Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits Read online

  Books by A.L. Herbert

  MURDER WITH FRIED CHICKEN AND WAFFLES

  MURDER WITH MACARONI AND CHEESE

  MURDER WITH COLLARD GREENS AND HOT SAUCE

  MURDER WITH HONEY HAM BISCUITS

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits

  A.L. Herbert

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by A.L. Herbert

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Catalogue Number: 2020931289

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1801-3

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: August 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1805-1 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1805-4 (e-book)

  Chapter 1

  We are well into May and signs of summer abound in the kitchen of my restaurant, Mahalia’s Sweet Tea, in Prince George’s County, Maryland. One of my prep cooks, Tacy, is shucking corn, picked fresh from a farm just a few miles away. We’ll steam it on the cob and offer it to our customers a dozen different ways—simply buttered and salted... or perhaps sprinkled with cayenne and finished with a touch of lime juice... or maybe slathered in a black-pepper mayonnaise before giving it a good roll in shredded Muenster cheese—choices... choices. To my left, Momma, who makes all the desserts for Sweet Tea, and one of my kitchen assistants are peeling peaches. I can tell they are perfectly ripe from their deep yellow color with just a hint of a pink blush. When they’re done removing the skins, they’ll slice them, coat them with a thick syrup flavored with sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg, and pour them into buttery crusts—yes, peach pie with a generous dollop of whipped cream is on the dessert menu.

  My cousin, Wavonne, and I are in the middle of it all, standing in front of the stainless steel counter, chopping red peppers for their inclusion in a decadent seafood quiche that will be the highlight of today’s brunch selections—meat from local Maryland hard crabs harvested from the nearby Potomac River, eggs whipped to perfection with milk and butter, and soft gouda cheese. The final product will be almost like a savory crab cheesecake. There’s also a basket of plump green tomatoes behind me that, as soon as one of us can find the time, we’ll slice, season, cover in batter, and fry to a golden brown. Fried green tomatoes fresh from the oil, crisp on the outside, tender on the inside—is there anything better?

  This time of year, when the sun-soaked days start early and end late, is my favorite for culinary creations. Everything is fresh, fragrant, and colorful... and grown from the ground in natural light, the way God intended, rather than in some hothouse.

  I’m in the midst of a rare sort of zen moment, one of those times when I can rise above the constant clunk and clatter of my busy commercial kitchen and just take it all in. Everything is running smoothly this morning... no broken ovens or malfunctioning exhaust fans . . . no employees have called in sick... we’re on schedule to open at eleven a.m. with no major hiccups or drama.... We’re in a groove. I’ve been enjoying taking in the vibrant smells, colors, and textures of the food we’re preparing and, right now, despite the wealth of people and noise around me, it’s just me, a knife, and a crisp red pepper—that is until Wavonne, who had taken a slight breather from her constant chatter, pipes up to share what’s on her mind.

  “Remember that guy, Marvin, who I dated earlier this year?” she asks. “That cheap-ass guy that took me to Wing Zone with a Groupon. The one who disappeared... just stopped returnin’ my calls.”

  “I don’t know... maybe,” I say. “Was he the one with the man bun?”

  “No, that was Jack.”

  “Oh... was Marvin the one with that big mean dog he thought he could bring into my restaurant?”

  “No. That was Jamal. And that big mean dog was a cock-apoo, Halia,” Wavonne teases. “Marvin was the white guy . . . the one who shaved his head so he didn’t have to pay for haircuts... and had a car but took the bus everywhere to save on gas.”

  I look at Wavonne with a blank stare as I mull the multitude of men she has paraded in and out of Sweet Tea.

  “The one who wanted to borrow your Costco card, so he didn’t have to buy a membership.”

  “Oh yes,” I say. “He was here for brunch a few months ago and asked if he could have extra bacon instead of the toast that came with his meal... and walked off with two sets of my silverware and the salt and pepper shakers. The one that never tipped, right?”

  “That’s the one. Cheap and stupid, but damn is he handsome,” Wavonne coos. “So, yesterday I’m in the city... at the wig shop lookin’ for a new party wig. And as I’m leavin’, I see him walkin’ outta the stab-and-grab next door. I was like—”

  “Walking out of the what?” Momma inquires.

  “The stab-and-grab... that dumpy little minimart on Good Hope Road,” Wavonne clarifies. “Anyway, I went right up to him and gave him a piece of my mind—”

  “Not too big of a piece, I hope. There’s only so much there to begin with,” Momma jokes.

  “Very funny,” Wavonne replies. “I’m halfway through givin’ him a good ‘what for’ when he tells me he wasn’t gettin’ back to me because he was in the slammer.”

  “Jail?”

