Murder with Macaroni and Cheese Page 3

  “I’m just fine. You?”

  “Trying to survive this heat. You know how I hate summer.” Raynell reaches into her designer bag, pulls out a handkerchief, and dabs at her forehead. The brief walk from her car to the restaurant was enough to make her faintly perspire in the August warmth.

  “Please have a seat,” I say to Raynell and her companion. “Raynell, this is my cousin, Wavonne, one of the servers here at Sweet Tea.”

  Wavonne stands to greet her. “I’ll be helping with the reunion planning.”

  “You will?” I ask. This is news to me.

  “Of course. You know how I like to help out as much as I can around here.”

  I let out a quick laugh before I can stop myself. “Of course.” I figure this is a better response than “Since when?”

  Raynell gives Wavonne (and her poufy wig, heavy makeup, and tight clothing) a once-over and apparently decides she is not worth a handshake or a hello. She just offers Wavonne a quick smile as she sets her purse down, slides into a chair next to Alvetta, and plops a gaudy gold and sparkly-stone Michael Kors keychain on the table. “You sit over there,” she says to the young lady with her, who I assume is the assistant who called me to set up the lunch date, but I can’t be sure as Raynell hasn’t introduced her to any of us.

  “Halia Watkins.” I extend my hand toward the young lady. “And this is Wavonne.”

  She gives my hand a shake and nods politely in Wavonne’s direction. “Hi. I’m Christy. Raynell’s assistant.” She’s a pretty girl with a tiny frame, light brown skin, and short black hair. I’d be surprised if she were over twenty-five.

  “She can take notes or make calls . . . or whatever needs to be done while we talk,” Raynell says.

  “Great. That will be a big help.”

  “Alvetta, sweetie. Are you using that eye cream I gave you? The bags under your eyes don’t look much better than the last time I saw you,” Raynell says as I sit down next to Christy. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I didn’t spend much time with them, but I observed the girls enough to recall that Raynell worked overtime at destroying Alvetta’s self esteem in high school. Why should things be any different now? Alvetta doesn’t have so much as a hint of any bags under her eyes, but the ends of her hair were not split or frayed either back in high school when Raynell convinced her she needed to cut her hair.

  It was always clear that Raynell was jealous of Alvetta’s good looks and seemed to go to great lengths to convince Alvetta she was an ugly duckling when the exact opposite was true. I can’t be sure of her motives, but Raynell was queen bee of the Whitleys, and my guess is she wanted the status of having the prettiest girl in school as her best friend, but, at the same time, was afraid Alvetta would challenge her authority if she was actually aware of what a knockout she was.

  I don’t recall the complete details, but from what I remember, Alvetta came from very modest roots. She was the daughter of a single mother who served as a live-in housekeeper for a more fortunate family. The rumor around school was that Alvetta actually shared a room with her mother in the employer’s home.

  My high school was largely made up of students from working-class and middle-class families. There were certainly poor kids at my school, but many parts of Prince George’s County were more affluent in the eighties than they are now. Being so close to D.C., many of us, including Raynell, had parents who made healthy incomes as government employees or by working for government contractors. Andrews Air Force Base (now Joint Base Andrews) in Camp Springs, not far up the road from my school, was also a big employer.

  It had to be hard for Alvetta to be the daughter of a maid who didn’t even have her own home. But two things kept Alvetta from being derided—her good looks and her friendship with Raynell. At some point, while Raynell was assembling her little empire of fashion conscious she-devils during the early part of our freshman year, the two of them became inseparable. Raynell’s cronies consisted of a whole gaggle of girls, but Alvetta was her closest friend—Raynell’s most loyal and trusted subject. Raynell protected Alvetta from jeering based on her upbringing (no one dared cross Raynell Spector—she was known by her maiden name in high school), but, at the same time, she made a hobby out of criticizing Alvetta herself in a constant effort to remind Alvetta who was in charge.

  “You look lovely, Alvetta,” I say before she has a chance to respond to Raynell’s rude question. “You haven’t aged a day.” Raynell looks momentarily annoyed with me for complimenting Alvetta. “I can say the same about you, Raynell,” I offer, trying to make a quick save. And Raynell really hasn’t changed that much, either, but, in her case, that’s not necessarily a good thing—in high school her features, and really her whole demeanor, reminded me of a bulldog, and they still do.

  “This menu is killer,” Alvetta says. “I want to try everything.”

