Murder with Macaroni and Cheese

by A. L. Herbert

  Gregory stares at me, clearly embarrassed that I know about his indiscretion. Then he looks down at the ground and then back at me again. “There wasn’t anything between us.”

  “Oh?”

  “Really. I didn’t feel anything for Raynell . . .” He seems to stumble for words. “The whole thing with her was just . . . just complicated. I didn’t even like her. You, Halia . . . you, I like.”

  “Apparently, you liked her enough to show up on her doorstep after the reunion Saturday night.”

  I see that familiar jaw drop again, and with it, Gregory knows he’s already shown his guilt. There is no point in denying that he was there.

  “Yes. I know you were at her house the night she died.”

  “Okay . . . you’ve got me . . . I was there, but I didn’t even see her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Terrence was out of town, so we made plans to get together after the party, but by the time I got there, she must have been out cold. She didn’t answer the door. And, honestly, I was relieved.” Gregory steps closer to me. “We . . . you and me had spent such a nice evening together. You were on my mind. Not Raynell.”

  “Then why the late-night rendezvous with her?”

  “Like I said, it was complicated. I had my reasons, but none of them involved any affection for Raynell Rollins.”

  “I think you’d better share those reasons with me, Gregory. Not everyone is convinced that Raynell’s death was an accident. And, honestly, you being seen late at night at her house hours before she’s found dead might sound very suspicious to some people.”

  Gregory cocks his head at me and laughs nervously. “You don’t seriously think I had something to do with Raynell’s death?”

  I actually take a moment to really ponder the thought before responding. “You know, I guess I don’t. At least I don’t think the Gregory I knew in high school was a killer. But unless you can shed some light on what was going on with you and Raynell, I’m going to have to tell the police about your whereabouts the night she died.”

  Gregory takes a long slow breath and lets it out. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

  “I suspect it all started sometime in the eighties.”

  Gregory laughs nervously again. “You would suspect right.” He pauses and then looks me in the eye. “That woman . . . Raynell . . . she really hurt me. Yeah, it was more than twenty years ago, but some scars never heal.”

  “That woman . . . Raynell . . . hurt a lot of people.”

  “Maybe so, but she led me to believe she cared about me. You remember me in high school—I was skinny and gawky . . . and shy. When Raynell took an interest in me I started to feel like I was somebody. I trusted her and even agreed to keep our relationship quiet. From the outside I’m sure it seems like I should have known she was only using me for help with her studies, but . . . I don’t know . . . sometimes we believe what we want to believe. It nearly killed me when she dumped me after I took the freaking SATs for her. She had been so nice to me, and I thought we really had a good time together. But when she turned on me, boy did she turn on me. The last words I remember her saying to me before we reconnected this year . . . the last words I remember the girl I was in love with saying to me were: ‘If you tell anyone about us, I’ll make your life a living hell.’ ”

  “And anyone who knew Raynell was well aware that she could and would make that happen.”

  “I was dumbstruck by her behavior . . . and man, was I hurt, but I was smart enough not to cross her. She could be as mean as a rattlesnake, and I knew better than to end up on the other end of a strike attack.”

  It’s been decades, but as Gregory talks about her, I can see the pain in his eyes that Raynell inflicted on him. It makes me sad for him.

  “So life went on. I slowly got over it I guess . . . and let it go. At least, I thought I had, but then . . .”

  “Then what?”

  “Facebook. That’s what.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was late to the Facebook party, but when my team started putting together a Facebook page for South Beach Burgers I decided to go ahead and put up a personal page as well. I had barely had a profile up there for a day when friend requests from old classmates started coming in like crazy. I just accepted them without much thought. Then one day, I clicked on that little “you have a friend request” icon, and a photo of Raynell popped up. I tell you, my heart sank to the floor all over again just from seeing her face. I accepted her request and, stupid me, thought she might actually send me an apology for how she behaved in high school.”

  “I take it she didn’t do that?”

