Murder with Macaroni and Cheese (17 page)

Gregory goes quiet as his head hangs with his face toward the floor. Then he inhales slowly and looks at me. “I'm a success now. I'm rich. I look good. I should have been above revenge.. . .” He lets his voice trail off.

“But?”

“Word of the reunion was all over Facebook. I thought it would be fun to attend, and I really am looking to expand South Beach Burgers into Maryland. I figured if I was going to make the trip anyway I may as well give Raynell a taste of her own medicine.”

“You're starting to scare me a little bit,” I say. “Your taste for revenge didn't end up with Raynell dead on her bathroom floor, did it?”

“Of course not. I would never kill anyone. But all I could think about after getting back in touch with her was how, back in high school, she said she would ruin me if I told anyone about us. So, you know what?” Gregory is silent for a second or two as he rolls his shoulders back and lifts his head. “I decided I would ruin her.”

“Ruin her? How?”

“She made it clear in our online chats that she was attracted to me and had no problem being unfaithful to her husband. That gave me an idea. What if . . . what if I took advantage of her loose morals and lured her into an affair, made her fall in love with me the way I fell for her . . . and then . . . and then made sure her husband caught us. After Terrence found out and threatened divorce, I planned to agree to be there for her when she left him . . . and then . . .” There's a wicked twinkle in Gregory's eye. “Ditch her the same way she ditched me in high school. I was all set to make sure she was left without me, without Terrence . . . and without any money when Terrence divorced her ass for cheating on him.”

I can't help but look at Gregory with startled eyes as I take all of this in. “So, did Terrence ever find out about your affair with Raynell?”

“I don't know. I left a monogrammed men's T-shirt just under his side of the bed when I was there last, and I always made sure to wear heavy cologne when I met her at their house, so the scent would linger on the sheets when Terrence got home. If she had let me in after the reunion I was going to leave this ring. . . .” Gregory holds up his hand. “This
man's
ring behind . . . make it look like it had fallen between the bed and the nightstand.”

As I continue to listen to him speak I try not to let my facial expression show what I'm feeling, but he can read me anyway.

“You think I'm pathetic, don't you? Hell,
I
think I'm pathetic. That
woman
just had such an effect on me.”

“I don't think you're pathetic, Gregory,” I say, even though I guess I sort of do. “But why was it so important to get back at her? You got yours—like you said, you're successful, you look great, you're rich . . .”

“I don't know, but so many years after high school, she was still able to get under my skin. But I assure you, Halia, I never would have killed her and I—” Gregory gasps as if he's just been hit with a revelation. “Oh my God! What if I did play a role in her death?”

“What are you talking about?”

Gregory leans against the wall and puts his hands on his forehead. “My goal was to have Terrence find out about us and kick Raynell to the curb, but what if...
what if
he found out she was cheating on him and went to a much further extreme?”

I think about what Gregory has just said and consider telling him that he was not the only one Hottie McHot Pants was cheating on her husband with, but I don't think telling Gregory about Raynell's affair with Michael Marshall would serve any purpose, so I keep it to myself.

“But you don't know if Terrence found out about your affair with Raynell?”

“No, I can't say for sure. But what I can say for sure is that I did
not
kill Raynell Rollins. If you have to tell the police about me being at her house the night she died, then so be it. But I wish you wouldn't.” He steps in closer to me and lightly grasps my hand. “It's just an intrusion in my life I really don't need at the moment. I'm busy . . . really busy expanding my restaurant, and, honestly, I'd love to find some time to reconnect with you, Halia.”

I look at his big brown eyes staring down on me, and I can see what a handsome man he is, but he just isn't attractive to me anymore. The bizarre revenge game he was playing with Raynell . . . his unhealthy obsession with settling the score over something that happened decades ago . . . that he would be intimate with a woman he hated . . . it's all just too creepy.

“I'm really busy, too, Gregory, and I imagine you'll have to be getting back to Florida soon.”

