Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) (21 page)

“Oh yes, he did,” Jacqueline says.

 

“W
hat do you mean? What motive?” I ask Jacqueline.

“Well . . .” Jacqueline pauses. “You know what? Before I get into it all, how about a glass of wine? I feel like I need one.”

“That would be lovely.”

“Red or white?”

“Either.”

“Okay, let me go pick out a nice bottle before it gets repossessed with everything else.”

Jacqueline gets up from the sofa and leaves the room while I remain seated and take in the vast living room—slick hardwood floors covered just so much with handmade rugs, oil paintings on the walls, recessed lighting, and a grand fireplace with a granite mantle set between floor-to-ceiling windows. Marcus could put on a show in so many ways. I guess this house was just another piece in the façade that was his life. From what Jacqueline has said, he couldn’t afford any of it—not the cars, not the clothes, and certainly not this monstrosity of a house.

“You’re supposed to let it breathe, but whatever,” Jacqueline says as she sets two thinly lipped wineglasses on the coffee table. She sits back down on the sofa and fills the glasses with a Domaine Maillard Pinot Noir. I recognize the bottle immediately as it’s one of the more expensive bottle of red on my wine list at Sweet Tea. Most of my wines run in the neighborhood of thirty dollars a bottle, but we sell the Domaine Maillard for sixty-seven.

“So, as I was saying, Charles hired Marcus months ago. They met at one of Charles’s seminars. You know Marcus . . . always trying to get something for nothing, so he went to the one of Reverie Homes presentations to see if it was legit . . . if the stories he’d heard about people paying their houses off so quickly were actually true.”

“And what did he find out?”

“Marcus was no fool. He asked several questions during the seminar and then stayed behind and questioned Charles even more. The way I understand it, the more Marcus began to figure out the business model, and that they were selling nothing more than a house of cards, his questions became less about buying in to the program and more about what Charles’s role was and how he was compensated.”

“No one could wheel and deal quite like our Marcus.”

“You’ve got that right. Marcus smelled an opportunity. He and Charles went out to dinner that night, and it wasn’t long before Marcus was recruiting for Reverie himself. At first he was only recruiting people to come to the seminars and would get a small commission if any of the people he referred to the seminars actually signed up and made an investment. More recently he started actually signing up clients for the program himself and getting much bigger commissions.”

“So how does this relate to Charles having a reason to kill Marcus? When I talked to him, he said that Marcus worked as his underling, so he got a piece of Marcus’s commissions. Seems like Marcus served him better alive than dead.”

“Yes. He got a piece of Marcus’s commissions as long as he remained employed with Reverie. I’ve been rooting through Marcus’s e-mails and, from what I can tell, the Reverie program in this area has been on a downward spiral for months. The higher-ups at corporate were not happy with Charles—he wasn’t bringing in enough new recruits or doing a good job at keeping the current investors reassured that the program was sound. They liked Marcus and were impressed with his moxy. Plus, he had contacts all over town through his financial planning business and all the religious and social groups he belonged to.”

“Exactly how many religious groups was Marcus affiliated with?” I ask, already knowing that he had been on the prowl at two local churches at least.

“Who knows? Several. Marcus would have pretended to be a Hasidic Jew or donned a Sikh turban if he thought it would make him some money. I think Reverie liked that about him—his ‘do whatever it takes’ attitude. Apparently, they were grooming him to take the reins from Charles.”

“So Marcus was in and Charles was out?”

“From Marcus’s notes, and what I’ve been able to piece together from his e-mails, yes, it appears that way. What I don’t know is whether or not Charles knew this. If he did, indeed, know that Reverie was planning to fire him and replace him with Marcus, and that he stood to lose huge amounts of money, then he certainly had reason to take Marcus out of the equation. Reverie is not likely to fire him now that a suitable replacement is not waiting in the wings.”

“True. I guess I need to put Charles back on the suspect list.”

“You? Shouldn’t the police be handling this?”

“Yes, of course. I hope you’ll let them know about this and encourage them to take a second look at Charles. I’m just sort of playing it out in my head, trying to make sense of it all.” It was the best I could come up with. I certainly couldn’t tell her that I know for a fact that the cops are heading down a dead-end path in their quest to find a woman fitting Wavonne’s description.

“I will,” Jacqueline says.

