Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce

by A. L. Herbert

  “What? Really?” I ask. This really is getting good.

  “We started out working on hair potions together in her momma’s kitchen. In fact, it was my idea to reduce the amount of lye and add a natural straightening ingredient called guanidine carbonate that we learned about from a chemist at our cosmetology school. Apparently, it comes from mushrooms or something. The addition of guanidine carbonate allowed for a lesser amount of lye, and less lye means less burn and scalp irritation. We also added some coconut, avocado, and olive oils to the formula to further reduce stress on the hair. At first, it worked great. It straightened our hair beautifully without the burn of most relaxers. . . .”

  “But?”

  “Well, I never had any issues, but after a few uses, Monique noticed her hair thinning. I think it was about the fourth time that she used our concoction that she started losing clumps of hair. That was some twenty-plus years ago, and, while much of it grew back, her hair never fully recovered. She had no choice but to keep it cropped. It never got back to a healthy enough condition for her to grow it out.

  “So, of course, when it ruined Monique’s hair, we stopped making it. After that, we kind of lost interest in creating our own hair creams. Monique met Nathan and was busy with him and eventually moved to New York. And I was putting in a lot of hours, saving up money to open my own shop. There simply wasn’t much time for it anymore. And that was the end of it, or so I thought.”

  “I sense you’re about to get to the juicy part,” Wavonne says, eager to hear the rest of the story.

  “You can imagine my surprise a little over ten years ago when I was walking around the Georgia World Congress Center in Atlanta at the Bronner Brothers show and came across a small stall for a new line of beauty products called Hair by Monique. While I was looking at some of the bottles and boxes on display I heard a familiar voice yammering about a straightening cream called Sleek to another attendee. I lifted my head, and there she was—Monique Dupree peddling her wares—telling a young lady about how nicely Sleek worked on her hair—hair that I could tell was not her own. We caught up a bit . . . she told me I looked too thin and that I needed a better lotion for my ashy skin . . . I told her she’d put on weight and needed to spend more than $4.99 on her wig . . . you know, just like old times. Then she went on to tell me how she and Nathan had been working to get Hair by Monique off the ground. She bragged about how they were starting to make some good money, and I boasted about my new salon . . . the usual deal of us trying to one-up each other. All was good until I started examining the ingredients in Sleek and saw it was made from the exact same formula we developed together years earlier.”

  “She was selling the same formula that made her hair fall out?”

  “Yep. She said that when she moved to New York, Nathan convinced her to try the cream out on a few customers. It worked well for them, so she used it on more and more of her clients. They loved it. Who wouldn’t love a quality relaxer that doesn’t burn? Monique claimed that only a very small minority of patrons reacted badly to it, and if she noticed their hair starting to thin, she would switch them back to a traditional relaxer. I told her that was all fine and good, but I also asked her, now that she was marketing Sleek for mass distribution, if she warned buyers of the possibility that it could cause massive hair loss. Her response was to show me some bogus warning label on the box about how the product could have adverse effects, how a small amount of hair should be tested prior to full use . . . blah blah blah. You needed a magnifying glass to read it, and you still do.

  “At first, I thought it was pretty sleazy of her to be selling a product that she knew, firsthand, could ruin a woman’s hair for life. But the more she rationalized her decision by reminding me of how the full-lye and no-lye relaxers we use every day have, on occasion, done the same thing, the more I thought it was even sleazier of her to be making money off a product we developed together without giving me a cut.

  “Of course, I belittled her wig with my $4.99 comment just for my own amusement, but it actually was a fairly respectable wig—nothing like the masterpieces Maurice has been making for her over the past few years. But decent nonetheless. A layperson may not have known it wasn’t her real hair, but most of us in the business could probably tell she was wearing a wig. I think she was afraid I might have snatched the thing off her head right there in public if she lied to me, so she was honest when I asked her if the hair under her wig had finally recovered. When she told me it was still too thin for her to grow it out, I knew I had my trump card.”

  “So exactly how did you play it?”

  “After I told her she had better get some nicer wigs if she was really planning on passing them off as her real hair so exquisitely straightened by Sleek, I said I wanted in on the action. Monique was a stubborn thing and reasoned that, even though I was involved in developing the formula, she and Nathan had done all the countless hours of legwork to take something we invented at her momma’s kitchen table to the commercial market; therefore, I was not entitled to any of the profits. And I did admit that she had a point—maybe I was not entitled to an equal share, but I deserved something. And if I didn’t get it, I threatened to shout far and wide what was going on under her wig. We eventually agreed to the deal we’ve had in place for years. I order whatever Hair by Monique products I want and pay way below the standard wholesale price.”

  “That seems fair enough,” I say as yet another man steps inside the salon.

  He seems a little unnerved to see Wavonne and me at the counter.

  “Hi, Eric,” Odessa says to him. “These are some friends of mine. Tamara is waiting for you in room one.”

  The man nods, and there’s an awkward silence as the three of us watch him walk to the back of the salon, knock on one of the doors along the hallway, and step inside.

  “So, I’m guessing these discounts from Monique, and the men we’ve seen buying her products, tie together in some way?”

