The Cornbread Killer

by Lou Jane Temple

  “Now, you all know this is not a contest. Every one of you could do this whole dinner and do it fine,” Heaven said. “The reason we decided to have a blind tasting, if you remember, was because no one could decide what they wanted to contribute.”

  There was a rumbling through the crowd that told Heaven they still were far from a consensus. She hurried on. “Everyone thought they had the best yams, the best greens.”

  “And I know I have the best cornbread,” someone shouted.

  Heaven smiled. She loved cooks who knew what they were good at. “So we’ll all decide together. I made up a ballot on the computer. Joe and Chris, who have no idea who brought what, will put numbers on each item.” Joe Long, looking nervous after hearing how serious this was to these chefs, pointed to the numbers on several pans like Vanna White showing letters on Wheel of Fortune.

  “All you have to do is eat your way around the table,” Heaven said, “and mark the number of the dish you like best in each category. For example, number six in sweet potatoes, number twenty in corn pudding. Does everybody understand?”

  “What if there’s a tie?” Mona asked.

  “We’ll have a taste-off. If it’s still tied, we’ll flip a coin.”

  Detective Bonnie Weber grabbed a plate. “Do we have to wait any longer for Ella, Heaven? I’m a nonvoting eater, but I’m starved.”

  Again a rumble of discontent went through the crowd. Heaven gave her friend a glare that said, Thanks so much. “We’ll start soon. Have another glass of wine,” she said, and went to help herself to another.

  “Well, one thing about this white girl’s restaurant,” Ernest said loudly. “I like the drinks better than the lemonade and the sweet ice tea over at mine.” That brought back the friendly camaraderie that was evident when they weren’t talking about Miss Ella Jackson. They attacked the beer and wine supply with gusto.

  Suddenly there was a commotion at the front door. In walked six young men who could have qualified for a Calvin Klein ad or an all-star basketball team. Tall and dark and handsome, they each carried boxes filled with disposable pans full of food. Bringing up the rear, Miss Ella sashayed up to the bar. She had on a 1940s navy crepe dress with a peplum that played over her hips. She wore a red hat with navy trim, short red gloves, and big red lips. She glanced around at the rest of the Kansas City restaurant crowd with a look that said, Is this my competition?

  “Heaven, honey. I do apologize for being tardy. But a good entrance is so important. Let the games begin,” Ella proclaimed with a flourish of her hands.

  Chris and Joe made a beeline for Heaven. “Boy, is she beautiful,” Chris said.

  “Boy, does she have balls,” Joe added. “Doesn’t she know these people hate her?”

  Heaven looked around. Ella was working the crowd like a politician. She moved fast, while they were all still stunned from her grand entrance, shaking hands and barely listening to the names they stammered out before moving on to the next restaurateur. Everything about her attitude proclaimed, Stand back, Miss Ella is in town.

  Heaven decided she better move fast herself. “Let’s eat,” she yelled. “Joe, will you explain to Ella how we’re doing this?” she said in a voice that said he had no choice.

  Bonnie Weber sidled up to Heaven. Bonnie was 5’10” and was a big woman, not fat at all, but big. She could wrestle a drunk male suspect to submission. “I’m filling my plate before the food fight begins. This is going to get ugly, and I hate to see good food wasted,” she chuckled.

  As hard as Chris Snyder had worked to arrange the food pans and disguise the ones Miss Ella had just brought, Heaven was sure everyone recognized her numbers right away. She saw them sniff and pass over certain offerings. They wouldn’t even take the chance it might taste good.

  Heaven herself tried to obey the rules. The table was a bounty of goodies. Beans of every kind, including her own Hoppin’ John, which wasn’t an official candidate, cornbread dressing, macaroni and cheese, sweet potatoes with all kinds of toppings from marshmallows to pecan strudel, rice, grits, mashed potatoes, corn pudding, squash casserole, turnips, turnip greens, green beans, smothered cabbage, fried green tomatoes, okra prepared in several ways, collard greens, mustard greens, pickled beets, Brunswick stew, and fried apples were all represented. Then there were the main dishes: fried chicken, chicken and dumplings, chicken pot pie, baked chicken, salmon croquettes, catfish, meat loaf, oxtail stew, smothered pork chops, neck bones and rice, braised turkey legs, Swiss steak, and fried chicken livers and gizzards. The only thing Heaven asked them not to bring was barbecue, because that was for Saturday, or gumbo and jambalaya, because that would he served on Sunday.