I take a last sip of my wine. “I guess I should get going. It really was nice to chat with you, Jacqueline.”

“You, too,” she says.

She follows me out of the room toward the front door.

“Please come by the restaurant anytime. I’ll slip you some fried chicken to go. I’ll hide it under some salad greens or something,” I say with a laugh.

She smiles. “In that case, I’d better get back to my workout.”

“Better you than me,” I respond. I’m about to trot off to my van, but I take a moment and turn around. “And really, Jacqueline. Call me if you need anything or just want someone to talk to.”

“I will, Halia. Thank you.”

I can tell she appreciates the offer as she gives me a final wave and closes the door.

 

“W
e’ve been over this before, Wavonne,” I say. We’re behind the bar, and I’m whipping up a pitcher of Sweet Tea’s signature cocktail.

“I’m tellin’ you, it would sell.”

“I don’t care. I’m not serving Kool-Aid in my restaurant.”

“Just red flavored. That’s all you need.”

“
Red
is a flavor now?” I ask without giving her a chance to respond. “The answer is no.”

“Fine. Just tryin’ to help you make some mo’ money, so I can get me some trickle down.”

“If you want to make more money, you could take on a few extra tables and put a little more pep in your step around here.”

Wavonne looks as if she’s considering my recommendation for a moment, concludes it would be far too taxing, and decides to change the subject.

“So Jacqueline really said Marcus didn’t have no money? He’d been frontin’ all along?”

“Yep. It sounds like she might even lose the house.”

“Damn shame.” Wavonne shakes her head. “What else did she say? Did she give you some scoop on that Charles fella? Is that why you have him comin’ over? What kinda deets do you think you’re gonna get outta him?”

“I don’t know. He’s about my last lead at the moment. I’m hoping that if I get a few cocktails in him, he’ll drop his guard and give me some useful information . . . or maybe even implicate himself.”

“You really think he coulda done it?”

“I don’t know what to think,” I say as I catch some activity out of the corner of my eye. I turn and see Charles and a sharply dressed younger woman next to him. I called him yesterday after I left Jacqueline’s, but I suspect he saw my number come up on his phone and declined to answer my multiple attempts to reach him. I eventually looked up his home phone number (yes, some people do still have landlines these days) and ended up reaching his wife. I was afraid if I left a message with her, Charles would ignore it, so I explained my situation to his wife, told her I was only interested in any information Charles could give me about the others at the table the night Marcus was killed, and invited her and Charles to come to the restaurant as my guests. She mentioned that she’d heard good things about Sweet Tea and happily committed both of them.

“Hello, Charles,” I say. “How are you?”

“Good . . . good,” he replies. “This is my wife, Pamela.”

“So nice of you to come.”

“Are you kidding? All I’ve heard are raves about this place. I’ve always wanted to try it, but we live in the city and don’t think to come out to PG County for dinner . . . it’s not exactly a mecca of fine dining.”

“Well, I hope we’ll change your mind about that tonight.” I smile at her remark, even though it irritates me. Not that what she said is exactly untrue—aside from Sweet Tea and the restaurants at National Harbor, there really is little fine dining in the County, but it was her tone more than her words that put me off. “Please. Follow me, and we’ll get you seated.”

I lead them to a cozy booth along the wall, and they take their seats.

“Let me get you some menus. I’ll be right back.” I try to quickly size them up while I say this. I’ve met Charles a couple of times now, and much like Marcus, he is smooth but in a different way. Marcus was “Rico Suave” smooth . . . he was all muscles, and ultra-white teeth, and designer suits smooth. Charles is as fast-talking as Marcus but has more of a “nice man next door” way about him. He’s probably in his fifties with a middle-age belly, wears expensive but casual clothes, and has a more honest face than Marcus. Despite the Ralph Lauren shirt and expensive watch he’s wearing, he’s the type of guy you’d look at and think that he probably cuts the grass of the elderly woman next door just to be neighborly, which makes him more dangerous than Marcus. We’re taught to be wary of people like Marcus, but we’re not as suspicious of people like Charles.

