This was what Mona had feared all these years. It was the reason she had put this conversation off for so long. Some words, once said, just cannot be taken back. A John Hiatt song lyric flooded her mind: “From the tip of my tongue to the end of the line.” “And I’ve missed you, too,” she said, and her voice cracked just a tiny bit. She waved the waiter over and gave him a credit card. Sam didn’t argue with her paying for lunch. Thank goodness she let her do a little monetary penance, at least.
Sam changed the subject. “How is your husband?”
“Carl. He died seven years ago. It was a freak accident with a forklift at the General Motors plant. He worked there twenty-two years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. That’s when I opened the shop. It keeps me occupied.” The receipt was back, and Mona signed it and added a tip. Her hand was trembling ever so slightly. She got up. “Good luck tonight. I know you’ll knock ’em dead.”
Sam stood as well. Her lunch was untouched. “You’ll be there, won’t you?”
Mona felt her eyes filling up. “I’m in charge of the volunteer ushers.”
“So I’ll catch you there,” Sam said, sitting back down. She picked up her knife and fork and stared down at her plate, trying not to follow her old friend with her eyes.
For Mona, the trip to the door of the restaurant took forever. She didn’t let the tears fall until she was back in her car.
Heaven was busy being creative, artfully arranging the laminated vintage photos of the social clubs in the center of the tables. It was mindless activity, and she was a million miles away when Nolan Wilkins appeared beside her. She jumped. “Jesus, Nolan, you startled me.”
“Sorry. With my luck lately, you’ll die right here of shock because I said hello,” Nolan said.
Heaven rolled her eyes. “Do I detect an attack of self-pity? Is the universe picking on you, poor little thing?”
“I admit I had trouble getting out of bed this morning, and it wasn’t because of my ticker. After all these months, no, years of working on this. Now we’ve had a death, the Parker saxophone has been stolen, and I had to break up a fight between three of our principal guests, not to mention the one Ella insulted. I can’t even enjoy the fruits of all my work.”
“Get over it,” Heaven said firmly. “Look at what you’ve accomplished instead of dwelling on what you can’t change. The fact that Kansas City got this project done at all is amazing. Hopefully, the police will find the saxophone today.”
“Today is almost over, Heaven.” Nolan looked at his watch. “It’s almost five o’clock.”
Heaven stopped fiddling with her table decorations. She poked a finger in Nolan’s stomach. “Then it’s time to stop feeling sorry for yourself and make sure tonight goes smoothly. You can’t bring back Evelyn Edwards, no matter how much you might want to.”
“No, I can’t,” Nolan said mournfully.
“You can’t change what happened between Sam Scott and Lefty and Boots years ago.”
“No.”
“And you can’t make the Parker horn magically appear, unless you took it. If you did take it,” she said with a grin, “put it back right now.”
Nolan smiled. “Well, there is one good thing about the missing sax. We have all kinds of national press coming this weekend—20/20, 48 Hours, CNN, everybody will be here either tonight or tomorrow. Pam Whiteside is frantic.”
“Pam can handle it, and so can you. Come back later to eat,” Heaven, said, pushing Nolan in the direction of the Ruby Theater.
“Wait. Heaven, what did you do about the food?”
“I solved the problem, I hope. Now, go.”
Nolan put his arm around Heaven and clung to her a minute. “Thank you. I’ve got a lot to do and you’re right, I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself.” He headed off across the street just as Julia Marcus came around the corner with her hands full.
Heaven grabbed the big aluminum pans from Julia’s arms. “Did you get my message about where to park?”
“Yes, child, I felt like a celebrity. They had my name on a clipboard. I just hope they don’t ride me out of town on a rail when we run out of food.”
Another woman was heading their way, her arms full of platters. “Julia, this is my friend Mary Garcia. She lives around the corner from my restaurant, and she is the best tamale maker in Kansas City.”
Julia’s eyes were wide. “Tamales?”
Heaven reached under the buffet table and pulled out a sign. It said WORLD SOUL FOOD: THE FOOD OF THE NEIGHBORHOODS OF KANSAS CITY. “We needed a way to trick Miss Ella, or whoever was buying up all the ingredients that we needed for this dinner. So I thought of all the other ethnic groups in Kansas City. Every culture has its comfort food, the very soul of who its people are.”
