Everyone started talking at once. “Okay, okay, one at a time. Chris?”
“Well, not even the most devious villain can make all the chicken in Kansas City disappear. There’s still chicken in town. But, now, ham hocks are another matter. I called Fritz’s and the other big smokehouse, over in Kansas City, Kansas, and someone had come in and bought all the ham hocks at both places,” Chris said. “And the pork chops.”
“Did you ask—” Heaven started.
“For a description?” Chris finished. “Two good-looking black guys. Body builders.”
“Like the guys who were with Ella the other night, maybe,” Heaven said.
“I was in charge of produce,” Joe piped up. “And the collard green situation is bad. And there’s a real sweet potato shortage, too. Turnips? Someone bought cases of them. And it looks like you might have to go with canned green beans.”
“Never!” Heaven snapped. “Mona, how’s the catfish inventory?”
Mona shook her head. “Someone called in early this morning and asked the wholesale fish guy to hold all the catfish he had for them, that they would be in later to pick it all up. And they also said they would take all the catfish that comes in on Friday. Said they would pay cash.”
Murray stood up as if he were reciting in class. “I checked out the grocery stores, like you asked me to, H. The black-eyed peas have taken a hit, there are some wilted mustard greens at a few places, and no one can buy up all the cornmeal. So, chicken and cornbread are still on the menu.”
Did you talk to the grocery store managers? Could they tell you who bought up all the greens and peas?” Heaven asked with fire in her eyes. She was past the point of panic and had moved on to anger.
Sal stopped his neck trim. The old gent in the barber chair was hard of hearing and thought they were talking about a picnic. “Fried chicken would be nice,” he said, trying to get into the spirit of the conversation. Sal twirled him around. “What haven’t you told us, Murray?” Sal demanded.
“Some of the stores remembered the boys. And then some remembered a woman in, ah, vintage clothes,” Murray said.
“That witch! She thinks we’ll have to come begging her to do the gala. She’s cornering the market, as if she were Bill Gates and Microsoft.” Heaven said.
Mona blinked a couple of times, trying to figure out the Gates allusion, then got up and put her arm around Heaven. “I thought you’d outsmarted them when you came up with the idea of having the social clubs cook, H. But it sounds like Miss Ella had a trick or two up her sleeve as well. How can she afford to do this just out of spite?”
“She’ll probably freeze the stuff she can’t use right away. And dried beans don’t go bad, the evil snake,” Heaven huffed. “I think I’ll go pay Miss Ella a visit. Who knows, after our talk, she may even donate some supplies to the cause. But first I’ve got to warn the Cajun restaurants. It would be hard to pull off the New Orleans brunch on Sunday if this witch buys up all the crawfish west of the Mississippi,” Heaven said as she pulled Mona out the door with her.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten our unfinished business, even though I don’t have time to talk now. You haven’t explained yourself,” Heaven said in a sharp tone.
Mona bravely faced her accuser. “I called up the detective and told her everything.”
“I bet that was fun. Well, get ready to repeat your story to me later,” Heaven snarled as she marched across the street two steps ahead of Mona, intent on her next chore. Halfway across the street she stopped, looking sheepishly at Mona. “I’m going to ask you for a favor but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to tell me everything,” Heaven said.
“And the favor is?”
“Take these photos and have them blown up and laminated with the rest,” Heaven said, handing Mona the two photographs from Evelyn’s office and turning away before she could ask questions.
The rest of the group straggled out, too, all except for Murray, who sat deep in thought until the gentleman in Sal’s chair had paid and gone. Sal, who walked stiffly from a lifetime on his feet, came over and sat down by Murray.
“I don’t remember you ever taking the load off during office hours, Sal,” Murray teased.
“If I get down, I have trouble getting back up,” Sal said with an honesty that made Murray think he must be in some pain today. “So, Murray,” he went on, “what can I do to help? These two, Heaven and Mona, have got themselves in a fix. We can’t have them the laughing stock of the town.”
Murray sighed. “I think it’s time for your City Hall connections, Sal. Here’s the deal.”
