Murder with Macaroni and Cheese (14 page)

CHAPTER 27

I
have got to stop letting it bother me,
I think to myself as I look up from some invoices I'm reviewing at the bar and see yet another customer eating my food while looking at his phone. He's by himself, shoveling my chicken croquettes in his mouth with a fork via one hand and using his other hand to scroll and intermittently type. Occasionally he grins or even chuckles as if something on the screen is amusing him.

I see this behavior all the time, and I have to fight the urge to walk over and ask him why he doesn't just down a protein shake or stop into Wendy's for some rubber chicken on a bun if he's not going to pay any attention to what he's eating anyway. Yes, I know, I make money whether customers consciously eat my food or not, but my team and I put so much thought and work into every dish that comes out of the Sweet Tea kitchen that it just pains me to see people eating our food as if it were no better than a bowl of oatmeal.

I learned many of the recipes we use at Sweet Tea through years of helping my grandmother prepare Sunday dinners, and some of them were tweaked and refined over generations. Grandmommy developed the recipe for those chicken croquettes my customer is currently shoving in his mouth with no appreciation for the perfectly crisp coating that Grandmommy initially made with bread crumbs, but later crafted with corn flake crumbs to improve the taste and texture. I further updated the recipe with panko breadcrumbs (I
LOVE
panko breadcrumbs) to give them the ultimate crispness. I've tried using a full egg yolk and egg white wash as well as an egg white wash alone to see which one holds the coating better. The chicken stock we use in the recipe is made in house here at Sweet Tea. We chop fresh parsley and add a touch of lemon juice from freshly squeezed lemons to the chicken mix before we skillfully shape them into a traditional cone shape, affording not only a taste that's out of this world but visual appeal as well. Before bringing them to the table we top them with a piping-hot stewed potato gravy, fresh black pepper, and a sprinkle of paprika. All of this!—And, for the attention this young man is paying to them, I might as well have thrown a few Chicken McNuggets on a plate and slapped them down in front of him.

Truth be told, that's not the only one reason smartphones get under my skin. Of course, they've become a necessity of everyday life, and even I admit I can't imagine life without mine. But, let me tell you, they have been one of the worst things to hit the restaurant industry in decades. It has never been my desire to run a “turn and burn” establishment—I sincerely want my customers to have a relaxed outing where they enjoy my food and each other's company without feeling rushed, but smartphones have redefined what constitutes a “relaxed” evening. In the days before iPhones and Androids we would seat customers, they would order shortly after, enjoy some conversation and their courses . . . and then skedaddle, allowing us to seat new customers.

Now, after customers are seated, they might spend several minutes on their phone before even opening the menu, then take photos of themselves and their companions, and of course take photos of their food, which they then take the time to post to Facebook and Instagram. And when they're finished eating, these days, patrons tend to linger for inappropriate amounts of time just surfing on their phones, taking up valuable restaurant real estate, and costing me money. Over the years, we've learned to manage these customers and, if they linger for an extra lengthy spell following payment of their check, we'll generally approach the table and ask if there is anything else we can get for them. Fortunately, they typically take the polite hint and head on their way.

I remind myself once again to not let the man on his phone bother me. I'm about to return my attention to the invoices when I see Kimberly speaking with Saundra at the hostess stand. When we chatted on Sunday I asked if she would consider swinging by Sweet Tea to discuss commissioning some artwork for the restaurant. I only occasionally change up the artwork I have displayed in Sweet Tea as I'd never part with the family picnic mural I had painted along one wall when we first opened, and I've gotten attached to the old photos of church ladies preparing Sunday buffets we have hanging throughout the space. But I do switch out a piece or two here and there, and interest in her art was as good an excuse as any to meet with Kimberly and pump her for information.

I hop off the stool and walk over to greet her.

“Kimberly. So good to see you again.”

“Yes. You too. I'm glad to have a chance to finally check out your restaurant. I don't come back to the area very often, so I've never had the opportunity before.”

I wait to see if she's going to mention anything about Raynell's death. When she doesn't, I decide not to broach the subject just yet. “Well, I hope Sweet Tea doesn't pale in comparison to those fabulous New York restaurants you must be used to.”

