Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) (16 page)

 

I
’m sitting next to Wavonne about twelve rows back from the front of the church. I have on a gray skirt and white blouse. I even put on some sheer black hose, but I’m still feeling underdressed. Compared to the other women around me, I look decidedly out of place. I should have known better. I try to avoid funerals as much as possible, but I’ve been to enough of them to know that some of the women only came today to show off their latest designer threads in black or navy blue. All around me are women in dark dresses and suits. Most of them have on hats. Some of their hats even have those ridiculous birdcage veils. They look like they cut up some fishnet panty hose and have them hanging in front of their faces.

“I wish they’d get this show on the road,” Wavonne whispers to me. She’s wearing a tight black dress with a wide red belt and red pumps. And she has a ridiculous red bow attached to her wig. I told her the red accents were not appropriate for a funeral, but much like many things I tell her, my words went in one ear and out the other.

It’s warm in the church, which sometimes I suspect is on purpose, so these ladies have a chance to use their fans. I don’t know what it is about women at funerals and their fans, but it gets a hair over sixty-eight degrees in the building, and you’d think the service was being held in a sauna by the looks of all the women fanning themselves—of course, only with fans that coordinate well with their outfits.

I look around the room and only see a few familiar faces. There’s Jacqueline up front with Marcus’s mother. Jacqueline is dressed . . . well, like Jacqueline always dresses . . . in a tailored dark green pantsuit. No gaudy hats for her. She probably thinks funeral hats are “so PG County.” Marcus’s mother appears to be about seventy. I can see a resemblance to Marcus, but she has a sweeter look about her than her son. Perhaps he got that little trace of malevolence you could always see in his eyes from his father, whom I believe died several years ago. Mrs. Rand has a tissue in her hand, but no tears are being shed at the moment. She is talking quietly with Jacqueline, who also seems to be free of any obvious emotion.

My eyes retreat from Jacqueline and her mother and start to roam the church. It’s a large church, and I guess there’s a decent turnout, but for someone as dynamic and “connected” as Marcus was, I would have expected a larger crowd. I only vaguely recognize a few other people, probably folks who have been in to Sweet Tea with Marcus.

A few more minutes pass and, as Wavonne removes a file from her purse and starts doing her nails (where she found a bright pink nail file, I have no idea), I notice a change in the energy in the church. People stop their whispered conversations and nudge each other to discreetly turn around. I turn my head and see Régine walking into the church alone. She’s not dressed as flashy as usual, but she still wouldn’t be out of place leaning against a lamppost swinging her purse around. Everyone watches as she makes her way up the center aisle and sits down a few pews back from where Jacqueline and Mrs. Rand are seated. I’m guessing there is no love lost between Régine and the Rands, or she would be seated next to them. After all, she was Marcus’s girlfriend even if they only had been dating for a few months.

While Régine gets settled into the pew, I notice people looking at her and then shifting their eyes to another young woman on the other side of the aisle and then back to Régine.

“Who’s that?” Wavonne asks her friend Melva, who’s sitting on the other side of her.

“That’s Jennie Becks, Marcus’s girlfriend before Régine.”

“Really?” I say, surprised I’ve never met Jennie. She and Marcus must not have dated very long if he never brought her to one of his dinners at Sweet Tea.

“Rumor has it she was hell-bent on becoming Mrs. Marcus Rand and moving into his mansion in Mitchellville. She was mad as hell when Régine got her claws into him.”

I listen to Wavonne and Melva talk and my antennas go up. I’m picturing my suspect list in my head, and the name Jennie Becks being added to it when I see the minister walk over to Jacqueline and Mrs. Rand. He says a few words to them before motioning to the vocalist, who has climbed up on the steps in front of the altar. She breaks into a hymn that I have not heard before. She does have a lovely voice, and I see a few attendees dabbing at their eyes, careful not to smudge their makeup, as she sings. When the vocalist reaches the end of the hymn, she takes a seat, and the minister walks to the pulpit and says a few words. He keeps his address pretty generic, probably because he doesn’t . . .
didn’t
know Marcus very well. When he speaks about the sanctity of life and how Marcus’s death “is not the end for Marcus, but a new beginning with the Lord,” I can’t help but wonder if I’m the only one thinking that it might not be the Lord that Marcus is having a new beginning with. For his sake . . . for all of our sakes really, I hope our Creator actually is a merciful God.

