Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) (23 page)

“That’s okay. We won’t bother you with any more questions,” I say.

We chat some more and enjoy the food before I get up from the sofa. “Can we help you clean up?”

“You’re leaving already? Stay and have a slice of pie. I have some in the refrigerator.”

“Yeah. Stay and have a slice of pie,” Momma says, and gestures for me to sit down. “She’s always in such a hurry.”

“Of course,” I say. “Let me get the pie.”

“It’s lemon meringue. It’s on the bottom shelf. It’s from the grocery store, so I’m sure it’s not as good as the pies you make at your restaurant, but it’s not bad.”

“Actually, Momma makes the pies at Sweet Tea.” I head toward the kitchen again and keep an ear out for their conversation as I slice the pie and put it on plates. I thought Momma might ask some more questions about Marcus, but no such luck.

“Can you believe she’s over forty and still doesn’t have a man?”

“No? A girl who can cook like she does?”

“I know, right. That church you mentioned . . . you don’t know of any single men there for her, do you?”

 

“S
weet Tea. How may I help you?” I say into the phone. I’ve only been back from Mrs. Whitlock’s for a few minutes and was reviewing our reservations for the evening when the phone rang.

“Hello. I was there last night with my husband, and I think he left his jacket on the back of the chair.”

“I’m happy to check for you.” I walk with the portable phone toward the break room. We have a locker in there that we use for a makeshift lost and found. “What does it look like?”

“It’s a gray fleece jacket. It’s not much to look at, but my husband likes it.”

“Yes, it’s here. We’ll hold it for you. May I ask your name?”

“Pamela. Pamela Pritchett.”

“Oh yes. Hi, Pamela. It’s Halia,” I say. “I’m so glad you came to the restaurant. I hope you had a nice evening.” I try to hide my disdain for the woman.

“We did. Thank you.”

“You know,” I say, an idea coming to me. “I have an appointment downtown later today. Didn’t you say you lived in D.C.? I might be able to drop the jacket off if you’d like.”

“We’re on Capitol Hill. Not far from Eastern Market. Will you be in this neighborhood?”

“I won’t be far from there,” I lie, but then I don’t have an appointment in the city at all so what does it matter? I just think I might be able to have a more productive conversation with Pamela in her own home away from the noise and prying ears at Sweet Tea. “I’d be happy to swing by. It will save you a trip.”

Pamela proceeds to give me the address, and I hang up the phone and grab my purse. We just started our midday closure. If I leave now, I might be able to be back before we reopen for dinner at five.

As I leave the break room, for no real reason other than curiosity, I unzip one of the pockets of Charles’s jacket and feel around inside. I don’t find anything in the first pocket, but when I reach in the second, I feel something and pull it out. It’s a glossy book of matches with the words O
DYSSEY
L
OUNGE
printed on the cover in raised letters. When I flip the package over, I see an address in Cheverly printed on the back, but there’s no phone number.

I pull my one foot that was out of the break room door back inside, drop the jacket and my purse on the table, and walk over to my desk and sit down. I type Odyssey-Lounge-Cheverly into Google. I get some results in other areas of the country, but nothing comes up in Cheverly. Since I’ll pass through Cheverly on my way to Capitol Hill, I decide to swing by this Odyssey Lounge before heading to the Pritchetts’ house to return the jacket.

I poke my head in the kitchen and tell Laura I’ll be back in a couple of hours and make my way out to my van. Traffic is light on the Southeast Freeway, so it doesn’t take me long to reach the exit for Cheverly. With the help of my navigation system, I make a few turns after I get off the highway and find that the address on the back of the matchbook belongs to a run-down auto repair shop in a pretty sketchy-looking neighborhood. The sign on the building looks like it used to say Radcliff’s Garage, but the
d
and one of the
f
s are missing.

I look at the address on the book of matches again just to make sure I have the right place, and it appears that I do. I’d consider popping inside and asking someone if they had any information, but this repair shop looks like it’s long been out of business. There’s not a single car in the parking lot, so I decide to drive on.

I get back on the highway toward the city, and it’s not long before I am maneuvering through the quaint tree-lined streets of the Capitol Hill neighborhood of D.C. When I pull up in front of the Pritchetts’ house, I see a sizable three-story brick row house—not huge by suburban standards, but considering it’s in a highly sought-after D.C. neighborhood near the Capitol Building, it could be, depending on the condition of the inside, worth well over a million dollars.

“Hello. This is so nice of you,” Pamela says. She must have seen me pull up because she’s already opened the door, and I’m not even up the front steps yet.

“No problem. I was in the neighborhood anyway.” I hand her the jacket.

