Murder with Macaroni and Cheese

by A. L. Herbert

  The smell of wood-fired pizza pleasantly wafts in the air as the door closes behind me. When I eat in restaurants other than my own I tend to favor ethnic establishments that offer food that’s completely different from what I cook and serve all day. Now, don’t get me wrong—I make some of the best food around, but sometimes a girl gets a hankering for something other than soul food. My tastes run the gamut—Italian, Greek, Chinese, Thai, Middle Eastern . . . I enjoy virtually any cuisine but Indian (not a fan of curry . . . the taste or the smell) or Ethiopian (never had it, but it looks disgusting).

  The host is about to greet me when I see Gregory at a table behind him. I smile at the host and point to Gregory in an “I’m with him” fashion and make my way into the dining room.

  “Hello.” Gregory stands and greets me.

  “Hi. Sorry I’m late. Trying to drive anywhere around D.C. this time of day is an exercise in frustration. Traffic is terrible.”

  “No worries. I was just answering e-mails on my phone.”

  “E-mails?” I inquire with a grin, eyeing his phone, which is currently lying on the table displaying an animated dragon and some colorful medieval scenery.

  “Ah . . . you caught me.” Gregory laughs. “Once a video game nerd. Always a video game nerd.”

  “Were you into video games in high school? I don’t remember that.”

  “Into them? That’s pretty much all I did outside of schoolwork. I didn’t have much of a social life in those days. I spent many a Saturday night in front of Nintendo playing The Legend of Zelda and Super Mario Bros.”

  “Really? I knew nothing about video games in high school . . . and I guess I know nothing about them now.”

  “I’ll admit I still enjoy them. They help me relax.”

  “Hmm . . . maybe I should take up video games then. I could use some de-stressing here and there myself.” I take a seat at the table, and Gregory does the same. “So, I’m guessing you’ve heard about Raynell?” I ask.

  “I did. Word gets around fast these days. Such horrible news.”

  “It really is. I feel so bad for her husband and her family.”

  “It’s just awful for her to die so young. I didn’t really get the details, though. From what I know, someone found her at home . . . she’d had a bad fall or something.”

  “That’s about all I know as well.” I refrain from telling him that Wavonne and I were actually the ones who found Raynell’s dead body. He doesn’t appear to know, and I just don’t feel like getting into all those details.

  I find myself thankful when the waiter arrives at our table, giving us an excuse to cease conversation about Raynell.

  “Hello. My name is Sam, and I’ll be your server this evening. Can I start you off with a beverage?”

  “Up for sharing a bottle of Chianti?” Gregory asks.

  “Sure,” I reply. “And some water as well, please,” I say to the waiter.

  “So, there must be something more pleasant to talk about than Raynell,” Gregory says.

  “Yes. There must be.” Part of me would like to linger on the subject a bit longer, so I can ask him about his secret high school relationship with her and why he chose her, of all people, to help with his local real estate ambitions. But I can’t begin to imagine that Gregory had anything to do with her death, so I don’t really see any reason to bring it up and make him uncomfortable. Besides, Raynell has been on my mind for almost two days straight, and, quite honestly, I need a break. “So, tell me more about South Beach Burgers.”

  “Some people have spouses . . . children . . . pets. I have a restaurant chain. It’s pretty much my entire world at the moment. It doesn’t leave time for much else.”

  “I hear that. I only have one restaurant, and it’s my world as well. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it.”

  Gregory laughs. “Me too. Every day is different. I love the variety and the challenges . . . of which there are many.”

  “That’s for sure. I could do without the irrational customers who want a free meal because a server messed up their drink order or brought them the wrong salad dressing . . . or the ones with substance abuse issues who pitch a fit when we cut them off at the bar . . . or the parents who think I’m supposed to magically make squash appear in my kitchen, so my already overloaded staff can stop everything to make custom zucchini fries for little Malik or Jayla instead of French fries.”

