“Call me tomorrow, and thanks,” Heaven said as she walked toward the kitchen and never looked back. Her palms were sweaty.
So were his.
Nolan Wilkins gazed out the hospital window. He couldn’t wait for tomorrow morning so this part of the charade could come to an end. Having to persuade his wife to shoot him up with enough digitalis to almost give him a heart attack was bad enough. Next he had been compelled to stay in the hospital for two nights, wasting space that a sick person should be taking up. What a tangled web we weave, as his grandmother used to say.
Of course, this little stay was costing him money. His insurance had a $1,000 deductible, so he was in for a thousand at least. And he knew there were always other costs, radiologists, emergency room doctors. Nolan sighed. He was a fool. And now he was a fool two days behind in his work. When he got home he could work the phones, but it would look suspicious if he went in to the office first thing in the morning. He would have to wait until Friday or Saturday for that.
Who knew if this expensive little ruse had even helped? He could still be a suspect. Bonnie Weber was a sharp cop. She could have seen through the whole thing. She could get his medical records and find out he had no record of heart trouble. She could pressure his wife, threaten her career. And surely she was looking into Evelyn Edwards’s background. What would she find in Tulsa? Why had someone who had moved to Kansas City only six months ago gotten a choice contract to pull together the biggest celebration of the decade?
Fear was nibbling away at Nolan’s stomach. He hadn’t even been able to keep down the mashed potatoes and Jell-O on the dinner tray. He didn’t have time for fear. Pam had called him from the office and told him about the new player on the field, the filmmaker. More details, more personalities, more problems, even if everything went like clockwork.
Nolan knew he had to buck up. He’d started down this path, now he had to finish what he’d started.
The door of his private room opened and he turned, expecting a nurse coming to take his blood pressure. His wife had made it clear she wouldn’t be back to visit. She was still furious with him.
“Well, well. So you almost had a heart attack, Nolan sweetie,” Miss Ella Jackson said. She laughed that big laugh of hers and slammed the door behind her. “In a pig’s eye.”
Hoppin’John
1 lb. dried black-eyed peas
2 ham hocks
1 stick cinnamon
2 bay leaves
1 inch fresh ginger
1 jalapeño
kosher salt
½ tsp. each ground coriander, ground white pepper, cayenne
1 lb. Polish sausage
1 lb. spicy sausage such as Italian
1 lb. pkg. frozen greens, collard or mustard
1–2 cups chicken stock
1½ cups rice, Carolina if you can find it, but a good long-grain rice such as Basmati will do
1 onion, peeled and diced
Hoppin’ John is one of the original American dishes created through the tragedy of slavery. The Carolinas were good rice-growing country, and this dish was a taste memory of Africa for the slaves who ended up in the Carolinas. The first written records of it indicate it was just beans and rice cooked together in the pilau manner, as opposed to cooking beans and rice separately. As the dish moved up to the Big House (the white landowner’s plantation) and became a staple of southern cooking, salt pork, bacon, or ham hocks were added. I kept the original spices mentioned in early recipes that set it closer to Africa, like the stick cinnamon and coriander, but added two kinds of sausage and the greens. This Hoppin’John makes a great one-dish party meal, as does its Louisiana counterpart, jambalaya.
Cover with water to 4 inches over the dried peas and soak for at least 2 hours. Add the stick cinnamon, the ham hocks, 2 bay leaves, ginger, and jalapeño to the dried beans. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Cook until tender, from 1–3 hours. Start checking the beans for tenderness at about 40 minutes. At that time prick the Polish sausage and throw into the pot. Make sure to add water as needed.
While the beans are cooking, prick the Italian sausage and roast on a baking sheet for 15–20 minutes at 400 degrees.
When the beans are tender, remove from heat and take out all the aromatics, the ham hocks, and the sausage. Let sausages cool and cut in chunks. Remove ham from the bones. Sauté a diced onion and add to the beans at this time, along with the chicken stock, the rice, the sausages, the remaining spices, the ham, and the greens. Bring to a simmer and cook uncovered until the rice is tender, about 30–40 minutes. Start tasting the rice at 20 minutes. Salt. As it is written here, Hoppin’ John has a medium heat. If you like less heat, omit the jalapeño from the cooking process, reduce the cayenne, or use a sweet Italian sausage instead of a spicy one.
