Read Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) Online

Authors: A.L. Herbert

Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) (22 page)

BOOK: Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery)
2.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
“Yes. I’ve told you that already, Halia.”
“And I can confirm it,” Pamela interjects. “He was home by twelve forty-five. I remember it very clearly. I was sitting in bed watching TV. I was wearing my pink silk nightshirt. I had curlers in my hair. I can even tell you what Charles was wearing when he came in—khaki pants, a green polo shirt, and his brown loafers. He told me he had a very nice meal here . . . fried chicken and waffles and pineapple upside-down cake for dessert.”
Pamela’s lengthy description makes me uneasy. All that detail was certainly not necessary, and isn’t that what people do when they’re lying? Invent a bunch of detail?
“What was on when he came home?” I ask.
“On?”
“On TV. You said you were watching TV when he came in.” Surely if she remembered the color of her nightshirt and what Charles was wearing, she’d remember what she was watching when he came in the bedroom.
“Um,” she stumbles, likely realizing that whatever program she mentions should be regularly scheduled to run on Saturday nights at twelve forty-five. Granted, in a time of TiVo and DVRs, that might not be true, but the question seems to throw her. “I . . . I don’t remember offhand . . . maybe
The Tonight Show
. . . no, it was Saturday . . . you know, I’m really not sure. Why?”
“Just curious. The only time I have to watch television is late at night before bed. I was wondering if we liked any of the same shows.”
I’m sure she knows that was not my reason for asking the question as much as I do . . . and as much as Charles does for that matter. There’s a hint of tension between the three of us now as they both clearly know I’m trying to determine Charles’s whereabouts after he left the restaurant that unfortunate Saturday night. And the more I look at the two of them, the more it makes me think of Heather and Josh . . . and Mrs. Whitlock . . . and all the other people they have swindled out of their savings and homes. I really don’t care to be in their company anymore, and I figure the evening has been about as fruitful as it’s going to be in terms of me drawing out useful information. I know from Jacqueline that Charles had motive to kill Marcus, and it now seems that he might not have gone straight home after he left Marcus and Jacqueline at the restaurant. Either his wife has a very detailed memory when comes to everything
other
than what she watches on television, or she’s lying to cover for him.
“I’ll let you get to those desserts. You have my number, Charles. If you can get me Mrs. Whitlock’s contact information as soon as possible, I’d really appreciate it.” I get up from the table and look at them. I note the Rolex on Charles’s wrist and the David Yurman necklace nestled in Pamela’s cleavage—spoils obtained off the backs of people who trusted them with their money and their homes. “And thanks so much for agreeing to talk with me. Enjoy the cake.” I refrain from adding, “I hope you choke on it.”
RECIPE FROM HALIA’S KITCHEN
 
 
Celia’s Banana Pudding
 
Vanilla Wafer Cake Ingredients
 
½ cup softened butter
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
3 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 tablespoons honey
1
cups all-purpose flour
¾ teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
• Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease bottom and lower sides of a 13in x 9in x 2in glass pan.
• In large bowl, cream together butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, and honey using an electric mixer at medium speed.
• Mix flour, baking powder, and salt. Add to wet mixture.
• Stir until well combined.
• Spread into prepared pan.
• Bake for 20–25 minutes or until golden brown.
• Cool.
Pudding Ingredients
 
1 cup sugar
teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons cornstarch + 2 teaspoons
3½ cups milk
4 eggs (beaten)
1½ teaspoons vanilla extract
½ stick butter
4 medium bananas
• Mix sugar, salt, and cornstarch.
• Begin heating milk and eggs in a double boiler over medium high heat. Slowly add mix of dry ingredients. Whisk constantly while adding dry ingredients and until pudding thickens (about 7 minutes).
• Remove from heat and stir in vanilla and butter.
• Strain pudding through a fine mesh sieve/strainer.
• Let pudding cool to room temperature.
• Spread cooled pudding over vanilla wafer cake.
• Place a layer of sliced bananas on top of pudding.
Meringue Ingredients
 
