Murder with Macaroni and Cheese

by A. L. Herbert

  “We actually do have quite a few players on the rolls here. Meet and greets? Hmm . . . we don’t have anything specific planned with the players at the moment, but if you join some of the church’s ministries and come to service regularly, you’re bound to run into some of them.”

  Raynell rolls her eyes at Wavonne’s obvious attempt to gain some introductions to professional sports players. “Terrence. Get!” she says. “We have reunion plans to discuss.”

  Terrence smiles and looks at Michael. “Guess we better do as the boss tells us.”

  “Pleasure meeting you,” Michael says before he and Terrence make their exit.

  “Please have a seat,” Alvetta says, and Wavonne and I slide into the booth across from her and Raynell. We’ve barely gotten settled when a lanky young man wearing an apron appears at the table.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Marshall,” he says to Alvetta while setting down a coffeepot, a bowl of creamers, various sweeteners, and a carafe of orange juice. “What may I get for you and your guests?” He fills each of our mugs with steaming coffee and pours orange juice into four crystal glasses.

  “Why don’t you just fix us a few plates with the works?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Marshall.”

  As the young man steps away I see Raynell discreetly elbow Alvetta.

  “Kenny,” Alvetta calls. “Extra bacon please for Mrs. Rollins.”

  “For the table. Not just for me,” Raynell says. “So, let’s talk reunion plans. Is everything all set at the Marriott?”

  “Yes. My connection there gave the committee a very nice rate, but that’s about all I know. Christy was managing the details.”

  “Where is Christy?” Raynell asks no one in particular, irritation in her voice. “She was supposed to be here by now.”

  “There she is,” Alvetta says as Christy hurriedly makes her way to the table.

  “Sorry, Raynell. Traffic getting into the parking lot was crazy.”

  “What’s the latest on the venue for the reunion on Saturday?” Raynell says, not bothering to greet Christy properly or even reprimand her for being late.

  Christy grabs a chair from a neighboring table, sits down at the end of the booth, and pulls a manila folder from her bag. “It’s all set. We have the Grand Ballroom reserved. Twenty-five round tables. Each table seats eight people. Standard centerpieces and candles. The buffet tables—”

  “Fine, fine.” Raynell cuts Christy off. “Sounds like it’s under control. You’ve confirmed the deejay?”

  “Yes.”

  “The staging area for the silent auction?”

  “Yes. There’s a small conference room next to the ballroom. We’ll display the items there.”

  “Silent auction?” I ask.

  “Yes. I thought it would be a good idea for classmates and some local businesses to donate items. All the proceeds will go to the Raynell Rollins Foundation for Children in Need.”

  “It’s a great charity. Raynell raised sixty thousand dollars last year.” Alvetta beams.

  “Well, you know, I’m a giver.”

  “You are, Raynell. You do so many good things.”

  I stifle a laugh while Wavonne leans in and whispers in my ear. “Was Alvetta this far up Raynell’s ass in high school?”

  I ignore her question. “So, Raynell. Tell us more about the charity.”

  “We focus outreach on children in the D.C. metro area, but it’s open to everyone. We identify children of unfortunate means and provide funds for virtually anything that might improve their situation: food, clothing, school supplies, scholarships, summer camps, you name it.”

  “Sounds like a great resource.” I can’t help but notice the way she looked directly at Alvetta when she spoke of “children of unfortunate means.”

  “It is. The silent auction at the reunion will be the perfect way for us to raise funds,” Raynell says. “You’ll have to donate an evening at your restaurant. What’s it called again? Salty Tea?”

  “Sweet Tea,” I correct. “Of course, I’d be happy to donate a gift card.”

  “Great. We’ve collected several donations so far.” Raynell looks to Christy. “Remind me of some of the items.”

  “Everything from free dry cleaning to a complimentary oil change at Middleton’s Garage . . . to a dozen roses from Sienna’s Floral Arrangements in Oxon Hill. One of your classmates donated a sculpture, and John Thomson, who owns a photography studio, donated a free portrait setting. Another classmate—”

  “Meh,” Raynell groans. “Such paltry items. Meanwhile I’m donating an antique desk worth a couple thousand dollars.”