  “I’m sure we could trade all sorts of horror stories—the customers who use the bathroom for sexual trysts, employees showing up to work high as a kite reeking of marijuana—”

  “Kitchen staff purposely messing up orders because they don’t like the server who put the order in, employees with fake social security numbers, water leaks, broken equipment . . . we could go on for days.”

  “I’m sure we could, but overall it’s a rewarding career, and it beats sitting in an office in front of a computer all day.”

  I agree with Gregory, and we spend the next hour trading stories over ravioli Florentina and pesto primavera. I had planned to stick with only one glass of Chianti, but I don’t protest when Gregory refills my glass. I’m not much of a drinker, so two glasses of wine is enough to give me a little buzz.

  By the time Sam sets down a large serving of tiramisu in the middle of us the conversation turns more personal.

  “How is it you’re still single?” Gregory asks as we both dip our forks into the dessert.

  “I might ask you the same question.”

  “There have been a few relationships here and there. I had more time for that sort of thing before I opened South Beach Burgers. Now I mostly work and spend what little free time I have with good friends.”

  “No woman in your life? I find that hard to believe, Gregory. The girls in Florida must be all over you. Every woman at the reunion was practically tripping over each other to talk to you—like you were the last Cabbage Patch Kid at Toys ‘R’ Us on Christmas Eve.”

  Gregory laughs. “That’s not true.”

  “Please. You had to have noticed all the attention.”

  “Maybe.” Gregory takes another bite of the tiramisu. “But, you have to understand, Halia. All this attention from women—it’s new to me. I haven’t looked like this for that long. I’m sure you remember me in high school. I was definitely not a looker.”

  “Nonsense. I always thought you were handsome,” I cajole, even though “handsome” isn’t exactly the right word. In high school, I found Gregory “cute” in more of an endearing sort of way. He was gangly with big ears, but he was nice, and smart, and quite witty when he wasn’t being shy.

  “That’s sweet of you to say, Halia, but we both know the truth. It wasn’t until I started making some real money that I began to grow into myself. I think my success in business boosted my confidence, and women can sense that sort of thing. The financial rewards of my work also allowed for a personal trainer and a nutritionist . . . and better clothes . . .” Gregory lifts his hands behind his ears and pushes them forward. “And surgery to get these babies pinned back where they belong.”

  I chuckle as Gregory lets his ears fall back into place. “So you’re just a different kind of handsome now.”

  “You sound like a politician, Halia. You,” Gregory says, putting his fork down on the table and leaving the last bit of the dessert for me, “on the other hand, were lovely in high school and have barely changed at all.”

  “Now who’s the politician?” I ask even though I guess I don’t think I’ve changed that much since high school. I was a thick girl back then, and I’m still one now. And if there is one advantage of being a full-figured sister, it’s that it adds some plumpness to your face and keeps away the wrinkles.

  “No. I mean it.” Gregory smiles and gives me a long stare, and I’m not sure if it’s the wine, or fatigue after a long day, or just the fine-looking man across the table from me giving me the eye, but I’m starting to feel light-headed.

  When the check arrives I grab my purse and begin to
pull out my credit card, but Gregory insists on paying. I thank him for dinner, and he walks with me to my van.

  “I’m really glad we had this chance to reconnect,” Gregory says as I reach for my keys and hover next to the car door.

  “Me too.”

  Gregory lingers in front of me and, suddenly, we are like two awkward teenagers trying to navigate a good-night kiss. It’s actually amusing to see traces of a clumsy adolescent emanating from such a polished man. “Sorry. I’m really bad at this,” he says, and we both laugh. “So what now? A kiss, a hug . . . a handshake?”

  “I think I’d feel a little slighted if all I got was a handshake,” I joke, and a lumbering moment or two passes before Gregory leans in and kisses me. It’s not an especially long kiss, but it is a nice one. I feel myself getting light-headed again as our lips part, and I place my hand on the car to steady myself.