His wife is easy to figure out. She’s significantly younger than Charles, and with her bitchy comment about Prince George’s County being a restaurant wasteland, high-maintenance looks, and designer clothes, she’s what Wavonne would call “bougie.” Swindling decent people out of their savings is probably the only way Charles can afford her upkeep. She was clearly not genetically blessed but has gone to great lengths to make the most of what God has given her. From a distance I bet she appears to be a knockout, but as you look closer you can tell that her large breasts do not match her petite frame and are clearly of the silicone variety, the bulk of her hair is not her own, and the tip of her nose is just a little bit off, likely from rhinoplasty that didn’t go as well as one might have hoped.

“Some menus,” I say and set them down on the table. “And I took the liberty of whipping up a pitcher of our house cocktail.” I set the pitcher and two glasses of ice on the table. I fill the glasses and wait for them to take a sip.

“That’s very nice,” Pamela says. “What’s in it?”

“I’d tell you, but I’ve have to kill you,” I joke. “It’s a mix of grapefruit-flavored vodka, triple sec, Sprite, lemon juice, and a berry syrup we make ourselves. Why don’t you look at the menus, and I’ll send Darius over shortly to take your order. He’ll take great care of you. Please enjoy a nice meal on me this evening, and we’ll talk over dessert.”

They nod and smile before I head toward the kitchen to check on things. It’s a Tuesday, so we are busy, but it’s not quite as hectic as it is on Friday and Saturday nights. When I push on the kitchen door, I hope to see a well-oiled machine in motion catering to the dinner rush, but when I walk through the threshold, I see Wavonne grasping one of the stainless steel counters. She’s bent over, gyrating her hips back and forth.

“Work it,” I hear Darius say from behind her as Tacy and the rest of the kitchen staff look on.

“What are you doing, Wavonne?” I ask, and everyone freezes as if the school principal just barged into the detention room.

“Tacy axed me what it meant to twerk. I was just givin’ him a demo.”

“Give Tacy twerking demos on your own time, Wavonne. We have a dining room full of customers.”

“Oh, come on, Halia, twerk with me,” she says and bends over again and starts bumping the side of her hip into mine. “Come on, Halia. Get your twerk on, girl!”

Some song by honorary brother Robin Thicke is playing on whoever’s iPod is docked in the kitchen speaker. Generally, you can barely hear it with all the kitchen commotion going on, but things are suddenly quiet with all eyes on me. I see my staff watching me, waiting for me to reprimand Wavonne. And you know what? I decide to surprise them.

“Turn it up, Tacy,” I say. He does as he’s asked and, let me tell you, I get my groove
on!
I do love to dance and never get the chance to do it anymore. Women my age are hardly welcome in the clubs downtown, and I wouldn’t have the time or energy to go even if we were. But in my twenties, I’d hit Zanzibar on the Waterfront in Southwest D.C. with my girlfriends and shake my moneymaker with the best of them. As the music cranks up, I start swinging my hips and moving my shoulders. Wavonne gets in front of me and gives new meaning to the words “jiggly parts.” I’m laughing and dancing and snapping my fingers . . . feeling the most relaxed I have in weeks. Our dancing is contagious, and it’s not long before the whole kitchen has abandoned their burners and fryers and dirty dishes, and we’re all jamming to the tune. Even Tacy, who clearly has no rhythm, is giving it a shot. He looks like he’s having a bad reaction to some medication, but you’ve got to give the guy credit for trying. It’s a fun time, and I’m glad I have a chance to prove to my staff that I’m not a complete stick in the mud, but as the song ends, I motion for Tacy to turn it back down and steady my feet.

“Okay, ladies and gentleman . . . and
Wavonne,
” I say. “Back to work. We’ve got a restaurant to run.”

The gang returns to their duties, and I touch Darius on the arm on his way out to the dining room. “Take good care of the couple at table sixteen. Let me know when they order dessert.”

“Sure,” he says. “That’s the same guy who was here the night Marcus went missing, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

Darius smiles. “Okay. If you want to play it that way. You’re the boss.” He scoots out the kitchen door.

I spend the next hour and change between the kitchen, the dining room, and the host station, making sure everything is running smoothly, saying hi to regulars and some new customers, running checks for hurried servers . . . whatever needs to be done. When Darius finally lets me know that Charles and Pamela have ordered dessert, I head to the kitchen to fill the order myself. Shortly after, I emerge from the kitchen with two slices of three-layer caramel cake.

