Murder with Macaroni and Cheese (19 page)

CHAPTER 35

“S
o, what have you got for me?” I ask Momma after I walk into the kitchen at Sweet Tea. Yesterday, I asked her if she'd whip up something special for me to take to Terrence. I wanted something especially yummy—something so good he'll be distracted by the taste and let his guard down while I discreetly pump him for information.

I've talked at length with Alvetta, Michael, Gregory, and Kimberly—Terrence is really the only one on my suspect list who I haven't had a real conversation with. Given Alvetta's insistence that he wouldn't have been bothered by Raynell's affair with Gregory and had no interest in a divorce, maybe it's unlikely that he's to blame for Raynell's death. But if he doesn't offer any information to incriminate himself, maybe he can provide some new leads.

Momma turns to the counter and lifts the top from a cake caddie to reveal a decadent yellow cake with a sugar glaze trickling down the sides and thinly sliced candied lemon slices on top. “Ta da. My brown-butter lemon pound cake.”

“Aunt Celia, please tell me you made two of those? I need to have me some of that,” Wavonne calls. She was completely engrossed in whatever trashy magazine she was reading on the other side of the counter. But now that the lid is off Momma's creation, Wavonne is taking a break from the latest celebrity gossip to eye the pound cake.

“Stop looking at it that way, Wavonne,” I say. “There is only one, and it's for Terrence.”

“Why does Terrence get
my
cake?”

“Because I need an excuse to go over to his house. I figure dropping off some delicious baked goods is a nice gesture while he's mourning the loss of his wife.”

“Halia, I wish you wouldn't get involved. If that Rollins girl died as the result of foul play, let the police deal with it,” Momma says. “Besides, you should be spending time with that nice Gregory fellow. Why don't you take him a cake?”

“Seriously, Momma? I told you about his antics with Raynell. And he's not off my suspect list just yet. You really want me dating a possible murderer?”

“I don't think that nice boy killed anyone. And if he did kill that Rollins girl it's only because she made him mad. Just don't make him mad, Halia, and he won't kill you . . . and I'll get my grandbabies.”

I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Just give me the cake, Momma.”

Momma snaps the lid back on the caddie and hands it to me.

“I should be back before we open.”

As I start to walk out of the kitchen, I hear the hurried clicking of heels on the tile floor behind me. If I didn't know better I'd think the sound was coming from Wavonne, who hasn't changed into her work shoes yet. But “hurried” and Wavonne don't exactly intermingle. I'm through to the dining room and almost at the front door when I turnaround to find it is, indeed, Wavonne tailing me. Apparently, I
don't
know better.

“I'm comin' with you,” she says. “If you won't let me have some of that cake, maybe Terrence will.”

“Wavonne, I need you to stay here and wait on customers.”

“You said you'd be back before we open.”

I sigh. She's got me there. “I guess I did. Do you promise you'll behave yourself and not go anywhere near Raynell's closet?”

“Promise.”

“Fine. But let me do the talking.”

* * *

When we arrive at the Rollins residence Terrence is outside watering some shrubs with a hose. He waves to us as I park the van on the street in front of the house. I phoned him this morning before I left the house, so he's expecting us.

“Hello,” I call to him as Wavonne and I get out of the van, cake in hand.

“Hello, ladies,” he says as we approach him. “What do you have there?”

“My mother makes all the desserts at Sweet Tea, and I asked her to bake a little something special for you. It's not much, but I enjoyed reconnecting with Raynell, and Wavonne and I just wanted to stop by and pay our respects since we couldn't make the funeral.”

“Thank you. That's very nice.”

Terrence accepts the cake from me with a perplexed look on his face, as if he's surprised anyone would enjoy reconnecting with Raynell. “Please, come in for a few minutes. I'm about done out here. It's been so dry this summer. The gardener isn't due until Friday, so I wanted to give the bushes a little water.”