  “No, Halia. He was deejayin’ at some hip downtown club called the Slammer,” Wavonne jibes. “Yes, he was in jail . . . said he tried to pull a ‘dine and dash’ at the Carolina Kitchen in Hyattsville. Only, without his car, he could only dash to the bus stop a couple of blocks away. The cops picked him up while he was waitin’ for the number eighty-three to Rhode Island Avenue.” She pauses for a moment and takes in my reaction to what she just said. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you he was cheap and stupid.”

  “Cheap and stupid... and a convict? So, when are you going to see him again?” I ask, knowing that Wavonne overlooking cheap, stupid, and a criminal record is nowhere near outside the realm of possibility.

  “Friday night. I’m off, and apparently it’s six-dollar shrimp night at Bonefish Grill in Brandywine.”

  “Seriously?” Momma questions. “You’re going to date a felon who’s not even smart enough to pla
n a viable getaway? I wouldn’t want Halia dating a felon, and at her age, her options are far more limited than yours.”

  “I don’t think dinin’ and dashin’ is a felony, Aunt Celia. If it was, he’d still be in jail,” Wavonne says. “And did you not hear me mention what a looker he is?”

  Momma takes a deep breath to keep herself from protesting further. Much like myself, she’s learned there is nothing she can say to keep Wavonne from doing anything—whether it’s dating a lawbreaker, spending a week’s pay on a purse, or taking on a “second job” by buying into pyramid schemes that mostly involve her constantly annoying her Facebook friends with posts trying to sell weight loss potions, makeup, or jewelry.

  Wavonne, who’s about fifteen years my junior, is almost thirty years old and has been a handful ever since she came to live with Momma and me when her own mother (Momma’s sister) was no longer fit to look after her. We didn’t have much luck reining her in when she was a teenager and seem to have even less these days.

  “Relax, Aunt Celia,” Wavonne says, after Momma exhales with a long sigh. “I’m not gonna date him. I’m just gonna string him along until Melva’s wedding in September. I wanna show up with a little arm candy, and Marvin will do quite nicely. If I have to look at his fine mug over two-for-one tacos or half-price burgers for a couple of months to be the bridesmaid with the hottest date, so be it.”

  I’m foolishly about to make a futile attempt to change Wavonne’s mind when I hear my name called from behind. I turn and see my hostess, Sondra, poking her head through the kitchen door. “There’s a woman here to see you,” she says to me. “She was knocking on the glass doors. I told her we weren’t open yet, but she wouldn’t go away. She looks harmless enough, but she’s very persistent.”

  “Did she say what she wants?”

  “No, she just keeps insisting that she needs to speak with you.”

  “Okay.” I untie my apron, hang it up, and exit the kitchen. Once I’m in the dining room I find a tall, lanky woman, who I guess is around or about fifty. She has short brown hair with a few gray streaks and is wearing black flats and a gray tweed suit, which seems like an odd, and highly uncomfortable, clothing choice for the warm weather we are having. As I approach her and take in her sharp edges, the word “severe” comes to mind. She reminds me very much of Miss Jane Hathaway from The Beverly Hillbillies.

  “Hello,” I say. “I’m Halia Watkins. What can I do for you?”

  “Trudy McAlister.” She extends her hand, which I politely shake. “Do you mind if we have a seat?”

  “Um... no, I guess not.” I gesture for her to follow me to a booth against the wall. “What’s this about?” I inquire as we sit down.

  “I have an opportunity I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Thank you,” I say, realizing she is probably selling something. “But I don’t need any artwork, I already have an alarm system, I’m not interested in installing an ATM, and I’m really not looking to switch suppliers for anything at the moment.”

  “Not that kind of opportunity,” she says. “Let me ask you: Are you familiar with the program Elite Chef?”

  “Halia don’t watch much TV,” Wavonne calls. I should have known she’d sidle her way to the dining room to see what this mystery lady wants. Wavonne is like a curious cat... if cats wore teased-up wigs and too much makeup. She always has to know what’s going on. “I’ve seen Elite Chef... the one with all the cooking challenges and that smokin’ hot host, Leon Winfield,” she adds, sliding into the booth next to me. “Why?”

  Trudy doesn’t answer. Instead she shoots a “who the hell is this?” expression in my direction.

  “This is my cousin, Wavonne. She’s a server here,” I say. “Elite Chef? No, I’m not familiar with it. I spend most of my time here, and the TV behind the bar is usually on one of the sports channels. What does it have to do with me?”

  “Well, as the young”—Trudy stumbles for a moment and takes in all-that-is-Wavonne—“um... lady said, it’s a cooking show... a competition to encourage African American engagement in the culinary arts. We started it with BET two years ago when Russell Mellinger was—”

  “What do you mean ‘we’?” Wavonne, who gets very excited about anything that has to do with television or the movies... or just pop culture in general, asks. “You’re involved with the show?”

  “Yes, I’m Russell’s assistant.”

