Murder with Macaroni and Cheese

by A. L. Herbert

  I text back.

  Sure

  The moment I hit send, I wonder if I responded too soon. Do I seem too eager? Maybe I should have let some time pass before I replied. Like I said, I’m not good at this.

  I wait for him to text me back, but when I don’t get a response after a few seconds, I drop my phone on the table and walk down the hall to hurry up Wavonne. With a little cajoling from me, I manage to get her ready to roll just shy of eight thirty.

  “So, are you going to see him while he’s still in town?” Wavonne asks as I throw a few things in my purse.

  “Who?”

  “What you mean, who? Gregory.”

  I refrain from telling her about his text. “I don’t know, Wavonne. I think he’s only here for a few days, and I’ve already taken one night off from the restaurant.”

  We’re about to head out the door when I hear some quick scurrying coming from the hallway.

  “Gregory? Who’s Gregory?” Momma asks, hurriedly turning the corner. We had a dachshund growing up who I swear could hear you unwrap a piece of cheese from the other side of the house and show up at your feet in a nanosecond wanting his share. Momma’s ears have a similar talent when any mention of a possible man in my life materializes.

  “Nobody,” I say. “We’re late, Momma. We have to run.”

  Momma maneuvers herself between me and the front door. “Who is Gregory?”

  “He’s one of Halia’s old classmates who was puttin’ the moves on her last night.”

  “Really? What’s he look like? Employed? Father material? Is he a Christian?”

  “We were just friends in high school, Momma.”

  “She went to prom with him.”

  “That lanky fellow with the big ears?”

  “He’s not so lanky anymore,” Wavonne says. “Brotha is fine these days.”

  “And he’s interested in Halia?”

  I glare at Momma. “Don’t act so surprised!”

  “Single? Divorced? Never married?”

  “We didn’t talk about that, Momma, but he was not wearing a wedding band, and I’m sure Nicole would have told me if he were married.”

  “Are you going to see him again? What’s he do?”

  “I don’t know. And he owns a chain of restaurants.”

  “He’s in the restaurant business as well. He sounds perfect for you.”

  “He lives in Florida, Momma. He’s only in town for a few days.”

  “Well, you better jump on board that train before it leaves the station then. This is no time to dawdle.” She says this as if Gregory is the last helicopter out of Saigon.

  “I agree with Aunt Celia. He was into you, Halia. I could tell. Some brothas dig the full-figured matronly types . . . go figure,” Wavonne says with an evil grin.

  As I scowl back at her, my phone buzzes again. I grab it from my purse, take a look at the screen, and see another text from Gregory suggesting a date tomorrow evening.

  “If you must know, he just asked me out, so I guess we are getting together after all.”

  I see the excitement in Momma’s face. “Fantastic! You’ll need to get your hair done, and Wavonne and I will help you with your makeup.”

  “Whatever, Momma. We’re late.”

  Hopeful that her only daughter may not be an old maid after all, Momma steps out of our way and let’s Wavonne and me pass. We walk out to the van and finally hit the road. Sunday traffic is light, so it doesn’t take us too long to get to Christy’s building.

  Her apartment is in an older garden community of three-story buildings in Temple Hills. There are no elevators, so Wavonne and I walk up three flights of stairs to her unit on the top floor. When I knock on the door, there’s no response, so Wavonne knocks a second time. A few moments later we hear some stumbling on the other side of the door and see the knob turn.

  “Halia,” Christy says after opening the door. She appears groggy, like she’s just gotten out of bed. There are even sleep lines from her pillow on her face. She clearly was not expecting us.

  “I’m sorry. Did we wake you? Raynell said to come by this morning to get a check for the catering.”

  She narrows her brow. “No. Raynell didn’t say anything to me about it.”

  “So you don’t have our money?” Wavonne asks.

  I turn to Wavonne. “Our money?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. I’ll see Raynell on Monday. I can get a check from her then and drop it by the restaurant.”

  “Raynell’s house isn’t too far from here. Why don’t Wavonne and I just drop by on our way to the restaurant?”

  “Okay. I’ll call her and let her know you’re on your way. But I must warn you, she’s not really a morning person, and I’m sure she’s hurting from last night.”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry we woke you.”

  “It’s okay. I have a lot to do today, and it’s time to get moving.”

  “Why don’t you just let Christy bring you the check on Monday?” Wavonne asks after Christy closes her door. “You really wanna wake up the dragon lady so early on a Sunday? She might breathe fire at us.”

  “I’ve been in this business for a long time, Wavonne. And if I’ve learned nothing else, it’s that people have a short memory where owed-money is concerned. First it’s ‘I’ll pay you on Monday.’ Then it’s ‘I have appointments all week. Can I pay you on Friday?’ Then they stop answering the phone when you call altogether. For all we know, Raynell has dipped into the reunion fund to cover a new pair of shoes or one of her fancy designer outfits you’re so infatuated with.”

  “Fine, but you know Medusa’s gonna be in a mood.”

