Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) (7 page)

I grew up cooking with my grandmother. Truth be known, and for better or for worse, my adventure into the culinary arts began as a way for me to get out of going to church. Every Sunday, Grandmommy would host a big family get-together after service. Anywhere from fifteen to thirty people would show up on Grandmommy’s doorstep after services, and there was no way Grandmommy could go to church
and
prepare a meal for that kind of crowd unless people wanted to eat at midnight. Grandmommy always said feeding the churchgoers was her way of worshiping God. It wasn’t long before I realized that, if I stayed back and helped her, it could be
my
way of worshiping God, too, which was a hell of a lot better than trying to sit still for three hours while some old windbag preached, and a bunch of fools got to hootin’ and hollerin’ in the aisles as if they were overcome by the Holy Spirit . . . when the only thing those damn drama queens were overcome with was the desire to be the center of attention.

Grandmommy and I would start cooking at nine in the morning. The menu varied from week to week, but one thing that was always a staple was fried chicken and waffles. Often it was my job to batter the chicken, which Grandmommy always marinated in seasonings the night before. Sometimes I’d mix up the waffles using the whipped egg whites we always added to make them extra fluffy. Other days I was busy rinsing greens or mashing sweet potatoes. I don’t remember if pre-shredded cheese was as available in the seventies as it is now, but regardless, I often spent a good deal of the morning grating cheese by hand for the macaroni.

I learned so much on those Sunday mornings, and I loved that time with Grandmommy. I was one of thirteen grandchildren, so I considered myself lucky to get a whole morning of alone time with her once a week. I helped her almost every Sunday from the time I was twelve until after I was eighteen and left for college. It was after I’d gone away to school that she had a heart attack and just didn’t have the strength to host Sunday dinner anymore. But I never forgot her recipes, and after six years of apprenticeship, I could make a soul food meal that would knock your socks off. Before I opened the restaurant I would even have family over once every six weeks or so for Sunday supper. Of course, it didn’t have the same feel as when we all gathered at Grandmommy’s house, but the food was just as good, and it helped to keep the family connected.

Sweet Tea has been such a great way to keep my grandmother’s memory alive, and despite the hours I have to put in there and the headaches it gives me every day, I love that restaurant, and I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to it. Maybe calling the police and letting them find Marcus’s dead body on the floor of my kitchen wouldn’t kill my business. I honestly don’t know how my customers would react to the news, but I just can’t take the chance. I have bills of my own to pay, and I’m mostly supporting Momma and Wavonne, as well.
No, I just can’t take that chance.
The police will be notified of his body soon enough, and they can investigate from there.

I try to put the whole thing out of my mind, but the memory of Marcus’s stiff hand is hard to ignore. Marcus was smarmy and always up to no good, but one thing I will say about him: the world is now a much less interesting place without him in it.

 

I
pull into the King Town Center with the expectation that I might see a spectacle of red and blue flashing lights and yellow police tape. Surely someone has stepped into the alley behind the shopping center and seen Marcus’s body. But everything seems to be “business as usual” as I maneuver my van into a parking space and turn off the ignition. And that’s when I see it: Marcus’s car, a sleek black BMW. I was so frazzled as we left Sweet Tea last night that I didn’t even notice it in the parking lot.

When I step into the restaurant, it’s bustling like a busy beehive. My servers are straightening up the dining room and filling condiment containers. I hear Laura’s voice in the back supervising the kitchen, and Tacy is rolling silverware at one of the back tables. Everyone is scurrying around getting ready for the Sunday brunch crowd. Nothing seems out of the ordinary—nothing except for the huge knot in my stomach and the eggshells I’m walking on waiting for someone to rush in the restaurant screaming about a dead body.

Clearly the body has not been found. Wavonne and I left it
next
to the Dumpster—not
behind
it or
in
it . . . just next to it. You’d think someone would have taken out the trash or made a delivery and seen the body by now. But it is a Sunday, which isn’t a big day for deliveries, and most of the businesses in the shopping center don’t open until ten. It’s only nine now.

I say hi to my staff and make my way to kitchen. As usual, Laura has everything under control. I see eggs being prepped for omelets, fruit being sliced for garnish, potatoes being chopped for home fries, and Laura is in the far corner standing next to one of my industrial mixers, which is whipping up the batter for our salty/sweet cheese nips. Sunday brunch is the one and only seating at which we don’t serve my grandmother’s cornbread. Instead, we offer a complimentary basket of salty/sweet cheese nips, a concoction I developed on my own using Grandmommy’s drop biscuit recipe as a base. We mix up flour, shortening, and other dry ingredients with a healthy helping of Monterey Jack and Cheddar cheese. Then we drop the slightly larger-than-bite-size biscuits by spoon onto a cookie sheet. After we bake them to a golden brown, we brush them with salted butter, let them cool a bit before sprinkling them with course sugar crystals, and get them to the tables while they’re still warm. They are a challenge to execute. If we put the sugar on too early, the crystals will melt, and, if we wait too long, the crystals won’t stick, and we end up serving cold biscuits to my patrons. But the customers rave about them and always ask for the recipe (which I’d give them over my dead body), so they are worth all the trouble.

