Murder with Macaroni and Cheese

by A. L. Herbert

  “Do you think that’s a good idea, Halia?” Momma asks. “You don’t need perspective suitors knowing you own a restaurant right off the bat. Men can be funny about dating women who are successful in business. Let them get to know you first,” she adds as if my status as a restaurant owner is akin to a case of herpes or a prison record . . . or whatever else you wouldn’t mention on a first date.

  “I just agreed to meet with her. I didn’t say I was definitely going to host it here. I’m not keen on shutting this place down for an evening . . . especially on a Saturday night. I think I’ll make a few phone calls instead, and see if I might be able to secure another location. Then I can just cater the reunion. That way I can help out without having to close Sweet Tea for an evening.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Momma says. “You can have staff supervise the catering, and then you can go as a guest. We’ll get you a new dress—”

  Wavonne cuts her off. “And maybe we can do somethin’ with that hair of hers,” she says to Momma, and then turns to me. “Let me give you a full makeover, Halia. I’ll do your makeup and loan you a wig . . . one of the good ones with the European hair. I’ll have you lookin’ straight-up pimp in no time.”

  “I don’t think ‘straight-up pimp,’ whatever that means, is exactly my style. But thanks all the same, Wavonne.”

  “Suit yourself, but that Eddie Bauer/L.L. Bean getup you got goin’ on is not goin’ to get you noticed.”

  “I’m on my feet and moving around this restaurant all day. I like to be comfortable, Wavonne.”

  “Fine. Be comfortable. But you ain’t gonna land no man at your reunion lookin’ all frumpadump.”

  “Whatever, Wavonne. My ‘frumpadump’ self has work to do, and so do you.” I turn to Momma. “And isn’t it time for you to get on out of here?”

  Momma looks at her watch. “Why, yes. It really is. I’ve got to run, girls,” she says to Wavonne and me before focusing her eyes on just me. “I do hope you attend the reunion, Halia. And remember what I said: you’re the lion, and the single men are the gazelles. As soon as one lags behind—”

  My back is already turned to her as I cut her off on my way to my office to make some calls and see about finding a venue for the reunion. “I know, Momma: ‘Move in for the kill.’ ”

  CHAPTER 2

  “Wavonne! If I catch you doing that one more time . . .” I let my voice trail off as we both know whatever I say is no more than an empty threat. She just used a glass to scoop herself a cup of ice out of the well instead of the metal scooper. She does this all the time, and last year, in the middle of the dinner rush, she broke a glass in the process—we had to pour hot water in the well to melt all the ice and make sure we didn’t miss any shards. Then restock the whole thing.

  “My bad, my bad.” Wavonne dumps the ice back into the cooler and uses the scooper to fill her glass before placing it under the sweet tea dispenser. “What time your high school friends comin’ over?”

  “They should be here soon. And I wouldn’t call them ‘friends.’ They are just former classmates. We barely interacted in high school at all.”

  “Oh . . . so they were the popular girls?”

  “What makes you think I didn’t hang out with the popular girls?”

  “ ’Cause you were probably always cookin’ with Grandmommy or had your nose buried in some book.”

  “So what if I spent time in the kitchen as a teenager and liked to read? I turned out okay.”

  “How about the chicks you have comin’ in here? How’d they turn out?”

  “I don’t really know. I haven’t seen them in over twenty years.”

  “What are their names again?” Wavonne pulls out her phone.

  “Raynell Rollins and Alvetta Marshall. Why?”

  Wavonne starts typing on her phone. “Here’s Alvetta.” She places her phone under my nose.

  “Ah . . . the magic of Facebook.” I take the phone, click on Alvetta’s main photo, and watch it enlarge on the screen. “She looks good . . . really good.”

  Wavonne grabs the phone back from me and looks herself. “She’s all right . . . considerin’ she’s like forty-somethin’.” She clicks on her phone again. “Says here she’s First Lady of Rebirth Christian Church.”

  “Is that so?” I ask. “I guess that mean’s she’s married to the pastor. Rebirth is one of those mega churches, isn’t it? With a few thousand members?”