Five
Bonnie, really, we don’t need you,” Heaven said in a tone that could have been construed as unkind,
Bonnie Weber didn’t take offense. She calmly continued her assigned chore, which was polishing wineglasses. “Heaven, I could have put in for overtime to be here today. Even in a police department that loathes overtime, I would have had no argument from the brass, what with your record of entertaining on Sunday nights. I’m not even going to hark back to two or three years ago. Why, just last September the whole bread bakers club got all whacked out on bad rye bread, and I had to drive busloads of bakers to the medical center myself.”
Heaven shrugged. “That was out of my control, if you recall. This is just a little food tasting for the big party next week. Ten restaurant owners and caterers are bringing dishes, and I’m going to try to make them happy and get a good menu for the gala.” Heaven suddenly remembered what had happened to Evelyn. “Now that I think about it, maybe you should stick around.”
Bonnie was in the dining room, polishing wineglasses. Heaven was in the kitchen, making Hoppin’ John. They were yelling across the pass-through window, only occasionally actually looking at each other. Right now Bonnie Weber was watching Heaven pulling the meat off a ham bone. “I thought you didn’t have to cook for this, just supervise.”
Heaven smiled. “I know, but you can’t invite cooks over to your restaurant without offering them something. It wouldn’t be right. Now, this Hoppin’ John is really interesting. It comes from . . . well, historically it comes from Africa, but in American food history it comes from the Low Country, the Carolinas, where they grew rice. It was beans and rice before beans and rice were cool.” Heaven dumped the ham into the pot with the black-eyed peas. She had been itching to ask Bonnie about the Evelyn investigation. They were alone now. She wiped off her cutting board with bleach water and wiped her hands dry. “I’m coming out for coffee,” she announced.
As Heaven pushed through the doors to the dining room Bonnie Weber was already making espressos.
“Well, la-de-da. When did you learn to be a barista, little miss?” Heaven said as she poured herself a glass of water from behind the bar.
“I don’t know anything about being a barista, but I got a home version of an espresso machine for Christmas this year. We love it. Speaking of home, how’s Hank?”
Heaven didn’t want to waste this moment on discussing her personal life. She wanted to talk about Evelyn, but she had to be civilized. “Hank is fine. He’s in Texas for two months going to ER school. Iris is fine, too. Now, what about Evelyn? It’s been five days. Didn’t you tell me once that if you don’t find a good suspect in the first week of an investigation, you’re in trouble?”
Bonnie nodded. “Yes, that’s true, but then most of my victims don’t die under such cloudy circumstances. You find the gun that killed the victim in the boyfriend’s dresser drawer. The boyfriend was the only other person in the house when the victim died. The boyfriend doesn’t have a clue; he was passed out drunk at the time. The boyfriend guesses a burglar came in while he was asleep and killed his girlfriend, then put the gun in the boyfriend’s dresser.”
“Then you question the boyfriend and he s
pills his guts in a fit of remorse?” Heaven asked cheerfully.
“You took criminal evidence in the same class I did,” Bonnie reminded her friend. “Most crimes are committed by our loved ones.”
“Or, now in the nineties, by a stranger who gets pissed off at the world and goes postal. I don’t think Evelyn’s death easily falls into either of those categories.”
Bonnie nodded in agreement. “From what I’ve learned about Evelyn, she doesn’t have any close family. She had an event planning business in Tulsa for five years. Before that she worked at a hotel in Fort Worth, in the catering department. Her mother is dead. Father unknown.”
‘What about Tulsa? Did you go down and find out if she ripped people off when she was doing parties down there?” Heaven asked, eager for dirt.
“Now, you know good and well I didn’t go to Tulsa. If the king of Sweden was killed in Kansas City, the budget to investigate would still be about five dollars. But I did go to Evelyn’s office and riffle through her stuff enough to see the names she used for references when she made proposals,” Bonnie said.