Kimberly smiles. “I'm sure it won't. My parents are still close by . . . in the same house I grew up in, in Clinton. They dine here often and love it. I'm staying with them while I'm in town. If I go back there without some of your fried chicken, I'll have hell to pay.”

“We can't let that happen. I'll wrap some for you to take,” I offer. “So, why don't I show you around a bit and let you know what I'm thinking in terms of artwork for the restaurant, and then we'll have lunch?”

“Sure.”

“I looked at your Web site—your paintings are stunning. It's no wonder you've made such a name for yourself. I see you have a showing at a gallery in Greenwich Village next month.” We step toward the back of the restaurant. “Over here”—I point to the wall behind the bar—“is my collection of antique photos and paintings. As you can see they're mostly of women preparing meals, family gatherings, church picnics . . .” I lead her farther toward the back of the restaurant. “And there's more along the back wall. That's my grandmother.” I point to a large black-and-white photo of Grandmommy pouring waffle batter onto an iron. I had it enlarged when I opened the restaurant and made it the focal point of the rear wall. “Mrs. Mahalia Hix. I was named after her. People think Mahalia's Sweet Tea is named for me, but it's really in honor of her—such a special lady. I adore her smile in the picture. She loved preparing Sunday dinners, and her joy really shows in the photo.”

“It really is charming,” Kimberly says.

“I was wondering if you might be willing to create a painting from it.” I had planned to ask her to create something original that we could add to the collection on the wall, but as I was looking at the painting of Grandmommy, the idea of a painting based on my favorite photograph of her came to mind. And it's something I might actually be interested in purchasing from Kimberly—maybe I didn't bring her here under false pretenses after all.

“Really? Hmm,” Kimberly says. “That's not something I really do. I've never tried to create a painting from a photo before.”

I'm about to respond that I understand, but she speaks again before I'm able to.

“But for you, a former classmate, and one of the nice ones, I'd give it a shot.”

“That would be great. I can get you a copy of the photo to take back to New York. However long you need is fine.”

“Yes, please send me a copy, but I'll just snap a photo of it with my phone for now,” Kimberly says. “I have a few other projects I need to wrap up, but I could probably complete it in a few weeks.”

“That would be great. So, what are you thinking in terms of price?”

Kimberly thinks for a moment, which makes me nervous. I saw on her Web site that some of her paintings have gone for tens of thousands of dollars.

“For you, I'll do it for a thousand dollars . . . oh, and that takeout fried chicken you promised for my parents.”

“I think you've got yourself a deal.” This is way more than I'd generally pay for artwork, but I'm genuinely excited about the idea of a custom painting of Grandmommy. “Why don't you have a seat?” I gesture toward the table next to us. “I'll get you a glass of the lemon blueberry iced tea we're serving today, and you can look over the menu and decide what you'd like for lunch. We have some chicken croquettes on special today.”

A few minutes later I return with two glasses, a pitcher of iced tea dotted with blueberries and lemon slices, and a menu.

I offer the menu to Kimberly and fill the glasses.

“You know, I don't think I need to look at the menu. I haven't had chicken croquettes since I was a girl. I'll go with those.”

“Good choice.” I wave for Wavonne to come over to the table, and we watch her leisurely approach. “Sorry. Wavonne has three speeds: slow, slow, and slow. Unless there's only one pair of discount heels left on the shelf at DSW—then all of a sudden, she's Flo-Jo.”

Kimberly laughs. “Aren't we all Flo-Jo when a discount pair of heels is at stake?”

“What are you two ol' hens cluckin' about?” Wavonne asks.

“Nothing. Just discussing shoes.”

“Shoes? My favorite topic.”

“It's good to see you again, Wavonne,” Kimberly says.

“Yeah. You too,” Wavonne replies, and turns toward me. “She tell you why Jack found her all loopy doopy in a parking lot by Raynell's house Saturday night?”

“Wavonne!” I say.

“Yeah. I figured you hadn't gotten to that point yet.” Wavonne plops herself down next to Kimberly. “I personally wouldn't blame you if you did the bitch in. She had it comin'. Sista mess with
my
tresses and leave
me
bald, I'd take her down, too.”

“What is she talking about?” Kimberly asks me.

