Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) (19 page)

 

“I
knew that bougie ho was up to no good. How do you know Jacqueline did it?” Wavonne asks.

“Josh saw her sitting in her car when he drove into the parking lot. She drives that tacky gold BMW, right?”

“He saw her when he was driving around looking for you?”

“Yes. He said he didn’t really process it until later. She was still at the restaurant when we left, so I guess it didn’t seem that odd that she was still there.”

“She was just sitting in her car?”

“That’s what Josh said. He wasn’t sure what she was doing. He was looking for me, and when he came upon the body he forgot all about her and just got to work getting rid of it. He wasn’t thinking straight.”

“We have to tell the police about this,” I say.

“Oh no, we don’t. I don’t want Josh placed back at the restaurant after we left the first time. Remember, you blab, I blab.”

“Fine, fine.” I think for a moment. “If Jacqueline really is the culprit, we need to find a way to get the police interested in investigating her further, but I’m really not sure what we’re dealing with here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jacqueline’s car was not in the parking lot when Wavonne and I came back to the restaurant, and Marcus was dead when we found him. If Jacqueline did kill Marcus, she did it before Wavonne and I got there. For some reason, she came back to the scene of the crime. Why would she do that?” I ask and think about how I didn’t see Marcus’s car in the lot the night of the murder. I wonder if I might have missed Jacqueline’s, as well, but that seems unlikely. Marcus’s car is black and quite discreet at night while Jacqueline’s flashy gold BMW is glaringly noticeable anytime.

“Probably to cover her tracks as best she could,” Wavonne says.

“Or maybe to move the body herself or, like Wavonne said, to get rid of any evidence that would link her to the crime.”

“The frying pan!” I say. “She probably came back to wipe her fingerprints off the frying pan. She could have hit Marcus over the head with it in a heated moment, ran away in a panic, and thought about the evidence she’d left behind after she got out of there.”

“Makes sense. So there’s a frying pan with her fingerprints on it? Where is it?” Heather asks.

“Yeah,
Halia,
where is it?” Wavonne asks with a snarky grin.

“It’s not of any use to us now. When Wavonne and I were cleaning up, I absentmindedly dropped it into a sink full of soapy water.”

“Really?” Heather asks, looking at me the way I often look at Wavonne when she’s done something stupid.

“Yes. Really,” I say, embarrassed that yet another person knows of my moment of carelessness. “I guess all I can do is call Detective Hutchins and put a bug in his ear about Jacqueline. . . remind him of her often-obvious disdain for her brother.”

“Don’t call him. Call your
boyfriend
instead.”

“Jack is not my boyfriend,” I respond, but Wavonne does have a point. I’ll get a much better reception from Jack than I will from Detective Hutchins.

I pull my phone from my purse and hit Jack’s number in my contacts. He gave it to me a long time ago and told me I could call him if anyone ever got out of hand at the restaurant.

“Officer Spruce.”

“Jack. Hi. It’s Halia from Sweet Tea.”

“Hey there,” Jack says, sounding excited to hear from me as Wavonne makes kissy noises with her lips. “What can I do for you?”

“I was just wondering if you had any updates on Marcus’s case.”

“Halia, you know I’m not supposed to share updates on ongoing investigations.”

“Of course. I understand, but I just want to make sure you . . . the police . . . are considering Marcus’s sister, Jacqueline. You can ask anyone. Everyone knew that she essentially hated her brother.” As I’m saying this, I suddenly feel guilty for throwing Jacqueline under the bus. She’s doesn’t eat my food, and she’s a bit of a prickly pear, but she’s always been generally pleasant to me. I certainly have no ill will toward her. But if Josh really did see her back at Sweet Tea after the murder, the cops should be prodded to at least investigate her further. If she has nothing to hide, she should be fine.

“Yeah. We heard about her tenuous relationship with her brother from a few folks. I shouldn’t be sharing this, but Detective Hutchins did briefly consider her a suspect. He did some investigating, and it turns out she actually co-owns the house she and Marcus lived in. Maybe Marcus thought putting her name on it, as well, would protect it in case he was ever sued.”