“How’s it going?” I ask Laura.

“Good. The temperature is off in oven number two. I called the repair shop, but they can’t get anyone out here today, so we’re down to two ovens until then.”

“Okay. I’ll give Harry a call at the repair shop, and see if I can sweet-talk him into getting someone out here today. Anything else going on?”

“No. Everything is pretty well under control.”

I want to ask her if she’s sure . . . if she’s
sure
there’s nothing else going on. Or if she saw anything suspicious when she came in this morning, but I decide it’s best to keep my mouth shut.

“Great. I’m going to go look at the reservations on the computer and see what kind of crowds we can expect this morning.”

When I first opened Sweet Tea, I didn’t take reservations. As anyone in the restaurant business can tell you, taking reservations creates a host of problems. You have the no-shows whom you’ve held a table for, the folks who show up late and get an attitude when you’ve given their table away, and the diners who linger at their table well beyond the allotted time for which we plan for them to be there (we call them “campers”), which makes us run behind with other reservations. It’s much easier and more profitable to take customers on a first-come, first-serve basis, but as my restaurant became more popular and waits of up to two hours were not unheard of on Friday and Saturday nights, I started getting more and more requests from patrons for me to start taking reservations, so I eventually decided to reach for some middle ground and began offering a limited number of reservations, but still make most tables available on a first-come, first-serve basis. This way, as long as customers call far enough in advance, they can usually get a reservation for their preferred seating time and avoid a long wait.

As I make my way out to the host stand, I see a Prince George’s County police car pull into a parking spot outside the front door. My heart starts to sputter as I watch Jack Spruce get out of the car. I know Jack well, and Wavonne teases that he has a crush on me. I don’t think anyone would call him handsome, and much like myself, it wouldn’t kill him to drop a few pounds, but he has a kind face and is always very nice. He is one of many officers who patrol the parking lot on a regular basis. On some Friday and Saturday nights we have a cop in the lot for the entire evening, which is more to keep an eye on Fast Freddie’s (a sports bar and pool hall, several doors down from Sweet Tea that often has a pretty rambunctious crowd) than my restaurant, but their presence is still appreciated. We always welcome the police into the restaurant and offer them free sodas or cups of coffee.

My hands are trembling as I mess around with the keys on the computer to look like I’m keeping busy as he makes his way to the door. I pretend to take a moment or two to notice him standing outside. When his eyes catch mine, he smiles and offers a quick wave. I force a return smile and remind myself to walk slowly toward the door.

You don’t know anything about any dead body behind the town center. Nothing. Absolutely nothing,
I say to myself in my head, thinking that these thoughts might help my face project innocence.

“Morning, Halia,” Jack says, when I unlock the door and let him in. “How’s it going?”

“Just fine, Jack. How are you?”

“I’m good. You got any coffee on?”

“Sure. I believe we’ve started brewing it already,” I say, and turn toward Tacy, who’s a few yards away at one of the tables. “Tacy, can you get Officer Spruce a cup of coffee?”

“You bet,” he says, nods at Jack, and heads toward the coffee station.

“What’s new? Good crowd at dinner last night?”

“Yeah . . . yeah. It was good,” I say awkwardly, waiting for him to bring up a dead body.

“Good. Best food in the area. No wonder you keep so busy.”

I nod to acknowledge his compliment and then just look at him, waiting for him to break the news . . . to start asking questions, but he just stares back at me.

Oh, for Pete’s sake,
I think to myself.
He doesn’t know about the body. He’s just here on a social call
.

Conversation usually flows freely between Jack and me, so I need to break this uncomfortable quiet before he gets suspicious.

“I’m sorry,” I say, breaking the silence. “I’m a little distracted. One of my ovens is down just in time for the brunch rush.”

“Really? Sorry to hear that. If I were handy, I’d offer to take a look at it for you, but I struggle with changing light bulbs.”

“You and me both.” I begin to relax a little bit. “So what are you up to this morning? Making your regular rounds?”

“Yeah. There was break-in at a house in the neighborhood across the street. The owners had let their newspapers pile up on the front porch. Burglars figured they were out of town and starting trying to break in the door. But, of course, they weren’t out of town . . . just lazy about picking up their papers. They called us and screamed that the police were on the way, so by the time I got there, the perpetrators were long gone . . . never a dull moment around here.”

“That’s for sure,” I respond, thinking about just how much less dull it was going to get around here very soon.

Before I have to force any more conversation, Tacy approaches with Jack’s coffee.

“I put it in a Styrofoam cup in case you want to take it with you,” Tacy says as he hands over the coffee.

“Thanks,” Jack replies. “Well, it sounds like you have a lot to deal with this morning, so let me get out of your way.”

“Thanks for stopping by, Jack. Hope you have a good one.”

As he walks out the door, I think about what he said . . . about me having a lot to deal with this morning.

“You have no idea, Jack,” I say softly as I watch him get in his patrol car. “Boy, do you ever have
no
idea . . .”

