Murder with Macaroni and Cheese (8 page)

CHAPTER 15

W
avonne also notices the unsettled look on Kimberly's face. “What's wrong with her? Why's her face all gnarled up all the sudden?”

“Her demeanor went sour when she spotted Raynell.”

“Well, that would make anyone's demeanor go sour.”

“Yeah . . . well, she and Raynell have a
history
.”

“Ooh, girl, I smell me some gossip. Lay it on me.”

“Hmm . . . where to begin?” I pause for a moment. “Like I said, Kimberly wasn't much to look at in high school. She was sort of gawky, and boy, was she shy.”

“So, the type of girl Raynell ate for lunch?”

“You've got that right. People like Raynell have a homing device on girls like Kimberly. They seek them out to use and abuse—that whole search-and-destroy dynamic. Actually, I don't remember Raynell paying much attention to Kimberly during the first couple of years of high school. It wasn't until later when Kimberly made the mistake of developing a crush on whatever buffoon Raynell was dating at the time—I think it was Eddie Wicks . . . yeah, it was Eddie . . . he was on the football team and played whatever position requires the big hulky brothers. He was built like a refrigerator and, if I recall correctly, about as dumb as one. It's all coming back to me now—he and Kimberly were thrown together as chemistry lab partners. He needed a lot of help from Kimberly, and she took a liking to him. Poor girl made the foolish error of telling someone—I can't remember who—about her feelings for him. Well, whoever she told was a blabbermouth, and you know how quickly word gets around a high school cafeteria.”

“You ain't lyin'. A girl borrows one pair of Chanel sunglasses from someone's locker without axin', and, next thing you know, the whole school be callin' her a thief.”

I give Wavonne a look.

“Don't be judgin' me, Halia. Turns out they weren't even real Chanel . . . and I was gonna give them back . . . I
was
. . . especially after I found out they were bobos.”

“
Anyway
. Word quickly got around that Kimberly had a thing for Raynell's boyfriend. Everyone, including Raynell, knew that Kimberly never stood a chance of snagging Eddie, but bullying was a hobby for Raynell, so it didn't take much for her to go on the attack.

“She took Kimberly's crush as a license to kill. She would bark like a dog at Kimberly in the hallway, get others to hold their noses when she walked by, and even spread rumors about Kimberly having a tail. Everyone was afraid to cross Raynell, so no one stood up to her or told her to knock it off. As if the harassment wasn't enough, Kimberly became an ‘untouchable' on top of it—other students kept their distance from her for fear of becoming a Raynell-target themselves. And while I never participated in any of the bullying, I'm sorry to say I never made an effort to stop it, either. I guess I was as afraid of Raynell as everyone else.

“The worst was when Raynell switched Kimberly's shampoo after gym class with Nair hair removal cream. I wasn't in the locker room when it happened, but I heard the story—the whole school heard the story of how Raynell stood laughing as Kimberly emerged from the showers in tears with patches of hair missing. Kimberly wore a head scarf to school for the rest of the year.”

“Her hair looks pretty good now,” Wavonne says as we watch Kimberly's new admirer give her a kiss on the cheek before continuing on to the bar.

“That was Brian Clarke,” she says, re-approaching us. “He sat behind me in homeroom two years in a row and never said so much as hello to me. Now he's asking for my number and wants to have dinner while I'm in town.”

“What did you say?” I ask.

“I gave him
a
number . . . not mine, but if he needs a pizza delivered it will come in handy.”

“Ooh, I
like
you,” Wavonne says.

Kimberly laughs. “That guy was a tool in high school, and he's still one now. We only talked for a few minutes, and he managed to slip in something about his BMW and how he only wears Hugo Boss suits. If only having money could make up for being a jackass.”

“He has money?” Wavonne shifts her eyes toward Brian, who is in line at the bar. “Excuse me, ladies. I think I needs me a cocktail.”