“Sued? Say for screwing people out of their savings through a crazy mortgage scam?”

“Something like that. But once we got the lead of a, shall we say,
full-figured
woman using Marcus’s stolen credit card, Hutchins backed off her. Jacqueline’s lean as a string bean. She doesn’t fit the description.”

“That’s good information to know, Jack. Thanks for keeping me in the loop.”

“You’re going to get me in trouble, Halia,” he says with a laugh.

“Nonsense. I won’t tell a soul what you shared with me. Hope you’ll come by the restaurant soon.”

“I will. Have a good day, Halia.”

“Hope you’ll come on by the restaurant soon,” Wavonne says, mimicking me while batting her eyes. “I don’t know why you two just don’t get a room and get it over with.”

I ignore Wavonne, but Heather laughs.

“So it turns out Jacqueline had more than dislike of her brother as a motive to kill Marcus. She’s on the deed to the house. With Marcus dead, it’s all hers. But they’re not looking at her as a suspect as she doesn’t fit the description of the Rubenesque woman who used his stolen credit card.”

“Someone used Marcus’s credit card after he was killed?”

“Apparently so,” Wavonne says before I have a chance to respond.

“Thank you, Heather. You’ve been really helpful,” I say, getting up from my chair. “I guess we’d better get going. If the cops are not going to investigate Jacqueline, then I’ll just have to do it myself.”

 

“W
hat’s a Zumba class?” I ask Wavonne as I peck away at the computer in my office.

“Zumba? That’s some Latin dancin’ exercise bidness uppity heifers do at the gym. I’ve seen ’em on TV shakin’ their behinds to Marc Anthony and Paulina Rubio. Why?”

“I found Jacqueline’s fitness Web site. It says she’s teaching one of these Zumba classes in a couple of hours over at the LA Fitness a few miles up the road.”

“Don’t tell me you’re thinkin’ of goin’?”

“I don’t know. Seems like a good enough excuse to reach out to her and try to find out what she was doing in the parking lot so late the night Marcus was killed.”

“
You?
In a Zumba class? This I gots to see.”

After I wrap up a few things at the restaurant, Wavonne and I swing by the house to change clothes. Yes, I own yoga pants. I have never, nor do I intend to ever
do
yoga, but damn if they aren’t comfortable as all get-out. I put them on with a big T-shirt and tennis shoes and call for Wavonne to get a move on.

A few seconds later she emerges from her room looking like she just stepped out of some Wayans’s Brothers’ spoof of
Flashdance
. She’s squeezed herself into a purple spandex leotard, cinched at the waist with a shiny black belt. She’s wearing sheer panty hose and some loud neon sneakers that I’m sure cost way more than she has any business spending on shoes. She’s taken off her wig and pulled her real hair back and clipped on a fake ponytail.

“Really?” is all I can bring myself to say.

“What?”

“We’re not making an Olivia Newton John video from the eighties, Wavonne.”

“Don’t be hatin’ just ’cause you ain’t got no style, Halia. And who’s Olivia Newton John?”

I laugh. “Hose, Wavonne? You’re gonna work out in panty hose?”

“Halia, these thighs
need
hose. I get to shakin’ and swayin’ without hose on, I’m liable to take out a few skinny bitches. Besides, I gots to look good. There may be some handsome brothas in the class.”

“I seriously doubt any men in a Latin dance exercise class are going to be interested in buying what you’re selling, Wavonne.” I look her up and down one more time. “No matter. Let’s go.”

We step out the front door just as Momma is coming in.

“Where are the two of you going looking like that? Halia, you’ve got to make more of an effort if you ever expect to land a man. And Wavonne, why are you dressed like you’re performing at a burlesque club?” She looks us both up and down. “One of you isn’t trying at all, and the other one looks like she’s ready to give it away to the highest bidder.”