Detective Bonnie Weber was furious. She marched through City Hall, ignoring the receptionist guarding the mayor’s quarters. She did, however, turn her head and growl “Tell Nolan I’m coming” to the young woman as she passed through the door marked PRIVATE. Bonnie saw Nolan stick his head out of his office as she neared the end of the hall and the mayor’s office. She made her hand into a gun and pointed it at Nolan and pulled the trigger.
Nolan looked up and down the hall to see if anyone else had noticed. “What’s up, Detective? I’ve got a room full of people. We’re meeting about the land under the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. The Nelson wants control, even though technically the land belongs to the city. The Parks and Recreation Department also wants control,” Nolan babbled on.
“So, no thanks to you, I find out you were talking to Evelyn Edwards when she died.”
“What do you mean?” Nolan asked weakly as he checked out the hall again. This wasn’t a good place to have this conversation, but his office was out of the question at the moment. Maybe he could promise to come to her office later.
“There was a cell phone in her briefcase, Nolan,” Bonnie said in a low voice. “I checked the redial.”
Relief flooded the tall man’s face. “Then where did you get the crazy idea that I was talking to her?”
“You’re right, ol’ buddy, she was leaving a nasty message for the florist who ratted her out to the gala committee. The florist is still blushing from the colorful language she used. That was the last call she made. But someone could have called her. So that got me to thinking about phones, and I asked the phone company for the records of the pay phones in the lobby of the Ruby Theater, and of course I asked the cell phone company for her records. Do you know what I found?”
Nolan knew. “A call from the phone in the lobby to Evelyn Edwards’s cell phone. I was angry, I’ve never denied it. I gave her a chance and she was screwing with me and everyone else.”
“So why didn’t you just walk into the auditorium and tell her off?”
“I didn’t know where she was.”
Bonnie shook her head. “Most of the other folks at that meeting knew she was working on the lights.”
“I guess I left before they started talking about what she was doing. Believe me, I was so angry . . .” Nolan paused, knowing he shouldn’t admit to being “so angry.” It was too late. “. . . that I would have gone to confront her face-to-face if I’d known. I had her cell phone number, so I used that.”
“And then you kept her on the phone until she fried, didn’t you, you stupid bastard.”
“No. I hung up before . . . you know.”
Bonnie didn’t let him finish. “You know what I think, Nolan? I think you were talking to her when she was electrocuted, you ran into the theater and saw what had happened, then you disconnected the phone and put it away in her briefcase because you were afraid it would connect you to her. Then you ran away.”
“And no one saw me do all this? How could that be, Detective? What you just described takes time,” Nolan said, a last remnant of bravado in his voice.
“The lights had gone out. Everyone was concerned with that problem.”
“I’m sure Evelyn Edwards put her phone away herself, after our conversation,” Nolan insisted.
“I hope you’re right, because that phone is at the lab right now, and if it has your fingerprints on it you better tell me now.
”
Nolan was silent.
Bonnie hooked her fingers on the lapel of his fancy double-breasted suit and gave him a jerk. “If your fingerprints are on that phone, you’re looking very good for this death. This is your only warning. Now, go back to the art gallery crowd,” she said, and walked swiftly down the hall, leaving Nolan to his fears.
He stood watching her for a minute, then went back inside his office.
The door to Miss Ella’s Soul Food was propped open and delivery trucks were lined up outside. Heaven saw cases of foodstuffs being delivered and she walked a little faster. Those were rightfully the gala’s crates of greens and sweet potatoes, not Miss Ella’s.
Inside the storefront cafe, the bustle that accompanied opening a restaurant was in full swing. Miss Ella was in the center of the swirl, clipboard in hand. Today’s outfit was circa 1939, a gorgeous black-and-white crepe dress with big padded shoulders and magnolias painted on the skirt. Her hair was done in an elaborate chignon decorated with crossed chopsticks. She smiled when she saw Heaven charging in the door. “Heh, girlfriend,” she called cheerfully.
“Don’t girlfriend me, you produce thief,” Heaven snarled. “So, what’s your game? If you can’t get your way and do the gala food by yourself, then no one can do it, is that it?”