  “Yeah. It’s not too far from here . . . over in Fort Washington.”

  “Didn’t we just have a bunch of Rebirth members in here last Sunday?”

  “Yep. The ones who hoarded three tables for over two hours.”

  “They do tend to be some of our lesser-behaved after-churchers.” I don’t know exactly when we started simply referring to them as “after-churchers,” but the folks who come in here after services for Sunday brunch are one of the prime reasons I have the rare thought of getting out of the restaurant business. Diana Ross herself could walk into Sweet Tea wearing a diamond tiara, and I bet she’d be less demanding than some of the after-churchers. The ones who come from the gigantic mega churches like Rebirth are typically the worst.

  Now don’t get me wrong—I’m a Christian, and I’m all for giving God his due on the infrequent Sunday that I can get away from Sweet Tea to attend service—but some of these mega churches just leave a bad taste in my mouth. Momma attends one in Camp Springs. The few times I’ve gone with her, the collection basket went around more times than a tip jar at a strip club, which wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t suspect that half the money deposited in the basket was going toward the pastor’s Mercedes G-Class or to keep his wife, who, like Alvetta, refers to herself as the “First Lady,” in all the latest fashions from Saks and Neiman Marcus.

  “Those Rebirthers were here forever last Sunday. They about ran Darius and me ragged with special requests. Thank God you implemented that tip policy, or we’d have been left with their usual five percent tip.”

  Wavonne is not one for math, but it wasn’t long after she started working at Sweet Tea that she learned how to calculate percentages—working for tips will do that for a person. People really should leave at least twenty percent of the total bill for good service, and no server likes to get less than fifteen percent. But if Wavonne is on the other side of a five or ten percent tip, we all know to batten down the hatches. Even with her poor impulse control she knows better than to chase after a customer who’s stiffed her. So instead, she complains to no end to whichever staff member is within earshot. Usually words like “project ho” or “thot” are involved.

  “I hated to do it, but I had to do something.” I’m referring to the Sunday brunch tipping policy I implemented last year that automatically adds an eighteen percent gratuity to all parties. We’ve always added gratuity to parties of six or more, but some of our less refined customers started breaking up into smaller parties to avoid the charge, and it was becoming a particular problem on Sundays. Most of my customers are decent tippers, but certain after-churchers see it fit to leave well below the industry standard tip amounts. And I’m all for spreading God’s word or what have you, but I’m sorry, religious literature left on the table after a customer departs does not constitute a tip and is certainly not going to pay my servers’ rent or their car payments.

  “Let’s see what else we can find out about her.” Wavonne starts tapping on her phone again.

  I’m about to lean my head over and see if she’s found a profile for Raynell when I spot a slick black Hyundai Equus glide into a parking space in front of the restaurant. I move closer to the door, and, as the car comes to a stop, I see one of those clear stickers on the back window with a drawing of a church outlined in white. I lean toward the glass to make out the writing underneath the sketch—it says Rebirth Christian Church.

  “I guess the First Lady has arrived.”

  “Think she’s upset that we ain’t got a red carpet?” Wavonne asks, walking toward me.

  I
chuckle. “Maybe so. I guess a tall glass of iced tea will have to do.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Wavonne stands next to me as we watch the door to Alvetta’s luxury sedan open. My eyes are initially drawn to her towering pink heels as they make contact with the pavement. I follow them up to a lovely floral dress paired with a short light blue jacket—a bolero jacket, I think it’s called.

  “Oh hail no!” Wavonne says. “I just saw that outfit online.”

  “The dress?”

  “It’s not just a dress, Halia. That is some Oscar de la Renta. Costs like two thousand dollars. I bet those Blahniks on her feet were another thousand, easy.”

  One of Wavonne’s favorite things to do, often when she should be waiting on customers, is to look at high fashion online, snap screen shots of what she likes, and then try to find lookalikes at T.J. Maxx or Ross.