“And?”
“Nolan Wilkins was on the reference list. And I did have the budget to call Tulsa and talk to another reference, the Convention and Tourist Bureau. They said she did a great job for them on several big events, then they started getting complaints. And the complaints were about the same scam she was trying to pull here: you can do the flowers if you pay me ten percent. They were surprised she used them as a reference.”
Heaven shook her head. “You know how many times people don’t check those, especially the out-of-town ones. Still, I can see a kickback scheme getting you dead if it were government contracts worth millions and you’d been skimming for years. But this stuff is kinda penny-ante. How much money do you think Evelyn relieved folks of over the years?”
Bonnie got up and headed toward the espresso machine. “Want another?”
Heaven paused for a minute, then said, “Yeah. I’ll need all the energy I can drink for when the soul food folks get here.”
Bonnie looked troubled while she tapped out the old coffee grounds and refilled with freshly ground coffee. “This case is a mess. The paint rag just happened to get stuck in the sink. The water just happened to be left on. Evelyn’s feet just happened to be touching a big fat plug box with big fat cables plugged in. But Heaven, you’re making the same mistake you always make. You’re looking for the logical connections. One thousand dollars isn’t enough to kill for, but two thousand is? If that were true, then the poor homeless guy who got stabbed last night over a blanket and a refrigerator box would still be alive.”
Heaven went over to where the espresso machine was gurgling away. She sat down and waited for her next cup of the inky brew. “I know I’m always looking for those logical answers. That’s why I became a lawyer and you became a cop. Is it moral? Is it civilized? Those weren’t questions either of us could deal with. You went for solving the puzzle and I went for interpreting someone else’s version of what was right, the legal code.”
Bonnie interrupted with the coffee and a smile. “Or we would have both studied to be rabbis.”
Heaven giggled. “Now, that’s a frightening thought. Is the homeless guy another new case of yours?”
“Yes, and I’ve already got a confession and the perp in jail. It was his friend, another homeless guy. They’d lived near each other for a year. Last night the cheap wine took them both over the edge.”
“Even though Evelyn Edwards and her death are still a mystery, the homeless wino case probably provides you with a clue,” Heaven said thoughtfully. “Something Evelyn did pushed someone over the edge.”
Bonnie shrugged. “If Evelyn were murdered, it wasn’t an impulsive act like the two wino buddies. Someone had to lure her to danger on that stage, then cause the flood without her noticing until it was too late, and then arrange for Evelyn’s feet to be there at the same time. It was premeditated.”
“Oh, I knew I’d miss something. What was premeditated?” It was Mona Kirk, rushing in from the back door. Mona was resplendent in a cat sweatshirt with glitter sparkling on the cat’s whiskers worn over leopard pedal pushers.
Heaven started back to the kitchen. “Bonnie was just saying that if Evelyn was murdered as opposed to just unlucky, then someone planned it, it wasn’t an act of passion.”
“Bonnie, don’t tell me you can’t figure out if the woman was murdered yet,” Mona said.
“In this case, the act doesn’t reveal the intent, Mona. If “x” amount of volts go through you, you die. It wasn’t as though we found her in the bathtub full of water with the hair dryer bobbing like a rubber duck in the water, like on television.”
Mona was not going to be deterred. “Someone rigged it and you know it, Bonnie Weber. I think she must have a musician boyfriend and she broke his heart; maybe she told him he couldn’t play at the dedication. Or maybe it was the florists and rental companies and caterers, they all plotted it together, like that murder on the train.”
“Well, I will admit I don’t think it was an accident. But about the only chance I have of finding out who did it is if killing Evelyn Edwards was only the beginning,” Bonnie said.
Both Heaven and Mona pondered that for all of two seconds. “What else do you think is going to happen?” Mona asked.
“The beginning of what?” Heaven asked.
“What if someone wants to sabotage the whole Eighteenth and Vine project, or at least the dedication weekend?” Bonnie asked.