  “Not everyone is as successful as you,” Alvetta says. “And the reunion is still a week away. I’m sure more donations will come in.”

  Alvetta is about to continue reassuring Raynell when Christy’s phone rings.

  “Raynell Rollins Real Estate. This is Christy. How may I help you?” Christy is silent for a moment before she nicely asks the caller to hold. “Raynell, it’s Gregory. Confirming you are meeting him to show properties at two.”

  “Yes. Tell him I’ll meet him at the Brandywine location.”

  As Christy passes on Raynell’s words to the gentleman on the phone, I realize I haven’t once heard her use the word “please” or phrase anything as a question when she speaks to Christy. Everything she says to the poor girl is simply a command.

  “Like I was saying,” Alvetta interjects when Christy wraps up the call. “Michael and I will make some donations, and while I doubt we’ll get anything as valuable as the desk you contributed, as some of our former classmates who live outside the area arrive for the event, I’m sure they’ll check in and make some donations.”

  “I hope so. I’ll have Christy make some more calls this week . . . shake a few trees,” Raynell says, her eyes suddenly pointed in my direction. “Speaking of the desk. I was going to hire someone to take it to the hotel to display at the reunion, but it’s not that large and, surely, you must have a van or a truck or something for that little lunch counter of yours . . . no? Would you mind picking it up on Saturday and taking it over to the hotel?”

  “Um . . .” I’m not sure what to say. She already has Christy and Alvetta acting as her lackeys. I’m really not eager to add my name to the list, but it is for charity and, honestly, I’m a little curious to see Raynell’s house. “I guess so. I’m sure we’ll be running back and forth to the hotel a few times on Saturday anyway to get the catering set up.”

  “Great. Christy, write the address down for Halia.”

  As Christy writes Raynell’s address down on a piece of paper, the young man who approached the table earlier returns with two others, and the three of them, all holding trays, begin laying down plates. While I watch people who were in line at the counter when we first stepped inside the cafeteria continue to wait for their turn at the serving station we enjoy table service—the perks of being guests of the First Lady I suppose. Dishes loaded with eggs, bacon (pork and turkey), sausage, English muffins, pancakes, and oatmeal land in front of us. They’re accompanied by containers of whipped butter, syrup, and a selection of jellies.

  We enjoy our breakfast and begin discussing the menu for the reunion. I present Raynell and Alvetta with a list of options for appetizers to be passed around during the cocktail hour, main and side dishes for the buffet, and desserts. I also suggest that I whip up a few pitchers of our house cocktail to be served at the cash bars.

  Generally this approach works well when planning a menu for catered events—customers review the options, make a few selections, and we wrap things up. Such is not the case with Raynell Rollins, though. Alvetta is mostly agreeable to my suggestions, but Raynell doesn’t like any of the appetizer recommendations. She wants to know if I can arrange for chilled shrimp cocktails, but when I inform her of the cost of quality fresh shrimp and the effect it will have on my catering price, she lets it go. She’s decided she doesn’t want fried chicken on the buffet as “fried chicken has no business
at a formal event.” But apparently macaroni and cheese does have every business at a formal event because she insists that it be part of the menu. She goes on like this for about an hour, and I politely explain why most of her requests (e.g., a staffed raw oyster bar, chocolate soufflés, Kobe beef sliders) are not feasible within the available budget.

  I think she believed she was going to be able to bully me into taking a loss on the event and preparing dishes way beyond what my fee would cover. I might have been a little timid around Raynell in high school, but I’m certainly not afraid of her now. I’m not looking to make money on this catering job, but I’m not going to lose money, either. So, after a lot of hemming and hawing, we eventually finalize the menu and come to an agreement over a nice selection of appetizers, entrées, and desserts. And, if I do say so myself, come Saturday night, my old high school classmates are in for a real treat when they get a sampling of some of my tastiest recipes.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Those look divine,” I say to Momma as she starts popping chocolate cakes out of their pans. She’s been at Sweet Tea since five this morning. It’s eight now, which is actually early for me to be at the restaurant. I’m generally here until well after we close, so I try not to start my workday too early. Coming in during the late morning also allows very little overlap between Momma’s time in the Sweet Tea kitchen baking all of her delicious goodies and my time in the Sweet Tea kitchen supervising the rest of our creations, which, believe me, helps keep the peace around here. Momma usually starts her baking at six a.m. and wraps about four hours later, but like me, she came in early today to get a jump on the catering order for the reunion.

