Murder with Macaroni and Cheese (10 page)

CHAPTER 19

“W
ell, look what the cat dragged in,” I say to Wavonne. We're at home the morning after the reunion, and I'm sitting at the kitchen table.

“Shhh,” she says, rubbing her temples. She's still in the oversized T-shirt she slept in.

“I told you to slow down with the liquor last night.”

She directs a hungover stare at me before making her way to the coffee pot.

I'm not sure most people who know her would recognize Wavonne when she first gets up—before she paints on the heavy makeup, plunks a wig on her head, and accessorizes herself to high heaven with flashy costume jewelry. She's getting close to thirty, but, at the moment, without all of her trademark razzle-dazzle, she still looks like a teenager.

“Why'd you get me up so early?” She sits down across from me with a cup of coffee.

“It's seven thirty, Wavonne. Not five a.m. I want to go by Christy's this morning and pick up the check for the reunion catering before we head to Sweet Tea. It's out of the way, and I'd like to be at the restaurant by nine thirty to help set up for brunch. We need to get moving shortly. Laura covered for us last night, so she's taking the morning off today.”

I get up from the table and set my mug in the sink. “You better get in the shower. I want to be on the road by eight thirty.”

Wavonne yawns, slowly gets up from her chair, tops off her coffee, and heads out of the kitchen with her cup.

While she's getting showered I get up to reach for my phone, lean against the counter, and start swiping through last night's photos. Looking at the images, I recall that I had originally planned not to go to the reunion, but now I'm certainly glad I did. It turned out to be a fun evening. I liked having a night off from the restaurant, catching up with some old friends, and especially enjoyed reconnecting with Gregory. I feel like he was flirting with me, but I'm so out of practice in that arena I may be completely off base. I'm also not sure if he has something going with Raynell. I know she's married, but married women cheat all the time. And I don't think she would get as territorial about Gregory as she seemed to last night if he were just a casual friend or real estate client—and the way she hugged him before she left was pretty intense for platonic friends. But, who knows—Raynell was highly intoxicated, so her behavior may have been a result of the alcohol.

I'm about to brush off the whole evening and let go of any expectations where Gregory is concerned when my phone buzzes with a text from him.

 

 

I have to say I can feel my pulse quicken when I read his words. As Wavonne and Momma love to point out, I don't date much, and once you've crossed the line over to the less desirable side of forty without landing a man, your hopes for a relationship aren't exactly lofty. In my twenties I was optimistic about getting married and very picky about who I dated. During my thirties the pessimism started to set in, and I began giving guys who weren't “attractive enough” or “smart enough” . . . or “ambitious enough” a few years earlier a second look, but nothing ever panned out. By the time I hit forty, and after one too many dates with men who still lived with their mommas or thought I was supposed to be their nursemaid, I pretty much gave up on romance and decided a single life focused on family, friends, and a thriving restaurant career wasn't so bad.

I text back.

 

 

The moment I hit send, I wonder if I responded too soon.
Do I seem too eager? Maybe I should have let some time pass before I replied.
Like I said, I'm not good at this.

I wait for him to text me back, but when I don't get a response after a few seconds, I drop my phone on the table and walk down the hall to hurry up Wavonne. With a little cajoling from me, I manage to get her ready to roll just shy of eight thirty.

“So, are you going to see him while he's still in town?” Wavonne asks as I throw a few things in my purse.

“Who?”

“What you mean,
who?
Gregory.”

I refrain from telling her about his text. “I don't know, Wavonne. I think he's only here for a few days, and I've already taken one night off from the restaurant.”

We're about to head out the door when I hear some quick scurrying coming from the hallway.

“Gregory? Who's Gregory?” Momma asks, hurriedly turning the corner. We had a dachshund growing up who I swear could hear you unwrap a piece of cheese from the other side of the house and show up at your feet in a nanosecond wanting his share. Momma's ears have a similar talent when any mention of a possible man in my life materializes.

“Nobody,” I say. “We're late, Momma. We have to run.”

Momma maneuvers herself between me and the front door. “
Who
is Gregory?”

“He's one of Halia's old classmates who was puttin' the moves on her last night.”

“Really? What's he look like? Employed? Father material? Is he a Christian?”

“We were just friends in high school, Momma.”

“She went to prom with him.”

“That lanky fellow with the big ears?”

“He's not so lanky anymore,” Wavonne says. “Brotha is fine these days.”

“And he's interested in
Halia?
”

I glare at Momma. “Don't act so surprised!”

“Single? Divorced? Never married?”

“We didn't talk about that, Momma, but he was not wearing a wedding band, and I'm sure Nicole would have told me if he were married.”