As Wavonne saunters toward the bar I continue to engage Kimberly in conversation. I tell her all about Sweet Tea and my years in the restaurant business, and she gives me the scoop on what she's been up to since graduation. She tells me that after high school, she attended the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn and stayed in New York after college. While working a series of odd jobs she slowly made a name for herself as an artist. She beams with pride when she tells me about the early years after college that she spent banging on doors trying to get galleries to show her paintings. And how, now, after much persistence and hard work, New York's finest galleries approach her and outbid each other by reducing their commissions for a chance to show her work.

“Congratulations,” I say. “That's really impressive. Maybe I can see more of your work sometime. Your paintings are probably out of my price range, but I occasionally switch out the artwork in Sweet Tea to keep things fresh. Who knows—I might buy something to hang in the restaurant.”

“Sure,” Kimberly says. “Let me give you my card.” She retrieves a glossy full-color business card from her purse and hands it to me.

I give it a quick look. “That's a lovely photo of you.”

“Thanks. It has my contact information and a link to my Web site. I'll be in town for a couple more weeks if you'd like to talk about some of the pieces I have available . . . or even commission an original.”

“An original? Wouldn't that be fun.” As I drop the card in my purse I see Raynell hurriedly making her way toward us—her cranberry cocktail replaced with what appears to be a sour apple martini. I notice Kimberly stiffen when she catches sight of her.

“Halia, I think it's about time we open the buffet. Hopefully the main course will go over as well as the appetizers. Clearly, these people have no experience with fine dining, so it should be okay.”

“Sure. Let me check in with my team,” I say, before I bring up the uncomfortable topic of money. I usually require at least half my catering fee up front with the outstanding balance due the day of the event, but given that this job was for my own reunion I agreed to forgo the deposit and collect my full fee today. “Do you have the check for the catering?”

“I was in such a rush today I forgot all about it. Christy's my chauffeur for the evening. I'll write a check when we get back to my house tonight, and give it to her. She can drop it at the restaurant for you tomorrow.”

“Why don't I just swing by your house in the morning and get it?”

“Oh God, no. Get it from Christy. Let her get up early.”

While I grudgingly agree I notice Kimberly still standing next to me, glaring at Raynell. “Um, Raynell . . . this is Kimberly. You remember her? Kimberly Butler?”

Kimberly and I wait for a flood of recognition and maybe an outpouring of apology—we get neither.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Raynell says, but you can tell from the look on her face that she doesn't remember her. She extends her hand while giving Kimberly a good once-over. “You were on the cheer squad, right?”

“Yes,” Kimberly lies. “Go Hornets!”

I laugh quietly, knowing full well that Kimberly was never a cheerleader, and she's just screwing with Raynell.

“I wonder why we didn't hang out more?” Raynell says, clearly confused as to why someone as attractive as Kimberly was not part of the Whitleys.

“Oh . . . I wasn't really into the whole skanky slut thing,” Kimberly says with a laugh and just the right amount of inflection, so you can't quite tell if she's serious or joking.

Bewildered, Raynell decides to laugh it off. “So what are you up to these days, Kimberly?”

“I live in New York. I'm an artist . . . oil paintings mostly, but I also work with watercolors, and I've been experimenting with an airbrush lately just for fun.”

“How nice,” Raynell says with a condescending tone. “Sounds like a fun hobby.”

“I thinks it much more than a hobby,” I say. “Kimberly's art has been shown in galleries all over New York City.”

“Really?” There's a change in Raynell's demeanor—the sort of change that happens to Raynell-types when they realize the person they've been talking to might be of use to them. “So you're really a pro?”

“I would like to think so. My last painting sold for more than twenty thousand dollars at the Leslie Miller Gallery in Chelsea.”

“Hmm.” Raynell puts her finger to her chin. “Do you know much about appraising art? I have this painting of Sarah Vaughan . . . you know, the famous jazz singer. I recently purchased it. I thought it might be a Keckley. Arthur Keckley was—”

“The famous painter who did renditions of singers who played the Lincoln Theater back in the day. Yes, I know who he is. His originals are worth a hefty sum.”

Not one who's used to being interrupted, Raynell stammers for a moment. “Um . . . yes. That's him. Unfortunately, I was told by one appraiser that it's not an original, but I'd love to get a second opinion just to make sure.”

“I'm not an art appraiser by any means, but I may know enough to be able to tell you if it's real. Maybe we can set something up while I'm in town.”