5 egg whites
¼ teaspoon cream of tartar
3 tablespoons sugar
• Preheat oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit.
• Beat egg whites, cream of tartar, and sugar using an electric mixer at high speed until stiff peaks form.
• Spread over pudding.
• Bake for five minutes or until delicately browned.
• Cool final dish at room temperature for 30 minutes. Then chill in the refrigerator for 1 hour prior to serving.
Eight Servings
CHAPTER 40
 
“I
don’t know why I agreed to do this. We shouldn’t be getting involved in something like this, Halia.”
“It’s no big deal, Momma,” I respond. We’re on our way to Mrs. Whitlock’s house. I thought it might help if I brought Momma along. I don’t know much about this woman and have no idea if she’ll even let me in when I show up on her doorstep. I thought I might have a better chance of her opening up to me and telling me about her relationship with Marcus if Momma came along. If I can’t relate to her and get her talking, I’m hoping Momma can—one old lady to another.
“This is work for the police.”
“I told you the police already talked to Mrs. Whitlock and Jack . . . you know, Jack Spruce . . . he’s in the restaurant all the time . . . he said she was very guarded and didn’t give them any useful information. I simply offered to chat with her myself and see if she might be less anxious around someone who isn’t in a police uniform. I thought having you with me might make her feel more comfortable.”
Okay, so only some of what I said is true. Jack told me nothing about the police speaking with Mrs. Whitlock, and he has no idea I’m planning on meeting with her, but I needed to tell Momma something to get her on board. I certainly can’t tell her that Wavonne is a prime suspect in Marcus’s killing, and that I’m trying to figure out who the murderer really is before Wavonne ends up in jail. It would worry her to death.
“Why would I make her more comfortable? Because I’m old, too?”
“Pretty much.”
Momma glares at me.
“Oh, come on, Momma. I’m just kidding. But you do have old lady friends all over town. Don’t you drive a whole gaggle of them to church every Sunday? I just thought you might help keep the conversation going.”
My van smells of fried chicken as Momma and I pull into the driveway of Mrs. Whitlock’s house. It’s a typical Hyattsville home—a small one-story brick rambler probably built in the forties or fifties. The lawn is mowed, but you can tell it’s done by a cheap service rather than a caring home owner. The shrubs are a little overgrown and the areas up close to the house have not been edged.
I tried calling Mrs. Whitlock, but she didn’t answer the phone, and there was no machine or voice mail. When we get out of the car, I can see her looking at me and Momma through one of the front windows. I walk over to the other side of van, open the sliding side door, and grab a small tray of fried chicken, a container of coleslaw, and another of macaroni and cheese.
When we reach the door, I decide to knock rather than ring the doorbell. Somehow it seems less intrusive. She doesn’t come to the door, so I tap on it again.
“No thank you,” I hear her call from the other side of the door.
“Mrs. Whitlock. My name is Halia Watkins. I’m a friend of Marcus Rand’s. You know . . . from the Reverie Homes program?”
I hear her unbolt the door, and she opens it just enough for us to see her face. I’m not a tall woman, but even I tower over her. I don’t think she clears five feet. Her hair is a mix of black and gray, and the years show on her face. She stands slightly hunched over in a loose-fitting floral print dress.
“Hi, Mrs. Whitlock,” I say. “I was wondering if we could talk to you for a few minutes about Marcus and the Reverie Program.”
“I’ve already spoken to the police. I’ve told them everything I know about Mr. Rand.” She begins to shut the door.
“Wait . . . wait,” Momma says and takes the tray of fried chicken out of my hand. “My name is Celia Watkins. Halia here is my daughter. She owns Sweet Tea, the soul food restaurant at the King Town Center a few miles from here. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
Mrs. Whitlock doesn’t say anything, but she does look at the tray in Momma’s hand with curiosity.
Momma peels back the foil on the fried chicken to show it to Mrs. Whitlock and let some of the scent waft to her nose. “We brought a few goodies with us . . . some fried chicken and coleslaw . . . and macaroni and cheese.”
Mrs. Whitlock lifts her eyes from the chicken toward me and Momma, and then looks back at the food again. “What is it you want to know?”
“As you’ve heard, Mr. Rand met an untimely death over a week ago.” I try to think of what to add next. I don’t want to focus on Marcus’s murder and scare her into closing the door in my face. I’m stumbling for words when Momma pipes up.