As I walk by a table Wavonne is waiting on, I overhear one of the customers ask about the desserts I have in my hands.

“My aunt Celia made that fresh this morning. It’s her caramel cake. We also have these big-assed cookies that Aunt Celia made, too. We serve ’em with—”

I backtrack to Wavonne’s table. “Wavonne, would you please not refer to our desserts as ‘big-assed,’ ” I say to her before I turn to the four-top with three ladies seated at it. “We have some hearty-sized cookies for dessert. Three chocolate-chunk cookies served warm with vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, and fresh-made whipped cream. Wavonne will be happy to tell you about the rest of our selections tonight.” I smile at the women and, before heading over to Charles and Pamela’s table, I give a Wavonne a look that will hopefully remind her to choose her words more carefully when speaking with customers.

“Two slices of caramel cake. Made in-house today.” I place the plates on the table and take a seat next to Pamela. “Thanks again for agreeing to talk with me tonight. I know the police are doing their thing, but the last place anyone saw Marcus was here in my restaurant. It just makes me uneasy, and I’d really like to do anything I can to help figure out what happened.”

Darius had followed behind me and is just now finishing pouring us each a cup of coffee.

“That makes perfect sense, Halia,” Charles says. “And I wish I could help you, but I’ve told you and the police all I know.” He takes a bite of the cake. “Wow. This is really good.” There is a more friendly tone in Charles’s voice than when I’ve spoken with him recently—must be the power of Momma’s caramel cake.

“Can you go over the events with me one more time after Wavonne and I left the restaurant?”

“I’ve heard him recount it to the police so many times,
I
can go over the events the night Marcus disappeared,” Pamela interjects. “And I wasn’t even there.”

“Have at it,” Charles says.

“You and Wanda left—”

“Wavonne,” I correct her.

“Her name is
Wavonne?
” Pamela asks in a “what the hell kind of name is that” tone, which makes me dislike her even more. “So you and
Wavonne
left about eleven forty-five. Marcus’s girlfriend left a few minutes later. The rest of the party stayed while Marcus and Charles discussed the Reverie Program with their clients . . . I can’t remember their names. . . .”

“That would be Heather and Josh Williams,” I say. “My understanding was they left roughly a half hour or so after I did, followed by Charles. Then Jacqueline left and Marcus was here alone.”

“That’s pretty much covers it. After Régine and the Williamses left, I stayed and talked with Marcus for a few more minutes. We had hoped another client would join us that night, but she wasn’t able to make it, so we needed to make plans to have a meeting with her and assure her that the Reverie program was sound. Her checks had been interrupted much like they had been for Heather and Josh.”

“Yes, the Reverie Program,” I say, and, from Pamela’s reaction, my feelings about the program must have shown on my face or come through in my voice.

“Don’t say it like that. It’s a sound program. We have invested ourselves.”

I wanted to say that I
bet
they have. Much like Marcus, they figured they could keep swindling investors into the program long enough to get their house paid off and make a lot of money on commissions in the process. But the Reverie program is not my concern. Finding out who killed Marcus is.

“Who is the other client? This is the first I’ve heard of him or her . . . or them.”

“Audrey Whitlock.”

“So her payments had stopped coming, as well? Have the police talked to her?”

“I’m sure they have, but believe me, Mrs. Whitlock did not kill Marcus.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because she’s in her eighties and can barely leave her house.”

I want to ask Charles how . . .
how
he can sleep at night when, during the day, he’s duping eighty-year-old women out of their homes, but I stick to the business at hand.

“I knew she was calling Marcus regularly about her concerns. We just wanted to reassure her that the checks would resume soon.”

“Have they?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

“We’re having some cash flow issues, Halia. We’re trying to stabilize the program with some new investors, but that’s been hard these days, especially when people like Heather and Josh show up at our presentations and scare off new recruits.”

“Where does Mrs. Whitlock live?”

“She has a little house in Hyattsville. I can get you the exact address if you’d like, but I’m telling you, it’s a dead end.”

I want to lay into him . . . him and that wife of his who are living the high life off the homes of senior citizens, but it will be much easier for him to give me Mrs. Whitlock’s address than for me to have to hunt it down online, so I decide to play nice. “I would appreciate that, Charles,” I say. “So getting back to that fateful night, after you left Sweet Tea, did you go straight home?”