Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) (12 page)

 

I’
m walking quickly from the parking garage to the Gaylord Hotel at National Harbor. Traffic was bad on the way over, so I’m running late. The presentation has probably already started, but if I move fast, I should only miss the first few minutes. Besides, it’s not really the presentation I’m interested in. I mostly just want to grab a few minutes with Charles afterward and see what I can find out about him—how well he knew Marcus . . . how long he knew him . . . if there’s anything in his eyes or his demeanor when he talks of Marcus that would lead me to believe there was some tension in their relationship.

When I get through the revolving door of the hotel, I’m taken aback by the size of the place. It’s a huge building with a lobby and atrium the size of a small town. There are fountains, and trees, and even a life-sized house that serves as a gift shop. As Jacqueline said earlier, Reverie is definitely trying to send a message by holding their lecture here. People are more likely to think they are on the up-and-up and that cash is flowing when their events are held at places like this. If they had held the meeting in a Holiday Inn or a Best Western, it wouldn’t inspire the same kind of confidence.

Once I’ve checked the daily schedule and found the room where the presentation is taking place, I scurry along a wide corridor until I find the gathering. I walk in, take a seat in the back, and see Charles in the front of the room. He has a clicker in his hand and is elaborating on a slide he has up on a large screen. He’s one of those people who walks around while he presents and uses lots of hand gestures—no standing stiffly at a podium for this guy. The smile on his face is constant and, oddly, has both a charming and smarmy quality about it. He speaks loudly and with vigor. Everything about him says “salesman.”

I listen as he talks about the program and clicks through his slick presentation, which makes all sorts of promises, but is short on detail and statistics. I hear about the “many, many, many” people who have quickly paid off their houses thanks to the Reverie Homes program. I hear about how an initial investment into the program will be returned fivefold through mortgage payment assistance. I hear about Mary Walker in Mount Rainer who paid off her house in just five years. I hear about Stephanie and Devon Mitchell who paid off their Greenbelt home in just seven years. What I don’t hear about is how much the initial investment is or reference information for others in the program. And, while there are a few brief comments on how Reverie invests the money of people who join the program into ventures such as in-store ATMs and phone card kiosks, there’s little mention about how these seemingly meager initiatives manage to earn enough profit to pay off what must be millions of dollars in home mortgages.

It seems like Charles is about to finish up his presentation when, for the first time since I walked in the door, I see the smile leave his face, and he stops speaking in midsentence. His eyes focus on the back of the room, and his expression goes from forced delight to trepidation. I and everyone else in the room turn to see what he’s looking at, and there they are—the young couple who was having dinner with Charles and Marcus the night Marcus was killed. And they don’t look happy.

“Have you gotten to the question-and-answer period of the evening yet?” the young lady asks in a heated tone. “Has anyone asked what the plan is when the checks from Reverie stop coming, and you’re months behind on your mortgage, and the word ‘foreclosure’ starts getting tossed around?”

“Mrs. Williams,” Charles says to the girl. He’s regained his composure, and the smile, while not as bright, is back on his face. “If you’d take a seat, I’d be happy to discuss any questions you have after the presentation.”

“So
now
you’ll answer questions? You haven’t answered a single one of my phone calls? Our main contact ends up dead in a pond, we’re in debt to the tune of three hundred thousand dollars, the assistance we were promised has dried up, and you can’t so much as call me back?! Have you told any of these people about that?” she asks. All the while, her meek-looking husband stands beside her, quiet as a mouse.

I see the looks on the faces of the people in the room. Mostly they are just awestruck. One woman gets up and is about to leave, but I think, although she now realizes what kind of racket is going on and must know better than to invest, she’s decided she might as well stick around and watch the fireworks.

“Yes. We are experiencing some cash flow problems, Mrs. Williams. But, as we discussed at dinner a few days ago, we need you to be patient. We expect our investments to get back on track soon and produce additional profits. As soon as that happens, we will make up for any lost payments and get your mortgage back in the black. I promise.”