When the minister is finished speaking, he introduces Jacqueline, noting that Marcus’s sister would like to say a few words. Jacqueline walks purposefully to the podium and clears her throat. “What is there to say about my brother, Marcus Rand? Some words to describe him: Charming. Smart. Attractive.” She pauses for a moment between each word. “Hard worker. Fast talker. Character. Not that he
had
character. He
was
a character,” she says to a few quiet laughs from the pews.

“He enjoyed life, and I can honestly say he made the most of his forty some odd years on this planet. He was constantly on the go . . . wheeling and dealing at all hours of the day and night. He enjoyed the finer things in life: custom suits, fast cars, and a lovely home that I was fortunate enough to share with him. Working so closely together and sharing a house meant we spent a lot of time with each other. He could run me ragged, but working for Marcus was never boring. Actually, nothing about my brother was boring. And I think that’s what I’ll miss the most about him . . . how he always kept things interesting.”

Jacqueline continues with her eulogy for another ten minutes or so, and while I don’t see any of the disdain I occasionally saw in her eyes when she was with Marcus, particularly when he was ordering her around, she doesn’t appear to be a distraught, grieving sister, either. And though, by and large, she keeps the eulogy positive and mostly speaks of Marcus’s more pleasant attributes, her speech is devoid of words like love, kindness, and generosity, which was probably a smart move on her part. She would have sounded ridiculous if she tried to paint a different picture of Marcus than we all knew to be true.

After Jacqueline returns to her seat, the minister leads the mourners in a final prayer and the singer returns to the microphone, but this time she doesn’t break into a hymn. I recognize the familiar notes of a song I suspect Jacqueline chose. As the words to Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable” croon from her lips, I think about how the song is right-on. If Marcus was nothing else, he was definitely unforgettable.

 

T
he rest of us follow after the minister and Marcus’s family exit the church. Marcus’s remains were cremated, so there is no coffin and no additional ceremony at a cemetery. Instead, we all file down to the church basement, where several tables and chairs have been neatly arranged. At the far end are two long tables holding chafing dishes and platters of food. There is already a small crowd lingering to the side of these tables. They are trying to appear as if they just happen to be chatting near that particular area, but I’ve catered enough events to know that what they really want is to make sure they’re at the front of the line when they are told that the buffet is open. Hopefully Jacqueline was smart enough to have a few folks serving the food as people go down the line. Another thing I’ve learned from my catering experience is that if you let people serve themselves, you essentially end up with, if I may put it delicately, pigs at the feeding trough—classless people heap huge portions on their plates. Before you know it, even though you’ve purchased enough food to feed fifty people, you’ve run out by the time guest number thirty-five gets to the front of the line.

I make my way over to the buffet—and, no, not to ensure a favorable position in line, but to check out the competition. I see place cards that say
Catering by Luette Howard
. I know Luette. She’s nice enough, but she’s known for her rock-bottom prices rather than the quality of her food. Honestly, I’m not even sure her business is legit. I don’t think she’s licensed, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she runs her catering business out of her home rather than a commercial kitchen that’s regularly inspected by the health department.

You get what you pay for,
I think to myself as I peruse the buffet. Her fried chicken has a nice batter on it, but the pieces are small without much meat on them. I can tell just by looking that she bought a few trays of frozen macaroni and cheese and transferred the contents to her own chafing dishes after heating them up. Her mashed potatoes look okay—I’ll give her that one. And maybe people probably won’t notice that her gravy is from a jar. The rest of the serving tables are filled with more of the same—dishes range from acceptable to downright sad. If Jacqueline had asked, given that Marcus was an investor in Sweet Tea and a longtime acquaintance, I would have gladly catered the repast at cost, but for whatever reason, she went with Luette.

“Where you goin’?” Wavonne asks as I begin to step away from the table. “We should hang around and make sure we get a good spot in line.”

“I’m going to walk around and mingle a bit. Don’t get too comfortable. We need to get back to the restaurant soon.”

I start to toddle around the church basement with an eye out for either Régine or Jennie Becks . . . or Jacqueline. I’d like to have a word with all of them and see if I can glean any useful information. I spot Jacqueline first. She’s sitting at a table with her mother, and a few others are gathered around them offering their condolences. I approach and wait my turn to say a few words.

“Halia,” Jacqueline says to me. “So sweet of you to come.”

“Of course. I got to know Marcus pretty well over the years. I’ll miss him.”

“We all will,” she says, although I’m not really sure either one of us is telling the truth.

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m hanging in there. I’m trying to look after Mother and settle Marcus’s affairs.”