  “I hope I can call you again before I head back to Florida.”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. I’ll be in touch then. Drive safe.”

  “I will. See you soon.”

  I step inside my van and watch Gregory walk to his car. As I start the ignition I hear my phone chirp. I pull it from my purse and see a text from Wavonne.

  aunt celia wants know how your date’s going . . .

  thinks it must be going well since you’re out so late . . .

  I text back.

  it was okay . . . we had dinner . . . mostly talked about the

  restaurant business . . .

  on my way home now . . .

  The evening definitely went better than “okay,” but if Wavonne tells Momma that Gregory and I had a great evening topped off with a good-night kiss, Momma will have me in David’s Bridal first thing in the morning trying on wedding dresses and talking baby names. No, I think to myself. It’s much better to play it cool and not let Momma get too excited. But as I pull out of the restaurant parking lot it occurs to me that maybe it’s not Momma who I’m worried about getting too excited after a promising first date with a handsome, single, gainfully employed man. Maybe it’s me I’m worried about getting too excited. I haven’t been on a good date in a long time, but I have been on some, and, needless to say, they have not led to anything significant.

  What’s it matter, I think to myself. If nothing else it was a nice evening with an old friend over some good Italian food. If it doesn’t lead to anything more, that’s fine. Yep, that’s what I told myself... now if I could just believe it, too.

  CHAPTER 27

  I have got to stop letting it bother me, I think to myself as I look up from some invoices I’m reviewing at the bar and see yet another customer eating my food while looking at his phone. He’s by himself, shoveling my chicken croquettes in his mouth with a fork via one hand and using his other hand to scroll and intermittently type. Occasionally he grins or even chuckles as if something on the screen is amusing him.

  I see this behavior all the time, and I have to fight the urge to walk over and ask him why he doesn’t just down a protein shake or stop into Wendy’s for some rubber chicken on a bun if he’s not going to pay any attention to what he’s eating anyway. Yes, I know, I make money whether customers consciously eat my food or not, but my team and I put so much thought and work into every dish that comes out of the Sweet Tea kitchen that it just pains me to see people eating our food as if it were no better than a bowl of oatmeal.

  I learned many of the recipes we use at Sweet Tea through years of helping my grandmother prepare Sunday dinners, and some of them were tweaked and refined over generations. Grandmommy developed the recipe for those chicken croquettes my customer is currently shoving in his mouth with no appreciation for the perfectly crisp coating that Grandmommy initially made with bread crumbs, but later crafted with corn flake crumbs to improve the taste and texture. I further updated the recipe with panko breadcrumbs (I LOVE panko breadcrumbs) to give them the ultimate crispness. I’ve tried using a full egg yolk and egg white wash as well as an egg white wash alone to see which one holds the coating better. The chicken stock we use in the recipe is made in house here at Sweet Tea. We chop fresh parsley and add a touch of lemon juice from freshly squeezed lemons to the chicken mix before we skillfully shape them into a traditional cone shape, affording not only a taste that’s out of this world but visual appeal as well. Before bringing them to the table we top them with a piping-hot stewed potato gravy, fresh black pepper, and a sprinkle of paprika. All of this!—And, for the attention this young man is paying to them, I might as well have thrown a few Chicken McNuggets on a plate and slapped them down in front of him.

  Truth be told, that’s not the only one reason smartphones get under my skin. Of course, they’ve become a necessity of everyday life, and even I admit I can’t imagine life without mine. But, let me tell you, they have been one of the worst things to hit the restaurant industry in decades. It has never been my desire to run a “turn and burn” establishment—I sincerely want my customers to have a relaxed outing where they enjoy my food and each other’s company without feeling rushed, but smartphones have redefined what constitutes a “relaxed” evening. In the days before iPhones and Androids we would seat customers, they would order shortly after, enjoy some conversation and their courses . . . and then skedaddle, allowing us to seat new customers.

