Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) (10 page)

 

W
avonne and I have only been back from our little phone book jaunt for a few hours when I step out of the kitchen at Sweet Tea and see a tall man in a pair of khakis and a navy blue blazer talking with Jacqueline and Laura. From the looks on their faces, I can tell the conversation is serious.

I approach them, and Jacqueline’s eyes turn toward mine. “It was him. The body they pulled from the lake—it was Marcus.” She’s not crying, but there is a look of anguish in her eyes.

“What? What are you talking about?” I ask, as if I have no idea.

“Marcus. The police found him over in that little lake by Wellington Acres. He’s dead. After we talked I decided to call the police. I’ve just come from identifying the body.” Again, she doesn’t sound frantic or distressed. She seems more cold and spacey, like she’s in shock.

I narrow my eyebrows as if I’m processing what she’s saying. Before I have a chance to speak, Wavonne opens her big mouth.

“What? Marcus is dead!?” she says, raising her voice. “When? How? I don’t believe it! I just don’t believe it!” she adds and starts sniffling for effect. I can tell she’s trying to force tears. She’s doing exactly what I was afraid she’d do. She’s going all
Real Housewives of Atlanta
drama queen on me and trying to pull out a show-stopping performance. Wavonne and Marcus were not close. Her acting like a grieving widow over the news of his death will just seem peculiar.

“Wavonne, baby. Let me take you in the back. You need to sit down.”

“I don’t need to sit down, I—”

I gently but firmly pull her by the shoulders toward the back of the restaurant before she has a chance to continue her charade.

“I’ll be right back,” I say to Jacqueline as I guide Wavonne to the break room, which, fortunately, is empty.

“Would you knock it off?! Why are you out there acting crazy in front of everyone? You and Marcus were little more than casual acquaintances. Why on earth would you behave like you lost your best friend? Are you trying to get both of us thrown in jail?”

“I was acting like I was upset that Marcus has been killed.”

“Upset is one thing, but you were about to take it too far. We’ve talked about this. We don’t want to do anything that will draw attention to us. We should act the way we really feel. Neither one of us was a fan of Marcus, but we didn’t want to see him dead, either. Of course, we’re sad for the loss of a human life, but don’t overdo it, Wavonne.”

“Okay. Slow your roll, Halia. We’ll do it your way.”

“Now you stay here while I go back out there and find out what everyone knows.”

I leave the room, and barely ten seconds pass before Wavonne defies my order and appears in the main dining area. My God, she’s worse than Otto, the dachshund I had growing up. Just like Otto, Wavonne can’t stand the thought that she might be missing anything. I swear if I’d locked the break room door, she would have started squealing and scratching at the door just like Otto, as well.

“Keep your mouth shut,” I say in a low voice after whipping my head around to look at her.

When I return to Jacqueline, I put my hand on her shoulder. I feel like I should hug her, but I’m not sure it would be a welcome gesture. Jacqueline is not a huggy type of person.

“I’m so sorry, Jacqueline. What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she says flatly. “He’s been gone without a word for days, so I finally decided to call the police. By the time I called and reported him missing, they had already found the body and put two and two together. As far as anyone seems to know, no one has seen him since he was here for dinner on Saturday night. I didn’t think to look when I was here the other day, but we checked when we drove in, and his car is still in the parking lot.

“Everything was fine when I left him here about twelve thirty. Did anything seem out of the ordinary to you Saturday night, Halia?”

The unknown man with Jacqueline turns to me as if he’d like to know the answer to that question, as well. I suspect he’s with the police department even though he’s not in uniform. I know a lot of the police officers in the area. They have lunch here, patrol the parking lot, and stop in here and there for coffee or sodas on the house, but I don’t think I’ve ever met the gentleman here with Jacqueline.

“No. Everything seemed fine. As you know, we left before you did.” I look at the man in the blazer. “It was late, and he was still talking business with his guests, so Wavonne and I asked him to lock up. We left shortly after midnight.”

“You’re the owner of this restaurant?” the man asks.

“Yes. Halia Watkins,” I respond and extend my hand.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Watkins. I’m Detective Hutchins. So who was still here with him when you left?”

I’m not sure if he’s asking me or Jacqueline, so I go ahead and respond. “Gosh. Let me try to remember. He had five guests with him. They filled a six-top. Other than Jacqueline, there was a casually dressed black man, a young white couple, and Régine, his girlfriend.”

“I set up the dinner for Marcus,” Jacqueline says. “Charles Pritchett was the man by himself at the table. He was one of Marcus’s business contacts. Marcus was working on some deals with him. The white couple is married. They’re very young; Josh and Heather, but I forget their last name. I’m sure I have it in my records. Marcus and Charles were meeting with them about the mortgage program.”

