He may be gay, and there may not have been a romantic connection between them, but I can tell from the tone in his voice that he did have a certain fondness for Raynell, which makes me think it’s highly unlikely that he killed her. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if she was killed at all. Maybe she really did just slip in the bathroom and hit her head on the side of the tub.
“You’ll be okay.” I reach for his hand on the table and place mine over it. “In time, you’ll be okay.”
He smiles at me, and the three of us sit quietly until Wavonne breaks the silence. “Who’s up for some more cake?”
“None for me,” I say.
“Me either,” Terrence adds.
“Guess it’s just me then.” Wavonne gets up from the table and starts to cut herself another slice.
“Can you take that to go, Wavonne? We really need to get back to Sweet Tea.” I get up from the table.
“There’s some foil and Cling Wrap in the drawer right in front of you,” Terrence says.
As Wavonne shamelessly packs up a piece of cake for herself, I’m just about to let my little amateur investigation of Raynell’s death go when I look past Wavonne into the family room that adjoins the kitchen. My eyes catch sight of the painting of Sarah Vaughan that I noticed when I was here to pick up the antique desk more than a week ago.
“That painting . . . the one of Sarah Vaughan. Raynell told me a little about it when I was here before the reunion. It’s such a lovely piece. Do you mind if I take another look at it?”
“Of course not. Raynell sure was disappointed to find out it’s not a real Keckley, but I think she took a bit of liking to it anyway. I can’t say I was terribly fond of it, though. I wish she would have donated it to the silent auction at her reunion.”
Something looked slightly off about the painting from the kitchen, and, as I get closer to it, the image appears faintly different from how I remembered it. The colors somehow seem richer . . . or more vibrant than I remember. It doesn’t have the same worn look it did the last time I was here.
“Wavonne? Are you about ready with the cake?” I call to the kitchen.
“Yep,” Wavonne says, and appears in the family room.
“Good. We need to let Terrence get back to his day.”
“It was nice of you to stop by. I’ve been getting a lot of visitors. I’m sure there will be more, and they’ll love the cake.”
“What’s left of it,” I say, my eyes shifting toward Wavonne and her doggie bag before I look back at Terrence and lean in and give him a hug. “If there’s anything we can do, please let us know.”
Terrence hugs Wavonne as well, and as we start toward the door, I immediately reopen the investigation I was about to close. I could be wrong, but I’m pretty certain the painting I saw of Sarah Vaughan the day of the reunion is not the same one leaning against the wall in Terrence’s family room now. What if the one I saw earlier really was an original Keckley? Could someone who knew it was an original have switched it out with a reproduction?
I stop and think before I open the van door and get inside. Who would know enough about art to determine the authenticity of the painting and have the skill to make an imitation?
Only one person comes to mind: Kimberly Butler.
CHAPTER 36
“I don’t think it was the same painting. I think someone switched it out,” I vent to Wavonne as we head to the restaurant in my van.
“What painting?”
“The one in the family room. The one I was asking Terrence about . . . of Sarah Vaughan.”
“Who?”
“Sarah Vaughan. She was a jazz singer long before your time. Apparently there was an artist . . . what was his name?” I think for a moment. “Keckley. Arthur Keckley. He painted portraits of famous singers who performed at the Lincoln Theater on U Street back in its heyday. Raynell said she thought the painting might be one of his creations. She bought it from a real estate client. Supposedly, if it’s genuine, it’s worth thousands of dollars . . . maybe hundreds of thousands.”
“Get out!?”
“But Raynell said she had the painting assessed, and the art appraiser told her it wasn’t a genuine Keckley.”
“So if it ain’t real, then why would someone swap it out?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it is real, and Raynell’s appraiser was wrong. Maybe Raynell told Kimberly just enough about the painting at the reunion to pique Kimberly’s interest.”
“You think Kimberly may’ve killed Raynell? Over a painting?”
“Maybe I do.” My mind starts running through some scenarios. “Perhaps Raynell was actually awake when Kimberly came by after the reunion. What if she showed Kimberly the painting, Kimberly figured out it was the real deal, decided to knock off Raynell, and nab the painting for herself? She would have had just enough time to make a sloppy reproduction and bring it back the next day. Perhaps her whole story about coming back to switch out the shampoo bottle the day after Raynell was killed was just a ruse. Maybe she was really there to replace the legitimate painting with her imitation.”
“Terrence didn’t seem to think the painting looked any different.”
“Weren’t you the one who said earlier that men don’t notice anything unless it involves a basketball or a pair of titties?”
“A football or a pair of titties, but same difference. And knowin’ what we now know about Terrence, I guess the ‘pair of titties’ don’t apply no more.”
“Either way, Terrence probably never paid enough attention to the painting to notice, and he even said he didn’t particularly care for it. If I hadn’t found it so striking when I first saw it, I probably wouldn’t have noticed it was different, either.”
“You sure it’s not the same painting you saw the first time you were there?”