Terrence leads us into the house and down the hall to the kitchen where he sets the cake on the counter. “Please have a seat.” He points toward the kitchen table. “What can I get you to drink? I still have some coffee on if you'd like a cup.”

“Yes. That would be nice.”

Terrence grabs a few mugs from one of the cabinets, fills them with coffee, and brings them over to the table with a small carton of half-and-half. “There's some sugar right there.” He points to a ceramic bowl on the table.

“You know what would go really well with the coffee?” Wavonne says. “Some of my Aunt Celia's lemon pound cake.”

“Wavonne, the cake is for Terrence. He may want to save it for later.”

“No, no. Let's cut it up.” Terrence walks back to the counter and pulls a knife from a wooden block. “Wow,” he says when he lifts the lid. “It looks so good. I hate to slice into it.”

“Then let me do it.” Wavonne gets up from her chair and takes the knife from Terrence. “You get us some plates.”

Terrence does as he's instructed, and moments later the three of us are seated at the table about to get fat and happy on coffee and pound cake.

Terrence takes a bite. “This is some good cake.”

“Yes. Momma is the Queen of Desserts.” I help myself to a forkful as well. “So, how are you holding up, Terrence?”

“I'm hanging in there. There's been so much to do since Raynell passed. Keeping busy has helped me cope. I'll start back to work on Monday. I think that will be good for me.”

“You must really be going through a lot.”

“I guess so, but I'm not sure it's registered that Raynell's really gone. It's so quiet around here without her shouting orders all day,” he says with a laugh.

“Girlfriend did like to tell people what to do,” Wavonne says.

“That she did,” Terrence agrees. “She knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to ask for it . . .
demand
it. Actually, I kind of liked that about her. She wasn't always the most pleasant person, but, let me tell you, life with Raynell Rollins was never boring.”

“I'm sure of that.” I shift around in my chair. “Can I ask you something, Terrence?”

“Sure.”

“There's been some talk . . . some talk that maybe Raynell's death was not an accident. I guess I'm just wondering what you think about that.”

“I think that's just gossip. I've talked with the police and, though we're waiting on the autopsy results, they are all but certain it was an accident. There was no sign of anyone breaking into the house, nothing was missing, and there was nothing to indicate that she struggled with anyone. Raynell liked her cocktails, and sometimes she indulged a bit too much . . .
way
too much. I've seen her unsteady on her feet before from too much vodka. It's not that surprising that she lost her footing and fell hard. I just wish I had been here when it happened. I could have gotten her help.”

His eyes start to tear up, and I can tell he's trying to keep his composure and prevent some full-fledged waterworks from starting. “If I had been here instead of at that stupid conference, I could have helped her . . . if she didn't die immediately from the fall, I could have gotten help, and she might still be here.” He takes a long breath and lifts a napkin to his eye to catch a stray tear. “I know she could be difficult, but I don't think she ever did anything so bad that someone would want to kill her. And Raynell had another side that most people didn't see—she raised huge amounts of money for her foundation. She really did care about helping those kids. She was always sending money to her family in Roanoke . . . she even foot the bill for some crazy expensive surgery her ‘what do I need health insurance for?' brother required. There was a lot to like about Raynell—she was full of energy, smart as a whip, and she knew how to make things happen. Honestly, I'm going to be a bit lost without her.”

He may be gay, and there may not have been a romantic connection between them, but I can tell from the tone in his voice that he did have a certain fondness for Raynell, which makes me think it's highly unlikely that he killed her. In fact, I'm beginning to wonder if she was killed at all. Maybe she really did just slip in the bathroom and hit her head on the side of the tub.

“You'll be okay.” I reach for his hand on the table and place mine over it. “In time, you'll be okay.”

He smiles at me, and the three of us sit quietly until Wavonne breaks the silence. “Who's up for some more cake?”

“None for me,” I say.

“Me either,” Terrence adds.