  Raynell’s husband (at least Raynell said it was her husband) loved Momma’s chocolate marshmallow cake so much that Raynell asked . . . well, more like insisted, that we serve it as the featured dessert for the reunion.

  Momma has twelve layers of chocolate cake cooling on the counter—enough for four cakes. As the smell of rich cocoa reaches my nose, I have to fight the urge to press my hands on them just to feel their warm velvety texture.

  As there’s always an occasional freak . . . yeah, I said it . . . an occasional “freak” who doesn’t like chocolate, to supplement the chocolate marshmallow cakes, we’ll also be serving sour cream coconut cakes. And that’s just the desserts. We’ll be starting the affair with mini corn muffins and fried chicken salad tartlets during the cocktail hour. These will be followed by a full dinner buffet of herb baked chicken, salmon cakes, and host of yummy sides. Of course, this spread is way beyond the budget of the reunion committee, but I agreed to offer a substantial discount. I’ll barely break even with this job, but I guess it’s okay considering it’s for my alma mater.

  “Let me get started on the frosting while they cool. Wavonne, start opening those jars of marshmallow cream, would you?” Momma calls over to Wavonne, who couldn’t have been any less helpful since she arrived with me a few hours ago. She’s currently sitting on a stool with her head against the wall and her eyes shut.

  “Wavonne!” I call to wake her up.

  “Huh?” She slowly opens her eyes.

  “Help Momma with the frosting, please.”

  “I’m so tired.” She sluggishly lifts herself from the stool. “Why’d we have to come in so early? I was up late watchin’ a Basketball Wives marathon. Those sistas live the life, Halia. They got it all—money, big houses, cars, clothes, jew-reys . . . everything. That’s the life I was meant to have . . . not being up at no damn six a.m. to make cakes. Now I just need Raynell’s husband to hook me up with a football player, and it will be me on TV covered in bling when they launch a show about football wives.”

  “You know, Wavonne. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you could earn your own money and have your own career to pay for all those big houses and big cars . . . and all that other stuff?”

  Wavonne looks at me like I have horns. “What kind of fool would work when she can land a man to pay her bills?”

  “The kind that knows she might not ever find that rich brother.”

  “Oh, I’ll find me a rich brotha all right.”

  “Well, until such time, you need to earn your keep around here.” I nod toward the jars Momma asked her to open.

  “She doesn’t have it all wrong, Halia,” Momma chimes in, and I’m reminded of why I prefer not to share the kitchen with her. “A little less career and a little more husband hunting isn’t the worst idea in the world.”

  I sigh. “Yes, Momma.”

  “Don’t moan at me. This reunion is a perfect opportunity for you to get out there. There must be an old high school flame . . . or someone who’s recently divorced . . . or someone. . . anyone for you to connect with.”

  “Halia had a flame in high school?” Wavonne looks up from the jars toward me. “Ooh girl, gimme the deets.”

  “There are no old flames, Wavonne. Other than the occasional homecoming or prom date with guys who were usually more friends than boyfriends, my high school years were pretty devoid of romance.”

  “So, in other words, your love life was as borin’ then as it is now.”

  “My love life is not that bad,” I protest. “I date.”

  Momma lets out a loud dramatic laugh. “Since when?”

  “I went out with Jeremy Hughes just . . . well, okay . . . it was like a year ago. And there was Timothy Jenkins.”

  “That was even before Jeremy, and we all know that was more a bidness meetin’ than a date. You just wanted to get a discount on some kitchen equipment,” Wavonne says. “And as for Jeremy . . . any man who wears more foundation and concealer than I do . . . and who takes you to a freakin’ Sound of Music sing-along at Wolf Trap is hardly husband material.”

  “I tried to set her up with Stan, the UPS driver,” Momma says to Wavonne as if I’m not in the room. “But she didn’t move fast enough, and now he’s dating that mousey little thing who manages the Walgreens.”