“I have to go stir my beans. Don’t you dare say another word until I get back,” Heaven said as she scurried into the kitchen.
Mona pursed her lips. “Why would anyone want to do such a thing, Bonnie? This will be a great tourist attraction for Kansas City.”
“It also will cost a great deal of money, and knowing taxpayers the way I do, I’m sure at least half of them think it’s a waste.”
Heaven yelled from the kitchen. “Maybe it’s someone who hates jazz.”
Mona looked like she had remembered something. Her eyes clouded over. “Or someone who hates black people. Eighteenth and Vine is in a part of town where mostly African Americans live, and suppose the event gives the area a big boost.”
Bonnie nodded. “And it celebrates the achievements of African Americans. It could be that Evelyn was only chosen for effect.”
Heaven stuck her head through the kitchen pass-through window. “So, the killer is a disgruntled racist taxpayer who hates jazz. Bonnie, go get ‘im.”
Bonnie Weber leaned over toward Mona Kirk, talking quietly so Heaven wouldn’t hear in the other room. “Why didn’t you tell me you went to Evelyn Edwards’s office the day she died?”
Mona blanched. “I don’t know what . . . How did you know?”
Bonnie shook her head. “You were going to lie to me, weren’t you, Mona old buddy? You actually started to try to tell me you hadn’t gone over to Evelyn’s and had a scene with her. Why are you so nervous, Mona? What have you got to hide?”
“Nothing! I was just so angry about what she was doing, how she was trying to make money illegally off this celebration. I went over there and told her . . .” Mona’s voice trailed off.
Bonnie Weber leaned in even closer. Bonnie was at least six inches taller than Mona, but Mona stuck out her chin in a brave gesture of defiance, looked up at her interrogator, and spilled her guts. “I told her she wouldn’t get away with it, that after the meeting that night she’d be gone from the project.”
Bonnie turned back toward the espresso machine. “And you were right, Mona old buddy, you were right.”
“You’re talking without me,” Heaven yelled from the kitchen.
Bonnie stared silently at Mona from across the cafe.
In an hour, Evelyn Edwards, if not forgotten, was no longer the topic of conversation.
Except for Miss Ella, who had called and said she would be a little late, all the participants for the soul food extravaganza were gathered. Waiters
Chris Snyder and Joe Long had arranged the dining tables into one long row and placed pitchers of ice water, and bottles of Salice Salentino, an Italian red wine from Apulia, on the table. On the bar sat a copper tub filled with ice and assorted bottled beers and some Tuscan white wine from Villa Antinori. A few members of the dedication committee had showed up, but it was the presence of Detective Bonnie Weber that had everyone buzzing.
“We gonna have some po-lice watching us cook, like it was the president or something?” Ruby Singer asked.
“Oh, now, don’t be braggin’, girlfriend,” Maxine Frey said. “Just because you have cooked for the president.” The room erupted in laughter.
Heaven lifted her glass of wine in the air. “Welcome to you all. We’ll wait just a few more minutes for Ella to arrive . . .”
“As far as I’m concerned, we can go ahead on without her. Didn’t need her in the first place,” a voice called out from over by the bar.
Bonnie Weber looked in that direction. “Now, don’t be talking like that,” Heaven said. “Detective Weber here would call that a motive.”
Another round of laughter. “Motive for what? Miss Ella ain’t dead.”
“Yet,” someone else piped in. This time even Bonnie had to laugh.
Heaven moved on. This was the only day of the week the cafe was closed, and she knew Joe and Chris wanted to get home as soon as possible. “I asked you all to bring your dishes in disposable aluminum pans so we can do a blind tasting,” she explained.
“Kind of like how Ernest cooks,” a smart aleck cracked. Ernest was a busy caterer who had just recently had cataract surgery. Before the operation there had been several mishaps in the kitchen like the one in which Ernest mistook cayenne pepper for paprika. Now Ernest turned toward the wise guy and pointed a finger. “I can see just fine now, and I’m takin’ names.” The others all howled.
The Cornbread Killer Page 6