  She started marking her own ballot: Best chicken dish, #24, the chicken and dumplings. Heaven had never been able to make a dumpling that didn’t weigh a ton. These practically floated off the plate; the sauce was full of chicken flavor and speckled with parsley and black pepper. Heaven also knew they could never make fried chicken for the crowd that was due to show up on Friday night. Chicken and dumplings would be easier. Best greens, #3. Heaven decided it must be a mix of all three, collard, mustard, and turnip, plus diced apples with some hot sauce and vinegar. She was interrupted in her analysis by the beginning of the end.

  “Don’t you talk about my squash soufflé that way!” a voice cried from a table in the corner.

  “Is that your mess? I guess you cooked it a little too long, honey. I call that slimy squash,” was the retort.

  Heaven turned to see Ruby backing Miss Ella across the room with her pointy finger. “Nobody wants you in this town, sister. Why don’t you take your pitiful excuse for corn-bread and get, now!” she said with surprising vigor for a seventy-year old.

  “Those aren’t my greens. They gritty. I never served a sandy pot of greens in my life,” someone else replied defensively.

  “I’ve eaten those tired, old smothered chops at your place. You can’t fool me. You think Nancy Wilson wants some nasty, ol’ chops that’re so thin you can hardly taste the meat?” a male voice snarled.

  Suddenly everyone turned to Heaven.

  “Heaven, I won’t have my greens served in the same meal with these neck bones.”

  “You can always tell when Ernest makes ham hocks and white beans. You can smell the raw garlic from over here.”

  “Heaven, now you better count these ballots up and tell me her nasty macaroni and cheese didn’t win, if it ever saw any real cheese.”

  To say the crowd was getting ugly wouldn’t quite capture the intensity of the mood. Cafe owners who had been friends for years were turning on each other over black-eyed peas. Joe and Chris retreated behind the bar. Bonnie Weber continued to eat. Mona Kirk tried to reason with each and every cook, none of whom wanted to hear her. Finally, Heaven yelled—”Hold it a minute”—at the top of her lungs.

  “No, you hold it,” Miss Ella said as she crammed her ballot into Heaven’s hands. “I won’t have my food on the same buffet with this trash. If you want me to, I’ll do the whole party. Otherwise, I’ll be over in my new restaurant, drinking champagne, celebratin’ ‘cause it’s gonna be so easy to steal all y’all’s business. Come on, boys,” she ordered. And they left.

  After that, it was a stampede for the door. Ballots were torn in half and stomped on. Pans were snatched. Dressing and gravy and greens were spilled on the floor. The spirit of cooperation to honor Eighteenth and Vine was a distant memory. Not one cook and restaurant owner would allow his precious and delectable sweet potatoes or cheese grits or cabbage or baked chicken to share a table with the inferior dishes made by his former friends. It was no longer even about Miss Ella.

  When the room was empty, save for Heaven, Joe, Chris, Mona, and Bonnie, the detective got up from her perch at the bar, surprisingly chipper. “What do you know? No one died. What’s for dessert?”

  The candidates for Dessert had been put in the kitchen for lack of room on the table. Heaven and the rest of the survivors went out and started lifting tinfoil. �
��Oh, boy, I was hoping there would be banana pudding, just like this, with vanilla wafers,” Heaven said as she found spoons and bowls and set them on the counter.

  “Look at this cobbler,” Joe said appreciatively.

  “When’s the last time you saw a German chocolate cake made from scratch?” Bonnie murmured as she cut a big hunk.

  Mona was horrified. “How can you be so cavalier, Heaven? You’re in charge of the food for the whole weekend, and you just lost an entire meal.”

  Heaven shrugged. “I guess I was asking too much. I was trying so hard to be fair, I forgot the fact that everyone likes their food to take the spotlight. It’s the same the world over. It’s the same for fancy French chefs and grandmothers from Kansas. ‘I made this lemon pie and I’m proud of it’ “

  “Where’s the lemon pie?” Joe asked with his mouth full of chocolate cake.