  “Of course not, but she did e-mail me . . . multiple times. She told me how ‘fine’ I looked now, and how she wished she wasn’t married so she could get ‘all up in that.’ From there her e-mails got even more suggestive. I’ll admit I enjoyed the attention I was receiving from her, but getting back in touch with her also showed me that she hadn’t changed. She would e-mail with hateful gossip about classmates, and I’d see condescending comments she’d write on other people’s posts. Chatting with her via Facebook and seeing how she was still the same old Raynell stirred something in me. That feeling of inadequacy began to rear its head all over again. I’d dealt with her using me and then dumping me once I’d served my purpose so many years ago. I think I let that go. But the fact that she threatened to ruin me if I told anyone about our relationship was too much to ever let go. It made me feel like I was such a nothing—less than a nothing—that I was so awful Raynell didn’t want anyone to know we’d had a relationship.”

  Gregory goes quiet as his head hangs with his face toward the floor. Then he inhales slowly and looks at me. “I’m a success now. I’m rich. I look good. I should have been above revenge.. . .” He lets his voice trail off.

  “But?”

  “Word of the reunion was all over Facebook. I thought it would be fun to attend, and I really am looking to expand South Beach Burgers into Maryland. I figured if I was going to make the trip anyway I may as well give Raynell a taste of her own medicine.”

  “You’re starting to scare me a little bit,” I say. “Your taste for revenge didn’t end up with Raynell dead on her bathroom floor, did it?”

  “Of course not. I would never kill anyone. But all I could think about after getting back in touch with her was how, back in high school, she said she would ruin me if I told anyone about us. So, you know what?” Gregory is silent for a second or two as he rolls his shoulders back and lifts his head. “I decided I would ruin her.”

  “Ruin her? How?”

  “She made it clear in our online chats that she was attracted to me and had no problem being unfaithful to her husband. That gave me an idea. What if . . . what if I took advantage of her loose morals and lured her into an affair, made her fall in love with me the way I fell for her . . . and then . . . and then made sure her husband caught us. After Terrence found out and threatened divorce, I planned to agree to be there for her when she left him . . . and then . . .” There’s a wicked twinkle in Gregory’s eye. “Ditch her the same way she ditched me in high school. I was all set to make sure she was left without me, without Terrence . . . and without any money when Terrence divorced her ass for cheating on him.”

  I can’t help but look at Gregory with startled eyes as I take all of this in. “So, did Terrence ever find out about your affair with Raynell?”

  “I don’t know. I left a monogrammed men’s T-shirt just under his side of the bed when I was there last, and I always made sure to wear heavy cologne when I met her at their house, so the scent would linger on the sheets when Terrence got home. If she had let me in after the reunion I was going to leave this ring. . . .” Gregory holds up his hand. “This man’s ring behind . . . make it look like it had fallen between the bed and the nightstand.”

  As I continue to listen to him speak I try not to let my facial expression show what I’m feeling, but he can read me anyway.

 
“You think I’m pathetic, don’t you? Hell, I think I’m pathetic. That woman just had such an effect on me.”

  “I don’t think you’re pathetic, Gregory,” I say, even though I guess I sort of do. “But why was it so important to get back at her? You got yours—like you said, you’re successful, you look great, you’re rich . . .”

  “I don’t know, but so many years after high school, she was still able to get under my skin. But I assure you, Halia, I never would have killed her and I—” Gregory gasps as if he’s just been hit with a revelation. “Oh my God! What if I did play a role in her death?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Gregory leans against the wall and puts his hands on his forehead. “My goal was to have Terrence find out about us and kick Raynell to the curb, but what if... what if he found out she was cheating on him and went to a much further extreme?”

  I think about what Gregory has just said and consider telling him that he was not the only one Hottie McHot Pants was cheating on her husband with, but I don’t think telling Gregory about Raynell’s affair with Michael Marshall would serve any purpose, so I keep it to myself.

  “But you don’t know if Terrence found out about your affair with Raynell?”