  “Martha Brennen? That tiny lil’ rodent?” Wavonne, who is always combing the aisles of the Walgreens next door for cheap makeup or accessories, asks. “That ho-bag follows me around whenever I go in there like I’m gonna steal somethin’. I don’t know what that little Polly Pocket thinks she would do if I did take anything—she barely comes up to my rack. Even Halia could take her in a fight,” she adds, turning to me. “Run down there and fight for your man, Halia. Go on.”

  “Stan is hardly my man.” I laugh. “Why don’t you both focus on your own love lives, which, if I recall correctly, are no more existent than mine.”

  “That may be, but I’m gonna get that Raynell to set me up with a Redskin. Then I won’t have to be all up in here at the butt crack of dawn makin’ cakes.”

  Momma takes the jars from Wavonne and scoops their contents in a large metal bowl she’s already filled with softened butter, secures the bowl into one of my favorite kitchen gadgets, my five-quart stainless steel Hobart N50 mixer. I just upgraded to it a few months ago. It cost a mint, but it works beautifully. Some people get excited over the Audi A6 and the BMW 500 . . . or Versace and Ferragamo. But if you want to see me light up, let’s talk about the Hobart N50 mixer or the Kolpak P7-068-CT Walk-In Cooler . . . or the Duke E102-G Double Full Size Gas Convection Oven. Some girls dream of fancy cars and jewelry—for me, a freshly sharpened Misono 440 Molybdenum Santoku knife makes me positively giddy. I’m a sucker for a freshly seasoned Tomlinson cast-iron skillet. . . and don’t get me started on the Manitowoc QM-30 Series Self-Contained Cube Ice Machine that’s been on my wish list for a couple of years now.

  Momma starts the mixer and begins to whip the frosting. As the butter and marshmallow cream blend together she slowly adds powdered sugar to the whirling bowl. When the icing has creamed together nicely, she adds a touch of vanilla, gives it a final mix, and voilà, we have Momma’s famous marshmallow frosting.

  “Yeah . . . good luck with that, Wavonne. From what I know about Raynell, she isn’t keen on helping anyone but Raynell. Not to mention she d
oesn’t seem to be terribly fond of you in particular.”

  I grab two serrated knifes from the knife block, hand one to Wavonne, and we both help Momma slice the small domes off of the tops of the cake layers, so they will lay smoothly on top of each other.

  “My knees are not what they used to be. Give them an eye-level look and make sure they are even,” Momma asks me.

  “Let me do that for you two old hens,” Wavonne offers. “Drop it like it’s hot,” she says as she squats down to get her face level with the cakes. “Perfect.”

  We’ve helped Momma enough with her baking to know the drill from here. We take four circular pieces of plywood that I’ve already covered with decorative purple foil and lay them on the counter. These will function as the serving platters. We place four strips of parchment paper on each platter, so they lie just underneath the edges of the cakes to keep icing off the foil while we work. We then place a dollop of frosting on the center of the boards to anchor the cakes before we flip a moist chocolate layer onto it.

  “Now, you girls be careful,” Momma says as she goes down the line with a pastry brush and sweeps away any loose crumbs so they don’t get in the frosting.

  “That’s too much, Wavonne!” Momma calls as she watches Wavonne haphazardly plop a glob of frosting onto one of the layers. “These are for Halia’s former classmates. We want them to be perfect.”

  Wavonne removes some of the icing with her spatula and starts to spread it around. “I wanna slice up one of these for breakfast, Aunt Celia,” she says as we begin on the second layer. “Girl, hook me up with a slice of this cake and maybe a caramel flan latte, and I’d be like a pig in—”

  “Don’t even think about it, Wavonne. We need four for the reunion, and that’s all Momma’s made.”

  “ ‘Bring me those jars.’ ‘Too much icing.’ ‘No cake for you,’ ” Wavonne mutters under her breath, mimicking Momma and me. “That Russian woman who runs the prison kitchen on TV barks fewer orders.”

  Momma and I ignore her as we continue to pull the cakes together. When we finally get all three layers assembled and frosted, Momma, ever the perfectionist, slips a thin spatula in hot water, quickly dries it, and uses the heated tool to carefully smooth out the cakes.