “At least we won’t feel bad if we don’t get any attention when we’re in there.”
“You really want to go in? Don’t you want to meet the girls?”
“The girls will be there next week. Let’s check it out. It will be an adventure.”
“Fine.” I let out a long exhale and step on the gas to find an open parking spot on the street.
“I feel incredibly out of place,” I say to Wavonne once we’ve parked the car and walked a couple of blocks to join the line outside the bar. Unlike her and her flashy club clothes, heavy makeup, and wig that she teased up a good five inches from her head, I’m still in my work clothes. “I’m a middle-aged woman in a pair of khakis, a plain navy blue shirt, and slip-resistant kitchen shoes in line at a nightclub for twenty-somethings. To say I don’t fit in here is quite the understatement.”
“You’re fine. Like you said, ain’t nobody buyin’ the little piggies we’re bringin’ to market in there, so what’s it matter?”
It takes a good ten minutes to reach the front of the line, pay a ten-dollar cover charge, and walk inside, where
we find an expansive and well-appointed space. There’s a long bar on a raised landing that overlooks a much larger lower area, which is set up like a Vegas lounge with small tables arranged around a dance floor. There’s a second bar to one side of the dance floor and a stage to the other. It must be peak time because the place is really crowded—all the tables are occupied and people are standing all around them.
“Let’s get some drinks,” Wavonne says over the loud music, and we maneuver more than walk our way through all the people to get to the upstairs bar where Wavonne orders both of us gin and tonics, which, of course, I pay for. We’ve barely taken a sip of our drinks when the music abruptly stops, a spotlight begins to shine on the stage, and an unseen announcer asks us to, “Please welcome the Hostess with the Mostess . . . the grande dame of the evening: Ms. Mable Devine!”
Wavonne and I watch as a mature thickset black woman graces the platform from a side entrance. She’s wearing a metallic-looking dress covered in silky fringe that unfurls like a few dozen helicopter propellers as she spins toward a microphone to the beat of Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff.” It’s only when the performer is done with a dazzling lip sync performance, actually turns the microphone on, and begins speaking to welcome all of us to the Ladies of Illusion showcase that I realize she is a he.
Chapter 30
“Oooh girl, this is a drag queen bar!” Wavonne calls into my ear over the loud club noise.
“Apparently so.” I look around the room as Mable Devine entertains the audience. Aside from a small but rowdy group of young ladies who appear to be out for a bachelorette evening, the club goers are almost all gay men, a handful of them dressed in drag themselves.
Ms. Devine ends up being quite amusing. She has some fun banter with the crowd and brings the bride-to-be from the bachelorette party onstage with her. Her questions to the inebriated young woman, while a bit vulgar for my taste, are funny, and she gets lots of laughs from everyone.
After thoroughly embarrassing the soon-to-be-wed woman, Mable ends her monologue and introduces the next act, a very tall performer in a Tina Turner wig and short gold dress. As we watch her “Rolling on the River” routine, Wavonne starts to really get into the whole thing and works in a few calls of “Sing it, girl!” and “Shake what your Momma gave ya!”
We’re having such a good time, I almost forget our reason for being here in the first place, but by the time the fourth drag queen appears onstage, I’m starting to get tired and my feet are beginning to hurt.
“Why don’t we see if we can find Maurice?”
“Okay, but let me get another cocktail,” Wavonne says, turning back toward the bar and placing an order.
“Do you happen to know Maurice Masson?” I ask the bartender while he hands Wavonne her drink, and I hand him my credit card.
“He’s backstage getting ready for his number.” The gentleman points toward a door several feet to the left of the stage.
“Thank you.” I sign the receipt, motion for Wavonne to follow me, and we work our way through the crowd. We’re about halfway down the steps to the lower level of the club when a highly intoxicated young man looks Wavonne up and down.
“Girl! You slayin’ all dayin’!” he says, snapping his finger.
“You know it,” Wavonne replies as if she hears this sort of thing all the time.
“Fierce!” the gentleman, a stocky white guy, calls, reaffirming his admiration of all things Wavonne. He stands at nearly six feet, but when you factor in her heels and wig height, Wavonne is taller than him. I should probably also mention the man is wearing a cheap wig, an ill-fitting leather skirt, and a spandex tube top.
Wavonne smiles as if to say “Don’t I know it!” before the man introduces himself. “I’m Margaux Laveau,” he says. “What name do you go by?”
“Go by?” Wavonne asks.
He ignores the question while his eyes continue to scan her from head to toe. “You’ve got to help me out with some tips,” he demands. “Your look is flawless! The wig. The heels.” This Margaux character is truly excited by Wavonne. “And the breasts. Amazing!” He stares down at his chest. “They look so much better than my foam falsies. What do you have stuffed in there?”
My mouth drops as I realize the assumption Ms. Laveau is making and brace myself for Wavonne to go off on him for mistaking her for a drag queen. But, to my surprise, Wavonne doesn’t seem at all bothered.