“You promise?!” she says, her husband still silent beside her. “We are done with promises, Mr. Pritchett. We want our money back, so we can start putting it toward our mortgage and not lose our house.”

“If you’ll just calm down, Mrs.—”

“Calm down!? How calm would you be if you were out thirty thousand dollars and about to lose your home?”

Charles sighs and directs his attention to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, due to such a rude interruption, I believe we’ll have to close the presentation early tonight. I assure you that the Reverie Homes program is sound, and any missed payments will be more than made up for in the near future. Please take some literature with you on the way out and call me if you have any questions.”

What a quintessential salesman,
I think to myself. The lid has been blown off his operation, and he’s trying to salvage any clients on the off chance that one or two of them may still be naïve enough to invest with him. I’m relieved to see that not a single person takes any of his brochures as they exit.

After the audience filters out, whispering among themselves, Charles invites Mrs. Williams and her husband to sit down.

“I’m fine standing, thank you,” she responds curtly, but her husband touches her on her back, gently prodding her to take a seat.

Charles grabs a chair next to them, moves it so it’s facing them and takes a seat. I remain seated in the back of the room. Charles looks at me for a brief second with a “what are you still doing here?” look on his face, but says nothing. I know the polite thing would be to leave and give them some privacy, but I might pick up some important information related to Marcus’s murder through whatever I’m able to overhear.

“Mr. and Mrs. Williams, I know you’re anxious about the lack of payments going toward your mortgage lately, but, like any business, we occasionally experience cash flow problems. As we discussed last week, it’s temporary. I promise you, the checks will resume soon, and we’ll make up for any missed payments.”

Charles has a natural calmness about him and a unique ability to respond to anger and hostility with a gentle demeanor that diffuses people. He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing if I ever saw one, but his shtick seems to be working.

“How do I know that?” Mrs. Williams says back to him, in the most composed voice she’s used all night. “How do I know you’re not just buying time to skip town and leave us with no house and no money?”

“Would I be holding a presentation looking for new investors if I planned to skip town?”

Of course you would. More money to run off with,
I think to myself as I pretend to be surfing the Internet on my phone.

“I need some kind of assurance, Mr. Pritchett. I . . .” she says, pausing for a moment and looking at her husband with disapproval. “
We
will not be taken for a ride. We’ve gotten the runaround from Marcus for months, and then he turns up dead . . .
murdered,
actually. His assistant said we would need to speak to you from now on about the program.”

“Yes. I heard about Mr. Rand’s unfortunate demise, but I assure you it has nothing to do with Reverie.”

“When can we expect the first of many payments to start coming in again? I need a date.”

“I’ll need to check on that and get back to you.”

“I want a date, Mr. Pritchett. I’ll expect to hear from you first thing in the morning, and if I don’t, I will start the process of finding a lawyer and sue you for everything you have . . . assuming you have
anything
at this point,” she growls, gets up from her chair, and motions for her husband to follow her.

I see them walking toward me, and when they pass by, I get up and follow them out the door.

“Excuse me?” I call from behind, and they turn around. “Can I talk with you for a moment?”

They both look at me warily.

“You probably don’t remember me. I’m Halia Watkins. I own Sweet Tea. I believe you had dinner with Marcus at my restaurant a few days ago.”

“Yes. We did. I remember you,” Mrs. Williams says.

“May I ask your names again?”

“Heather. And this is my husband, Josh.”

“It’s nice to see you again. I’m sorry things aren’t going well for you. I knew Marcus for a long time, and before he died he was trying to get me to invest with Reverie Homes, as well. I came tonight to find out some more information about the program. Honestly, I had planned to invest, but after tonight, clearly I’m reconsidering.”

“I would do more than reconsider, if I were you.”

“Would you two be willing to tell me a bit more about your experience? Maybe you could come back to the restaurant and have lunch . . . on me.”

I figured it was better to convince them that I was only interested in investing in the program. If I told them I was really interested in what happened the night Marcus died and getting a better idea of what sort of relationship they had with him, I might scare them off . . . especially if they were, indeed, responsible for his death.