  “At this point, I clearly have nothing left to hide, Halia, so I may as well tell you,” Odessa responds. “Yes, they do, in fact, tie together. Shortly after I . . . shall we say diversified Salon Soleil’s services, the IRS started snooping around. Back then, I only accepted cash from my clients that utilized our . . . our extracurricular services, so I didn’t have to report it. But at some point, my tax returns triggered some interest from the feds . . . something about my reported income not amounting to sufficient funds for my personal living expenses. Fortunately, the auditor they sent out was a man, and I was able to sweet-talk my way into paying a small amount in back taxes.

  “If I didn’t want the tax man coming around again, I had to find a way to launder the money coming from all the gentlemen paying for the female company we offer here—that’s where Hair by Monique comes in. I buy her products for a steal and then mark them up a few hundred percent. Rather than pay the full fee for their time with my girls, clients are informed to come to the register and spend a predetermined amount on products after their session. We can only charge so much for a ‘massage’ without raising suspicions.” It’s now Odessa’s turn to do the air quote thing with her fingers. “So we tack on some overpriced beauty products to the bill to even things out. It all gives me something to show the IRS for . . . for services rendered. Stock coming in, stock going out, receipts for it all. Everyone’s happy—me, my girls, my clients, and the IRS.”

  “So you had this whole complex scheme in place for years, and you were afraid Monique was going to pull the plug on it?”

  “I was. I had dared to compete with her in the glamour game . . . I took attention away from Monique at an event that was supposed to be about nothing other than Monique. It may not seem like such a big deal to most people, but if you knew her well, you knew there was nothing worse I could have done.”

  “But you were blackmailing her,” I say. “Why did she feel like she could cut you off if you knew her secret?”

  “She figured our secrets canceled each other out. She got wind of m
y little side business and threatened to report me to the police if I ever dared spill the tea on her wigs,” Odessa says. “And that’s why I drove back to her house the night of the white party. To remind her that I knew about more than just her wigs, and she had better think twice about messing with our arrangement.”

  “What?” Wavonne asks. “What more did you know?”

  “I knew that Nathan was one of my best clients . . . that’s what I knew. I told her if she reported me to the police, the first thing I would do after telling the world about her teeny-weeny Afro was tell the police and the general public about her husband’s penchant for paid trysts with my girls. Maintaining her image as this jovial beauty titan with a perfect home life was very important to Monique, and a husband that’s running around paying for sex with other women doesn’t exactly fit in with that narrative.”

  “You make it sound like she knew about Nathan and your . . . your girls when you went to see her after the party. She just didn’t want the rest of the world to know about them?”

  “Of course she knew. That’s how she found out about my operation to begin with. She confronted me about it weeks ago . . . said she had someone tail him one night when he supposedly left for the gym. He’s such an idiot. What a stupid excuse. I mean, they have a full gym in their home.”

  “What did she do when she found out?”

  “The same thing she always did when Nathan treated her badly—nothing.”

  “Get out!” Wavonne says.

  “I’m not kidding. She didn’t even ask me to drop him as a client. She said if he was going to run around with . . . well, the term she used was not very nice, but she indicated that she preferred that Nathan’s indiscretions happen with my girls who at least adhere to certain health and safety protocols.”

  “That is messed up,” Wavonne says.

  “Several years ago, if you had told me that a smart successful woman like Monique, who is probably turning over in her grave hearing me call her smart and successful,” Odessa says, “would stay with an abusive man, I’d had said you were crazy. But now, based on her story and some of the women I employ and whose hair I cut, it no longer surprises me. I’ve learned that the idea that women only stay in abusive relationships because they are financially dependent on their men is a total myth. I knew that Nathan was an ass and encouraged her to leave him more than once, but I was not aware of the physical abuse—she hid that well. Monique and I quarreled and traded barbs all the time, but she knew I would be there for her if she left Nathan. It was just not something she was ever going to do.” Odessa takes a breath and sighs. “I’ve gone on and on, but what this all amounts to is that by the time I left Monique’s house last Saturday night, she was well aware that, unless she knew how to explain why I have Nathan on security camera footage coming in and out of my salon after midnight on a few dozen occasions, she would keep our deal in place. So you see, I had no reason to kill her. I knew our arrangement was secure at that point. I already told you how important Monique’s image . . . her brand was to her. You can imagine how afraid she would be about word getting around that the husband of the charmed Ms. Monique Dupree was getting busy with . . . with . . .”

  “Hookers? Hos? Ladies of the evening?” Wavonne says.

  “Ladies of the evening. Let’s go with that one,” Odessa replies.

  “Not that I’m judgin’,” Wavonne says. “What you and your girls do ain’t no worse than what my friends Melva and Linda were probably gettin’ into last weekend . . . at least your girls got a few bucks to show for it.”

  “Can we get back to the subject at hand?” I ask, giving Wavonne the stink eye. “So, it appears you didn’t have a motive for killing Monique. But, I have to say, you claiming to have been at a club that has been closed for months when she was killed still raises some eyebrows.”