He looks away from me. “I'm assuming that's a nice way of saying you're not interested.”

I don't respond. I just look at him, try to smile, and clumsily remove my hand from his grasp. It seems nicer than verbally confirming his assumption, but it doesn't make the situation any less uncomfortable.

“I've really got to get back to Sweet Tea.” I can hear the awkward tone in my voice as the words come out. “We reopen for dinner soon.”

“Okay,” he responds, a defeated look on his face. “Thanks for coming by.”

“You're welcome.” I turn to leave. “This really is a nice space. I think you'll have a lot of success with it.”

“I hope so.”

As I walk toward the door I wonder if Gregory is worth keeping on my suspect list. I wonder if Terrence killed Raynell over one or more of her affairs. I wonder about Alvetta and Christy. But mostly, when I see Gregory's reflection in the glass door on my way out—his attractive face, his full lips, his solid stature—I wonder if I just made a huge mistake by turning down his romantic advance.

CHAPTER 32

“W
ouldn't it be easier to just chop all this meat with a knife?” Wavonne asks me as we stand next to the counter hand-tearing chicken breasts.

“I suppose, but hand-torn chicken just tastes better than chopped chicken. I don't know why. It just does.”

And I really don't know why hand-shredded chicken tastes better than chopped, but we only use shredded chicken in our chicken salad, our chicken and dumplings, and the chicken potpies we are preparing now. We always start with roasted bone-in skin-on chicken breasts. The bone adds flavor to the chicken, and the skin left intact adds a little fat and moisture to the meat as it cooks.

Farther down the counter, Tacy is rolling out the crusts for the potpies. We've already prepared the batter based on Grandmommy's simple recipe—flour, sugar, salt, butter, butter-flavored shortening, ice water, and a pinch of baking powder. But I must confess, unlike Grandmommy, we no longer mix the recipe by hand. We use my commercial food processor to save time and labor and, fortunately, it produces a pie crust just as light and flaky as the one Grandmommy made. Once she perfected the recipe Grandmommy used the same one for all her pies whether she was preparing a savory pie like the chicken potpies we are making now or sweet creations like apple or peach tarts.

“So, do I get to wait on them when they get here?”

“Who?”

“Alvetta and Michael.”

“No. I asked Darius to take care of them.”

“Why does he always get all the good tables?”

“Because I can count on him to consistently provide a high level of service.”

“
I
provide a high level of service.”

“Of course you do . . . when the mood strikes you.”

“Well, the mood is strikin' me tonight,” Wavonne says. “I know they ain't comin' here for a leisurely dinner. You've got an angle for invitin' them, and I wanna know what it is.”

“I don't have an
angle,
Wavonne. I just thought having them as my guests would give me a chance to talk to Michael.”

“Michael?”

“Yes. He was with Terrence at the retreat in Williamsburg. If Terrence knew about Raynell's affair . . .
affairs,
and decided he wanted her dead . . . well, Williamsburg is not that far from here . . . barely three hours if there's no traffic. He could have easily slipped out of his hotel room, driven up here, pulled Raynell from a drunken slumber, bashed her head against the porcelain tub, and been back at the hotel before daybreak.”

“What do you think Michael's gonna be able to tell you?”

“All sorts of things. He can tell me how late it was when he last saw Terrence on Saturday night . . . and when he first saw him on Sunday morning. Terrence would have needed at least six hours to pull the whole thing off. Michael might also be able to tell me something about Terrence's demeanor Sunday morning. He was bound to have been edgy and unsettled if he'd just killed his wife hours earlier.”

“Instead of Michael and Alvetta, I think you . . .
we
should talk to Terrence directly . . . get his side of the story. And if he happens to offer to hook a sista up with a wealthy Redskin, then so be it. I've been—”

Laura cuts Wavonne off when she pokes her head through the kitchen door. “Halia, your guests are here. Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. They're at table four by the window.”