  We get in the van and buckle up. Before I start the ignition and back out of the parking space, I say to Wavonne, “She can be mad as a wet hen for all I care as long as she can sign her name on a check made out to Mahalia’s Sweet Tea.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “This is where Raynell lives?” Wavonne asks as we pull up in front of her house, and I park on the street. “Fancy!”

  “It is quite nice, isn’t it?”

  We step out of the van and walk up the driveway.

  “How much you think this house is worth? A million bucks?”

  “I have no idea, Wavonne.”

  When we reach the front door, I press the bell and hear it chime on the other side. We wait a few moments. When there is no response, we press the button again. We linger a tad longer, and when there is still no answer, I start to get a little suspicious. First Raynell tells me to pick up a nonexistent check from Christy, and then she conveniently doesn’t answer the door when I come by to get it from her directly.

  While we stand outside waiting for someone to answer the door, I notice that the window next to the door is open . . . actually all the windows along the front of the house are open.

  “Raynell?” I call through the open window closest to us. “It’s Halia. I’m here to settle the bill for the catering.”

  “Want me to pull up Rihanna’s ‘Bitch Better Have My Money’ on my phone and blast it at full volume? That should get her moving.”

  “I don’t think we’re quite to that point yet, Wavonne, but I’ll let you know.”

  “Have it your way.” Wavonne steps away and peeks into the garage. “Her Escalade’s in there.”

  I look through the window next to the door and see Raynell’s gold Michael Kors keychain on a console in the foyer. “I see her keys on the table. Her car’s here . . . and she wouldn’t leave the house without her keys. I think she’s just ignoring us.”

  “Maybe she really did dip her greedy hooves into the reunion fund. I bet that’s why she ain’t answerin’ the door. She don’t have your money.”

  I knock forcefully on the door rather than hitting the bell for a third time. “Raynell!” I yell through the window again. When my voice is, once again, met with silence, I instinctively try the doorknob and find it unlocked. I give it a full turn and open the door just enough to poke my head in.


  “Raynell, it’s Halia and Wavonne. Christy said she’d call you to let you know to expect us.” I open the door wider. “I see your keys on the table. You must be here.”

  I hate to think the worst about people, but I’m now convinced that Raynell is indeed trying to put one over on me, and get out of paying the bill for my catering services. She was a conniving little monster in high school, and clearly she’s no different today.

  “All right . . . enough.” I throw the door open and step inside. “Raynell!” I call up the steps. “We know you’re here. I need to collect payment for services rendered.”

  “Yeah! Fool!” Wavonne says.

  “Shut up, Wavonne,” I say as we stand in the foyer waiting for Raynell to show herself.

  “If she’s not comin’ down, then we’re goin’ up,” Wavonne says. “If we happen upon her closet and stop to check out some of her clothes, then so be it.”

  “You stay out of her closet,” I command, and follow Wavonne up the steps. “Raynell!” I call again, and begin to wonder if maybe she isn’t hiding from us . . . maybe she isn’t well from all her drinking last night and is still passed out.

  “Yo! Raynell! Show your tired ass.”

  “Wavonne!”

  “What?”

  “Take it down a notch. You’re not helping,” I scold. “Let’s look down there.”

  We walk down a long hall past a large bathroom and what appear to be a few guest rooms. When we reach the doorway at the end of the hall, we see what is obviously the master bedroom. It’s a cavernous space with a long row of picture windows that frame a seating area in front of a fire place. A large flat-screen TV hangs on the wall across from a king-size canopy bed.

  I look at the disheveled linens on the bed. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know, but I bet that’s the closet.” Wavonne points to a pair of double doors on the other side of the bed. Her eyes are fixed straight ahead like a fox at the entrance to a hen house.

  “I think I’d better call Christy, and see if she reached Raynell earlier.” I pull out my phone as Wavonne creeps toward the closet. “You stay out of there,” I say, but before I have a chance to make my call, Wavonne has already opened the doors to the Holy Land.

  “This must be what heaven’s like,” I hear Wavonne say as she steps inside the closet.

  Curiosity gets the best of me, and I can’t help but follow behind her into the expansive space, which is literally bigger than my living room. More clothes than any one person should own hang from two sets of rods on both sides of us—one close to the ceiling and one about midway down the wall. In front of us is a complex shelving system adorned with a selection of shoes that could easily rival the footwear department at Macy’s. There’s even a ladder that runs along a track surrounding the entire room to reach the purses displayed on the highest shelves. In the middle of the room is a large dresser with cabinets and drawers on both sides.

  “Leave it alone,” I call to Wavonne as she looks at the dresser.

  I watch as she slowly walks alongside the clothes, looking closely at certain pieces and trying to read the labels if there’s enough space between garments to see them. I wonder if she’s aware that her mouth is hanging open. I’m not a fashionista by any means, but even I’m awestruck by the sheer volume of meticulously organized high-priced clothing. I hate to admit it, but for a moment, I think we both forget that we were even looking for Raynell.

  “I bet there’s a few hundred thousand bucks worth of clothes and shoes in here.” Wavonne approaches the dozens of shoes stored along the back wall. “Prada, Louboutin, Fendi, Valentino,” she calls out as she peruses the designer footwear. “Oh my God, Halia! I saw these Manolos on the Neiman Marcus Web site for more than two thousand dollars!”

