Murder with Macaroni and Cheese
Page 1
Delicious praise for
MURDER WITH FRIED CHICKEN AND WAFFLES!
“I loved following the antics of soul food restaurateur Halia Watkins and her outrageously funny cousin Wavonne as they scramble to find the killer in this terrific debut mystery. Great characters. Clever storyline. All this, and recipes, too. Can’t wait for second helpings in this series!”
—Laura Levine, author of Murder Has Nine Lives
“Soul food and sassy characters combine in this series debut for a feast that will satisfy the appetites of readers.”
—Library Journal
“A. L. Herbert serves up some tasty recipes along with a delicious mystery in Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles and I can’t wait for second and third helpings of this scrumptious soul food mystery series featuring the irresistible, sassy and completely enchanting Mahalia Watkins.”
—Leslie Meier, author of British Manor Murder
“Foodies will welcome Herbert’s amusing debut, the first in a new cozy series complete with recipes. The authentic local history seamlessly woven into the story sets the book apart from most light mysteries.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Murder with a side of soul food is a winning combination in this delicious cozy.”
—Lee Hollis, author of Death of a Pumpkin Carver
Please turn the page for more rave reviews of
Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles!
More praise for
MURDER WITH FRIED CHICKEN
AND WAFFLES!
“This first in a planned series, complete with recipes, is funny and refreshingly straightforward.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“From my first taste of Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles, I knew this was a book I’d want to overindulge in. The characters are real and unique, the plot will keep you guessing, and the foodie theme adds some delicious flavor. A. L. Herbert has cooked up a real winner!”
—Diane Kelly, author of Death, Taxes, and Green Tea Ice Cream
“Full of fun, sass, and some delicious-sounding recipes . . . very entertaining.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Uplifting and funny. LOVED this book!”
—Kathy Cano-Murillo, author of Waking Up in
the Land of Glitter: A Crafty Chica Novel
Books by A. L. Herbert
MURDER WITH FRIED CHICKEN AND WAFFLES
MURDER WITH MACARONI AND CHEESE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Murder with Macaroni and Cheese
A Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery
A. L. HERBERT
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
MURDER WITH FRIED CHICKEN AND WAFFLES!
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
EPILOGUE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2016 by A. L. Herbert
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-177-8
eISBN-10: 1-61773-177-3
First Kensington Electronic Edition: September 2016
ISBN: 978-1-6177-3176-1
CHAPTER 1
“Someone needs to turn the heat down out there. I’m about to sweat my wig off,” Wavonne says as she comes through the front door of Mahalia’s Sweet Tea. “But it sure feels good in here.” She leans her head and shoulders back, rolls her neck from side to side, and takes in the cool air pumping through the vents from three air conditioners toiling at maximum capacity on the roof above my restaurant.
“It is a scorcher.” I look at my watch. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago and help us set up for lunch. We’ll be busy today. People will want to get out of the heat and into the air conditioning. We’ll go through iced tea like crazy.”
“Speakin’ of iced tea. What kind we got on special today? I need to get me a glass.”
“It’s strawberry. Laura brewed the syrup early this morning.”
Laura is my assistant manager and, thankfully, a morning person. She usually gets in around eight a.m. and starts working with my kitchen prep staff to have us ready for our lunch opening at eleven. I generally come in after ten and stay until after we close. On weeknights it’s often past eleven p.m. when I leave and usually later than that on Friday and Saturday nights.
“Strawberry! That’s my fave!” Wavonne hurries toward the back of the restaurant where we keep the tea dispensers.
I stand by the bar as I watch Wavonne scoop some ice, drop it into a tall glass, add a big serving of homemade strawberry syrup, and fill the whole thing with sweet tea. For customers, we add the syrup to unsweetened tea—the strawberry flavoring is made from berries and plenty of sugar, so it adds a nice touch of sweetness to regular tea. But Wavonne likes her tea so sweet the straw practically stands up on its own.
“You do realize you are here to work, Wavonne, no?” I watch her linger by the drink station, alternating between sipping and stirring her tea with a straw as if she’s a customer on a leisurely lunch break rather than a paid employee.
Wavonne is my significantly younger cousin and, after a troubled youth that involved only sporadic amounts of supervision from my alcoholic aunt, came to live with Momma and me when she was thirteen and has been a handful ever since. She’s in her twenties now, but I still find myself reprimanding her as often as I did when she was a teenager.