Josh is silent and looks to Heather for a response.

“I suppose we could. Believe me, you really don’t want to get mixed up in all of this. It’s been a nightmare.”

“Any insight you have would really be appreciated. Why don’t you come by Sweet Tea for lunch tomorrow? Around noon? You remember where it is?”

“Yes. We’ll do our best to make it.”

When they turn to leave, I make my way back to the ballroom and see Charles packing up his laptop and brochures.

“Not a great night, eh?”

“Not at all,” he says back to me. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”

“We met when you had dinner with Marcus at my restaurant. Halia Watkins.”

“Oh yes. Sweet Tea. Great place. I was so sorry to hear about Marcus. He was such a great fellow.”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s all such a mystery. One minute he’s enjoying my fried chicken and waffles, and, next thing you know, he turns up dead.”

“Have the police figured out what happened?”

“I don’t think so. At least I haven’t heard anything.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yeah . . .” I’m trying to find a way to delicately begin questioning him, but it’s just not coming to me. “Do you mind, Charles . . . if I ask you a few questions?”

“About?”

“Marcus. What the nature of your relationship was with him. How long—”

“How long did I know him? Did I like him? Did we have any quarrels? Where I went after I left the restaurant the night Marcus disappeared? Is that what you’d like to know, Ms. Watkins?”

I just look at him, unsure of what to say.

“I’ve already told the police everything. I left the restaurant shortly after Heather and Josh . . . probably about twelve fifteen or twelve twenty. From the restaurant, I went home. My wife can attest to my whereabouts.”

“I’m sure she can.”

“Is that why you came here tonight? To question me about Marcus’s murder? What do you think you’re going to be able to find out that the police haven’t?”

“Actually no. That’s not why I came here tonight. My understanding is that you and Marcus were just business partners. As far as I know, you have no clear motive for wanting him dead. I’m curious to know more about the program, and if you know of anyone . . . maybe one of the investors Marcus recruited, who would have a motive.”

“I wouldn’t call us partners. Marcus came to one of my presentations last year and asked a lot of good questions. He had a lot of charisma. I thought he would make a good salesman, so I talked to him about working under me to recruit new investors. He agreed.”

“May I ask what the compensation structure was?”

“For each member Marcus recruited he got a commission from Reverie, and, because he worked under my guidance, I got a piece of that commission.”

“How many investors did he recruit for you?”

“Two. The young rather testy couple that was just here and another client in Hyattsville.”

“Well, the couple here earlier sure seemed mad enough to kill someone . . . the wife anyway. I’m not sure the husband would have the energy. Do you have the name of the client in Hyattsville?”

“I don’t offhand. I can check my files and let you know, but don’t you think you should leave the investigating to the police ?”

“Oh. I’m not trying to trump the police. I guess I’m mostly just curious,” I say before adding, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Pritchett.”

He nods and returns to packing up his display table.

On the way back to my van, I think about him and whether he seems like someone who could commit murder. I didn’t notice any tension or facial expressions that led me to believe he had any significant feelings (good, bad, or otherwise) about Marcus, but some people are better actors than others. Offhand, I can’t think of any reason he would have wanted Marcus dead. In fact, Marcus would serve him better alive by scrounging up new clients for Charles to make a commission on. But I’m not ready to close the book on Charles. Anything can go wrong in business dealings between people. I’ll start with an Internet search on him, and see if I turn up anything of interest. But, honestly, I’m more interested in Heather and Josh, and maybe this other client in Hyattsville. Heather certainly seemed to have a lot of anger, and Josh appears to be afraid of her, which leads me to believe she might be unstable. It’s plausible that she killed Marcus with a severe blow to the head, but there is no way she could have come back and moved Marcus’s body. She’s a petite woman, and, even though Marcus wasn’t a really big man, Wavonne and I struggled to move him together. But she could have moved him with the help of her husband, who appears to do whatever she tells him to do. I hope they keep our lunch date tomorrow. I have a lot of questions for them. With any luck, they’ll have a lot of answers.