“We’re goin’ to a Zumba class, Aunt Celia. We’re gonna get our exercise on.”

Momma laughs. “No really. Where are you going?”

“We are going to a Zumba class, Momma. Marcus’s sister, Jacqueline, is always asking us to try out one of her classes. We decided to take her up on it.”

“You’ve left the restaurant in the middle of the day to take an exercise class? I don’t buy it, Halia. What are the two of you up to?”

“Nothing. We just want to try it out.”

“You’re not sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, are you? I don’t want them pulling your body out of Wellington Lake.”

“Of course not,” I lie, and I can see from Momma’s expression that she knows it. “We’ve got to go, or we’re going to miss it.”

“I’m serious, Halia. You two, be careful. For all we know, Jacqueline is the one who killed Marcus.”

“Don’t be silly, Momma,” I say, even though she may very well be right.

It takes Wavonne and me about fifteen minutes to trek across town and get to the gym. I don’t remember the last time I was in a health club, and I’m uneasy walking through the front door. The place is vast and a busy beehive of activity. I see people on treadmills and elliptical trainers and working out on machines that I wouldn’t even begin to know how to use. It’s a younger crowd of mostly African Americans, but there a few white, Asian, and Latino people milling about, as well.

“Can I help you?” asks a cute young girl behind the counter.

“Yes. We’d like—” I’m about to ask about buying a couple of day passes when Wavonne intervenes.

“We’re thinkin’ of joining this gym. You know, we’ve heard good things about it.”

“Great,” the young lady says. “I’d be happy to give you a tour.”

“That’d be great, but we want to join mostly for the Zumba classes. We saw online that you have one startin’ in a few minutes. You think we could try out the class for free and get a tour and all that jazz after the class?”

The girl looks at Wavonne as if she’s got her number, but doesn’t have the energy to argue with her. “Go ahead,” she says. “The studio is downstairs.”

“I just saved you thirty dollars. Those day passes are fifteen bucks apiece,” Wavonne says. “And you know I like to gets me a commission on any savings I get for you.”

“I’ll take it off your rent,” I say. “Oh wait, you don’t pay any . . .”

Wavonne frowns at me, and we make our way to a big studio surrounded by mirrors on three walls and enclosed with a glass fourth wall just to be sure everyone in the gym can see me making me a complete fool of myself in an exercise class.

We see Jacqueline talking to someone as we approach.

“It’s all about discipline,” Jacqueline says to the slightly overweight, middle-aged woman. “You have to learn how to say no and make the right choices. Is it going to be a hamburger and a milk shake? Or a healthy salad with a cold glass of lemon water?”

“You make it sound so easy,” the woman says.

“It’s not that hard once you get into a health regimen and make it a way of life. You need to find healthy foods you like. I make a blueberry smoothie every morning with low-fat Greek yogurt, and it’s lovely. I enjoy salads and fresh vegetables. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything fried. If you go to my Web site, you’ll see some healthy recipes. I make them all the time, and they help me stay fit.”

“I wish I had your discipline.”

“Don’t we all,” I say, cutting into the conversation. I want to get a word in with Jacqueline before the class starts.

“Halia!” Jacqueline says with a smile. “How are you? And I see you brought Wavonne. So good to see you both.”

The woman Jacqueline was speaking to smiles at both of us, then looks back at Jacqueline. “Thanks for the tips, Jacqueline. I’ll check out your Web site.”

“Please do. It’s has all sorts of resources for healthy living.”

The woman smiles and walks off to find a place in the growing crowd in the studio.

“So you two finally decided to attend one of my classes. I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure we will.”

“Now, just take it easy and don’t push yourself too hard. You can take breaks at any time. Don’t feel like you have to keep up with the regulars. If any moves are too strenuous or complicated, just take a break and march in place,” she says, doing a quick marching demonstration.