“All right, all right. Slow your roll, boss lady.” She pulls a lavender tie from her pocket and starts tying it around her neck. All my servers wear black pants, long-sleeve white shirts, and pastel ties. But all my servers certainly do not tell me to “slow my roll” or call me “boss lady.” As a member of the family I allow Wavonne a certain amount of slack, and, knowing that I’ll never fire her, she takes every bit of it. But, honestly, given her history, most days I’m happy that she manages to show up for work at all.
I’m about to ask Wavonne to make sure we have enough rolled silverware on hand for the lunch crowd when I s
ee Saundra, my afternoon hostess, with the phone in her hand, motioning for me to come to the hostess stand.
“There’s a call for you. I said I’d take a message, but she insisted on speaking with you now. She said she’s Raynell Rollins’s assistant.”
“Raynell Rollins?” It takes a moment for the name to register. It’s not a name I’ve heard in quite some time—I have, however, seen it all over town. I haven’t been in touch with her since high school, but Raynell Rollins is a local real estate agent—you can hardly visit any of the better neighborhoods here in Prince George’s County, Maryland, without running into one of her “For Sale” signs with her photo plastered on it. “Wonder what she wants,” I say more to myself than Saundra, remembering how my friend Nicole, the only person from high school with whom I’ve kept in regular contact, gave me an update on Raynell a while back. She told me that Raynell married Terrence Rollins shortly after college when he was starting for the Washington Redskins. Nicole, who loves to gossip and has way more time to surf Facebook than I do, also recently informed me that Terrence, who has since retired from playing football, is now a sports anchor on a local station. I don’t really follow sports, but I’ve seen him on the news a few times. Per Nicole, thanks to Terrence’s past as a star football player and his current presence as an on-air personality, Raynell has managed to build quite the little real estate sales empire—mostly by tapping Terrence’s network of broadcasting and professional-sport-player friends as clients.
I take the phone from Saundra and lift it to my ear. “This is Halia.”
“Ms. Watkins?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Christy Garner. I’m Raynell Rollins’s assistant. She asked me to set up a lunch date with you.”
“Really? Any particular reason? I haven’t seen Raynell since high school.” I’m considering adding that you can count on one hand the number of times Raynell and I spoke to each other while we actually were in high school, but I decide not to go there. Although I don’t recall Raynell being a particularly nice person, it’s not like there was any animosity between the two of us or anything like that—we just didn’t run in the same circles.
“Ms. Rollins is scouting venues for her . . . and I guess your high school reunion. She would like to discuss possibly holding the event in your restaurant.”
“I thought the reunion was going to be at Colony South Hotel. It’s in less than two weeks, isn’t it?”
I got an invite to the event months ago and sent my regrets. I rarely take off Saturday nights, and, aside from Nicole, who I already see all the time, there isn’t really anyone who I’m terribly eager to reconnect with, so I decided not to bother attending.
“There was a water main break at the hotel. They won’t have the event space repaired in time.”
“Really? That’s a shame.”
“Raynell heard that you owned a local restaurant and thought you might be able to host the affair.”
“I’d be happy to discuss it with Raynell.”
I wonder why Raynell didn’t just call me herself, but if memory serves me correct, Raynell was one for putting on airs—using an assistant as an intermediary is probably just one of those wealth and status things I don’t understand.
“Why don’t you ask her to come by for lunch tomorrow, and we’ll talk about it?” I offer even though it’s highly unlikely that I’ll agree to host the event at Sweet Tea. Depending on how many members of our graduating class are attending, hosting the reunion might mean closing the whole restaurant for an entire evening to accommodate the crowd. I doubt the reunion committee has the kind of money I would have to charge to make up for a Saturday night’s worth of lost receipts. Besides, I learned the hard way that closing Sweet Tea for a private event is not a great idea. A few years ago, for a hefty sum, I agreed to close the place to host a wedding reception for the daughter of the owner of King Town Center, which houses Sweet Tea. He agreed to more than cover any lost revenue and, when the man who can raise your rent come lease-renewal time makes a request, you think long and hard before saying no. I tried to get the word out to my clientele about the closure that particular night a few weeks prior to the reception. Among other things, I displayed a poster at the hostess stand and put a notice on our Web site. I even sent e-mails to patrons on our contact list, but my efforts proved to be of no avail. Customer after customer came through the front door wanting a table the night of the reception. Believe me, you have not seen angry until you’ve had to turn away mouths that were all set to bite into crispy fried chicken and fluffy waffles. And some of the customers I had to deny entry to seemed to take it as a personal offense and posted some rather unpleasant commentary on Yelp. I just don’t feel like going through all that commotion again.