“Thank you, Laura.” I put the chicken I was handling back on the counter and step over to the sink and wash my hands. “Wavonne, can you finish up the chicken, please? We need to get those pies in the oven.” Fortunately, we just need to add the meat to the filling, which we've already prepared, and then pour the mixture into the pie crusts Tacy is about to wrap up. Everything in the pies is already cooked, so we only need to brown the crust and heat the contents. Then they will be ready to serve to the dinner rush that is beginning to gather outside the kitchen door.

“Hey!” I smile after I step outside the kitchen and greet Michael and Alvetta. “Welcome.”

They stand up. Michael shakes my hand, and Alvetta gives me a hug. I've actually grown to like her during the last few days. Her close association with Raynell is not exactly a selling point, but aside from that, she's seems to have matured into an affable person.

“Please, please. Have a seat,” I say as I take one myself next to Alvetta. “I'm so sorry I couldn't make Raynell's funeral this morning. I've been running my assistant manager ragged lately. She was scheduled to be off today, and I just couldn't ask her to cover for me again. I hope it went well . . . as well as can be expected, at least.”

“It was a lovely service . . . very sad of course, but I think it helped to give her friends and family closure and say our good-byes,” Alvetta says, trying to not get emotional as she speaks of the funeral, but I can see the grief in her eyes.

“Alvetta worked day and night to make it special. She put together a very touching tribute,” Michael says and directs his eyes from me to Alvetta. “You did a wonderful job, honey. You did Raynell proud,” he adds as Darius appears at the table.

“Welcome to Sweet Tea. My name is Darius, and I'll be taking care of you this . . .” Darius lets his voice trail off as he notices that he may have interrupted a sensitive moment. “Should I come back?”

Alvetta adjusts herself in her seat. “No . . . no. We're fine. Thank you,” she says, and takes in a long breath. “Actually, I would love a drink.”

“I can certainly help with that. Just for the summer we are featuring crushed-ice margaritas. No syrups or mixers. We make them with fresh oranges, lemons, and limes.”

“That sounds lovely,” Alvetta says.

“Just a draft beer for me,” comes from Michael. “Michelob Ultra if you have it.”

“We only have that in the bottle.”

“That's fine.”

“One margarita and one Michelob Ultra,” Darius confirms. He's about to step away from the table when he notes my raised eyebrows. He grins at me, pulls out his pad, and writes down their drink order. I'm not a fan of waiters failing to write down orders, even very simple ones. It's a pet peeve of mine. A good server like Darius can generally gauge when he needs to write an order on his pad rather than commit it to memory, but even he can get tripped up if something distracts him on the way to inputting the order into the computer system. Customers get testy enough if their order comes to the table without the sauce on the side as they requested or with the onions they asked to be left out when a server
has
written the order down. If we mess up (yes, it happens on occasion, even at Sweet Tea
), and their server didn't write the order down, people get
really
annoyed. Even if one of my servers had some sort of extraordinary memory skills and never forgot anything, I'd still require that he or she write orders down. Some customers might be impressed that a server can remember the most lengthy and complex of orders, but the mere act of a waiter not recording their order makes them anxious that their meal will not come to the table exactly as they requested. That's not how I want my customers to feel. I want a night out at Sweet Tea to be a relaxed, positive experience in every way.

“Are you having anything?” Alvetta asks as Darius departs from the table.

“I'm sure Darius will bring me an iced tea.”

“Aw. Don't make a girl drink alone. Have a margarita with me.”

“I wish I could. I have a long night ahead of me. The dinner rush is just starting. I need to keep a clear head. I thought I'd just sit with you for a bit and say hi and then let you two enjoy your evening. I'm sure you could use a relaxing night out after . . . well . . . you know . . . events of late.”

“That's very thoughtful of you, Halia. It has been a challenging time.”

“I don't know if a few drinks and some good food can even put a dent in the grief I'm sure you're feeling, but maybe it can help you take a little break from it for a few hours.”