“I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Whitlock. The last place anyone saw Mr. Rand was at my daughter’s restaurant, and they seem to suspect that my niece has something to do with his death. I assure you, she’s innocent. Halia here is doing a little investigating on her own, and we’re just wondering if you might have any information that could help us.”
I look at Momma, surprised that she knew what was going on all along. You can’t keep
anything
from that woman.
“What? You think I don’t know what goes on just because I’m getting on in years? Just like when you were a girl—you thought you could get one by me. I’ve got eyes in the back of my head and the hearing of a bat, Halia. And don’t you forget it.”
Mrs. Whitlock opens the door a bit wider as Momma reprimands me like I’m a child. I guess she figures a bickering mother and daughter can only be so dangerous. “What did you say your names were again?”
“Halia Watkins and this is my mother, Celia.”
“You own a restaurant, you say?”
“Yes. Sweet Tea.”
“I think I’ve heard of that. I don’t really eat out. I’m on a tight budget.”
“You’ll have to come as my guest sometime,” I say. “And you can sample some of my cooking right now.”
She eyes us for a moment longer, her head bent upward and twisted a bit to the left. Then she opens the door all the way and gestures for us to come in. We step past her, and she closes the door behind us.
“Please. Have a seat.”
Momma sets the food on the coffee table, and we sit down on a well-kept, but dated sofa and take in the surroundings. The inside of Mrs. Whitlock’s home is exactly as you would expect—it’s very “grandma’s house.” There’s old wallpaper on the walls, wood floors that could use refinishing, two high-back chairs across from the sofa, and a CRT television in the corner . . . you know, the ones Goodwill and the Salvation Army won’t take anymore as even poor people want flat screens.
We look at her family photos and bric-a-brac displayed on the table next to us as she makes her way to one of the chairs. She moves slowly, but without assistance from the walker I see by the window—she must only use that when she leaves the house.
She gradually lowers herself in a chair across from us.
“Thank you again for inviting us in.”
“You’re welcome. What is it you think I can help you with?”
“We wanted to talk to you about Marcus—”
Momma cuts me off. “No need to get into that just yet. Why don’t we have some of this lovely food?”
“Let me get some plates,” Mrs. Whitlock says.
“Why don’t you let me do that?” I ask, getting up from the sofa. I can see the kitchen to my right and head in that direction. “You just tell me where to look for plates and silverware.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” Momma says and follows me.
“Dishes are in the cabinet to the left of the sink, and the silverware is in the top drawer by the oven.”
“What were you thinking? Just diving in to asking her about Marcus? If you’re going to stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong and get us caught up in this mess, at least do it right,” Momma whispers to me as I reach for the plates, and she gets some knives and forks from the drawer.
My first instinct is to protest and defend myself. I guess because that’s what I’m so used to doing with Momma, but when I take a moment to think about it, I realize she’s right. The cops didn’t get any useful information from Mrs. Whitlock, and if we start questioning her immediately, we probably won’t, either.
“You’re right. We should—”
“What? What did you just say?”
“I said you’re right, Momma.”
“Well, write this day down in the record books, Saint Peter. Mahalia Watkins just told her momma she was right.”
“Right about what?” Mrs. Whitlock asks when we come in the living room. Momma was so flustered by my words she forgot to speak in a whisper.
“She was right about us digging into this food,” I say, set the plates on the coffee table, and lift the foil from the tray of fried chicken. “What can I get for you, Mrs. Whitlock? White or dark meat?”
“I think I’d like a breast.”
I lift a breast from the tray and spoon some coleslaw and macaroni and cheese on the plate and hand it to her.
“Thank you, dear,” she says. “I have a pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator, and some glasses are in the cabinet above the dishwasher.”
“I’ll be right back,” I say and return to the kitchen. By the time I get back in the living room with three glasses of ice and a pitcher of iced tea, Momma and Mrs. Whitlock are talking like old friends. I might have been wrong about questioning Mrs. Whitlock too soon, but I was right about bringing Momma along.
“Halia’s been cooking since she was a little girl,” Momma says as I pour three glasses of tea and fix a plate of food for myself.
“Is that right?”
“Yes. I used to help my grandmother prepare big Sunday dinners.”