“Raynell is available at twelve thirty tomorrow afternoon.”
“That would be fine. Please tell her to come by Sweet Tea then.”
“Sure. I will likely accompany her, and she may invite Alvetta Marshall, who has also been involved in the reunion planning. If that’s okay?”
“Of course.”
Alvetta registers in my head—another one I haven’t seen since high school. I’m sure she’s referring to the girl I knew as Alvetta Jordan. I remember Alvetta being nicer than Raynell, and, although she was prettier than Raynell, she was definitely the “number two” girl at my high school. Raynell was the clear leader of the gang of “it” girls, and Alvetta was her primary minion. I think there were six or seven girls in Raynell’s little squadron. They all followed Raynell around like newborn ducklings waddling behind their mother. Raynell said “jump,” and Alvetta and the others said “How high . . . and in what kind of shoes?” I remember when Raynell got that horrible asymmetrical ’shroom haircut that was big in the eighties—next thing you knew, Alvetta and the other underlings were chopping one side of their hair and leaving the other side long to match their queen. Raynell bought an acid-wash denim jacket and, within days, it became like a new uniform for her girls. When neon was popular the whole lot of them wandered the halls like a walking advertisement for Day-Glo highlighters. I remember them going through a phase when each of them constantly sported a neon beaded necklace. They each had a different color—Raynell probably assigned them. I can’t recall the colors the other girls wore, but I do remember that Raynell’s necklace was bright green—only because the intense color reminded me of a St. Patrick’s Day leprechaun. Raynell isn’t much taller than a leprechaun, and seeing her roam the school halls in her colored necklace always made me picture her with a green top hat and pointy-toe green shoes with gold buckles on them. The image was always good for a laugh.
“Okay. I will confirm with Raynell, and we’ll plan to see you tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
“Who was that?” Wavonne asks after I hang up the phone.
“The assistant to one Raynell Rollins. I went to high school with her—Raynell—not the assistant. Apparently, Raynell is on the reunion committee. Remember? I told you about the invite I got for it?”
“Yep. And I still don’t get why you ain’t goin’—all those former classmates who are likely eligible brothas. By the time people get to your age, Halia . . . you know . . . all old and creaky . . . half of them have been divorced and are on the prowl again.”
I laugh. “You’ll be in your forties one day, too, Wavonne. I hope to be there the first time someone calls you ‘old and creaky.’ ”
She rolls her eyes at me. “You know some of those brothas have been beaten down by naggin’ wives for years. They probably all damaged . . . ripe for the pickin’. If nothin’ else, you could at least get a weekend fling out of it.”
“Just what I need—a weekend fling with some man weighed down with more baggage than a bellman. Thanks, but no thanks!”
“Well then, don’t you want to go just to show off? You own one of the most successful restaurants in town. If it were me, I’d go just to rub it in the faces of any nasty heifers who thought they were better t
han me in high school.”
“What are you talking about?” I hear Momma say as she comes out of the kitchen into the main dining room. At seventy-four, she doesn’t move as fast as she used to, but she still bakes up some mean desserts. She gets in early and whips up the cakes and pies for Sweet Tea. She’s probably finished with her baking for the day and is about to head home.
“I can honestly say I have no idea, Momma.”
“Halia was just remindin’ me that she’s skippin’ her high school reunion.”
“Why would you do that, Halia? Go. Mingle.” Then she adds under her breath, “Find a husband . . .”
“What did you say?” I ask even though I heard her. Momma is forever trying to find me a love life.
“I said for you to go and mingle . . . and if you happen to find a potential romantic interest, so be it.”
“You don’t ever give up, do you, Momma?”
She ignores my questions. “Just go for Pete’s sake . . . and think like a lion while you’re there—wait until an eligible man is separated from the herd and then move in for the kill. Stick with the divorced ones. Anyone who’s never been married by the time they reach your age must have something wrong with them.” She notices the look on my face. “Except for you, dear. You’ve just been . . . well . . . busy.”
“Not that it has anything to do with your badgering, Momma, but I may be going to the event after all. Apparently, there was a water main break at the hotel where they planned to have the reunion, and they need a new venue. I just got a phone call about it. One of my old classmates who is on the reunion committee wants to host the event here at Sweet Tea. She’s coming by tomorrow to discuss it.”