  “It’s nice,” Raynell chimes in. “You know, for a casual dining establishment. I had so wanted to hold the event at a different . . . a different type of restaurant . . . some place high-end with white tablecloths and palette-cleansing sorbet between courses. But, considering many of our classmates may be . . . how shall I put it . . . ‘financially challenged,’ we booked the Cotillion Ballroom at that raggedy little motel in Clinton. And then they go and let a pipe burst, leaving us in quite a lurch.”

  I’m familiar with the venue she’s referring to, and, while Colony South may not be the Four Seasons, it is a quaint little hotel (not motel) with a small conference center and nice amenities. To hear Raynell talk, you’d think it was Red Roof Inn with bedbugs.

  “Do you think you can accommodate us here, Halia?” Alvetta asks.

  “I did give it some thought, but I don’t think I can shut down Sweet Tea for the evening; however, I spoke with a friend of mine who books the ballrooms at that Marriott in Greenbelt. They have availability and can accommodate up to two hundred guests . . . and I’d be happy to give the reunion committee a deal on catering.”

  “That sounds like a viable plan,” Alvetta says.

  “I don’t know,” Raynell groans. “Marriotts are so . . . so ordinary.”

  “The space may be ordinary, but I can assure you the food will not be. I can put together a stellar menu for the event and work with your budget.”

  “And I’ll help with all the arrangements. I can keep an eye on the buffet while Halia’s busy minglin’ with all her old classmates,” says Wavonne.

  Raynell just glares at Wavonne as if she is not keen on her involvement. “I suppose we don’t have much choice at this point,” she says. “Christy, make a note to call the Marriott and make the arrangements.”

  “I can call my contact there if you’d like. They don’t usually allow outside caterers, but she owes me a favor and—” I’m about to continue with my offer to make the arrangements myself when Raynell interrupts me.

  “Christy can do it,” she says as Christy types a note on her iPad.

  I’m about to talk menu options when Darius shows up at the table looking hurried.

  “Hello, everyone.” He starts refilling the three glasses on the table with more iced tea. “What may I get you two ladies to drink?” he asks Raynell and Christy.

  “What’s that?” Raynell points to Alvetta’s glass.

  “That’s our watermelon mint iced tea.”

  “I’ll have one of those, but, given it’s past noon, slip a shot of vodka in it for me,” Raynell says. Christy requests the same minus the octane.

  “Sure, but before I get those drinks, let me tell you about our specials today. We have soft-shell crabs dusted with a Cajun cornmeal batter and lightly fried. They’re served with twice-fried French fries and coleslaw. We also have butter-baked chicken. There’s barely a need for a knife and fork—the meat practically falls off the bone for you. We serve that with macaroni and cheese and collard greens.”

  “Thanks, Darius,” I say. “We’ll let the ladies look at the menu a bit more thoroughly, and then I’ll ask Wavonne to take their orders
and serve the table.” I turn to Wavonne. “And the two other tables you’ve punted off on Darius.”

  “How am I supposed to help you with the reunion if I’m not at the table to hear the deets?”

  “I’ll give you a complete rundown on everything we discuss. Now get.”

  Wavonne moans before slurping down the rest of her iced tea and getting up from the table.

  “She’s quite the character,” Raynell says. And, while this is true, there is a condescending tone in Raynell’s voice when she says this that I don’t appreciate.

  “She’s a good kid, but she tests me sometimes,” I say with a laugh. “She’s lived with my momma and me since she was thirteen. My aunt, her mother . . .” I’m about to give them Wavonne’s backstory, but then I decide it’s none of their business. “Let’s just say she had a complicated family situation before that.”

  “How sweet,” Raynell says. “You still live with your mother.”

  “I guess we do still share a house. Momma needed my help when she became Wavonne’s guardian, so I moved back in. These days I’m rarely home at all. This place keeps me very busy.” I’m finding myself on the defense. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but Raynell seems to be saying, “Oh so you’re a spinster with no man and live with your mother . . . how pathetic.” Rather than continue to justify my living situation, I decide to move on. “So, the reunion. Sounds like we have the place nailed down. Why don’t we talk menu?”

  “Fried chicken and waffles, catfish, spare ribs, pot roast,” Alvetta says, running her finger down one side of my menu as she reads out loud. “It all sounds so good. I don’t know where to begin.”