“Now, simmer down before you say something you can’t take back,” Ella said with a little fire in her eyes. “I just assumed you could handle doing this funky ol’ meal yourself, since no one else wants to bother with it.”
“So you bought up all the menu items you could to make my life miserable. And you still call me girlfriend? Well, I have news for you. I’m not catering the gala Friday night. A group of women who have historic ties in the community are. Many of them are older and they are worried sick that they will let down the whole Eighteenth and Vine revival because they can’t find any decent ham hocks. So instead of embarrassing one white girl who could handle it, you’re humiliating a whole group of black women who can’t.”
Miss Ella gave that great big laugh of hers. She loved a good fight. “Heaven, honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Last time I looked, it was a free country and I could buy any damn thing I had the money to buy. I’m expecting a big weekend, sugar. I had to stock up.”
“Bullshit. You were seen buying black-eyed peas in a grocery store. No one in the restaurant business goes to a grocery store unless it’s for an emergency head of lettuce. You’re trying to ruin Kansas City’s big celebration. And I might remind you, this is the same town that is letting you move in and do business.”
Miss Ella moved close to Heaven. It felt as if she were taking up all the air in the room. Heaven gulped but didn’t back away. Ella put the long red nails of one hand on the side of Heaven’s face and scraped them down toward Heaven’s neck lightly. They left red marks. She hadn’t really scratched Heaven, but she was toying with her, that was for sure. Cat and mouse. Heaven didn’t move. “This little hick town is lucky to have Miss Ella,” the big black woman said. “And don’t you forget it, sugar. You’re not the only food queen anymore. No sir.”
Heaven slipped one hand around to the back of Miss Ella’s head and jerked the chopsticks out of her chignon, using the other hand to pull Miss Ella’s head back and hold it there. Then she poked Miss Ella’s stomach with a chopstick to the rhythm of her speech. “You have to play nice or I’ll make sure everyone knows how you’re sabotaging the Eighteenth and Vine dedication. And if that happens, you’ll find out what a loyal town this is while you sit in here all by your lonesome. I know you don’t want that because I bet you have plans to open a few more of these cafes, then take your company public and make a big pile of money. So, don’t fuck with Kansas City, girlfriend. I also think Detective Weber will be very interested in the fact that you called Evelyn Edwards ‘Tulsa trailer trash.’ If you’d only talked to the woman on the phone, how did you know where she came from?”
Heaven dropped the chopsticks, released Miss Ella, and hurried toward the door without waiting for a reaction. She could imagine Miss Ella giving her a good right hook, but she couldn’t imagine the woman sticking a knife in her back. Showing her back side was safer than exposing her front
All of a sudden, that big laugh erupted from behind her. “I like your style, girlfriend,” Miss Ella yelled as Heaven stormed out the door. On her way out, two gentlemen in three-piece suits and sad faces were coming in, briefcases in hand. Heaven paused at the door for a second, long enough to hear them thank Ella Jackson for her consideration to a stranger. At the curb in the midst of all the food delivery trucks was a hearse that said “The Jones Brothers Funeral Chapel” on the side. The cheerful guys going to see Miss Ella must be the Jones brothers. The only person Heaven could think of who had died lately was Evelyn Edwards. Why would Ella have anything to do with her burial? But then Ella was a stranger in Kansas City. Who else could she have any remote connection to that had died?
Heaven was so busy rubbernecking that she plowed right into the arms of Jim Dittmar, who was walking along Eighteenth Street in the unlikely company of Bob Daultman, Louis Armstrong Vangirov, and Louis’s father.
“Whoa, Heaven. Where’re you going in such a hurry?” Jim asked as he pulled her close and nuzzled her hair the way he had the other night at the cafe. She pulled away, but grinned in spite of herself.
“I’ve got a meeting with the Cajun cookers who are doing the food for Sunday, the day of the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum dedication,” Heaven said. “What about you four? What are you plotting?”
For just a beat too long there was silence. Heaven’s internal trouble alarm went off. Then Mr. Vangirov threw his arm around Jim. “Jim is being a good friend. He offered to show Louis where the stage will be on Saturday, so Louis will not feel, how you say . . .”