“What she's talking about in her complete lack-of-tact way”—I glare at Wavonne before turning my attention back to Kimberly—“is that a local police officer happened to stop in for lunch yesterday when I had your business card out on the table. He recognized your photo and said he had an incident with you at the Herald Shopping Center in Fort Washington. He said he found you in your car in a peculiar state very late Saturday night . . . Sunday morning, really. I guess Wavonne and I just thought it was . . . well . . .” I'm trying to find a less offensive word than “suspicious” to use here. “
Curious
that you were found sleeping in your car so close to Raynell's house the night she died.”

Kimberly's mouth drops. “Are you guys accusing me of something?” she asks. “Did you really ask me here to discuss a painting or to talk about Raynell's death?”

“Maybe a little of both, Kimberly.” I reach for the pitcher on the table. “More tea?” I ask—a little gesture of goodwill before I begin pummeling her with questions.

CHAPTER 28

K
imberly quickly goes on the defense. “For your information, the Herald Shopping Center is on the way from the hotel to my parents' house. I didn't think I had drunk
that
much at the reunion, but once I got on Indian Head Highway, I really started to feel the liquor from earlier in the evening affect me. I didn't feel drunk as much as I just got a really bad . . .
terrible
headache. I didn't think I should be driving, so I pulled off the road to let it pass.”

“I'm sorry, Kimberly. I didn't mean to upset you.”

“Well, I hope I've explained myself. I only stopped at the shopping center because I was in no condition to drive. I've never gotten a headache like that from alcohol before—it was really intense.” She starts to get up from the table. “I think I will pass on lunch. I don't have much of an appetite anymore.”

“So, you explained why you were asleep in your car late Saturday night,” Wavonne says just before Kimberly walks off. “Care to explain what you were doin' traipsin' around Raynell's house Sunday afternoon?”

Kimberly's eyes dart from Wavonne to me and then back to Wavonne.

“Yeah. We know
all
the good stuff,” Wavonne says.

“How do you know that? That I was at Raynell's?”

“Does it really matter?” I ask before Wavonne has a chance to speak. “And come to think of it, when you came in, you said you were staying at your parents' house in Clinton. The reunion was in Greenbelt, Kimberly. Fort Washington is in no way on the way from Greenbelt to Clinton.”

Kimberly gives me a long stare. “Okay. So I was at Raynell's yesterday . . . and, fine, Saturday night, too. But I swear I have no idea how Raynell died. I had nothing to do with whatever caused her death. All I wanted was a little payback.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what a wicked demon she was to me in high school. I was bald for most of junior year thanks to her. I still have post-traumatic stress from the
Nair incident
—I've spent thousands on therapy to get over my days of being bullied, and that hussy was so callous she didn't even remember what she did to me when we reconnected at the reunion. And on top of it, she wanted a favor from me. A
favor?
Are you freakin' kidding me?!” Kimberly takes a moment to collect herself and sits back down at the table. “I'm not sure I'd throw her a life raft if she was drowning, and she had the nerve to ask me to appraise a painting for her—so ridiculous! But at least her request gave me an excuse to show up at her house.”

“Which you did? On Saturday night?”

Kimberly nods. “I wasn't crazy drunk by the time I left the reunion, but I had had a few drinks, or at least enough to get up enough gumption to even the score with Raynell. With a nice buzz from the liquor, I left the hotel, stopped by an all-night drugstore, and picked up a bottle of Nair. I had planned to go to Raynell's under the pretense of evaluating her painting, sneak into her bathroom, and put the hair removal cream in her shampoo bottle just like she had done to me.”

“Ooh,” Wavonne says. “I should be writin' this down, so I can sell it to BET.”

“You were going to show up at Raynell's in the middle of the night to look at a painting? That wouldn't seem a little odd?”

“Yes, it would seem a little . . .
very
odd for me to come to her house at midnight to appraise some artwork, but I was tipsy and just seeing that awful woman got me going. I wasn't thinking straight. I figured I could tell her I had a change of plans and was leaving town early the next day. If she wanted me to look at the portrait, it would have to be then. I was afraid I'd lose my nerve if I waited any longer. When I got there, she didn't answer the door, but it was unlocked, so I snuck in and found her passed out on her bed. I simply tiptoed past her to the master bath, switched out the contents of her shampoo bottle, and left. I swear!

