Murder with Macaroni and Cheese

by A. L. Herbert

  “While not a genuine Keckley, it is a nice portrait, and likely produced around the same time as the original.” James leans in closely toward the portrait. “It’s a striking piece of work and captures the essence of Ms. Vaughan. It definitely has what we call ‘wall power’ and, given its age and great condition, I’d say it could fetch anywhere from one to two thousand dollars . . . maybe a bit more if someone really took a liking to it.”

  “Oh my. That’s probably a bit too much for me to spend on artwork. Terrence and I were thinking it was only worth a few hundred dollars. I guess I’ll need to think about it,” I say. “So, I’m just curious. How can you tell it’s not an original Keckley?”

  “Right here.” James points to the artist’s signature on the painting. “Arthur Keckley always signed his paintings A. Keckley at the bottom right-hand side. The signature on this painting is signed Arthur Keckley, and it’s on the bottom left side.”

  I lean in close to the painting to take a look at the signature, and, as I do, I get a whiff of a familiar scent. I can’t quite place it, but I know I have smelled it before.

  “Well, I guess that’s that. It is a very nice painting,” I say, even though I don’t mean it. It must be the same painting I saw before the reunion. If anyone would notice it’s different, it would be James. But I just don’t find it anywhere near as alluring as I did when Raynell first showed it to me. And I definitely don’t care for it enough to spend a thousand dollars on it.

  “So, Christy,” I say after we’ve moved back over to the other table to have our coffee, which Wavonne just delivered. “Terrence mentioned you were helping him with some of Raynell’s things. How is that going?”

  “Yeah, how is that going?” Wavonne slides into the seat next to me. “What’s Terrence doin’ with all those fab purses and shoes?”

  “You forgot the jewelry, Wavonne. And what about the belts? And maybe the furniture?” I chide. “Honestly, the woman’s body is barely cold, and you’re already making a play for her wardrobe.”

  Christy smiles. “That’s okay. Raynell did have quite the designer collection. Actually, I’m working with Alvetta to set up an auction for many of her things at Rebirth. All the proceeds will go to Raynell’s foundation.”

  “Auction? When?” Wavonne asks.

  “We haven’t set a date yet, but I’ll be sure to keep you in the loop.”

  “Satisfied?” I ask Wavonne. “Now would you get back to work, and go see if Christy’s and James’s entreés are ready?”

  Wavonne lets out a huff and gets up from the table only to return a few minutes later with two loaded plates for my guests. She puts their dishes down on the table, and they look at them eagerly.

  “Thanks, Wavonne,” I say. “Can you bring us some more coffee, please?”

  “And some ketchup if you don’t mind,” Christy asks. Wavonne looks at me to see if I’m keeping a poker face. She knows I have a pet peeve with ketchup, and she’s checking to see if my expression shows it. To me, ketchup is for one thing and one thing only—French fries.

  Wavonne grabs a bottle of Heinz from a nearby, recently vacated table, and, as she heads off to get us some more coffee, I try not to grimace while James squirts out a long ribbon of ketchup on to his slice of my casserole. I just hate to see food that was perfected to be eaten a certain way ruined. I know it shouldn’t—my customers pay for the meals and should be able to eat them however they choose—but it just bugs me when customers sprinkle excessive amounts of salt on carefully seasoned meals, drown a tenderly aged steak with A.1. sauce, or in this case, drench my Grandmommy’s casserole in freakin’ ketchup.

  “You’re not having any breakfast?” Ketchup Man asks me.

  “No. Just coffee for me this morning. How do you like the casserole?”

  “It’s very nice,” Christy says.

  “Yes, very,” I hear from James.

  We chat for a while longer, and Christy shares some preliminary details about the planned church auction with me, how she’s almost done wrapping up Raynell’s business dealings, and how she’ll be in the market for a new job soon. James is not much of a talker, but he does comment a bit on the painting and suggests that Christy talk to Terrence about including it as part of the church auction.