“Yes . . . well . . . I think so. It really did have a different . . . a different look . . . I think.”
“I don’t know, Halia. You’re not soundin’ so sure anymore.”
“Now you’ve got me questioning whether it really did look different.” I’m frustrated with my lack of certainty. “I need to see the painting again and give it a closer look.”
“So we gonna turn around and go back to Terrence’s house?”
“Possibly.” I hand Wavonne my phone. “Look up Terrence in my contacts, would you?”
Wavonne does as I ask and hands the phone to me. “He said he wasn’t a fan of the painting, so maybe he’d be willing to sell it to me.”
“You want to buy it?”
“I’m not against the idea, but if I pretend I want to buy it, it gives me an excuse to take a second look at it and really give it a good once over.”
I hit the call button on my phone and wait for Terrence to pick up.
“Hello.”
“Terrence. It’s Halia. I’m sorry to bother you. I know we just left a few minutes ago, but we’re on the way back to the restaurant, and I got to thinking about that painting of Sarah Vaughan in your family room.”
“Really?”
“You mentioned you didn’t exactly love it. And . . . well . . . I actually do like it. I thought maybe I could take the painting off your hands . . . for a fair price of course.”
“Um . . . I guess . . . maybe.”
“Can we set up a time for me to take a second look at it, and then we can talk about payment? Or Wavonne and I could come back now.”
“I have to leave for a meeting shortly, so now is not good. Maybe we can set it up another time,” he says. “And as far as payment goes, I really have no idea what the painting is worth. I know Raynell had hoped it was some long lost painting from the Lincoln Theater or something. It turned out not to be, but I guess it’s still worth a few hundred bucks or so . . . maybe more.”
“Yes. Raynell did mention to me that she had it appraised.” Suddenly, I have an idea. It’s almost impossible for me to be one hundred percent sure the painting was replaced with an imitation. But if anyone could conclude if the painting I
saw today is different from the one I saw almost two weeks ago, it would be the appraiser. “Why don’t we ask the appraiser to take a second look and find out what he or she thinks it’s worth?”
“I guess we could do that. I’d need to check with Christy. She set that up for Raynell.”
“I’ve got Christy’s number. Why don’t I give her a call?”
“Sure. She’ll be over here later this afternoon sorting through some of Raynell’s things for me.”
“Okay. I’ll be in touch. Thanks, Terrence.”
I hang up with Terrence and hand my phone to Wavonne, so she can pull up Christy’s info while I’m driving. As Wavonne pecks on my phone with a lone red fingernail, I begin to draft plans in my head for the next day or two. I’ll need to make arrangements with Christy to get the appraiser to take another look at the portrait. If he confirms it’s not the same piece of artwork he examined for Raynell, then I need to figure out how to prove that Kimberly is the guilty party—that she killed Raynell . . . and not over some petty high school vendetta, but for the reason people have been killing each other for centuries—greed!
RECIPE FROM HALIA’S KITCHEN
Halia’s Country Grits and Sausage Casserole
Layer 1 Ingredients
1⅓ cups water
1⅓ cups half-and-half
1 garlic clove, minced
2 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon black pepper
⅔ cup quick-cooking grits
½ cup mixed Mexican shredded cheese (Monterey Jack,
Cheddar, Queso Quesadilla, and Asadero)
3 eggs lightly beaten
• Preheat oven to 350 Fahrenheit.
• Bring water and half-and-half to a boil in large saucepan. Stir in garlic, butter, salt, pepper, and grits. Lower heat to simmer mixture and continue to stir for 6 minutes. Remove from heat, stir in cheese, and let set for 10 minutes.
• Stir beaten eggs into grits mixture until well combined. Transfer to well-greased, 12-inch cast-iron skillet and spread evenly.
• Bake for 20 minutes. Remove from oven. Use a spatula to lightly flatten any bubbles. Set aside.
Layer 2 Ingredients
½ pound mild ground pork sausage
1 cup mixed Mexican shredded cheese
4½ tablespoons all purpose flour
7 eggs
1½ cups sour cream
1½ cups whole milk
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon black pepper
teaspoon ground Cayenne/red pepper
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
1 tablespoon chopped fresh sage
• Brown sausage in a large skillet until crumbled. Drain and blot with paper towels.
• Sprinkle sausage and cheese over grit cake.
• Mix eggs and flour on medium speed until mostly smooth (about 20 seconds). Some small lumps will remain. Add sour cream, milk, salt, black pepper, and red pepper. Continue to mix on medium speed until well combined. Strain mixture through a sieve to remove any lumps. Stir in parsley and sage before pouring over grit cake.
• Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for 30–35 minutes until firm.
• Cool for 20 minutes prior to serving.