“Guess it's just me then.” Wavonne gets up from the table and starts to cut herself another slice.

“Can you take that to go, Wavonne? We really need to get back to Sweet Tea.” I get up from the table.

“There's some foil and Cling Wrap in the drawer right in front of you,” Terrence says.

As Wavonne shamelessly packs up a piece of cake for herself, I'm just about to let my little amateur investigation of Raynell's death go when I look past Wavonne into the family room that adjoins the kitchen. My eyes catch sight of the painting of Sarah Vaughan that I noticed when I was here to pick up the antique desk more than a week ago.

“That painting . . . the one of Sarah Vaughan. Raynell told me a little about it when I was here before the reunion. It's such a lovely piece. Do you mind if I take another look at it?”

“Of course not. Raynell sure was disappointed to find out it's not a real Keckley, but I think she took a bit of liking to it anyway. I can't say I was terribly fond of it, though. I wish she would have donated it to the silent auction at her reunion.”

Something looked slightly off about the painting from the kitchen, and, as I get closer to it, the image appears faintly different from how I remembered it. The colors somehow seem richer . . . or more vibrant than I remember. It doesn't have the same worn look it did the last time I was here.

“Wavonne? Are you about ready with the cake?” I call to the kitchen.

“Yep,” Wavonne says, and appears in the family room.

“Good. We need to let Terrence get back to his day.”

“It was nice of you to stop by. I've been getting a lot of visitors. I'm sure there will be more, and they'll love the cake.”

“What's left of it,” I say, my eyes shifting toward Wavonne and her doggie bag before I look back at Terrence and lean in and give him a hug. “If there's anything we can do, please let us know.”

Terrence hugs Wavonne as well, and as we start toward the door, I immediately reopen the investigation I was about to close. I could be wrong, but I'm pretty certain the painting I saw of Sarah Vaughan the day of the reunion is not the same one leaning against the wall in Terrence's family room now. What if the one I saw earlier really was an original Keckley? Could someone who knew it was an original have switched it out with a reproduction?

I stop and think before I open the van door and get inside.
Who would know enough about art to determine the authenticity of the painting and have the skill to make an imitation?

Only one person comes to mind: Kimberly Butler.

CHAPTER 36

“I
don't think it was the same painting. I think someone switched it out,” I vent to Wavonne as we head to the restaurant in my van.

“What painting?”

“The one in the family room. The one I was asking Terrence about . . . of Sarah Vaughan.”

“Who?”

“Sarah Vaughan. She was a jazz singer long before your time. Apparently there was an artist . . . what was his name?” I think for a moment. “Keckley. Arthur Keckley. He painted portraits of famous singers who performed at the Lincoln Theater on U Street back in its heyday. Raynell said she thought the painting might be one of his creations. She bought it from a real estate client. Supposedly, if it's genuine, it's worth thousands of dollars . . . maybe hundreds of thousands.”

“Get out!?”

“But Raynell said she had the painting assessed, and the art appraiser told her it wasn't a genuine Keckley.”

“So if it ain't real, then why would someone swap it out?”

“I don't know. Maybe it
is
real, and Raynell's appraiser was wrong. Maybe Raynell told Kimberly just enough about the painting at the reunion to pique Kimberly's interest.”

“You think Kimberly may've killed Raynell? Over a painting?”

“Maybe I do.” My mind starts running through some scenarios. “Perhaps Raynell was actually awake when Kimberly came by after the reunion. What if she showed Kimberly the painting, Kimberly figured out it was the real deal, decided to knock off Raynell, and nab the painting for herself? She would have had just enough time to make a sloppy reproduction and bring it back the next day. Perhaps her whole story about coming back to switch out the shampoo bottle the day after Raynell was killed was just a ruse. Maybe she was really there to replace the legitimate painting with her imitation.”

“Terrence didn't seem to think the painting looked any different.”

“Weren't you the one who said earlier that men don't notice anything unless it involves a basketball or a pair of titties?”