As I watch Kimberly hand Raynell a business card, I wonder what she's up to. I can't imagine she has any real interest in helping out her high school tormenter.

“Thanks.” Raynell turns her head and yells to Christy, who's a few feet away chatting with Alvetta. “Christy. Give Kimberly here my contact information. She's going to come by and give me a second appraisal on the Sarah Vaughan painting,” she says, takes a last sip of her martini, and departs for the bar to get a refill.

Christy rushes over looking exhausted, which isn't surprising. She's been here all day getting the silent auction set up and helping out with other details.

As Christy digs for a card in her purse, I take a moment to excuse myself to make sure the buffet is ready to make its debut. I start to walk away when I notice a hush come over the ladies I'm leaving behind—all their gazes fixed in the same location over my shoulder. I look behind me to see what all the fuss is about, and there
he
is—a brother so fine, it's no wonder conversations have stopped and all eyes are on him.

CHAPTER 16

“G
regory Simms,” I hear coming from behind me. I flip around and see Nicole. “The man you and the rest of this room are staring at—it's Gregory Simms.”

“Really?” My eyes are still fixed on his handsome face. He's wearing a snug pair of dress pants that outline a behind you could set your drink on. I suspect he decided to forgo the suit and tie that most of our former gentlemen classmates are wearing as the tight polo shirt he's sporting shows off an impressive chest. “The Gregory Simms that always had his nose in the book? The one all the jocks made fun of because he couldn't even do one pull-up in gym class?”

“From the looks of those biceps now, I bet he can do a hell of a lot more than one pull-up these days.”

“Who's that?” Wavonne has returned from the bar with a fresh drink. She must have decided to ditch Brian to head back over here and get some details on Gregory.

“The man who looks like he just stepped out of a cover of
GQ
?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That's Gregory Simms,” Nicole answers. “He was in our class—a quiet academic type back then. I doubt he weighed more than a buck thirty in high school.”

“Now that is a
man,
” Wavonne says.

“He lives in Miami now,” Nicole extols. “I got the skinny when he checked in at the welcome table. He owns a chain of gourmet burger restaurants called South Beach Burgers—handmade burgers, fresh cut fries, shakes . . . all that stuff.”

“Really? A fellow restaurant owner.”

“And a successful one, too.” Wavonne's already tapped on her phone a few times and must have found her way to the South Beach Burger Web site. “Twelve locations from Florida stretching up to North Carolina.”

“Well, good for him,” I say. “He was always a nice guy. I'm glad he's doing well.”

“Doing well is right. That's a Burberry polo he's got on, and those pants are Moschino. That's more than a thousand bucks in clothes right there. Factor in those Ferragamo loafers, and you're looking at another five or six hundred bucks.”

“How does she know the designers of everything he's wearing?” Nicole asks me.

“Hell if I know. She can't remember that table three wants another iced tea, but ask her to name the designer of a blouse some random woman across the street has on, and she'll get it right every time.”

“Don't worry,” Wavonne says, looking at Nicole's dress. “I don't do Kohl's designers.”

“Really?” I say. “This from someone who bought her dress at Gu—”

“Guess,” Wavonne lies, glaring at me before I can finish the word “Gussini.” “I bought this at the Guess store . . . the one in Montgomery Mall.”

“No one cares where you bought your dress, Wavonne,” I say. “Certainly not me or Nicole anyway.”

“Why are we wastin' time talking about clothes anyway? Take me over there and introduce me,” Wavonne says to Nicole.

“Me? If anyone should do the introducing, it should be Halia. She's the one who went to prom with him.”

“What you mean, she went to prom with him?!” Wavonne turns to me. “You mean to tell me you got all up in
that?
”

“All that was not . . . well,
all that,
in high school. We were in honors English together. He needed a date. I needed a date. We were just friends. I don't even think there was a good-night kiss.”

“Wait . . . wait. He's the guy who looked like Urkel with you in that photo Aunt Celia has on the bookcase . . . where you're wearin' that poufy pink Puerto Rican bridesmaid's dress?”

“That was the style back then, Wavonne. All the prom dresses were poufy in the eighties.”