  “Even if it’s not the real deal, it is an antique, and could raise a nice little sum for Ms. Rollins’s foundation.”

  “I think that’s a great idea. I’ll talk to Terrence about it when I take the painting back,” Christy says. “Speaking of which, I guess it’s time for me to get back over to the Rollins house. I have to start cataloging items for the auction. Thanks so much for a lovely brunch. I hope to come back again soon.”

  “You’re so welcome. I appreciate you saving me the trouble of having to leave Sweet Tea to give the portrait another look. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to make an offer on it, but I think it’s just too expensive for my blood. I hope Terrence agrees to add it to the auction.”

  “I’m sure he will.” Christy gets up from her chair and walks over to the next table.

  “Why don’t I help you with that?” James says as she’s about to reach for the painting. He walks over and lifts the painting from the table. “Thank you, Ms. Watkins. Breakfast was quite a treat.”

  I nod and smile, and he begins to walk ahead of us toward the door.

  “Can I ask you something, Christy?” I inquire as we linger back.

  “Of course.”

  “You spent a lot of time with Raynell. What do you think—do you think her death was really an accident?”

  “I suppose I do. You know as well as me that Raynell was no saint, but I can’t think of anything that she ever did to anyone that was so horrible they would want to kill her.”

  “You’re probably right. I guess it’s time for me to just let it go.”

  I continue to walk Christy out, and we find James waiting by her car with the painting.

  “Thanks for carrying the painting out for me,” Christy says, and presses a button on her keychain to pop the trunk open. She’s already got the backseat folded down, so James slides the painting in the trunk.

  I watch Christy get in her car, and James climb into a small pickup truck a few spaces away.

  I guess it’s about time for me to let it go, I think, recalling how I just said that to Christy as they drive off, but, in reality, I’m not quite ready to do that. Before I’ll really be ready to move on, there is one more thing I’d like to do . . . one more visit I’d like to make.

  I grab my phone from my pocket and hit the screen a few times. “Hey, Kimberly. It’s Halia. I was just wondering . . . if you’re still in town, mind if I come by for a quick visit?”

  CHAPTER 38

  “Hello. I’m Halia Watkins, and this is my cousin, Wavonne. We’re here to see Kimberly. You must be Mrs. Butler.”

  “Yes. She said you’d be stopping by,” comes from the elderly woman at the front door of a modest split-level house in Clinton. “You’re one of her classmates from high school, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s in the garage. It was her makeshift studio when she still lived at home, and we never changed it. I guess her father and I were afraid she may not come back to visit if she didn’t have somewhere to paint while she was here.”

  She waves for me to follow her down the steps.

  “Those weren’t good days for Kim . . . her high school days I mean,” Mrs. Butler says. “Kim told me that horrible girl who caused her to lose her hair died a couple of weeks ago. I supposed it’s sad for her friends and family who lost her, but I can’t say I’m sorry.”

  “It was an awful thing to do. Even by high school ‘mean girl’ standards,” I agree.

  We follow Mrs. Butler through a quaint family room to a side door. “I’m not sure my Kim ever fully recovered from the incident. But I guess some good came of it. Being so out of place in school left her a lot of time to focus on her art, and now she’s doing so well. She’s been trying to move Mr. B
utler and me to some grand new house for years, but this is home . . . we don’t really want to leave.”

  Mrs. Butler opens the door, and the three of us step into the garage, where we find Kimberly screwing a spray nozzle on a metal can.

  “Kim, your guests are here.”

  Kimberly turns to us and lowers the mask she had covering her nose and mouth. “Hi, Halia. Wavonne.”

  “I’ll leave you three alone. Can I get you anything? A glass of water or a soda?”

  “I’d love a Diet Dr. Pepper and if—”

  “No thank you, Mrs. Butler.” I cut Wavonne off. “Nothing for us. We just want to chat with Kimberly for a bit.”

  “Okay. It was nice to meet you.”

  “So what can I do for you?” Kimberly asks me as the door shuts behind Mrs. Butler.