  “No, I can’t say for sure. But what I can say for sure is that I did not kill Raynell Rollins. If you have to tell the police about me being at her house the night she died, then so be it. But I wish you wouldn’t.” He steps in closer to me and lightly grasps my hand. “It’s just an intrusion in my life I really don’t need at the moment. I’m busy . . . really busy expanding my restaurant, and, honestly, I’d love to find some time to reconnect with you, Halia.”

  I look at his big brown eyes staring down on me, and I can see what a handsome man he is, but he just isn’t attractive to me anymore. The bizarre revenge game he was playing with Raynell . . . his unhealthy obsession with settling the score over something that happened decades ago . . . that he would be intimate with a woman he hated . . . it’s all just too creepy.

  “I’m really busy, too, Gregory, and I imagine you’ll have to be getting back to Florida soon.”

  He looks away from me. “I’m assuming that’s a nice way of saying you’re not interested.”

  I don’t respond. I just look at him, try to smile, and clumsily remove my hand from his grasp. It seems nicer than verbally confirming his assumption, but it doesn’t make the situation any less uncomfortable.

  “I’ve really got to get back to Sweet Tea.” I can hear the awkward tone in my voice as the words come out. “We reopen for dinner soon.”

  “Okay,” he responds, a defeated look on his face. “Thanks for coming by.”

  “You’re welcome.” I turn to leave. “This really is a nice space. I think you’ll have a lot of success with it.”

  “I hope so.”

  As I walk toward the door I wonder if Gregory is worth keeping on my suspect list. I wonder if Terrence killed Raynell over one or more of her affairs. I wonder about Alvetta and Christy. But mostly, when I see Gregory’s reflection in the glass door on my way out—his attractive face, his full lips, his solid stature—I wonder if I just made a huge mistake by turning down his romantic advance.

  CHAPTER 32

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just chop all this meat with a knife?” Wavonne asks me as we stand next to the counter hand-tearing chicken breasts.

  “I suppose, but hand-torn chicken just tastes better than chopped chicken. I don’t know why. It just does.”

  And I really don’t know why hand-shredded chicken tastes better than chopped, but we only use shredded chicken in our chicken salad, our chicken and dumplings, and the chicken potpies we are preparing now. We always start with roasted bone-in skin-on chicken breasts. The bone adds flavor to the chicken, and the skin left intact adds a little fat and moisture to the meat as it cooks.

  Farther down the counter, Tacy is rolling out the crusts for the potpies. We’ve already prepared the batter based on Grandmommy’s simple recipe—flour, sugar, salt, butter, butter-flavored shortening, ice water, and a pinch of baking powder. But I must confess, unlike Grandmommy, we no longer mix the recipe by hand. We use my commercial food processor to save time and labor and, fortunately, it produces a pie crust just as light and flaky as the one Grandmommy made. Once she perfected the recipe Grandmommy used the same one for all her pies whether she was preparing a savory pie like the chicken potpies we are making now or sweet creations like apple or peach tarts.

  “So, do I get to wait on them when they get here?”

  “Who?”

  “Alvetta and Michael.”

  “No. I asked Darius to take care of them.”

  “Why does he always get all the good tables?”

  “Because I can count on him to consistently provide a high level of service.”

  “I provide a high level of service.”

  “Of course you do . . . when the mood strikes you.”

  “Well, the mood is strikin’ me tonight,” Wavonne says. “I know they ain’t comin’ here for a leisurely dinner. You’ve got an angle for invitin’ them, and I wanna know what it is.”

  “I don’t have an angle, Wavonne. I just thought having them as my guests would give me a chance to talk to Michael.”

  “Michael?”

  “Yes. He was with Terrence at the retreat in Williamsburg. If Terrence knew about Raynell’s affair . . . affairs, and decided he wanted her dead . . . well, Williamsburg is not that far from here . . . barely three hours if there’s no traffic. He could have easily slipped out of his hotel room, driven up here, pulled Raynell from a drunken slumber, bashed her head against the porcelain tub, and been back at the hotel before daybreak.”