  Now, after customers are seated, they might spend several minutes on their phone before even opening the menu, then take photos of themselves and their companions, and of course take photos of their food, which they then take the time to post to Facebook and Instagram. And when they’re finished eating, these days, patrons tend to linger for inappropriate amounts of time just surfing on their phones, taking up valuable restaurant real estate, and costing me money. Over the years, we’ve learned to manage these customers and, if they linger for an extra lengthy spell following payment of their check, we’ll generally approach the table and ask if there is anything else we can get for them. Fortunately, they typically take the polite hint and head on their way.

  I remind myself once again to not let the man on his phone bother me. I’m about to return my attention to the invoices when I see Kimberly speaking with Saundra at the hostess stand. When we chatted on Sunday I asked if she would consider swinging by Sweet Tea to discuss commissioning some artwork for the restaurant. I only occasionally change up the artwork I have displayed in Sweet Tea as I’d never part with the family picnic mural I had painted along one wall when we first opened, and I’ve gotten attached to the old photos of church ladies preparing Sunday buffets we have hanging throughout the space. But I do switch out a piece or two here and there, and interest in her art was as good an excuse as any to meet with Kimberly and pump her for information.

  I hop off the stool and walk over to greet her.

  “Kimberly. So good to see you again.”

  “Yes. You too. I’m glad to have a chance to finally check out your restaurant. I don’t come back to the area very often, so I’ve never had the opportunity before.”

  I wait to see if she’s going to mention anything about Raynell’s death. When she doesn’t, I decide not to broach the subject just yet. “Well, I hope Sweet Tea doesn’t pale in comparison to those fabulous New York restaurants you must be used to.”

  Kimberly smiles. “I’m sure it won’t. My parents are still close by . . . in the same house I grew up in, in Clinton. They dine here often and love it. I’m staying with them while I’m in town. If I go back there without some of your fried chicken, I’ll have hell to pay.”

  “We can’t let that happen. I’ll wrap some for you to take,” I offer. “So, why don’t I show you around a bit and let you know what I’m thinking in terms of artwork for the restaurant, and then we’ll have lunch?”

  “Sure.”

  “I looked at your Web site—your paintings are stunning. It’s no wonder you’ve made such a name for yourself. I see you have a showing at a gallery in Greenwich Village next month.” We step toward the back of the restaurant. �
�Over here”—I point to the wall behind the bar—“is my collection of antique photos and paintings. As you can see they’re mostly of women preparing meals, family gatherings, church picnics . . .” I lead her farther toward the back of the restaurant. “And there’s more along the back wall. That’s my grandmother.” I point to a large black-and-white photo of Grandmommy pouring waffle batter onto an iron. I had it enlarged when I opened the restaurant and made it the focal point of the rear wall. “Mrs. Mahalia Hix. I was named after her. People think Mahalia’s Sweet Tea is named for me, but it’s really in honor of her—such a special lady. I adore her smile in the picture. She loved preparing Sunday dinners, and her joy really shows in the photo.”

  “It really is charming,” Kimberly says.

  “I was wondering if you might be willing to create a painting from it.” I had planned to ask her to create something original that we could add to the collection on the wall, but as I was looking at the painting of Grandmommy, the idea of a painting based on my favorite photograph of her came to mind. And it’s something I might actually be interested in purchasing from Kimberly—maybe I didn’t bring her here under false pretenses after all.

  “Really? Hmm,” Kimberly says. “That’s not something I really do. I’ve never tried to create a painting from a photo before.”

  I’m about to respond that I understand, but she speaks again before I’m able to.

  “But for you, a former classmate, and one of the nice ones, I’d give it a shot.”

  “That would be great. I can get you a copy of the photo to take back to New York. However long you need is fine.”

  “Yes, please send me a copy, but I’ll just snap a photo of it with my phone for now,” Kimberly says. “I have a few other projects I need to wrap up, but I could probably complete it in a few weeks.”

  “That would be great. So, what are you thinking in terms of price?”