“I know what you mean. Black people aren’t the only ones with soul food,” Julia agreed.
“So I called Mary for tamales, and my Hmong friends, the Laotians who cook at the Nelson Museum. They’re bringing summer rolls and spring rolls and they’re dressing in their native costumes. I told everyone who had native dress to wear their outfits. I also called the Jewish Community Center. Its ladies are bringing blintzes and chopped liver, and the Russian Jewish community is bringing pirogi. And my friend Charlene Welling is bringing a very fancy version of banana pudding.”
By this time a small crowd of women with food had gathered. “Good thinking, Heaven,” Julia said. “Won’t Miss Ella be sorry that she didn’t spoil this night. How are we going to serve all this?”
“Julia, how much food do you think you and your social clubs have?”
“We guess for about half the folks you’re expecting, about two hundred and fifty, maybe three hundred.”
“Then I think we should offer traditional soul food on each end of the street and at each dessert station,” Heaven said. “But let’s not try to do everything at both serving stations. Let’s have the chicken and dumplings at one end, the smothered pork chops at the other. A church group is also bringing beans, rice, chips, and salsa. And the Thai community group is going to grill satay of pork and chicken and have big vats of Pad Thai noodles. I loaded the grills with charcoal this afternoon. I’ll light them in a minute. Both the noodles and the beans and rice are good fillers, so we’ll put them on both buffet lines.”
“It sounds like a plan,” Julia said with a smile on her face and a sneaky look in her eyes. “I just hope I get to see the face of that New Yorker. Will she be disappointed!”
Heaven smiled, too. She reached under the table again and came out with an enlargement of a photograph of Julia and her club. At the bottom someone had written “A Night in the Orient, Twin Citians Club, 1942.” Each woman looked more beautiful than the next; they wore brocade Chinese jackets and had fresh flowers in their elaborate hairdos. “I recognized you right away; look at you with those gardenias in your hair,” Heaven said as she handed the laminated blow-up to Julia. “Put this up tonight by your club’s food station, then be sure and take it home. I had it blown up big for you, to thank you for your help. We have to spread the money around a little more now, but at least we’ll have enough food for everyone.”
Julia’s eyes clouded over as she gazed at her image. She giggled like a schoolgirl. “I met my husband that very night. Thank you. And we’re glad to share the food money with these other groups. They’ve saved us from a disaster. And I like what you did, Heaven. You’ll make folks think about how Kansas City is really a melting pot. That’s good.”
Heaven guided Julia over to the other buffet table. “Come for a minute and look at the other photos. See if you spot more people who will be here tonight. I want everyone to get their pictures.”
Julia started right in naming names. “Oh, good God, what a dress that Gladys had on that night. And Sally Thomas, oh, she’ll die to see this.” She stopped and picked up a photo with a puzzled look in her eye. “What’s this one of Boots Turner doing in here?”
Heaven’s heart started racing. She grabbed the
other blow-up of the photos from Evelyn’s office. “How about this one. Is that Boots, too? I didn’t recognize him, not in his stage clothes and young and all.”
“Why, surely it is, but I don’t recall the lady in either of these.” Julia studied the two pictures and shook her head. “Someone must have known Boots back then and these got mixed up with the social club photos.”
“Well, based on my own photo drawers, that could happen easily,” Heaven said smoothly. “I guess we better get this show on the road.” She clapped her hands and whistled to get everyone’s attention.
Heaven looked at her watch. “It’s five-thirty, so listen up a minute, ladies. The chafing dishes are lined up. You all need to get the water heated in them. I left Igloo coolers filled with water at the end of each buffet line. I left a propane fireplace lighter, too. Behind each food line there’s a tent. In that tent are tables and a rolling heater. Put your pans in the heater until just before seven, when the party starts. I’m trying to avoid foodborne illness tonight, so let’s keep everything nice and hot until it’s time to go. There should be chairs, too, so you can sit down once in a while.”