  “What do you think Michael’s gonna be able to tell you?”

  “All sorts of things. He can tell me how late it was when he last saw Terrence on Saturday night . . . and when he first saw him on Sunday morning. Terrence would have needed at least six hours to pull the whole thing off. Michael might also be able to tell me something about Terrence’s demeanor Sunday morning. He was bound to have been edgy and unsettled if he’d just killed his wife hours earlier.”

  “Instead of Michael and Alvetta, I think you . . . we should talk to Terrence directly . . . get his side of the story. And if he happens to offer to hook a sista up with a wealthy Redskin, then so be it. I’ve been—”

  Laura cuts Wavonne off when she pokes her head through the kitchen door. “Halia, your guests are here. Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. They’re at table four by the window.”

  “Thank you, Laura.” I put the chicken I was handling back on the counter and step over to the sink and wash my hands. “Wavonne, can you finish up the chicken, please? We need to get those pies in the oven.” Fortunately, we just need to add the meat to the filling, which we’ve already prepared, and then pour the mixture into the pie crusts Tacy is about to wrap up. Everything in the pies is already cooked, so we only need to brown the crust and heat the contents. Then they will be ready to serve to the dinner rush that is beginning to gather outside the kitchen door.

  “Hey!” I smile after I step outside the kitchen and greet Michael and Alvetta. “Welcome.”

  They stand up. Michael shakes my hand, and Alvetta gives me a hug. I’ve actually grown to like her during the last few days. Her close association with Raynell is not exactly a selling point, but aside from that, she’s seems to have matured into an affable person.

  “Please, please. Have a seat,” I say as I take one myself next to Alvetta. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t make Raynell’s funeral this morning. I’ve been running my assistant manager ragged lately. She was scheduled to be off today, and I just couldn’t ask her to cover for me again. I hope it went well . . . as well as can be expected, at least.”

  “It was a lovely service . . . very sad of course, but I think it helped to give her friends and family closure and say our good-byes,” Alvetta says, trying to not get emotional as she speaks of the funeral, but I
can see the grief in her eyes.

  “Alvetta worked day and night to make it special. She put together a very touching tribute,” Michael says and directs his eyes from me to Alvetta. “You did a wonderful job, honey. You did Raynell proud,” he adds as Darius appears at the table.

  “Welcome to Sweet Tea. My name is Darius, and I’ll be taking care of you this . . .” Darius lets his voice trail off as he notices that he may have interrupted a sensitive moment. “Should I come back?”

  Alvetta adjusts herself in her seat. “No . . . no. We’re fine. Thank you,” she says, and takes in a long breath. “Actually, I would love a drink.”

  “I can certainly help with that. Just for the summer we are featuring crushed-ice margaritas. No syrups or mixers. We make them with fresh oranges, lemons, and limes.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Alvetta says.

  “Just a draft beer for me,” comes from Michael. “Michelob Ultra if you have it.”

  “We only have that in the bottle.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “One margarita and one Michelob Ultra,” Darius confirms. He’s about to step away from the table when he notes my raised eyebrows. He grins at me, pulls out his pad, and writes down their drink order. I’m not a fan of waiters failing to write down orders, even very simple ones. It’s a pet peeve of mine. A good server like Darius can generally gauge when he needs to write an order on his pad rather than commit it to memory, but even he can get tripped up if something distracts him on the way to inputting the order into the computer system. Customers get testy enough if their order comes to the table without the sauce on the side as they requested or with the onions they asked to be left out when a server has written the order down. If we mess up (yes, it happens on occasion, even at Sweet Tea ), and their server didn’t write the order down, people get really annoyed. Even if one of my servers had some sort of extraordinary memory skills and never forgot anything, I’d still require that he or she write orders down. Some customers might be impressed that a server can remember the most lengthy and complex of orders, but the mere act of a waiter not recording their order makes them anxious that their meal will not come to the table exactly as they requested. That’s not how I want my customers to feel. I want a night out at Sweet Tea to be a relaxed, positive experience in every way.