  “You could start by telling me a little bit about this piece you are working on.” I figure there’s no need to dive right into questioning her, and I really am curious about her art.

  “It’s nothing. I’ve just started experimenting with spray art. I thought it might be an area I could get into, but I’m finding it’s too messy, and the fumes from the paint are a bit much. I don’t particularly like wearing a mask while I work. But since I started this project I figure I may as well finish it.”

  “You ever make T-shirts with the spray art? Like they do at the beach?” Wavonne asks.

  Kimberly looks momentarily horrified by the question. “Umm . . . no.”

  I take a closer look at the piece she is working on. “It looks like you’re off to a great start.”

  “Thank you, Halia, but somehow I doubt you came over here to discuss my art.”

  “Well . . . no . . . no, I didn’t,” is all I manage to get out. I can’t quite figure out how to delve into the subject of the Sarah Vaughan painting, but, as I look around at the extensive studio Kimberly has set up in her parents’ garage, it’s clear she definitely had the means to quickly create a replica of the original painting and hurriedly switch it out with a copy the morning after Raynell’s demise.

  Kimberly looks at me quietly as I try to find some words. “What is it, Halia? I assume this has to do with Raynell’s death?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Did you follow up on the lead I gave you about Gregory being outside Raynell’s house the night she died?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “And?”

  “It’s a long story.” I think of Gregory’s affair with Raynell, and how it was all a pointless ploy to eventually leave her with no husband and no money . . . laughable, actually, considering her husband wouldn’t have really cared and the money was mostly Raynell’s earnings these days . . . but I decide it’s more detail than I want to share with Kimberly. “I mean a really long story. But the jist of it is I don’t think Gregory killed her.”

  “What about me, Halia? Do you think I killed her? She was a wicked toad of a woman, and I can’t say I’m shedding any tears over her death, but I did not kill her.”

  “I never said you did, Kimberly, but . . . well . . . if I were to . . . to imply that you played a role in her death, there are some things that would support that conclusion.”

  “Like?”

  “Raynell mentioned a painting to you at the reunion—a painting she thought might be an original by Arthur Keckley. He painted—”

  “I know who Arthur Keckley was, Halia. And, yes, I remember Raynell mentioning the painting to me. As I told you earlier, I was going to use the painting as an excuse to pay her a visit—I had planned to tell her I was there to take a look at it, and let her know what I thought of it.”

  “And what did you think of the painting?”

  “Honestly, I never saw it. When I got there and found her asleep upstairs, I made the shampoo switch and was on my way. There was no need to bring the painting into it.”

  “You would understand, though, if someone might think you actually did see the painting and used your knowledge of art to determine it was, in fact, a genuine Keckley.”

  “Um . . . okay. And so what if I did?”

  “Well, you must know Keckleys are worth huge amounts of money. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to think that you decided to steal the original, quickly paint a facsimile to replace it, and kill the one person who would know the difference—a person you really couldn’t stand anyway.”

  Kimberly laughs. “Wow. You have quite the imagination, Halia, but there’s a flaw in your reasoning.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. You seem to think I would have stolen Raynell’s painting, and killed Raynell, to make a fast buck.”

  “People have killed for far less reasons.”

  “I’m sure they have, but did you see the Tesla in the driveway when you came in? It stands out like a sore thumb in this working-class neighborhood.”

  “Actually, I didn’t notice it.”

  “Girl, I noticed it,” Wavonne says. “That is a nice ride.”

  “Well, it cost me about a hundred thousand dollars. The dress I had on the night of the reunion, it was J. Mendel—it cost me over six thousand dollars. And if you must know, I rent a loft in Manhattan for twelve thousand dollars a month . . . and I have another house in the Hamptons that even I’m embarrassed to say how much I paid for it. Do you get what I’m saying here?”

  I just look at her as I try to wrap my brain around someone renting an apartment for twelve thousand dollars a month. Twelve thousand dollars!