  “I guess I’m in the wrong business. Clearly religion is much more lucrative than owning a restaurant.”

  “You ain’t kiddin’. If I’d known landin’ a minister would get me all up in some de la Renta, I’d go to church with Aunt Celia more often.”

  “Oh you would, would you?” I ask as I open the door to greet Alvetta.

  “Halia Watkins!” Alvetta calls to me as she carefully navigates her heels on to the raised sidewalk in front of Sweet Tea.

  “Alvetta!” I smile. “You look amazing. The picture of summer,” I add, eyeing her dress of pastel flowers. And, considering it’s nearly ninety degrees today, being dressed for sunshine is certainly appropriate.

  As she makes her final approach toward the door, I’m reminded of how beautiful she was in high school . . . and still is. She has the same long legs and hourglass figure . . . the same dewy brown skin, high cheekbones, and full eyelashes framing her hazel eyes. Clicking her heels along the sidewalk with her long black hair pushed back with a pair of oversized white sunglasses, she looks like she’s about to board a private jet bound for some exotic location.

  “Thank you.” She leans in, grabs both my hands, and gives me a kiss on each cheek.

  “It’s so nice to see you. Please. Come in.”

  “It’s great to see you as well.” She steps inside Sweet Tea and begins to look around. “What a lovely place. I’d heard you’d become a successful restaurateur. I can’t believe I’ve never been here . . . especially considering I only live a few miles away.”

  “That is a shame, but we’ll make up for it today. We’ll indulge you with the finest soul food in town.” I notice Wavonne hovering next to me. “This is my cousin, Wavonne. She works as a server here.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Please. Let’s have a seat.” I gesture for Alvetta to follow me as I walk toward a four top by one of the front windows.

  “What would you like to drink? A cocktail or a glass of wine? Or we have a watermelon mint iced tea on special—it’s perfect on a hot day like this.”

  “That sounds delightful.”

  “Wavonne, could you get us a couple of glasses of the watermelon mint tea?”

  Wavonne, who followed us to the table, finally diverts her envious eyes from Alvetta’s attire, nods, and heads toward the drink station.

  “So, how are you? What have you been up to?” Alvetta asks.

  “This.” I look around me. “Keeping this place running leaves little time for much else. How about you? I heard you married a church pastor.” I figure that sounded better than telling her Wavonne and I were just snooping around on Facebook for details about her.

  “Yes. My husband, Michael, is the pastor of Rebirth Christian Church in Fort Washington. We have a congregation of more than ten thousand. It keeps both of us very busy.”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  “You should come to service sometime. I’ll reserve you a seat in the Pastor’s Circle.”

  “The Pastor’s Circle?”

  “It’s the seating area closest to the stage. The seats are reserved for special guests and VIPs.”

  “How nice,” I reply, even though the idea of a VIP section seems more appropriate for a nightclub rather than a church. “I’d love to, but it’s hard to get away on Sunday mornings. Preparing to feed church attendees after the service doesn’t give us much time to actually attend ourselves.”

  “Well . . . when you can get away, I hope you’ll come.”

  “Of course,” I respond before switching gears. “So. The reunion?”

  “Yes. I’m so excited. It will be a real treat to get the old gang back together again.” She seems to be saying this as if I were part of the “old gang.” By no means was I part of the “Whitleys,” a named bestowed upon Raynell and Alvetta’s gaggle of snooty girls in honor of Whitley Gilbert, the spoiled elitist character played by Jasmine Guy on A Different World, the spinoff of The Cosby Show that was popular back in my high school days. I’m not sure Raynell and Alvetta ever knew that the Whitleys is what they were called by most of the school. It wasn’t a name necessarily used in a derogatory fashion, but it was always said with a hint of distaste by those of us who were not part of the exclusive clique. I was reasonably popular in high school, but more in a studious “class president” sort of way rather than the fast-partying, latest-fashion-wearing way of the Whitleys.

  “I’m sure it will be a fun night. I’ve lost touch with most of our classmates. Occasionally, some alumni I recognize will come in here for lunch or dinner, but Nicole is the only former classmate I’m still in regular contact with.”