“Thanks again,” she says. “I really appreciate you saving me a trip to come pick it up. But I do hope to come back to Sweet Tea sometime soon. We really enjoyed the food.”

“I hope so, too.”

She smiles at me and starts to back into the house as if she’s trying to wrap things up and send me on my way—well, I’m having none of that.

“Such a nice home. I’d love to see the inside.” I’d generally never be so forward, but I didn’t drive all the way to Capitol Hill to drop off a jacket. I’m here seeking information, and I’m not leaving until I get some.

“Um . . .” She stumbles for a moment. “Please . . . come in.” She steps farther back inside and opens the door nice and wide.

“Don’t mind if I do.” I walk through the door she’s holding open onto sparkling marble floors lit from above by a mammoth crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling—yes, well over a million dollars.

“I only have a few moments, but why don’t we take a seat in the parlor.”

I follow her to the adjoining room and realize that “parlor” is just a fancy word for living room.

“Please. Have a seat.” She’s polite, but I sense that she’s not thrilled about having to associate with someone she probably considers to be the help.

“Would you like something to drink? I can ask Roberta to prepare some tea.”

“No. Thank you,” I say. “Honestly, Pamela, I just wanted a few moments of your time, so we could chat.”

Pamela audibly sighs. “Is this about Marcus Rand? I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Have you? Really?”

“Yes,” she says firmly. “Now I really do have some things that require my attention. If there’s nothing else . . . I do appreciate you dropping off the jacket.”

I don’t know what to say, and I have no idea if this Odyssey Lounge has anything to do with Marcus but, on a whim, I decide to throw it out there and see what happens. “I know all about the Odyssey Lounge, Pamela.”

Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open. “That’s my husband’s endeavor. I have nothing to do with it.”

“It doesn’t surprise me. You seem too classy to be involved in something like that.” I have no idea what I’m talking about, but it seems prudent to play off her reaction.

“Of course I am,” she says, lifting her head slightly higher. “I wish he’d never gotten involved in such a thing—nearly naked women dancing around for men in abandoned buildings turned into makeshift nightclubs. It’s disgusting.”

I try not to show my surprise as she reveals what the Odyssey Lounge is. It shouldn’t surprise me. Charles was already involved in one sleazy business—why not two?

“Are you planning to tell anyone about this?”

“I’m not sure,” I respond. “Perhaps if you tell me the truth about what you know about Marcus’s death, I won’t need to.”

“Charles has told you . . . I’ve told you . . . my husband had
nothing
to do with Marcus’s murder.”

“Maybe not, but I suspect he did not come straight home after leaving Sweet Tea the night Marcus was killed. Perhaps he went to the Radcliff’s Garage to check on things at his go-go club.”

Pamela diverts her eyes from me.

“Did you not tell the police because the club is illegal?” I ask.

“It’s not exactly illegal. Charles manages to keep the club going through some sort of loophole in the county ordinances, but the police and civic groups are still always looking for ways to shut it down. Charles manages to stay one step ahead of them, though. For now, it’s the Odyssey Lounge at Radcliff’s Garage in Cheverly. In a few weeks the name will change, and it may move to an abandoned strip mall in District Heights or a shuttered restaurant in Hillcrest.”

“If it’s lawful, then why did you lie about where Charles was?”

“Halia, I’m a woman of certain standing in the community. We tell everyone that Charles works in finance. What would the neighbors think if they knew my husband was running a barely legal strip bar that moves from location to location like a traveling circus? If the ladies at the country club found out about it, I’d just die. How could I ever look any one of them in the eye again?”

“Um . . . I don’t know,” I say, unsure how to respond. I’m almost sad for her. She has this beautiful home, fabulous clothes, and apparently someone named Roberta to do her bidding, but it all has been obtained through businesses that may or may not be operating within the law. I want to ask her if it’s worth it—if all the wealth and privilege is worth the look of shame I see on her face, but, instead, I decide I’d rather just relieve myself of her company.

“So you won’t tell anyone?”

“Who would I tell? We don’t exactly run in the same circles, Pamela.”

“No. I guess not.”

Clearly neither one of us has any idea of what to say to one another at this point so I break the growing silence between us. “I think you’ve told me what I needed to know. I guess I’ll be on my way. You really do have a lovely home.”

“Thank you. And thanks again for dropping the jacket by.”

“No problem.” I make my way quickly to the front door and can’t exit the house fast enough. The longer I stayed and the more I talked with Pamela, the more the negative energy either emitting from her or the house (or both of them) began to overwhelm me. As I get in the van, I think about how it’s tempting to feel jealous of people like Charles and Pamela with their grand home, designer clothes, and fancy cars, but spending time with them makes me pity rather than envy them. I might not be rich, but at least I earn an honest living and don’t live in fear of my friends and neighbors finding out about any shady businesses I’m running.