“A
football
or a pair of titties, but same difference. And knowin' what we now know about Terrence, I guess the ‘pair of titties' don't apply no more.”

“Either way, Terrence probably never paid enough attention to the painting to notice, and he even said he didn't particularly care for it. If I hadn't found it so striking when I first saw it, I probably wouldn't have noticed it was different, either.”

“You
sure
it's not the same painting you saw the first time you were there?”

“Yes . . . well . . . I think so. It really did have a different . . . a different
look
. . . I think.”

“I don't know, Halia. You're not soundin' so sure anymore.”

“Now you've got me questioning whether it really did look different.” I'm frustrated with my lack of certainty. “I need to see the painting again and give it a closer look.”

“So we gonna turn around and go back to Terrence's house?”

“Possibly.” I hand Wavonne my phone. “Look up Terrence in my contacts, would you?”

Wavonne does as I ask and hands the phone to me. “He said he wasn't a fan of the painting, so maybe he'd be willing to sell it to me.”

“You want to buy it?”

“I'm not against the idea, but if I pretend I want to buy it, it gives me an excuse to take a second look at it and really give it a good once over.”

I hit the call button on my phone and wait for Terrence to pick up.

“Hello.”

“Terrence. It's Halia. I'm sorry to bother you. I know we just left a few minutes ago, but we're on the way back to the restaurant, and I got to thinking about that painting of Sarah Vaughan in your family room.”

“Really?”

“You mentioned you didn't exactly love it. And . . . well . . . I actually do like it. I thought maybe I could take the painting off your hands . . . for a fair price of course.”

“Um . . . I guess . . . maybe.”

“Can we set up a time for me to take a second look at it, and then we can talk about payment? Or Wavonne and I could come back now.”

“I have to leave for a meeting shortly, so now is not good. Maybe we can set it up another time,” he says. “And as far as payment goes, I really have no idea what the painting is worth. I know Raynell had hoped it was some long lost painting from the Lincoln Theater or something. It turned out not to be, but I guess it's still worth a few hundred bucks or so . . . maybe more.”

“Yes. Raynell did mention to me that she had it appraised.” Suddenly, I have an idea. It's almost impossible for me to be one hundred percent sure the painting was replaced with an imitation. But if anyone could conclude if the painting I saw today is different from the one I saw almost two weeks ago, it would be the appraiser. “Why don't we ask the appraiser to take a second look and find out what he or she thinks it's worth?”

“I guess we could do that. I'd need to check with Christy. She set that up for Raynell.”

“I've got Christy's number. Why don't I give her a call?”

“Sure. She'll be over here later this afternoon sorting through some of Raynell's things for me.”

“Okay. I'll be in touch. Thanks, Terrence.”

I hang up with Terrence and hand my phone to Wavonne, so she can pull up Christy's info while I'm driving. As Wavonne pecks on my phone with a lone red fingernail, I begin to draft plans in my head for the next day or two. I'll need to make arrangements with Christy to get the appraiser to take another look at the portrait. If he confirms it's not the same piece of artwork he examined for Raynell, then I need to figure out how to prove that Kimberly is the guilty party—that she killed Raynell . . . and not over some petty high school vendetta, but for the reason people have been killing each other for centuries—greed!

 

 

1⅓ cups water
1⅓ cups half-and-half
1 garlic clove, minced
2 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon black pepper
⅔ cup quick-cooking grits
½ cup mixed Mexican shredded cheese (Monterey Jack,
Cheddar, Queso Quesadilla, and Asadero)
3 eggs lightly beaten

 

 

½ pound mild ground pork sausage
1 cup mixed Mexican shredded cheese
4½ tablespoons all purpose flour
7 eggs
1½ cups sour cream
1½ cups whole milk
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon black pepper
teaspoon ground Cayenne/red pepper
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
1 tablespoon chopped fresh sage

Eight Servings