“The mortgage program?” Detective Hutchins asks.

“Yes. Charles is the head of a company . . . or at least the head of their operations in this area. It’s called Reverie Homes. People make investments in his company, and then he uses the returns to pay off their mortgages in just a few years.”

Detective Hutchins and I exchange curious looks before he asks, “Pay off their mortgages in just a few years?”

“Yes. I’ve only attended one of his seminars, but some people there said they had their entire mortgages paid off in seven years.”

“How much do you need to invest?”

“The minimum is thirty thousand dollars.”

“Thirty thousand dollars?!” I hear Wavonne shriek from behind me. “Where in hell did those people find thirty thousand dollars?”

“Some people take it out of their 401(k)s or borrow money from relatives.”

“So they invest in Reverie Homes, who, in turn, takes over their mortgage payments?” I ask.

“Yes, and supposedly they pay it off really quickly.”

“Supposedly?”
Detective Hutchins asks.

“I don’t ask questions. Marcus doesn’t . . . didn’t pay me to ask questions.”

Neither Detective Hutchins nor I say anything, but I can tell we are both thinking the same thing:
This has scam written all over it!

“And where does all this money come from to pay off the mortgages so quickly?”

“Allegedly, Reverie Homes invests it in ATM machines . . . you know, the ones they put in convenience stores and other places . . . and calling card kiosks, and some other things. The profits from those investments go to paying off investors’ mortgages . . . or at least that’s what Marcus says when he tries to get people to buy in to the program. I have the literature back at Marcus’s office.”

“I’d like to see that literature,” Detective Hutchins responds. “So what do you mean when you say Marcus tried to get people to buy in to the program?”

“He recruited investors for Charles. Charles gave him a commission.”

“So the young couple who was having dinner with Marcus and Charles . . . they were investors that Marcus recruited ?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“This doesn’t seem at all suspect to you?”

“Suspect?”

“That someone is asking people to cough up thirty thousand dollars and then promising to pay off their mortgages in just a few years?” I inquire further.

“Of course it seems suspect. But like I said, I’m not paid to ask questions; however, I can see how some people do get enticed into the program. If you had been to one of Charles’s presentations, you’d have seen, as well. The one I went to was at the Four Seasons in Georgetown. People go to an event at an expensive hotel . . . it adds credibility . . . people think the operation is legitimate. And there were so many people there who were already involved in the program, and they shared their stories. Many of them already had their houses paid off and had reinvested with new homes that they had traded up to . . . or so they said.”

“Okay,” Detective Hutchins says. “We’ve got some background on this program. I’m going to need to interview this Charles fellow and the two young people who were having dinner with him the night Marcus disappeared . . . and the girlfriend, as well. What was her name again?”

“Régine,” Wavonne says before anyone else has a chance.

“Thanks. And your name is?”

“This is my cousin, Wavonne,” I say.

“Nice to meet you, Wavonne. So you left with Ms. Watkins Saturday night?”

Wavonne nods.

“Do you have a few minutes to talk?” he says to her, before turning to me. “And I’ll need to speak with you, as well, Ms. Watkins.”

“Sure. No problem. Let’s go in the break room.”

Wavonne leads the way with me and Detective Hutchins following. On the way down the hall, all I can think is:
Showtime.

 

“S
o you said nothing seemed unusual to you the night Marcus was last seen? No one at the table with him was acting strangely? Was he acting strangely?”

I hear Wavonne take a breath, and I speak before she has a chance to. “Maybe. The young couple did seem very cross with Marcus during the early part of the meal, but things seemed better by the time Wavonne and I left.”

“Cross? How so?”

“That lil’ white girl was all snarly with attitude,” Wavonne says. “I could see it from clear ’cross the room. I bet she did it. I bet she killed him. You have to watch out for those skinny white girls. They may be tiny, but you get one of them mad, and,
ooh girl
, watch out!”

“She and her husband both seemed upset with Marcus. You could see that there was some tension between them. Darius, one of my servers, waited on them that night. I remember because he commented on how the young lady was speaking to Marcus in a hushed but terse voice.”

“Really? I’ll need to speak with him.”

“He should be in for the evening service, or I can give you his phone number if you want to contact him before then.”

“Thanks. I’ll collect it from you before I leave,” Detective Hutchins says. “Now, back to the night of Marcus’s disappearance. Nothing else seemed out of the ordinary to you? You’re sure?”

Wavonne tries to speak again, but once again, I beat her to it. “No. The other gentleman at the table, Charles I think Jacqueline said was his name . . . I hadn’t met him before, but he was pleasant enough . . . and Régine has been in here numerous times with Marcus.”