“Are you going to see him again? What's he do?”

“I don't know. And he owns a chain of restaurants.”

“He's in the restaurant business as well. He sounds perfect for you.”

“He lives in Florida, Momma. He's only in town for a few days.”

“Well, you better jump on board that train before it leaves the station then. This is no time to dawdle.” She says this as if Gregory is the last helicopter out of Saigon.

“I agree with Aunt Celia. He was into you, Halia. I could tell. Some brothas dig the full-figured matronly types . . . go figure,” Wavonne says with an evil grin.

As I scowl back at her, my phone buzzes again. I grab it from my purse, take a look at the screen, and see another text from Gregory suggesting a date tomorrow evening.

“If you must know, he just asked me out, so I guess we are getting together after all.”

I see the excitement in Momma's face. “Fantastic! You'll need to get your hair done, and Wavonne and I will help you with your makeup.”

“Whatever, Momma. We're late.”

Hopeful that her only daughter may not be an old maid after all, Momma steps out of our way and let's Wavonne and me pass. We walk out to the van and finally hit the road. Sunday traffic is light, so it doesn't take us too long to get to Christy's building.

Her apartment is in an older garden community of three-story buildings in Temple Hills. There are no elevators, so Wavonne and I walk up three flights of stairs to her unit on the top floor. When I knock on the door, there's no response, so Wavonne knocks a second time. A few moments later we hear some stumbling on the other side of the door and see the knob turn.

“Halia,” Christy says after opening the door. She appears groggy, like she's just gotten out of bed. There are even sleep lines from her pillow on her face. She clearly was not expecting us.

“I'm sorry. Did we wake you? Raynell said to come by this morning to get a check for the catering.”

She narrows her brow. “No. Raynell didn't say anything to me about it.”

“So you don't have our money?” Wavonne asks.

I turn to Wavonne. “
Our
money?”

“No, I'm afraid I don't. I'll see Raynell on Monday. I can get a check from her then and drop it by the restaurant.”

“Raynell's house isn't too far from here. Why don't Wavonne and I just drop by on our way to the restaurant?”

“Okay. I'll call her and let her know you're on your way. But I must warn you, she's not really a morning person, and I'm sure she's hurting from last night.”

“Thanks. I'm sorry we woke you.”

“It's okay. I have a lot to do today, and it's time to get moving.”

“Why don't you just let Christy bring you the check on Monday?” Wavonne asks after Christy closes her door. “You really wanna wake up the dragon lady so early on a Sunday? She might breathe fire at us.”

“I've been in this business for a long time, Wavonne. And if I've learned nothing else, it's that people have a short memory where owed-money is concerned. First it's ‘I'll pay you on Monday.' Then it's ‘I have appointments all week. Can I pay you on Friday?' Then they stop answering the phone when you call altogether. For all we know, Raynell has dipped into the reunion fund to cover a new pair of shoes or one of her fancy designer outfits you're so infatuated with.”

“Fine, but you know Medusa's gonna be in a mood.”

We get in the van and buckle up. Before I start the ignition and back out of the parking space, I say to Wavonne, “She can be mad as a wet hen for all I care as long as she can sign her name on a check made out to Mahalia's Sweet Tea.”

CHAPTER 20

“T
his is where Raynell lives?” Wavonne asks as we pull up in front of her house, and I park on the street. “Fancy!”

“It is quite nice, isn't it?”

We step out of the van and walk up the driveway.

“How much you think this house is worth? A million bucks?”

“I have no idea, Wavonne.”

When we reach the front door, I press the bell and hear it chime on the other side. We wait a few moments. When there is no response, we press the button again. We linger a tad longer, and when there is still no answer, I start to get a little suspicious. First Raynell tells me to pick up a nonexistent check from Christy, and then she conveniently doesn't answer the door when I come by to get it from her directly.

While we stand outside waiting for someone to answer the door, I notice that the window next to the door is open . . . actually all the windows along the front of the house are open.

“Raynell?” I call through the open window closest to us. “It's Halia. I'm here to settle the bill for the catering.”

“Want me to pull up Rihanna's ‘Bitch Better Have My Money' on my phone and blast it at full volume? That should get her moving.”

“I don't think we're quite to that point yet, Wavonne, but I'll let you know.”

“Have it your way.” Wavonne steps away and peeks into the garage. “Her Escalade's in there.”

I look through the window next to the door and see Raynell's gold Michael Kors keychain on a console in the foyer. “I see her keys on the table. Her car's here . . . and she wouldn't leave the house without her keys. I think she's just ignoring us.”

“Maybe she really did dip her greedy hooves into the reunion fund. I bet that's why she ain't answerin' the door. She don't have your money.”