  “Russell Mellinger? The Russell Mellinger?” I ask. “I may not be familiar with Elite Chef, but I’m highly familiar with Mr. Mellinger. He owns the Barbary in New York... and Honeycomb in Chicago....”

  “And Cobalt Blue in Los Angeles . . . and New England Oyster Bar in Boston,” Trudy says. “We started the show when he was opening the Barbary—the first season’s winner is still the executive chef there. Last year, when he was opening Cobalt Blue, we did a second season to find a head chef for that restaurant. We’re currently filming the third season, and this year’s winner will be appointed executive chef at Sunfish, Russell’s newest venture—it’s slated to open in just a few weeks near National Harbor here in Prince George’s County. Russell is also taking his first foray in the lodging business—he’s opening a luxury hotel, more of an inn, really, along with the new restaurant. He and his wife are staying there while they’re in town producing the show.”

  “The new restaurant won’t be serving soul food, I hope? I so do not want to have to compete with Russell Mellinger in my own backyard.” I say this like I’m joking, but honestly, the idea would not thrill me. National Harbor is only a few miles from Sweet Tea, and although I trust our food and service would stand up to any competition, from what I’ve heard, Russell is known for being a businessman first, a chef second... and a decent human being comes in a very distant third. I’ve heard stories of him easily outbidding other entrepreneurs on prime restaurant real estate, pilfering staff from competing restaurants for his own establishments, and using the volume of business done across his many locations to negotiate deals with suppliers that single restaurant owners like myself cannot obtain. Stories abound of employees leaving in tears after one of his tirades, sexual harassment charges that have been quietly settled out of court, and lawsuits from suppliers claiming he owes them money. He’s just generally known for being a ruthless, though highly successful, restaurant mogul.

  “No,” she replies. “It will be a tapas restaurant... small plates with a focus on fish and other seafood.”

  Wavonne groans. “Me and the girls went to one of those tapas places last weekend... barely enough food to feed a bird... and prices out the wazoo. There were five of us, but each dish only came with four things.... Melva’s still got fork prong scars on her hand from tryin’ to take the last chicken fritter.”

  “Isn’t there something you should be doing, Wavonne?” I ask, and don’t wait for her to respond before turning my gaze back toward Trudy. “So Elite Chef is a television show, and Russell Mellinger is opening a new tapas restaurant and a hotel. I’m still not sure what my connection to any of this is.”

  “It’s been on the QT, but we’ve been filming the upcoming season here in the DC area. We’re actually almost done . . . only two episodes left. We’ve been taping shows in and around the city—the Kennedy Center, the Botanic Gardens, the National Press Club, Hillwood, the National Portrait Gallery.... So many places... it’s actually been quite the whirlwind. The theme of each competition has been tied to the host location.... President Kennedy’s favorite foods at the Kennedy Center... plant-based cuisine at the Botanic Gardens... at Hillwood, we had contestants prepare items Marjorie Merriweather Post served at her grand affairs.”

  “Very interesting,” I reply, wishing she would just get on with it. I have a million and one things to do before we open in two hours.

  “So, for the next installment, we’ll be filming at the African American museum.”

  “And you want me to do some catering for the production staff?”

  “No, nothing like that,”
Trudy says. “We’d like you to be a guest judge on the show.”

  “A judge? On TV?”

  “Oh girl, Halia’s gonna be on television!” Wavonne exclaims.

  “We have two guest judges for each challenge and, of course, Russell serves as a judge in every episode.”

  “What do the judges do exactly?” I ask.

  “Well, ultimately, they evaluate the dishes made by the contestants, but there are usually some other responsibilities as well.”

  “Like?”

  “For the taping you’ll be involved in,” Trudy says, as if I’ve already agreed to participate, “we’ll have you tour the museum with the contestants and the other judges... get to know them a little bit. Once they’re assigned a challenge, you’ll be tasked with mentoring one of them... with giving them some direction and advice. You’ll get a break while they shop for any necessary ingredients. Then we’ll all gather again in the evening for the challenge. You’ll judge the final creations with Russell and the other guest judge, and the contestant whose dish fails to impress will be eliminated. That’s it... easy peasy.”

  “And when is the taping?”

  “Um... well, that’s the thing. It’s tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?!”

  “Yes. We had an unexpected vacancy on the judging panel.”

  “So, who you really wanted dropped out,” Wavonne proclaims.

  “I wouldn’t look at it that way, but yes, we did have a judge lined up who can no longer make it.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Walter Carnegie.”

  “The head chef at the museum restaurant? Why did he drop out? Seems like a perfect match for an episode filmed in the museum.”

  “I’m not sure of the details... something about the museum board of directors thinking it was inappropriate. They’re letting us film at the facility, but didn’t like the idea of the head chef at such a prestigious institution taking part in... I believe the term I heard used was ‘frivolous.’ They didn’t want him involved in what they considered a frivolous show.”