“Sunday dinners after church,” Mrs. Whitlock says. “Now, there’s a tradition worth keeping. Families don’t stick together like they used to . . . or go to church like they used to. When I was a girl, church was a big deal. They didn’t let us into the fine restaurants back in the day, not that we could afford them if they did. So church was the only place for us to get all gussied up for. If you bought a new dress or a new hat, you just couldn’t wait for Sunday to roll around so you had somewhere to wear it. My mother loved hats. She had some the size of a large pizza. I still have some of them upstairs in the closet. I even pull out one or two of them and wear them to church myself every now and then.”
“Where do you go to church?” Momma asks.
“First Christian Methodist.”
“Is it close by?”
“No, but volunteers pick up old people like me and take us to service. They have volunteers for everything—they teach Sunday school, and clean the church . . . some even came to spruce up my house months ago. That’s how I met that Marcus fellow.”
“Really?”
“He came here . . . oh . . . almost a year ago with a group of other volunteers from the church. They did some cleanup in my yard . . . painted the trim . . . things like that. I invited the group in for some refreshments. That Marcus fellow, he was very chatty . . . seemed so nice. He even stayed after the others left and helped me wash dishes and put them away. I guess, at some point during the evening, I mentioned I had a lot of medical bills. You know, Medicare only covers so much. Well, then this Marcus fellow starts telling me about this program. . . this mortgage program. My house . . . you see, my house has been paid off for years. My husband, God rest his soul, and I barely paid thirty thousand dollars for it back in seventy-one.”
I nod and think about how that amount barely covers the cost of my van outside.
“But I’ve been sick, and I’ve had four surgeries . . . a hip replacement and both knees . . . and a disc . . . a disc in my back. And the medical bills . . . oh Lord . . . the medical bills. They just kept coming in and coming in. And this house is nearly as old as I am. Just like me, it requires a lot of upkeep and repairs. The furnace went a few months ago. You can’t replace furnaces on Social Security.”
I swallow hard as I listen to her. Her story must be the story of so many elderly people.
“So, Marcus . . . you see, Marcus told me about his program. He said I could take a new mortgage out on the house. Then I could use some of the money to pay off my bills and the rest to invest in the program that was supposed to help me make the mortgage payments and pay the bank back in no time.”
“The Reverie Homes program.”
“Yes . . . yes, that’s what it was called. Marcus picked me up and took me to a seminar about it. It was at some fancy hotel in the city. People there said how the program had worked so well for them . . . and that Marcus . . . he seemed like such a nice young man . . . a churchgoing man.”
“So you took out a mortgage and bought into the program.”
“Yes.”
“But it didn’t help you with the mortgage payments?”
“It did. At first. I got checks just as I was promised for the first few months, but then they stopped coming, and I started getting letters and phone calls from the mortgage company. I don’t even answer the phone anymore.”
“When was the last time you made a payment?”
“It’s been months. I’m not sure how much longer it will be before they foreclose on me. I’ve been in this house for forty years. I raised my kids in this house. My husband died in the bedroom upstairs.” She says this in a way typical of women of her generation. She doesn’t cry, but you know she wants to. She’s been raised to be strong, and strong she will be.
“I wish there was something we could do.” I look at her—a proud women in her golden years wondering how much longer she is going to be able to keep a roof over her head. I begin to think that if Marcus weren’t dead, I might have killed him myself. I also think about Charles, the ringleader of this charade, and how he and his wife are living the high life while Mrs. Whitlock may end up homeless. If Charles is willing to hustle old ladies for the sake of the almighty dollar, then it’s not such a stretch to think that he might have knocked off Marcus if he thought Marcus was a threat to his income.
“Thank you, but I’m not sure what anyone can do at this point. And I’m not really sure there is much else I can tell you that would be of any help to your investigation.”
BOOK: Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery)
2.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Dahlia (Blood Crave Series) by Christina Channelle
A Reaper Made by Liz Long
Man Down by Smith, Roger
One Thousand and One Nights by Hanan al-Shaykh
Forever Young The Beginning by Gerald Simpkins
Fiery Possession by Tanner, Margaret
The adulteress by Carr, Philippa, 1906-