Damn, do we look that out of shape?
I wonder to myself as I hear her talk to us as if we haven’t worked out a day in our lives and might drop dead from the stress of a couple of jumping jacks. I guess I’d be upset if it weren’t pretty close to the truth.

Jacqueline looks up at the clock. “It’s time to get started.”

Wavonne and I find a spot in the crowd as Jacqueline slips a microphone on and presses some buttons on a console attached to the wall. Some high-energy Latin music begins to blare through the speakers while Jacqueline gets into position in front of the room. She faces the mirror rather than us, which I guess is supposed to make it easier for us to follow her moves.

“Single, single, double,” she says as she waves her hands to the left and then to the right. “One, two, three, and clap.” She swirls her hips three times and claps.

Well, this isn’t so bad
.

“Single, single, double,” she says again, but this time she’s lifting her legs and swinging her arms between them.

“Two bends. To the left. Two bends.” Now she’s doing knee bends, shimmying to the left, and doing two more knee bends.

I figure it’s not a great sign that I’m already starting to get winded. I look over at Wavonne, and I can tell she’s feeling it, too.

“Elbows to belly buttons, ladies and gentlemen.” She’s plunging her elbows toward her stomach while thrusting her hips forward. I try to follow, but I feel ridiculous while my stamina continues to wane. We barely get another ten minutes into the class before I resort to marching in place.

“Lord Jesus!” I hear Wavonne say as she continues to try to keep up, but she eventually joins in with my marching.

“What’s that saying about a whore in church?” Wavonne says to me when she manages to get a breath. Even the low-key marching is doing a number on us.

“I’m sweating like one, too, Wavonne.”

We manage to make it through the rest of the class. But rather than taking occasional marching breaks from Jacqueline’s Zumba instructions, we take occasional breaks from marching and try to keep up with the class for few minutes at a time. I honestly thought that, given the fact that I move around all day at the restaurant, I wouldn’t have found this class so taxing, but boy, was I wrong. By the time Jacqueline takes us through some closing stretches and turns the music off, I think I’ve lost a pound of water and poor Wavonne is a mess of sweat and smeared makeup.

“You got some scissors?” Wavonne asks me.

“No. Why?”

“ ’Cause I wanna chop the crotch out this leotard and take these hose off right now.”

“I told you not to wear hose. Now come on. Let’s go try to get a few words in with Jacqueline.”

Wavonne and I take some deep breaths as we approach the front of the room.

“Thank you, Jacqueline. That was quite a workout.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. I hope you’ll come back. You’ll build more and more stamina each time.”

“I’m sure we will,” I say, trying to shift gears. “Are you doing okay? I know it’s been a rough time for you.”

“I’m hangin’ in there. Working . . . teaching my classes . . . staying active—that’s the best thing for me right now.”

“They do say exercise is a great way to relieve stress. Can we buy you something at the juice bar?”

“Thank you, but I’ve got another class on their way in now.”

I look around and see that some people from the first class never left and other new attendees are walking in.

“You’re doing this
again?
” Wavonne asks, floored that anyone would have the energy to teach two draining classes in a row.

“Yes.”

“I would like to check on you,” I say. “I know we don’t know each other that well, but Marcus helped me get Sweet Tea off the ground, and I’m sure he’d want to know someone was looking in on you.”

“That’s sweet, Halia. It’s really not necessary.”

“Will you be home later this evening?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I have an errand to run in the neighborhood. Maybe I could stop by and say hi?”

Jacqueline smiles. “That would be fine, Halia. I should be home after five or so.”

“Great.”

“I’ve really got to get this class started, so if you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course,” I say, and Wavonne follows me as we exit the studio and climb the stairs to the main level.

“Hold up,” Wavonne says, grabbing my hand. “Wait until she turns around, or we’ll get stuck takin’ that damn tour.”

“Now,” she says, pulling me by the hand as the girl turns toward a bin of clean towels and begins to fold them. “If she turns around, don’t look at her . . . and if she says anything, just keep walkin’.”

I do as I’m told, and we slink past the young woman without a word.