“And Régine? What can you tell me about her?”

“She a gold-diggin’ heifer,” Wavonne says.

“Wavonne—” I start to say, but Detective Hutchins lifts a finger to me.

“No. Please. Let her finish. You were saying.”

“Now, I don’t know if she’s a murderer, but I will tell you she was in it with Marcus for one thing: his money. She’s all about the Benjamins. ‘Marcus, buy me this. Marcus, buy me that.’ She ain’t got no money of her own, and she was carryin’ a Jimmy Choo bag last time she was in here. It’s from last year but still musta cost a mint when he bought it for her. She’s a hairdresser, and not even a good one, over at Salon Cuts in Kettering. She met Marcus when he came to pick up his old girlfriend, Jennie Becks, from gettin’ her hair done. You see, my girl, Melva, told me that Jennie got a bad weave over at Madame Souls. Apparently poor Jennie never could do right by her hair. I’ve never met her, but Melva told me that, years ago, Jennie tried to relax it herself. Melva said she ended up looking like a buncha crows made a nest on her head, and—”

“Please, Wavonne,” Detective Hutchins says. “Régine. Tell me about Régine.”

“Yes. Régine. I’m sure she took one look at Marcus’s fancy suit and BMW and did whatever she could to get her paws all up in that bidness. They’ve been together for a few months, but I think Marcus was cheatin’ on her.”

“Cheating on her? Why do you think that?”

“ ’Cause men like Marcus always cheat. And lately she wasn’t spending Saturday nights with him. He said it was ’cause he had to get up early to take his momma to church, but I think he was out there gettin’ it on with some other floozy.”

“But you don’t have any proof? You don’t actually know he was cheating or with whom?”

“I don’t need no proof. I know what I know. But no, I can’t be sure who he was cheatin’ with. Give me a few more weeks on the gossip mill at the beauty shop, and I’ll get back to ya.”

Detective Hutchins grins. “You do that,” he says and turns his eye to me. “This Régine. You have a phone number for her?”

“I don’t, but Jacqueline probably does.”

“Okay. I’ll check with her. Now, what else can you tell me about that night?”

“There’s not much else to tell. Aside from Marcus’s party, the restaurant had cleared out by eleven thirty, and they were the only ones here when Wavonne and I left.”

“You left a table full of customers in your restaurant without any staff here? Who was going to close up?”

“Marcus.”

“Do you normally let customers stay in the restaurant when no one else is here?”

“She do for Marcus. She owes him a shit loada money,” Wavonne says, and even she realizes what a mistake divulging that information is as soon as the words leave her lips.

“What Wavonne means,” I say, glaring at my cousin, “is that Marcus and I were business partners. He had an investment in the restaurant. So to answer your question, no, I don’t normally let customers stay in the restaurant without any staff present, but Marcus is . . . was a business partner. Besides, I’ve known Marcus for years, and he has dinner meetings here all the time.”

“What do you mean, he was an investor?”

“Just that. When I opened the restaurant, Marcus loaned me some money to supplement my savings and loan from the bank. I’ve been paying him back in monthly installments with interest ever since.”

“How much money are we talking about here?”

“Well, that’s getting awfully personal, Mr. Hutchins, don’t you think?”

“A man has been murdered, Ms. Watkins. We need to follow up on every lead.”

“Every lead? You’re not accusing me of anything, I hope?”

“Just doing my job.”

“It was a substantial amount, Detective Hutchins, but I’ve paid more than half of it back.”

He looks at me as if he’s sizing me up. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.

“When you and Wavonne left here, did you go straight home?”

“No, we stopped by the grocery store to pick up some things for my mother. From there, yes, we went straight home.”

“This is true?” Detective Hutchins asks Wavonne.

“Ah-huh.”

“Can anyone else substantiate your whereabouts?”

“I’m afraid I don’t appreciate where this conversation is going, Mr. Hutchins, but I’m sure I have the receipt from the grocery store that night, and the clerk who checked us out would probably remember us. The receipt should have the time and date on it, and my mother may have heard us come in, but I’m not sure. She was probably asleep.”

“Forgive the questions, Ms. Watkins. Like I said—”

Detective Hutchins is cut off by his phone ringing. “Hutchins here,” he says into the phone and pauses. “Really? Okay. I’ll be right there.” He hangs up. “Thank you for your time, ladies. I’ll be in touch if I need anything further.”

“That’s it? You start questioning us like we are suspects and now you’re leaving?”

“I think you’re off the hook. There’s been a new development. Someone has been using Marcus’s credit card all over town. There’s bound to be some security camera footage of the assailant. I’ve got to run. Like I said, I’ll be in touch if necessary.”