Eight Servings
CHAPTER 37
It’s been officially two weeks since Wavonne and I stumbled upon Raynell’s dead body. We’ve just opened for Sunday brunch and the kitchen at Sweet Tea is busier than a tree full of Keebler elves. My prep staff is chopping fruit and making batter for pancakes and waffles, and the deep fryers are fired up for those first batches of fried chicken. Laura has enough home fries going on the grill to feed a small country, and, just now, the first sausage, egg, and grits casseroles are coming out of the oven . . . and they do smell heavenly. We start off with a base of grits, garlic, and cheese and top the mixture with some freshly browned sausage, eggs, and, yes, more cheese. It’s one of our brunch specials for the day along with Grandmommy’s brown sugar banana pancakes.
“Mmmmm!” Wavonne eyes the casseroles as Tacy lays them on the counter. “Those babies sure look good.”
“That they do.”
We’ll sell out of the ones coming out of the oven by noon, so, just as Tacy finishes removing the last of the cooked casseroles, I move behind him and put in the reinforcements.
“Wavonne, why are you standing here? We’re starting to seat customers. Get to work.”
“I was hoping to get me a slice of one of these casseroles before I start my shift.”
I barely have a chance to give Wavonne one of my signature glares when Saundra sticks her head through the kitchen door. “Halia, there’s a young lady here to see you. She said her name is Christy. She has a painting with her.”
“Thanks, Saundra. I’ll be right out.”
I take my apron off, hang it on a hook, and head out to the hostess stand. I called Christy a few days ago and explained that I was interested in purchasing the Sarah Vaughan painting. I asked her if she would connect me with the person who appraised it to help Terrence and me settle on a fair price. She told me the appraiser’s name was James Barnett and gave me his number. We originally agreed that I would come by the Rollinses’ house while she was there doing some work for Terrence to take a second look at the portrait and meet with James. But while I was chatting with her she mentioned how much she enjoyed her lunch at Sweet Tea a few weeks ago, so I suggested we all meet here. It would give her a chance to enjoy a nice meal and saves me the trouble of having to duck out of the restaurant on a busy Sunday morning.
“Christy. Hi. Thanks so much for coming.”
“Sure,” she says, grasping the painting with both hands.
“Can I help you with that?”
The painting isn’t exactly huge—maybe four feet long and about three feet wide—but it’s a bit much for Christy’s petite frame.
“Yes. Please.”
“Let’s take it in the back.” I grab the painting from her, and she follows me to two tables in the rear of the restaurant. I lay the artwork on one of the tables and signal for her to sit at the other. I give the painting a quick once-over. I’m still fairly convinced it’s not the same one I saw at the Rollins house before the reunion.
“What can I get you to drink? A mimosa? Bloody Mary?”
“Just coffee, please.”
“Sure. And I’ll fetch some menus,” I say. “Should I keep an eye out for Mr. Barnett? What’s he look like?”
“Actually, I’m not sure. I haven’t met him in person. I found him for Raynell on the Internet, and he met with her at the house several weeks ago.”
“Okay. I’m sure Saundra will bring him back when he checks in.”
I return to the front of the restaurant and pick up a few menus. I’m just about to head to the drink station to get some coffee for Christy when a slight black man walks into the restaurant. He’s only about five and a half feet tall and maybe a hundred and thirty pounds. He looks a little lost as he hovers near the door.
“James?” I ask. “James Barnett?”
“Yes.”
“Hi. I’m Halia. I’m so glad you agreed to come by.”
“No problem. Thank you for having me. I don’t get too many offers for a complimentary brunch.”
“You’re quite welcome. Christy, Raynell’s assistant . . . former assistant is here already. She brought the painting. Let me show you to the table.”
I lead James through the restaurant to the table in the back where Christy is already seated. She stands up when she sees us approaching.
“You must be James,” she says when we reach the table. “Christy. So nice to meet you in person.”
“You too. I appreciate you connecting me with Ms. Rollins. I had hoped to do more work for her in the future. I was so sorry to hear that she passed. She was such a nice lady.”
Christy and I exchange looks. Clearly we are biting our tongues over the “nice lady” comment.
“I understand
you want me to take a second look at the Sarah Vaughan portrait.”
“Yes. It’s right over there.” I point to the adjacent table. “But let me treat you to brunch first.” I motion for Wavonne.
“What up, boss?”
“You remember Christy.”
“Yeah,” Wavonne says. “Hey, sista girl.”
“Hi, Wavonne.”
“Can you bring Christy and me some coffee?” I turn to James. “And what would you like to drink?”
“Coffee is good for me, too.”
“I’ll give you a few minutes to look over the menu, but keep in mind we have brown sugar banana pancakes and a sausage eggs and grits casserole on special. I highly recommend both of them.”
“The casserole is delish!” Wavonne says. “It comes with a blueberry muffin and fresh fruit.”
“Sounds good to me,” Christy says. “Bring it on.”
“Make it two,” James says.
“Two sausage, egg, and grits casseroles comin’ up.”
“Should I look at the painting now while we wait?” James asks after Wavonne walks away to put the order in.
“Sure.”
The three of us get up from the table and gather around the painting.
Murder with Macaroni and Cheese Page 21