 

“W
hat are those?!” I say with a cross expression to Linda, one of my servers, as she passes by me, and I catch a glimpse of the two baskets of salty/sweet cheese nips she’s carrying—two baskets of salty/sweet cheese nips that are burned on the bottom. “I
know
you are not about to take those burned biscuits out to one of our customers.”

Linda looks at the biscuits, looks back at me, and hesitates a moment before responding. “I’m sorry. I grabbed them quickly. I didn’t realize they were burned.”

“Throw them in the trash and wait for the next batch to come out of the oven,” I say quickly and walk past her to do a quick check around the restaurant to see if any more of the burned nips have made it out to my tables. Brunch is in full gear . . . not an empty seat in the place, and I’ve got a crowd in front of the host stand and outside waiting for tables. I’m thankful for the distraction of being busy, but I’m about to blow a gasket waiting for the news to break. It’s noon, and as far as I know, no one has found Marcus in the alley. I keep waiting for sirens and police cars to show up, but so far, nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

This is one of the few times that I wished I had a television in the restaurant, so I could keep an eye on the TV and see if any news breaks about a dead body being found behind King Town Center. Customers always ask if I’m going to install some flat screens, so they can catch CNN or watch the football games. I even get sales reps in here from time to time trying to offer me a deal on a few Sony or Samsung TVs (and don’t get me started on the guy who came in trying to sell me newspaper frames to hang over the urinals in the men’s bathroom . . . can we not at least be alone with our thoughts when we pee?). But I refuse to allow TVs in my restaurant. We’re surrounded by televisions everywhere we go these days—at restaurants, bars, health clubs . . . even my dry cleaner has a flat screen going behind the counter from open to close. Hell, you can’t even get a burger at McDonald’s without watching turmoil in the Middle East or the latest politician caught with his pants down. I want my restaurant to be a respite from all of that constant peripheral stimulation. I want people to come here to focus on their family and friends, and most important, my food.

“Hello,” I say to the one and only table that seems to have gotten a basket of the burned nips. “I’m Halia, the owner. How are you folks doing this afternoon?”

The pleasant-looking couple smiles, and they both say they are doing well.

“These biscuits are a little charred on the bottom and not up to my standards.” I take the basket from the table even though they’ve clearly already downed two of them with no complaints. “Let me get you a fresh basket.”

The woman at the table laughs. “They tasted fine to us.”

“You’ll like the new ones even better then. Please, pardon the inconvenience.”

I head back to the kitchen, and once I’m behind the line I raise my voice. “Who’s on biscuit duty?”

“I was,” Roger, one my youngest kitchen helpers, says with a meek expression.

“Well, number one, Roger. Why are you burning my biscuits? And, number two, why on earth didn’t you throw them out once they came out of the oven burned?” I then turn to everyone in the kitchen. “And why did anyone take these burned biscuits off the sheets, put them in baskets, and serve them to our customers?”

“You know how customers get when we’re running behind on the cheese nips,” Linda says. “It’s like mutiny out there if they don’t get them right away. They weren’t really burned . . . just a little dark on the bottom.”

A hush falls over the kitchen. Linda’s new, and although I went over my expectations with her as I do every server, she clearly has not yet grasped the passion I have for the food we serve here.

I look at Linda and then cast my attention to the entire kitchen. “Listen up, everyone. Nothing, and I mean
nothing
leaves this kitchen that isn’t perfect.” My eyes linger on Linda as I scan the room. “That means no slightly-browned-on-the-bottom cheese nips, that means no salads with croutons missing, that means no French fries that aren’t hot and crisp. Have we got that?”

I see several nods.

“You guys do a great job, but let’s not have any more mishaps.”

Honestly, I’m a little thankful to Linda for the brief distraction she’s given me. I’ve been on edge since last night, and at this point, I just want the cops to arrive, so I can pretend that I don’t know anything about
anything,
get them out of here, and let them move on with finding out who did Marcus in . . . and hopefully that will be the end of it from my perspective.

As the day wears on, and I seat diners, pop in and out of the kitchen, and check in with customers, I start to think I might lose it. By three o’clock the restaurant quiets down, and there are still no police, no news . . . no
nothing
. I decide that I just can’t take it anymore. I need to make some excuse to be in the alley and be the one to find the body my damn self. I think on it for a while and come up with a reasonable excuse. I decide to ask Tacy to break down a few boxes for me in the store room, so I can take them home to use for collecting stuff to take to Goodwill. I tell him I’ll drive around back and load the boxes into my van in the alley rather than traipsing through the restaurant with them and out the front door.

I’m nervous as I walk out of the restaurant toward my van, but I can’t take the waiting anymore. I hate the idea of me being the one to “find” the body, as that will tie me that much closer to the murder, but the sooner the police know about the body, the sooner they can start investigating, the sooner I can tell them whatever version of the truth I come up with, and the sooner I can have this lead weight lifted from my shoulders.

I start the van and back out of the parking space, giving the area one last look to see if any police cars are making their way in the parking lot, but no such luck. I drive along the front of the shopping center, turn the corner to whip around to the alley, and slowly maneuver the van toward the Dumpster behind the bookstore. As I get closer to my destination, I slow down and take a look. My eyes widen and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention, but I don’t stop. There’s nothing to stop for. The body’s gone.