“Girl, you gotta go with the chicken cutlets . . . you know, the gel pads. And you’re just gonna have to gain some weight if you really want those boobies to look authentic with a low neckline. Get a little fat upstairs, and then all you need to do is squish the flab together with some duct tape . . . and voilà, you got yourself some cleavage,” she says. “Duct tape . . . it’s a broke girl’s Wonderbra.”
“That sounds painful.”
“You think all of this”—Wavonne points her finger from her toes up to her neck—“comes without pain? If bein’ fierce were easy, everyone would do it.”
“What else? What else?” the young man asks eagerly. “Any wig tips?”
“My first tip would be to bury the one you got on your head because, girlfriend, it’s dead,” she advises. “You gotta go to Lolita’s Lavish Locks in Capitol Heights. Mrs. Sagong will hook you up . . . she’s a mean little Asian woman, but boy can she throw down with some wigs. And you got to get the real hair. No nylon . . . if some chick in India or China ain’t walkin’ around bald because of your wig, it ain’t worth puttin’ on your head.”
“Duct tape. Lolita’s Lavish Locks. No nylon. Got it,” Margaux says.
“And the clothes,” Wavonne adds, shaking her head and pursing her lips while looking at his outfit. “I’ll be straight with you, Margaux . . . you look more ‘transvestite’ than ‘drag queen.’ You ain’t never gonna be Lady Chablis if you keep dressin’ like Lady Project Ho. You gotta hit the sample sales at—”
Much as I’d like to help Margaux up his drag queen game, we didn’t come here to play fairy godmother to some RuPaul wannabe . . . and my dogs are barking big time, so I interrupt Wavonne. “I’m sorry, Ms. Laveau,” I say. “But we have to go backstage. Perhaps the two of you can continue this discussion later?”
“Yeah . . . sure,” he says. “Thanks for the tips . . . ah . . . ah,” he adds, waiting for Wavonne to tell him her name.
Wavonne looks away for a moment and sees a bottle of champagne en route to the bachelorette party. “Champagne,” she says. “Bubbles Champagne.”
Wavonne is better at wading through a crowd than me, so she leads this time. Fortunately, we encounter no further interruptions on the way backstage. Unlike me, who would have probably knocked and waited God knows how long for a response, Wavonne opens the door next to the stage with no permissions given, and we walk into a cramped room with six dressing tables, three on each side. We find Maurice at the middle table on the left side. He’s wearing a wig cap and his face is adorned with thick concealer or maybe foundation.
He sees us as we come into view in his mirror, but he finishes pressing a fake eyelash on his lid before saying anything. I’m expecting a curt “Who let you back here?” but instead he says, “Well hello, ladies. What can I do for you?”
I smile and take in Maurice for a second or two. His mirror has a little nameplate on it that says BRIGHTINA GLOW. There are two performers adjusting wigs and reapplying makeup on either side of him. Their mirrors are labeled DIXIE CRYSTAL and DOMINIQUE DEVERAUX. Maurice notices me looking at their nameplates.
“Dixie is from the South . . . and she likes sugar.” He turns his gaze to the man on his other side. “Dominique is a Dynasty fan.”
I nod and give a quick wave to Dixie and Dominique as Wavonne and I inch closer to Maurice, who doesn’t seem at all startled or unnerved by our presence. And he certainly doesn’t seem embarrassed for us to find him about two-thirds of the way to an alternate gender. He does, however, seem to become annoyed when, after offering a few pleasantries and not even bothering
to try to explain how we found him here, I start asking him questions. But I sense that his irritation may have more to do with me delaying his readiness to perform than with any insinuations I’m making about him possibly being associated with Monique’s murder.
“I apologize if we’re in the way, but I tried to call you a number of times and didn’t have any luck reaching you,” I say. “Forgive all the questions, but I’m just trying to make sure the police really have the right guy locked up. I’m sure as someone who cared about Monique, you want that, too.”
“Of course I do. But I, unlike you, have no doubt that Nathan killed her. I’ve known that man to be evil to the bone for as long as I’ve known Monique.”
“And how long is that?” I ask. “How long have you known Monique?”
“I met Monique right here about ten years ago. She came to Enigma to catch the show with a bachelorette party and sought me out after my performance.”
“Really. Why?”
“Because she was just starting to launch Hair by Monique, and she was impressed with the quality of my wigs, and how they were virtually impossible to discern from a real head of hair.” Maurice applies some blush to his cheeks. “We all now know that Monique did not have a lot of hair. As her products began to take off, she planned to make infomercials to really push her business to the next level. If she was going to be hocking hair care products in an age of HD television, she needed her wigs to be flawless.” He quiets for a moment, stares at himself in the mirror, and applies a bit more pink powder to his face. “So, Monique and I came to an agreement. I’d make her wigs . . . and position and style them for any important occasions . . . and, most important, I’d keep her secret.”
“And what did you get out of the deal?” I ask.
“Money,” Maurice responds. “A lot of money.”
“So, if you’re so good with wigs,” Wavonne says, “how come Halia can’t find any record of you having a cosmetology license? Why would Monique trust a person with no formal training with something so important to her career?”
Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce Page 19