  “I was just giving an example. We don’t have lemon pie.”

  “I’m assuming by the lack of panic on your part, you already have a plan B,” Bonnie Weber said. “But don’t count on me for the sweet potatoes or anything else. You know what a terrible cook I am.”

  Heaven looked at Mona. “I do have a plan B, but it might not work. What do you think about asking your social clubs to help? Each one could make one dish for five hundred people and give the money we would have spent on the catering to their charities.”

  Mona frowned. “Cooking for five hundred is a lot, Heaven. Most of these ladies are older. I don’t know if they could handle it.”

  Heaven wasn’t ready to concede defeat. “I can help them. Most of them have a church kitchen they can use, I bet. They can make a social event out of it. Do part one day, part the next. And we can use all the photographs that you asked them to dig out to decorate the tables. These women are part of Kansas City history. People will be thrilled to meet them.”

  Mona could tell she’d better give up. Heaven had a good idea, and just because she, Mona, had panicked at losing the professional cooks and Heaven hadn’t, that was no reason to shoot a good idea down. “I guess you know it’s really a better idea than having all the soul food restaurants cater. Why didn’t you think of this before?”

  Heaven pushed her finger on some chocolate cake crumbs and then put the finger in her mouth. “Because I was an ignorant white girl and didn’t even know about the social clubs until you told me. Will you set up a meet?”

  “I’ll call first thing in the morning,” Mona replied.

  “Heaven, now you sound like a cop on undercover assignment, with your ‘set up a meet’ talk,” Bonnie Weber said. She looked at her watch. “It’s eight o’clock and all is well. I’m going home. This is the best Sunday night I’ve ever had here at Cafe Heaven.”

  When Jim Dittmar walked in through the swinging kitchen doors, everyone jumped. “Shit, you scared us. I guess we forgot to lock the front door,” Heaven said.

  “I’m very quiet,” Jim said. “I could have stolen all the good booze while you all were back here eating. Is that German chocolate cake?”

  Heaven realized she was blushing again, and so did her friends.

  Bonnie and Mona got up. “We’re out of here,” Mona said, and they went out toward the dining room.

  Joe and Chris looked at Heaven for instructions, Joe impatiently checking his watch. The dining room was a disaster.

  “Guys, please do a twenty-minute job on the front. I’m afraid the mess will be set in stone by tomorrow. Just put away the beer and wine and bus all the plates in here. Robbie can put the tables back in the morning and work on the carpet.” The two were gone like a streak of lightning, knowing they could get everything done in fifteen minutes if they concentrated.

  “Wait,” Heaven said, embarrassed all over again. “Do you remember Jim Dittmar? He’s from Kansas City . . .”

  “And a famous jazz piano player,” Chris said, trying to be polite. “Great to have you back. We’re looking forward to you playing Monday.”

  “And we’re getting the piano tuned, like Heaven said,” Joe piped in as they headed for the dirty dishes in the dining room.

  “They run open mike night,” she explained. “I’m sorry Mona and Detective Weber got away so fast and I didn’t introduce you. I don’t know what happened to my manners,” Heaven muttered as she put a scoop of each dessert on a plate for Jim.

  “What are you trying to do, Heaven, kill me with sweetness?”

  “Don’t start,” Heaven said with a little grin. “You don’t have to eat it all. Just taste what you want.” All of a sudden she was very busy putting clear plastic film over all the desserts.

  “‘Just taste what you want’ Why, that’s the best offer I’ve had since I’ve been home,” he said, knowing he had her flustered.

  She tilted her head and tried to look mean. They both laughed. “Jim, I didn’t tell you the other night, but I have a perfectly good relationship going. Don’t rock the boat.”

  Jim nodded. “I heard all about it. A doctor, a tall Vietnamese, beautiful eyes. The women say he’s a hunk with a ponytail,” he said as he ran his hand over the top of his head, where not too much was growing. “A young hunk. Is he working tonight?”