“Stage fright?” Heaven said with a swift look at Jim. “Well, that’s very sweet,” she said, and then patted Jim on the cheek. “And you, Mr. Daultman?”
Bob Daultman waved his hands expressively. “I am here soaking up the vibes. It is so . . . so evocative, yes? I can just see the ghost of Charlie Parker walking down Vine Street”
Jim Dittmar smiled wryly. “Yes, it was right on that corner over there the big man pissed on his own shoes because he was so nodded out on heroin. This is famous territory all right”
Heaven put her hands over Louis’s ears for a second and looked crossly at Jim. “Stop that. Even if he can’t understand what you said, Louis is too young to hear such tawdry tales. Louis, what do you think? Here you are where all the big boys played.”
Louis let out a string of excited speech in his native tongue. His father laughed and ruffled his son’s hair with a big, rough hand. “Louis is very thrilled. He can’t believe he will be playing where Count Basie once played.”
Louis knitted his brow in concentration. “I stand . . . where history . . . was . . . made,” he managed to say. His eyes were bright and his smile looked about to split his face open.
Heaven nodded her head. “And we’re going to make more history this weekend. I better go over to the Ruby and take my meeting. I pray that the Cajun cookers will act better than the others. See you, guys.”
As Heaven walked across the street, Bob Daultman gave Jim Dittmar a look. “You better be able to control her,” he said in a low, angry voice.
“I can handle her,” Jim said with a smile. “What would she suspect us of, a conspiracy to play in the wrong key? We’re a couple of jazz musicians, a filmmaker, and a kindly father.”
“An unsuspecting team,” Bob Daultman said briskly. “Just the way we like it.”
“Just like Berlin and that Greek island,” Louis said in English as they walked toward the jazz museum. “Artists are always welcome, aren’t they, Dad?” The men and the boy laughed.
Bob Daultman led the way into an entry hall where workers were giving the exhibit finishing touches. Reproductions of old photographs of musicians were being mounted on the walls. Three painters were worki
ng frantically on a mural. An empty case stood ready to receive the famous Charlie Parker sax. The history of jazz was coming alive. A harried-looking guard frowned and came their way. From the other side of the foyer, Pam Whiteside rushed toward the group. “Yoo-hoo. Over here,” she called. She turned to the guard and waved her hand dismissively. “It’s okay. Mr. Daultman is going to film our opening weekend. He needs to see where to shoot.”
Jim smiled beguilingly at Pam. “And I was showing our new star musician around. You remember Louis from Cafe Heaven? We tagged along,” he said, and put a brotherly arm around Louis.
“Well, isn’t this great. Come on, let me show you everything,” Pam said.
Bob Daultman twirled around and waved his hands in the air. “Yes, yes. We want to see absolutely everything. I can feel the aura of greatness, even now. I see the ghosts of Eighteenth and Vine coming to life right before my eyes”
“Heaven, it’s your daughter,” the bartender yelled. Heaven picked up the wall phone. It was early evening, and the pace in the kitchen was still slow.
“Hi, honey, what’s up?”
“You’ll never believe it, Mom.”
“Oh, yes I will. Is this something about you or about Jim Dittmar?”
“You were on the trail, Mom, just like always. But there’s no real proof,” Iris said, ignoring her mom’s question.
“No proof of what?”
“Dad asked around and found out that Jim Dittmar played in all the good jazz clubs.”
Heaven couldn’t help feeling disappointed. “Yeah, I figured he wasn’t lying about that.”
Iris returned the ball with gusto. “But he also played a lot of private parties—you know, for people like Dad, mansions with counts and dukes and stuff. And at some of these private parties there were jewel heists. Some old countess would wake up after a late night of dining and dancing and find her emeralds gone.”
“And Jim was suspected?”
“No,” Iris said reluctantly. “Not Jim personally. But Dad says that sometimes musicians and caterers and other service people who have access get paid lots of money to draw maps of the houses and give information about where all the babes with good stuff are sleeping. He says some of these weekend parties are very formal, with everyone wearing all their best shit, jewelry wise.”
The Cornbread Killer Page 12