“Truthfully, it would be nice to not think of Raynell's death for a little while,” Alvetta says. “Wow, that sounded really selfish, didn't it?”

Michael reaches for Alvetta's hand across the table. “Not at all,” he says. “You were the best friend anyone could have been to Raynell. And let's be honest, Raynell was not the easiest person to love. But you did love her, and you were a good friend to her.” He holds her hand for another moment or two before letting it go. “Now, let's talk about something else.”

“Yes,” I say. “How about the retreat last weekend, Michael? How was it?”

“It was very nice . . . until we got the news about Raynell.” Michael pauses. “No. We said we would take a break from talking about Raynell.” He straightens himself in his chair. “It was actually very productive. If our church is going to continue to thrive, we need a strong online presence. We developed a strategy during the conference that I think will be quite effective.”

“That's great,” I say. “Terrence was at the conference, too, wasn't he? Was he involved in the discussions? I guess I don't think of a former football player being a technical guru.”

Michael laughs. “No. Terrence is not terribly computer savvy, but I always ask him to attend our conferences. If churchgoers know Terrence Rollins is attending an event, we always get a sizable turnout. Terrence is professional sports royalty, and people just like to be around him. Like Saturday night at the hotel, he held court in the lounge until after two a.m.”

“Really?” I ask. “Two a.m.? That must make getting up for morning service a bit tricky.”

“Not for Terrence. That man has a lot of energy. I passed him on the way to the gym at six a.m. when I was going to help set up the hospitality room.”

“Raynell always complained about Terrence being a morning person,” Alvetta says. “Raynell would sleep until noon every day if she could.”

“I suppose I would, too, but that pesky need to earn a living is a bit of an obstacle,” I respond, grateful that I didn't have to find a way to tactfully grill Michael about Terrence's whereabouts the night Raynell died. If Terrence was hanging out at the hotel bar until after two a.m. and was later seen at six a.m., then he couldn't have killed Raynell. There simply wasn't time for him to drive back to Maryland, do the deed, and get back to Williamsburg by six a.m.

“Why don't I go check on Darius and see what's keeping those drinks.”

I mentally cross Terrence off my suspect list as I hop up from the table and head toward the bar.

“What's the holdup?” I ask Darius.

“Word has gotten out about our margaritas. Everyone is ordering them. The blenders are backed up.”

“I guess I'll need to order another one to get us through the summer.”

“I'll bring the drinks to the table as soon as they're ready if you want to get back to your guests.”

“Thanks! I'll give them some time alone.”

“Found out what you wanted to know already?” Darius asks, a sly smile on his face.

“What do you mean?” I feign innocence.

“He means did you find out from Michael if Terrence had time to get back from Williamsburg Saturday night and lay waste to his cheatin' ho-bag of a wife?” Wavonne says, seemingly appearing out of nowhere.

I sigh, annoyed that Wavonne has been discussing Raynell's death and my little informal investigation with Darius. “If you must know, yes, I did get the information I was after. According to Michael, Terrence was in the hotel lounge until after two a.m. and was seen again on the way to the gym at six a.m., so I guess he's in the clear.”

“What makes you think Terrence would want to kill Raynell anyway?” Darius asks.

“Because she was cheating on him all over God's creation—not only with an old high school classmate, but also with Michael Rollins,” I say, and direct my eyes toward Michael.

“Yeah,” Wavonne says. “We found this note in Raynell's house. It's from Michael. It's signed
M,
and it's his handwriting.” Wavonne pulls the infamous note from her pocket.

“What are you doing with that?” I ask as Darius reads the letter.

“I just thought it might come in handy . . . be useful sometime. A certain someone”—Wavonne diverts her eyes across the room toward Michael—“might be willing to pay a sista a little something to keep his wife from seein' it.”

I shake my head in exasperation. “That's called
extortion,
Wavonne, and could land you in jail.”

I grab the letter when Darius is done reading it to keep it from getting back in Wavonne's hands.