I knock forcefully on the door rather than hitting the bell for a third time. “Raynell!” I yell through the window again. When my voice is, once again, met with silence, I instinctively try the doorknob and find it unlocked. I give it a full turn and open the door just enough to poke my head in.

“Raynell, it's Halia and Wavonne. Christy said she'd call you to let you know to expect us.” I open the door wider. “I see your keys on the table. You must be here.”

I hate to think the worst about people, but I'm now convinced that Raynell is indeed trying to put one over on me, and get out of paying the bill for my catering services. She was a conniving little monster in high school, and clearly she's no different today.

“All right . . . enough.” I throw the door open and step inside. “Raynell!” I call up the steps. “We know you're here. I need to collect payment for services rendered.”

“Yeah! Fool!” Wavonne says.

“Shut up, Wavonne,” I say as we stand in the foyer waiting for Raynell to show herself.

“If she's not comin' down, then we're goin' up,” Wavonne says. “If we happen upon her closet and stop to check out some of her clothes, then so be it.”

“You stay out of her closet,” I command, and follow Wavonne up the steps. “Raynell!” I call again, and begin to wonder if maybe she isn't hiding from us . . . maybe she isn't well from all her drinking last night and is still passed out.

“Yo! Raynell! Show your tired ass.”

“Wavonne!”

“What?”

“Take it down a notch. You're not helping,” I scold. “Let's look down there.”

We walk down a long hall past a large bathroom and what appear to be a few guest rooms. When we reach the doorway at the end of the hall, we see what is obviously the master bedroom. It's a cavernous space with a long row of picture windows that frame a seating area in front of a fire place. A large flat-screen TV hangs on the wall across from a king-size canopy bed.

I look at the disheveled linens on the bed. “Where is she?”

“I don't know, but I bet that's the closet.” Wavonne points to a pair of double doors on the other side of the bed. Her eyes are fixed straight ahead like a fox at the entrance to a hen house.

“I think I'd better call Christy, and see if she reached Raynell earlier.” I pull out my phone as Wavonne creeps toward the closet. “You stay out of there,” I say, but before I have a chance to make my call, Wavonne has already opened the doors to the Holy Land.

“This must be what heaven's like,” I hear Wavonne say as she steps inside the closet.

Curiosity gets the best of me, and I can't help but follow behind her into the expansive space, which is literally bigger than my living room. More clothes than any one person should own hang from two sets of rods on both sides of us—one close to the ceiling and one about midway down the wall. In front of us is a complex shelving system adorned with a selection of shoes that could easily rival the footwear department at Macy's. There's even a ladder that runs along a track surrounding the entire room to reach the purses displayed on the highest shelves. In the middle of the room is a large dresser with cabinets and drawers on both sides.

“Leave it alone,” I call to Wavonne as she looks at the dresser.

I watch as she slowly walks alongside the clothes, looking closely at certain pieces and trying to read the labels if there's enough space between garments to see them. I wonder if she's aware that her mouth is hanging open. I'm not a fashionista by any means, but even I'm awestruck by the sheer volume of meticulously organized high-priced clothing. I hate to admit it, but for a moment, I think we both forget that we were even looking for Raynell.

“I bet there's a few hundred thousand bucks worth of clothes and shoes in here.” Wavonne approaches the dozens of shoes stored along the back wall. “Prada, Louboutin, Fendi, Valentino,” she calls out as she peruses the designer footwear. “Oh my God, Halia! I saw these Manolos on the Neiman Marcus Web site for more than two thousand dollars!”

“Okay, Wavonne. I think we've had enough. I'm not sure where Raynell is, but we don't have any business poking around her closet. Come on.”

I start to walk out of the closet, and Wavonne reluctantly follows. “So now what?”

“I guess we go. I'll give Christy a call on the way to Sweet Tea and set up a time to get the check, assuming they're still some funds in the reunion committee's account.”

We're about to make our way out of the bedroom when Wavonne spies another door on the other side of the room. “You think that's Terrence's closet?” she asks as she steps toward the door.

“I don't know. It doesn't matter. No more closet snooping, Wavonne. Let's go,” I say, but Wavonne, being Wavonne, grasps the doorknob anyway.

“Oh hail no!” I hear her shriek when she opens the door.

“What?” I scurry in her direction and look over her shoulder while she stands frozen in place. The door doesn't lead to Terrence's closet. It leads to the bathroom—there's a long deep tub, a pristine glass-enclosed shower, two gleaming white pedestal sinks presiding over a polished marble tile floor—a polished marble tile floor that would be lovely . . . just lovely, if it wasn't for the fact that Raynell is laying facedown on it with a pool of blood around her head.