“I thought I was starting to sober up by the time I got to Raynell's, but on the way back to my parents' house, the drinking really caught up with me. My head hurt, and I felt more woozy and light-headed than liquor has ever made me feel before. But, somehow, I had the sense to get off the road and sleep off the booze before going back to my parents'. I still had a terrible headache when the police officer found me, but I blew a clean breathalyzer, so he let me drive home. Honestly, I still have a lingering headache, and it's been two days. I don't know what they put in the drinks at the reunion, but it was strong.”

“So, why did you go back on Sunday?”

“Because, once my head cleared, I felt silly and juvenile about the whole thing, and, honestly, I was a little afraid of what Raynell would do when she likely figured out it was me who switched out her shampoo. It's been more than two decades since high school, but I got the sense that Raynell was as nasty as ever, and who knows what she would have done when she connected me to her bald head. I didn't even know she was dead when I went back. I was just going to knock on the door, feign interest in her painting, and make an excuse to use her master bath. I had planned to just drop the shampoo bottle in my purse and be on my way before she had a chance to use it. Most sisters only wash our hair once or twice a week, so I figure there was a good chance she hadn't used it.”

“So, when you went back to her house on Sunday, you didn't know she was dead?”

“No. I heard about it yesterday evening when the news starting showing up on Facebook. Nothing seemed out of order when I was there until I heard someone downstairs . . .” Kimberly pauses for a moment. “Wait. It was you . . . it was the two of you who were downstairs when I was there . . . and the two of you who drove off in Raynell's Escalade.”

“Don't be silly.” I try to feign innocence, but I can feel the guilt showing in my face, and the quick looks Wavonne and I exchange erase any doubt that we were the culprits.

“How else would you have known I was there?”

“Fine,” I admit. “I'm not convinced Raynell's death was an accident, and we were there Sunday looking for clues as to who might have killed her.”

“Do you really think she was killed? So far everything I've heard indicates she fell.”

“I don't know what to think. Believe me, you are not the only one who wanted revenge on Raynell. The woman racked up enemies faster than frequent-flier miles.”

“Well, I assure you I had nothing to do with her death.” Kimberly looks up and off to the right as if something just occurred to her. “But you know who might?”

“Who?”

“Gregory. Gregory Simms. Saturday night, just after I got back in my car, after switching out Raynell's shampoo with Nair, I saw a car pull up in front of her house.”

“Gregory?” I'm hoping I misheard. Not only do I hate the idea of him possibly having something to do with Raynell's death, but I don't want to stomach him having a late-night rendezvous with her after he spent the evening flirting with me.

“Yep. It was dark, but I recognized him. Brother is looking fine these days.”

“You got that right,” Wavonne says.

Kimberly's demeanor has softened now that she's explained her actions to us. Her tone is friendlier and much less defensive. “Before I drove off, I saw him get out of the car and walk toward the front door. I figure if he and Raynell had a thing going, it was none of my business. But maybe his intentions were more sinister than an affair with a married woman. Not sure what his motive to kill her would have been, though.”

“I guess he had as much motive as you did,” I say. “Raynell did him dirty in high school just like you. And, oddly, he recently connected with her to help him find potential Maryland locations for his restaurant, which doesn't really make much sense. There must be a few thousand real estate agents he could have sought help from. Why did he decide to partner with the one who used and abused him so many years ago?”

“What did she do to him?” Kimberly asks.

“It's a long story,” I say as Darius walks by with a tray holding two plates of our special for the day on his way to another table. I note Kimberly's eyes light up as she sees the chicken croquettes and takes in the faint scent they leave behind. “Has your appetite returned? Would you like to hear the Raynell/ Gregory story over some lunch?”

Kimberly smiles. “Now that you mention it.”

“And shouldn't you get back to work?” I ask Wavonne. “Go put in a croquette order for Kimberly, would you?”

“All right, all right,” Wavonne says, and gets up from the table.

Kimberly and I watch her leisurely meander toward one of the POS stations to put the order in, and I can tell we are both thinking the same thing:
slow, slow, and slow
.