She’s very nonchalant about the whole thing. It’s hard to tell if she’s hiding how distraught she is, or if she just isn’t that upset about her brother’s death. Decorum is important to Jacqueline, so she could actually be grief-stricken by her loss but refuses to show it in public . . . or, I hate to even think it, but she might have killed Marcus and is glad he’s dead.

“Can I get you anything? Would you like me to fix you a plate from the serving table?”

“Oh heavens, no. I can’t have any of that food. It’s all grease and starch.”

I smile at her as I notice a few other people lining up behind me to have a word with her.

“I’ll let you chat with the others. If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”

Jacqueline thanks me. Then I say a quick word to Mrs. Rand and get out of the way so others can speak with them. Of course, I would have preferred to have gotten in a few questions about the night Marcus was killed, but there couldn’t be a more inappropriate time for me to start asking about motives and alibis. I’ll have to catch up with Jacqueline at another less conspicuous time.

The buffet is now open. As I watch a crowd gather at one end of the table, I ponder the three types of people who go to funerals: the first are the ones who truly cared about the deceased and want to celebrate their life and mourn their death; the second are the drama queens who will show up at any funeral to which they can get an invitation, so they can cry and carry on and get all sorts of attention; and the third are the ones who are in it for one thing—the free food at the repast. Many of the people I see in line I suspect are part of the aforementioned third group. I give the line a thorough once-over and see Jennie Becks at the tail end. If I hurry I can nab a spot right behind her. I have little interest in eating Luette Howard’s cut-rate fried chicken, but it’s a perfect opportunity to ask Jennie a few questions.

“Hi,” I say as I step behind her.

“Hello.”

“The spread looks lovely,” I lie.

“Yes.”

As she speaks to me she suddenly looks familiar. I feel like I’ve seen her somewhere before. Maybe Marcus did bring her to Sweet Tea a time or two.

“How did you know Marcus?” I ask as if I don’t already know.

“We dated.”

“Really? Recently?”

“We broke up a few months ago. He was cheating on me with Régine Alva.” Her eyes dart toward Régine who’s seated at a table with some people I don’t recognize. “She works at the salon where I used to get my hair done. Marcus was waiting for me one day, and that’s when she got her hooks into him. Part of me always knew Marcus was no good . . .” She stops herself. “Good Lord. Look at me. I should not be talking trash about Marcus at his funeral. He wasn’t all bad. He could treat me right when he wanted to.”

I can see the resentment in her eyes as she talks, but I can’t tell if it’s directed more toward Régine or Marcus . . . or maybe both of them.

“I guess we all have our good and bad characteristics,” I say. “It’s terrible the way he died, and the police seem to be questioning everyone.”

“It was horrible, wasn’t it? I heard he was hit over the head with something . . . maybe a baseball bat or a tire iron . . . and then thrown in a lake. It gives me chills to think about it.”

I was hoping my words about the police questioning everyone would prompt her to tell me if the police had interrogated her, but she doesn’t seem to be biting.

When we reach the serving table I reluctantly add a few items to my plate while Jennie does the same. As we walk toward the far end of the buffet, I see a selection of drinks. I see some Coke and Sprite . . . and Sunkist, but it’s when I see the bottle of cranberry juice that I remember where I’ve seen Jennie before. She was at Sweet Tea the night Marcus was killed. She was part of the table of young women who tried to sneak their own alcohol into my restaurant—the “cranberry drinkers.” I remember they were all wearing black the night I saw them in Sweet Tea. Jennie might even have the same dress on now that she was wearing at the restaurant.

Well, isn’t this an interesting turn of events?
I think to myself. Jennie Becks, Marcus’s wronged ex-girlfriend was at Sweet Tea the same night Marcus turned up dead.
Just a coincidence? Or was she stalking him?

I decide not to mention that I recall seeing her from the restaurant. It will only embarrass her if she knows I remember she tried to pull a fast one on me. I’ll never get her to talk to me if I make her feel ashamed. I’m about to ask some additional questions but, instead, I decide to just tell her that I enjoyed meeting her and begin to walk away. Rather than questioning Jennie, I’m well aware that there are other ways to find out just how bad the breakup between Marcus and Jennie was and exactly how bitter she was after being jilted for Régine. Fortunately, I know just where to catch up on all the latest gossip.

“So I know Marcus broke up with Jennie for Régine, but what can you tell me about how it all transpired and how angry Jennie was after it all happened?” I say to Wavonne and Melva as I take a seat next to them.