  “I made up the story about the nightclub because I didn’t want to have to explain to anyone where I really was when Monique was killed, which was here. Being at my salon at midnight would lead to questions that I didn’t want to answer. But, if push comes to shove, the same video camera that has Nathan on tape as a regular visitor also has me on tape right here managing our evening activities when Monique was killed. Of course, I’d rather not have to share such footage with the police to confirm my alibi. But if it comes to that, rather than being brought up on murder charges, I’ll confess to running a . . . a . . .”

  “Cat house?” Wavonne says. “Again, I ain’t judgin’.”

  “I’ll confess to running a gentlemen’s club.”

  “This is all a lot to take in. But I do thank you for sharing all the information. What is it now? Like two a.m.?” I pull out my phone and look at the time. “I’m too tired to even process it all right now. I think I’ll just say good night. I hope the rest of your evening . . . or morning or whatever goes well, Odessa.” I turn to Wavonne as it occurs to me that I just told Odessa that I hope her hooker business goes well. “I think we’ve taken up enough of Odessa’s time. Why don’t you drive home, Wavonne? I’m exhausted.”

  “See ya, girl,” Wavonne says to Odessa as we turn to leave.

  As we step out of the salon onto the sidewalk, we pass yet another one of Odessa’s late-night clients on his way into the building. He’s a tall, lanky man with a weathered face and dark hair.

  “Hi there,” he says, stopping to speak to Wavonne. “How do I get on your client list?”

  Wavonne is quiet as it takes her a moment to realize what he’s asking.

  “You don’t,” I declare, grabbing Wavonne’s hand and pulling her away from the man.

  “Was he insinuatin’ what I think he was insinuatin’?” Wavonne asks me as I click on my key fob to unlock the car doors.

  I don’t respond, which I guess is really the same as saying, “Yes.”

  “So, over the last few hours I’ve been mistaken for a drag queen and a hooker,” Wavonne says once we get in the van. “All in all, not my worst Saturday night.”

  Chapter 33

  “Pretending to turn it up or down?” I ask Wavonne as I see her fiddling with the thermostat by one of the ordering stations.

  “Down,” Wavonne says. “Those bougie hos at table fourteen said it’s too hot in here.”

  “Okay. I was coming over to act like I’m turning it up. The couple at table six said it’s too cold.” I smile at my customers at table six and gesture toward Wavonne to imply she is turning the thermostat up. Truth be told, you need to punch in a code before you can adjust the temperature, so multiple times a week, I or my servers . . . or the hostess . . . whoever . . . head over and press a few buttons without typing in the code. If we actually adjusted the thermostat every time a customer asked, we’d vacillate between a hot yoga studio and a walk-in refrigerator. I keep the restaurant at a comfortable sixty-eight degrees year round. I want it to be warm enough for my customers to be comfortable, but also cool enough for my servers who, with the exception of Wavonne, who is not known for moving quickly, race around for hours taking orders, fetching drinks, delivering food, and clearing tables. If I let it get too hot in here, I’d end up with servers breaking a sweat, and as Wavonne would say, “don’t nobody need to see that.”

  I’m about to walk over to table six and tell them that it should be warming up shortly, when I see a familiar face come through the front door. I know I’ve seen her before, but it takes me a moment to recognize who it is. As she approaches the host station, I realize she’s Tanesha, the woman who worked at the reception desk at Alex’s apartment building. On my way over to her and a friend she has brought along, I vaguely recall her sending me an e-mail asking if she could come in one day this week for that complimentary lunch I promised her. But I’ve been so busy running around this week trying to find out everything I can about possible murder suspects, Tanesha’s visit fell off my radar.

  Things are mostly back to normal at the moment. I haven’t lost interest in the case or suddenly decided that Nathan is definitely guilty, but I do
n’t really have any solid leads that I can follow up on at this point. Maurice and Odessa have solid alibis, and I have no way of finding Alex. He may have gone back to the Dominican Republic for all I know. I’m sure the police have access to databases that could tell us where he last used his credit card or if he boarded a plane recently, but I have no way of getting that information on my own, so I called Detective Hutchins and told him Alex skipped town the morning after Monique’s murder. He said he’d look into it, but I’m not sure if he really intended to do so or if he only said he would to get me off the other end of his phone.

  “Tanesha,” I say warmly. “I’m so glad you came by.”

  “Thank you for having us,” she says. “This is my friend Sheila.”

  “Hello,” I say to Sheila. “Welcome to Sweet Tea.”

  I fetch a pair of menus and lead the two women to a table.

  “Our iced tea of the day is apple spice, and on special this afternoon are Cornish game hens with an apple, cranberry, and sausage stuffing. We brine them for eight hours so they are super moist. I’ll let you look over the menus, and a server will be with you shortly.” I set the menus and a wine list down on the table. “Thanks again for your help the other day,” I say to Tanesha. “We’re still concerned about Alex. As far as I know, no one has heard from him in more than a week or even knows where he is.”

  “Ah . . . I know where he is,” Tanesha says.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. He came back to the building yesterday, but I still think he was lying about purging stuff from his apartment because he seemed to be moving everything he took out back in again.”