 

I’
m feeling melancholy on my way back to Sweet Tea. It’s been a long week and a half since Marcus was killed. The shame on Pamela’s face when she spoke of the Odyssey Lounge makes me sad, and hearing Mrs. Whitlock’s story earlier today about how she stands to lose her house is really weighing on me. I’m not far from the restaurant when I decide I’m not up to going back just yet. I need a few minutes to regroup and process everything I’ve learned over the past few days. I see a Starbucks on the other side of the highway and decide to make a detour, get a latte or Frappuccino, and sit and think for a few minutes.

I pull into the turn lane at the next stoplight and make my way over to the coffeehouse. Once inside, I order a tall mocha Frappuccino and take a seat at a small table in one corner by the window. I sip my drink and watch the traffic go by . . . so many people going so many places. I ponder the events of the last few days and how my amateur sleuthing has gotten me nowhere. Well, maybe not
nowhere
. At least I feel fairly confident about who
didn’t
kill Marcus. I just still have no idea who
did
kill him. Maybe I’ve been going down the wrong path all along. Maybe none of the people having dinner with Marcus the night he was killed had anything to do with his death. Perhaps he was killed by someone who was not there at all. His murder might have had nothing to do with the mortgage program. Only God knows what other sort of mayhem Marcus was involved in both personally and professionally.

I’m feeling like I’ve failed, and that I’ve wasted huge amounts of time for little, if any, real return when I see a familiar face in line at the counter. My first instinct is to try to pretend I don’t notice her. I’m just not in the mood to have polite conversation. But before I have a chance to look away, Régine’s eyes meet mine, and neither one of us really has the option of acting like we don’t see each other.

I force a smile and get up from my chair.

“Hey, Régine. So nice to see you. How are you?”

“I’m okay,” she says. I notice that she’s not alone. She’s with another woman with short hair who’s about the same height as her. I look at the other woman, waiting for Régine to introduce us. There’s an awkward pause before she finally says, “This is my friend Cherise.”

“Halia,” I say and extend my hand.

As Cherise’s grasp meets mine, I have this feeling that I’ve seen her somewhere. I can’t place where, but she definitely looks familiar to me. “Have we met before?”

“No,” she says with a smile. “I don’t think so.”

“I feel like I recognize you from somewhere.”

She laughs. “Maybe I have one of those faces.”

“Maybe,” I respond before turning back to Régine. “How are you doing, Régine? I know it’s been a rough time for you.”

“I’m holding up okay. I’m trying to get out with friends some . . . take my mind off things.” She gestures toward Cherise.

“Good. I’m glad. Being around people is probably the best thing.”

At this point we’ve made it to the front of the line. Régine orders coffees for both of them and hands her credit card over to the barista.

“Come by the restaurant anytime. There’re always plenty of people there.”

“Halia owns Sweet Tea, you know the restaurant over by the—”

“I know where Sweet Tea is, Régine. I’ve been there a number of times,” Cherise says as the barista gives Régine the credit card slip to sign. She takes the receipt from the clerk, grabs a pen from the counter, and signs the little slip of paper. Then I follow them as they walk over to the cream and sugar station.

As I watch Cherise grab a packet of sugar, dump its contents into her cup, and stir it around with a little wooden stick, I have what Oprah would call an “aha” moment. Suddenly, there’s a domino effect going on in my mind—one piece of the puzzle has started to make sense of the other pieces of the puzzle . . . the pieces of the puzzle I’ve been collecting for over a week. Suddenly, I can feel adrenaline pulsing through my veins.

“If you’ve been to Sweet Tea, that must be where I’ve seen you before,” I lie.

“It’s always delicious. I hope to go back soon.”

“How about this evening?” I say to Cherise and then look at Régine. “I’d be happy to host you and Cherise as my guests tonight. It’s the least I can do. You’ve been through so much. Come by with Cherise and have a nice meal.”

“Thank you, Halia, but I’m not sure—”

I put my hand up. “I won’t take no for an answer. Let’s say seven thirty?”

“If you insist,” she says.

“Then it’s settled. We’ll see you both at Sweet Tea tonight. It really was good to see you.”

I force a smile and turn to leave. As I walk out, I’m excited and nervous . . . and even a little afraid. After all the questioning and snooping around and, now, following a chance encounter at Starbucks, I’m ninety-nine point nine percent certain I know who killed Marcus.