  Heaven couldn’t help herself. She could have lied and saved them both the temptation. But she didn’t. “He’s in Texas for some special training. He’s thinking of becoming an emergency room specialist”

  Jim put a dollop of banana pudding on his spoon and made a spectacle of himself licking it off. “Getting them before they decide what they want to be when they grow up, eh, Heaven? Pretty steamy stuff.”

  Heaven bristled. “This is where I say if you only knew the half of it, isn’t it?”

  Joe and Chris wheeled in a cart loaded with dirty plates and glasses. “Do we have to do the dishes?” they whined.

  “No,” Heaven said. “But you do have to scrape and rinse them so Robbie doesn’t lose it totally. Getting out the food on the carpet will be bad enough,” she said, and winked at the guys. “Thanks for helping. And yes, you have my permission to turn the soul food contest into a performance piece for open mike night.” She jerked her head toward the dining room, and Jim put down his plate of desserts and followed.

  Joe and Chris were dying to go into the dining room and watch them. They could feel the sexual tension. But as much as they wanted to spy on their boss, they wanted to get out of there more. They started on the dishes.

  “When I came in, this room looked like a disaster. Was there a fight? Is that what brought the cops?” Jim asked.

  Heaven looked puzzled for a minute. “You mean, because Bonnie Weber was here? No, she came because we’ve had some weird food disasters on Sunday evenings. She was practicing preventative crime fighting. We didn’t need her this time, thank God.”

  “What kind of cop is she?”

  Heaven looked puzzled again. She was looking through the assortment of tequilas but Jim could see her face in the mirror. “A good one. Oh, like what assignment? She’s a homicide detective. She just took the Sergeant’s test.”

  Jim looked relieved. “So you were afraid someone was going to kill someone tonight?”

  “It’s a long story. Actually, it’s several stories. But you didn’t come by here to hear about my recent run-ins with the law. You know we’re not really open on Sunday nights.”

  “I saw the lights on and took a chance.”

  Heaven brought out a bottle of aged Herradura and poured two shots. “Is this about your new position as unpaid music coordinator for the Eighteenth and Vine dedication weekend?”

  They clicked glasses and drank. “Wowie, Counselor, you didn’t tell me I had a title,” Jim said. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do have a task at hand. I want to use your computer. I’ve booked people and written myself a few notes.” He pulled cocktail napkins and other assorted scraps of paper out of his pockets.

  Heaven had to admit Jim looked cute. He dressed only in black, and tonight he was wearing faded jeans and a jean jacket over a black Gap p
ocket tee-shirt. He wasn’t tall, probably about 5’10”, but he had long limbs that made him kind of gangly, and of course the graceful long fingers pianists need.

  “So Evelyn Edwards hadn’t filled Saturday up with players?”

  “I could bore you with more stories of how Evelyn Edwards was fixin’ to mess up your dedication, but to sum up, she was trying to get most of the players to give her back fifty bucks of the hundred and fifty she was offering. She didn’t have the nerve to call it a kickback. She must have known that wouldn’t go down quietly. She said it was for the Musicians’ Union Building, that the city felt all the players should throw in for the repairs. I’ll have to say she chose the one thing that most of us would want to contribute to, so she didn’t get much shit. Stealing a third of these poor players’ money. What a loser.”

  Heaven nodded. “And she lost. Let me turn on the computer for you.” She walked into the office and turned everything on while Jim watched her from the door.

  Joe stuck his head in from the dining room, glancing back at the musician quickly with an appraising eye. “We’re done, boss. Are you coming?”

  Heaven walked over and gave Joe a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for hanging in there. It got pretty hairy, didn’t it?”

  “It was the best fight I’ve seen in years. Are you coming? Can we put on the alarm?”

  “Lock up the back and I’ll lock you out the front. Jim needs to use the computer. He’s trying to book the music for next Saturday for me, I mean, for the committee,” Heaven explained, blushing again.

  “Another Evelyn Edwards screw-up?” Joe asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Heaven said. “I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

  Joe came close to glaring at Jim. “Don’t keep her up too late,” he sniffed.

  “I promise not to keep her up a moment more than I have to,” Jim said. Heaven gave him a hush-up look and walked to the door with Joe and Chris.

  “Heaven, are you going to be all right? We don’t know this guy,” Chris said. “I have the feeling the position he has in mind for you instead of up is down, as in bed.”