“Thanks for thinking of these old bones. You go start your grills now or the coals won’t be ready in time,” Julia said, pushing Heaven away.
Heaven went around the corner on Vine Street where she had set up the grills and the propane burners for the chicken livers and Sunday’s deep-fried turkeys. She almost fell over one of the grills. It was lying on its side, with the charcoal spilled out on the ground. Miss Ella Jackson was busy working on the next one, upending a huge grill. She had on her usual vintage attire, plus a great old flowered apron with a bib. There was black soot from the charcoal on her cheek. She gave the last grill a push, then wiped her hands with a flourish on her apron. Then she had a big laugh. “Well, land-a-mercy, Heaven, these flimsy little ol’ grills must have been caught by the wind. I guess you’ll have to load them up all over again. See ya,” she said with a jaunty wave as she walked back across the street to her cafe.
Heaven had started counting to ten as soon as she saw what Ella was doing. A mud wrestling match was next if Heaven went for the bait. She tried to focus on what had to be done to get this party rolling. She could deal with Ella later.
“Now what are you going to do?” a voice with laughter in it asked. Heaven whirled around and saw Jim Dittmar standing in the entrance to an alley, leaning up against the brick wall as if he were watching a sports event.
“Gee, thanks for stopping her,” Heaven snapped.
“She seems dangerous to me, Counselor. I don’t want to tangle with Miss Ella Jackson, no sir,” Jim said as he sauntered toward Heaven. “But I’ll help you pick up the pieces if you want.”
Heaven sputtered. “What I want,” she said as she pointed her finger at Jim, “is for you to tell me the truth. Did you steal the Charlie Parker sax?”
Jim looked genuinely surprised. “What in the world are you talking about? I’m a piano player, for God’s sake. I wouldn’t risk these hands breaking and entering.”
“Well, that’s not what I hear from Europe. My ex-husband tells me you always happen to be gigging where diamond tiaras disappear.”
Jim’s look of amusement turned serious. He clucked his tongue. “Heaven, why in the world would your ex-husband tell you anything about me? Unless you’re snooping and you asked him.” He walked up and took Heaven’s chin in his hand. She jerked away.
“All I know is that since you’ve been home, this whole project has gone to hell. Now I have to go get some help. I don’t want to get all black from charcoal dust. But don’t think I didn’t notice you haven’t answered my question. We’ll talk about this later.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, Counselor,” Jim called as Heaven flounced away.
Mona was checking in the ushers in front of the Ruby Theater, crossing their names off a clipboard. Heaven caught the sad look in her eyes. “I have an emergency, then I want to know why you look like you just lost your best friend. Oh dear, that was the wrong trite phrase, wasn’t it?” Heaven grabbed her friend and gave her a big hug. The grill emergency could wait a minute. “So,” she said, holding her friend at arm’s length, “I guess lunch didn’t go so well.”
Mona shook her head. “No, I guess it didn’t,” she answered, her voice quivering. “Please give me a good crisis to think about. We don’t have time to talk about this now. Besides, if I do I might cry, and I sure don’t want to do that.”
“Do you still have the volunteers from the Boys Club?”
“Yes, they’re here until dark, then they come back again tomorrow. What do you need?”
“The darling Miss Ella just dumped over all the grills. I need ten kids for fifteen minutes to scoop up the charcoal, especially some big boys, ‘cause I can’t right the Big John grills by myself.”
Mona took her walkie-talkie out of its holder on her belt. “What has gotten into that woman? She was fun that first night. Heaven, get back to the grills. The kids will be there by the time you are.”
“I have one more stop to make,” Heaven said as she walked toward the security guard station. “Hi, I’m Heaven Lee,” she said, extending her hand toward one of the two uniformed guards behind the stand. They were pointing and gesturing for Boots Turner, who had obviously asked for some directions. One of the guards shook her hand limply and eyed her suspiciously. She nodded at Boots. “Mr. Turner,” she said, before looking back at the guards. “I’m in charge of the food tonight and I have a big problem. Miss Ella, from Miss Ella’s Soul Food, is terrorizing the poor women that volunteered to make the food. She just wrecked the grill area.”