“You looked like a big pink balloon. I'm surprised nobody tried to pop you.”

“Don't worry, from what she's said about her and Gregory that night, nobody did,” Nicole says with a laugh.

“Very funny, Nicole,” I say. “Come on, let's go say hello.”

Kimberly lingers behind and as Nicole, Wavonne, and I begin to make our move, or as Momma said a few days ago, “move in for the kill,” I notice that Gregory has caught Raynell's attention as well. I see her also making a beeline toward him. We speed up our gait accordingly to beat her to the target, but Raynell takes notice of our ascent toward Gregory, and picks up her pace, too. For a stout sister, the girl can move when she wants to.

“That thirsty heifer's tryin' to move in on my man,” Wavonne says.

We speed up some more. Raynell speeds up some more. You can almost hear the movie chase scene music playing in the background. Me, Wavonne, Nicole, Raynell—anyone watching all these thick ladies moving at top speed probably thinks the buffet just opened.

I continue to scurry as I look back and see Wavonne struggling in her heels.

“Leave her,” Nicole says. “She's dead weight.”

I laugh but fail to heed her words. I give Wavonne a chance to catch up, which, unfortunately, causes us to lose the de facto race. By the time we reach Gregory, Raynell is already giving him a hug.

“Did you ladies just get out of prison?” Raynell asks once she's released Gregory from her embrace. I detect a slight slur in her words. Her affinity for colored cocktails seems to be catching up with her. “It's like you've never seen a man before.”

“Look who's talkin'. You're the one who beat us over here,” Wavonne says. “And ain't you got a
husband?
”

I ignore both Wavonne and Raynell. “Hello, Gregory.”

“Halia Watkins!” Much to Raynell's dismay he leans in and gives me a long hug. “It is
good
to see you.”

“You too.” I have to admit I'm smiling from ear to ear. It
is
good to see him. “This is my cousin, Wavonne, and you know Nicole.”

“Yes, yes,” Gregory says, and shakes Wavonne's hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Let go of his hand, Wavonne,” I say as she continues to clasp Gregory's palm with seemingly no intention of releasing it.

“Wavonne and Halia are our caterers for the night,” Raynell says as if we're the hired help. She catches Gregory taking a quick peek at Wavonne's cleavage and adds, “Wavonne's a
waitress
at this little hole-in-the-wall Halia runs.” She says waitress with the tone someone might use when saying the word “prostitute” or “drug dealer.”

“Oh, I know of Mahalia's Sweet Tea. It's hardly a hole-in-the-wall. I hear it has the best fried chicken and waffles south of Sylvia's in Harlem.”

“I'm flattered you've heard of it.”

“Of course I've heard of it. I'm in the business as well. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe I've seen Sweet Tea on some of the local top restaurant lists.”

“We've made the
Washington Post
and
Washingtonian Magazine
lists since we opened,” Wavonne brags.

“That's all very nice, but I have a little business I'd liked to discuss with Gregory if you'd excuse us,” Raynell interrupts.

When she says this it dawns on me that Gregory Simms must be the Gregory she was getting some calls from when she was at Sweet Tea, and, then again, when we met her at church on Sunday.

“It can wait, Raynell,” Gregory says.

“I'm helping Gregory find some retail space.” Raynell interlocks her arm with his in a way that seems a tad inappropriate for a married woman to be doing. “He's looking to expand his restaurant and add locations in Maryland. His restaurant is a
chain,
Halia, with multiple locations . . . not just one.”

“Why would you want to discuss business tonight with a
real estate agent
.” Wavonne mimics Raynell's earlier tone when she condescendingly referred to Wavonne as a waitress. “Tonight should be about having fun. Let's get you a drink? I bet you're a Cîroc man.”

“I'm good right now,” Gregory says politely. “I really don't need a drink, and I guess if I'm going to talk business with anyone, it should be with Halia, a fellow restaurateur.”

Gregory's comment makes me smile. It's funny to see Raynell hanging off Gregory on one side, and Wavonne trying to put the moves on him on the other. They are both working him hard, but, if I didn't know better, I'd swear the one he has eyes for is me.