  “Nicole Baxter? How is she?”

  “She’s good. She’s planning on attending. She lives in Bowie now. She—”

  Wavonne interrupts me. “Here we go.” She set three glasses of tea down on the table. I’m curious who the third glass of tea is for until I see her grab a chair from a neighboring table, slide it over, and plop herself down on it. “Your other friend who’s comin’ over . . . you said her name was Raynell Rollins?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought that name sounded familiar. Then I was pourin’ the tea, and it came to me—Raynell Rollins. She wouldn’t happen to be the wife of Terrence Rollins?”

  “Yes,” Alvetta responds. “That’s her.”

  “Get out?! She’s the wife of Terrence Rollins? Former wide receiver of the Washington Redskins?”

  Alvetta smiles. “Yes indeed. He retired from the Redskins years ago. He’s a sports anchor on the local news now. I’m sure you’ve seen him. He’s on every night at six and eleven.”

  “I’ve seen him,” I say. “He certainly is a nice-looking man.”

  “Do you really think Raynell would have it any other way?”

  I laugh. “No, I guess not.”

  “I think that’s Raynell now.” Alvetta directs her eyes over my shoulder.

  I turn around and look out the window at a white Cadillac Escalade easing into the parking space next to Alvetta’s car.

  “Great. We can start figuring out a plan for the event.” I turn to Wavonne. “Is there something I can help you with?” I’m wondering why she is still sitting with us when we had arranged for her to be the server for this table, not to mention the two or three other tables she should be waiting on at this very moment.

  “Nope. I’m good.”

  “Wavonne, you are supposed to be serving this table—not sitting at it. And you have other tables that need tending.”

  “I got it covered. Darius said he’d look after my tables for a few mins.” She leans in and whispers to me. “You need to hook me up with this Raynell sista. She and her husband may be my ticket to finding a professional sports playa boyfriend.”

  I don’t want to have an argument with Wavonne in front of Alvetta, so I just nod at Wavonne and get up to greet Raynell. As I watch her step out of the SUV I’m reminded of how short she is, even in the high heels she’s sporting. I often remember women like Raynell—woman with big personalities and bigger egos—taller than they actually are. Absent her stilettos she barely clears five feet.

 
Unlike Alvetta, Raynell, with her wide nose and square jaw, is not a natural beauty. You wouldn’t call her obese, but words like “stout” or “solid” come to mind when you look at her. She doesn’t have much of a waistline. Somehow she manages to be plump without having curves—her figure is more in line with . . . say a tree trunk rather than an hourglass. But you have to give the girl credit for doing the best she can with what God gave her. As she gets closer to the door, I can see that her hair and makeup are meticulous, and her lavender pantsuit flatters her less than curvaceous figure as best it can.

  Raynell’s power never did stem from her looks. It was always her confidence and authoritarian manner that made her the empress of my high school. And I’m guessing it’s those same traits that landed her a handsome rich husband.

  Raynell’s boxy stature is made even more apparent when a petite, much younger woman rounds the corner from the passenger side of Raynell’s SUV, carrying what appears to be a very heavy bag in one hand and an iPad in the other.

  The pair reaches the door, which I open for them, and, as Raynell’s eyes meet mine, I suddenly remember how she was sort of a bitch in high school. I wonder if she still is.

  I welcome her, and she extends her hand in a fashion that makes it seem as though I’m supposed to kiss it rather than shake it. Confused, I decide not to do either and just say, “Hello, Raynell. It’s good to see you again.”

  “You too, Halia.” She turns her head from left to right, looking around Sweet Tea. “Such a cozy little . . . little lunch counter you run here,” she says of my restaurant, which seats nearly two hundred customers and regularly makes local top restaurant lists. She then looks me up and down. “And who can blame you for putting on a few pounds . . . who wouldn’t, working in a restaurant.”

  Yep, still sort of a bitch.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Alvetta,” Raynell says as we approach the table. “How are you?”