  “What I’m saying, Halia, is that I don’t need to steal paintings that would sell for a few hundred thousand dollars—I create paintings that sell for almost that much. You’re barking up the wrong tree if you’re looking at me as someone who killed Raynell for money.”

  I look down at the floor, embarrassed that Kimberly has shot holes through my accusations. Then I lift my head and sigh. “I’ve got no one left on my suspect list. Maybe she really did just fall in the bathroom in a drunken stupor.”

  “She was pretty wrecked when she left the reunion.”

  “Yes, she was,” I agree. “I’m sorry I came over here pointing fingers.” I feel like a puppy with its tail between its legs.

  “I appreciate the apology. It’s fine, really. But I’d like to get back to my work here.”

  “Of course. We’ll show ourselves out.”

  I turn to leave as Kimberly lifts the mask back over her face, turns a knob on her canister, and aims it at the canvas in front of her. I’m about to step away when the smell of the streaming paint reaches my nose—the fumes Kimberly mentioned earlier that caused her to wear a mask. They have the same smell that I noticed when I got close to the painting when it was laying on the table at Sweet Tea. This little piece of insight gets the gears in my brain spinning and prompts me to turn around and walk back over to Kimberly as she carefully applies paint to her canvas. She sees me hovering next to her and shuts off the sprayer.

  “Was there something else?”

  “Yes. Just one thing. Would you mind lowering your mask for me . . . just for a sec?”

  Kimberly lowers the mask from her face as if she’s willing to do anything if it will get rid of me and my prying questions. With the mask lowered, I study her face for a moment while she looks at me, bemused.

  “Thank you,” I say. “You’ve no idea how helpful you’ve just been.”

  “How so?”

  “I think you’ve just helped me figure out who actually did kill Raynell.”

  “By spraying paint on a canvas?”

  “Yes.”

  “So who . . . who did it?”

  “Why don’t you come with us, and I’ll show you.”

  CHAPTER 39

  “I’m a busy man, Ms. Watkins,” Detective Hutchins says to me as Wavonne and I step out of my van with Kimberly following. He must have arrived a few minutes before us. “I’ve got a few men here as well.” He points toward two patrol cars also parked in the lot of Christy’s apartment building. “We’re spending taxpayers’ dollars.
This had better not be some wild-goose chase.”

  I called Detective Hutchins after leaving Kimberly’s parents’ house and asked him to meet us at Christy’s home. I assured him that I can prove that Raynell’s death was not an accident and, after much prodding, he finally agreed.

  I lead us toward Christy’s apartment. On the way, we pass by Christy’s car and see that the painting is still on the folded-down backseat. James Barnett’s truck is parked next to it.

  We walk up the steps to her unit, and, when I knock on the door, we hear some scurrying around inside. Sometime later, Christy opens the door just enough to poke her head through.

  “Hi, Christy. Can we speak with you for a few minutes?” I ask.

  “Now is really not a good time.”

  “That’s okay. We’ll just be a minute.” Wavonne pushes the door open and walks into Christy’s apartment, with the rest of us following. We’ve barely entered the living room when we hear a door close down the hall.

  “You can come out, James,” I call. “I know you’re here. I saw your truck in the parking lot.”

  James opens a door down the hall from the living room and steps out. He tries to smile as if he has nothing to hide, but he’s not a good actor.

  “Christy invited me back after lunch at your lovely restaurant,” he says. “To . . . um . . . to . . .”

  “I thought you said you’d never met James before today?” I ask Christy, interrupting James’s stammering. “Do you always invite men you’ve just met back to your place?” I do the air quotes thing with my fingers when I say “just met.”

  “I’m not sure that’s really any of your business, Halia. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Yes. We’d just like to ask you some questions.” I point to my left. “You remember Wavonne and Kimberly . . . and this is Detective Hutchins with the Prince George’s County Police Department.”

  Christy and James were clearly unnerved by our intrusion, but even more worry comes across their faces when they hear the word “police.”

  “Like I said, Halia, my bringing a man I’ve just met back to my place is really not any of your business.”