  “Okay, Wavonne. I think we’ve had enough. I’m not sure where Raynell is, but we don’t have any business poking around her closet. Come on.”

  I start to walk out of the closet, and Wavonne reluctantly follows. “So now what?”

  “I guess we go. I’ll give Christy a call on the way to Sweet Tea and set up a time to get the check, assuming they’re still some funds in the reunion committee’s account.”

  We’re about to make our way out of the bedroom when Wavonne spies another door on the other side of the room. “You think that’s Terrence’s closet?” she asks as she steps toward the door.

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. No more closet snooping, Wavonne. Let’s go,” I say, but Wavonne, being Wavonne, grasps the doorknob anyway.

  “Oh hail no!” I hear her shriek when she opens the door.

  “What?” I scurry in her direction and look over her shoulder while she stands frozen in place. The door doesn’t lead to Terrence’s closet. It leads to the bathroom—there’s a long deep tub, a pristine glass-enclosed shower, two gleaming white pedestal sinks presiding over a polished marble tile floor—a polished marble tile floor that would be lovely . . . just lovely, if it wasn’t for the fact that Raynell is laying facedown on it with a pool of blood around her head.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Oh hail no!”

  “You said that already,” I retort, slightly dazed as my eyes take in the sight before us: Raynell, in nothing but a nightshirt, flat on the floor. A shallow puddle of red surrounds her head and, at some point, streamed into the grout lines between the marble tiles.

  “And I’ll say it again. Oh HAIL NO!!!”

  I try to remain calm while I bypass Wavonne. I carefully step around the blood, and lower myself to pick up Raynell’s hand. I feel her wrist. “There’s no pulse. She’s dead.”

  I gently lay her hand back on the floor and stand up.

  “Not again.” The words involuntarily come from my lips as I try to make sense of what lays before us. This is not the first dead body Wavonne and I have stumbled upon. Last year, when we came across the deceased body of one of my restaurant investors (a bit of a shady fellow) in the kitchen of Sweet Tea after closing, I made the big . . . HUGE mistake of not calling the police for fear of the effect such awful publicity would have on my restaurant. Wavonne and I dragged his body out of Sweet Tea in hopes of keeping my restaurant out of the news surrounding a murder investigation. The whole thing turned into a huge disaster with Wavonne almost going to jail. I’m not making that blunder again.

  I grab my phone and dial 911. “I need the police. I’ve found a dead body.”

  The operator asks a few questions and connects me with the police. I provide the few details that I can, and the officer on the line advises us to stay put and not touch anything until the authorities arrive.

  When I disconnect from the call, I maneuver myself around Raynell’s body and cautiously step out of the bathroom. I stand next to Wavonne just outside the door. We both can’t do anything but stare. As we take in the dastardly scene I oddly begin to notice the sound of birds chirping outside. It’s already pretty hot even though it’s still morning, but there is a light breeze coming through the open window in the bathroom, and the morning sunshine is cascading through a skylight in the ceiling. I can’t help but notice how Raynell, lying lifeless on the floor, is such a sharp contrast to the beautiful day outside.

  “Standing here staring at her is not going to bring her back to life.” I lightly pull Wavonne by the shoulders a few steps back from the bathroom door.

  “What do you think happened?” Wavonne asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she fell. She was really drunk when she left the reunion.”

  “Or maybe someone pushed her.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So what are we supposed to do now?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “The officer on the phone said not to touch anything, so I guess we should just stay put.”

  Wavonne and I do just that for about five minutes. We are hovering next to the bathroom door when we hear a loud knock on the door downstairs.

  “Prince George’s County Police,” I hear a male voice call up the steps.

 
“We’re up here.”

  Wavonne and I hurry out of the bedroom and down the hall. We meet the officer at the top of the steps.

  “She’s in the master bedroom . . . the bathroom, actually.”

  “And you are?” the policeman asks.

  “Halia. I’m Halia Watkins, and this is my cousin, Wavonne Hix. We came by to pick up a check from Raynell. When she didn’t answer the door we became concerned.”

  “How did you get in?” he asks as the three of us quickly walk down the hall.

  “The door was unlocked. We let ourselves in.”

  “You’re friends of the deceased?”

  “Yes . . . well, no . . . sort of. I went to high school with her. We planned our reunion together. It was last night. I catered the event, and Raynell was supposed to have a check for me this morning.”

  “Fine, fine,” the officer says as we reach the bathroom.

  He looks at Raynell and back at Wavonne and me. “Have you touched anything?”

  “Aren’t you going to confirm she’s dead?”

  “Don’t need to. See how her feet are sort of a bluish brown color? That’s blood pooling. She’s dead.” He says this like it’s just another day at the office. I guess for him, maybe it is.

  “Did you touch anything?” he asks again.

  “No . . . well, the door handle to let ourselves in. Maybe the banister on the stairway.”

  “I opened the bathroom door,” Wavonne says.