The two men looked at each other and one of them said, “I’ll go over there and talk with her. He was wantin’ to know where her place was anyhow,” he added, jerking his head toward Boots.
“No, don’t talk to her,” Heaven said. “I’m afraid it will just enrage her further. Let’s try to get through the night without another incident. Will you please assign a guard to each of the food tables, and if she comes anywhere near them, then they could escort her back across the street? Please? And Mr. Turner, after how Ella acted last night, I would think you’d want to steer clear of her.”
Boots Turner looked across the street to Miss Ella’s Soul Food. “The girl has mistaken me for someone else. I couldn’t sleep last night because of it, and I won’t be able to play tonight until I straighten her out.”
“Good luck with that one,” Heaven called as the big man walked away. She didn’t think Ella had mistaken him for someone else. It looked like Ella knew exactly who he was.
The food was a smashing success. The city council members in districts with Hispanic and Jewish and Asian constituents were tickled pink to have the ethnic cuisines of their voters included. The black members of the city council couldn’t be mad about the world soul food theme when they saw that the ladies of the black social clubs got to be the stars of the show.
“The only thing missing, Heaven, is Italian food,” the mayor said as he shook her hand.
Heaven agreed. “Italian food is the most popular food in the universe, and I’m sure it’s the most popular cuisine here in Kansas City. However, the Italian festival is next weekend in Columbus Park, so the women of Holy Rosary were already busy working on that. Next year we’ll plan it so they can be a part of this,” she said insincerely, knowing she sure wouldn’t head this project again. Next year maybe the social clubs could run the whole thing.
Promptly at eight-thirty Heaven shut down the food lines and tried to shoo the patrons to the Ruby for the big concert. The vendor who had the city contract for beverages for this weekend kept the bars open, and there was still a party atmosphere in the blocked-off streets.
Heaven had arranged with Harvester’s, the local food bank, to come at eight forty-five to pick up the leftovers in their truck. But there was precious little for them to collect.
“They almost picked us dry, Heaven,” Julia Marcus chuckled
. “But I like that you have the leftovers going to the homeless. That’s real thoughtful.”
Heaven had found an end piece of cornbread that had fallen behind one of the bread baskets, and she was munching away. She had also smuggled a couple of bottles of wine in with her boxes of supplies, so she was having a white Italian wine, a Coppo Gavi, in a paper cup over ice. “When you work in restaurants and see all the waste, Julia, you start wanting to do something about it. I freeze leftovers at the restaurant and Harvester’s comes and picks them up once a week.”
Although the Ruby concert was sold out, Heaven had arranged for everyone who had contributed food to have a standing room pass. She glanced over at the theater. “Julia, you better go. I think Ray Charles is the lead-off singer, so you don’t want to be late.”
Julia was clutching her vintage photo. “You are right about that. I don’t want to miss ol’ Ray.” She shook hands solemnly with Heaven. “You sure know how to throw a party, child. And I’ll be back on Sunday for the baseball museum dedication. I want to get Lefty Stuart’s autograph.”
“He’s a cutey, isn’t he?” Heaven said honestly. Sam Scott’s husband had real charm. Heaven felt a pang of sympathy again for Mona—for Sam Scott, too. Heaven hugged Julia and watched the social club women walking over to the concert, friends who didn’t need many words to communicate anymore. Laughter followed them, warming the May night.
Heaven sat waiting for the rental company team. They were coming at nine, after the crowd was inside, to break down this set-up for the gala and replace it with the screened-in booths that the health department insisted on for public outdoor events where food was sold.
She could hear the sounds of the Boots Turner Big Band starting the show. She wondered how his talk with Ella had gone, thought about the photos of Boots, then just let it all go out of her mind for a minute, all the puzzles fading into the beautiful harmonies of the horns. This was how she liked to hear concerts, from backstage. It just happened this time the backstage extended to the front street. She could hear the crowd cheer for the first time in many years in the Ruby Theater. She sat on the edge of a table drinking wine out of a paper cup as the warm breezes carried the music outside in waves. If she squinted her eyes just right, those ghosts of Eighteenth and Vine appeared, snapping their fingers to the beat of the music.
The Cornbread Killer Page 16