  “There are a lot of choices.” Raynell looks casually disinterested. “But everything is laden with calories. We’ll need some options for those us who haven’t let our bodies go completely to hell since high school and—” Her cell phone ring interrupts. As it continues to chime, she looks at the screen and hands the phone to Christy. “It’s Gregory. Handle it.”

  “Of course.” Christy takes the phone from Raynell, gets up from the table, and bypasses Wavonne as she heads toward the hostess station to take the call.

  I watch Christy walk away and then return my attention to Raynell, who’s chattering on about the fat content of some of the selections on my menu. I try not to laugh as her stout self blabs to Alvetta and me about how she’d have to double her treadmill time if she were to eat most of the items we serve. But from the looks of Raynell’s thick middle, I suspect doubling her treadmill time wouldn’t require that much exertion—after all, doubling zero minutes still nets you zero minutes.

  I find myself barely paying attention as she blathers on. I think more about how some things never change—Raynell is just as bossy, unpleasant, and condescending as she was in high school. And then, as if she can read my mind and wants to confirm my thoughts, she takes a quick breather from relentlessly critiquing my menu before she shoots her mouth off again.

  “So, Halia,” she says. “Your hair’s almost the same as it was in high school. All this time and you never thought about updating it or switching to a more stylish cut?”

  CHAPTER 5

  “One watermelon mint tea with a kick,” Wavonne says as she sets a glass in front of Raynell. After she places a second glass in front of Christy, who has returned to the table after “handling” one of Raynell’s phone calls, she lifts a black cast-iron pan from the tray it shared with the drinks and places it in the center of the table.

  “What’s this?” There’s a touch of excitement in Alvetta’s voice.

  “It’s just cornbread,” is Raynell’s response.

  “It smells heavenly.”

  “And that’s coming from the wife of a minister.” I smile at Alvetta. “It’s my grandmommy’s sour cream cornbread.” I cut into the pan of golden goodness and place a slice on everyone’s plate.

  Alvetta takes a bite. “Oh my. That is some good stuff.”

  “It’s not bad,” Raynell says before taking a second bite, and a third, and then polishing off the whole slice with one last chomp.

  “Are you ready to order?” Wavonne asks.

  “I’ll have the chicken,” Raynell barks.

  “The butter-baked chicken on special?”

  “No. The roasted chicken. With green beans . . . no oil, and a baked potato . . . no butter or sour cream. I’m watching my figure.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll have the pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy,” Alvetta says.

  “Oh . . . get the butter-baked chicken, Alvetta,” Raynell says. I bet you’ll like that better.”

  “Um . . . okay.”

  Some things never change, I think to myself yet again. Once a loyal subject—always a loyal subject.

  “And for you?” Wavonne asks Christy. Before she can answer Raynell pipes up. “Bring her the soft-shell crab special. That sounds good, Christy, right?”

  “Sure . . . of course.”

  I pause for a moment before giving Wavonne my order, wondering if Raynell is going to tell me what to have as well. “Bring me the butter-baked chicken too, please.”

  Wavonne nods and turns from the table.

  “So back to the menu for the reunion,” Raynell says, cutting off a second large slice of the cornbread and bringing it to her lips. For something she called “not bad” a few moments ago, she sure seems to be scarfing it down.

  “What if we went with some eighties-themed foods?” Alvetta asks.

  “That’s silly.” Raynell offers her standard look of disapproval. “What are we going to serve? Capri Sun and Fruit Roll-Ups?”

  “Actually, that doesn’t sound half bad,” I joke.

  “Back then, lunch sometimes consisted of an order of fries and a Diet Coke . . . and maybe some Ho Hos for dessert. I’d slice a finger off to have that metabolism back again,” Alvetta says.

  “You and me both,” Raynell agrees. “It sounds so cliché, but those really were the days.”

  “You know it. The clothes . . . and the hair.”

  “The acid-wash jeans, the big earrings, oversized sweaters . . . and those stupid Dwayne Wayne flip-top sunglasses the brothers wore . . . thought they were fly as hell in those things,” Raynell says.

  “I remember when Lee Trainer walked into school wearing that suit with the stripes and a pink tie like he was Rico Tubbs,” Alvetta says

  “Please. You thought . . . we all thought he was all that,” Raynell says.

  “Remember the rolled-up jeans?” I ask.

  “Not just rolled up,” Raynell corrects. “They had to be folded over at the bottom before you rolled them up. That way they set nicely on your high-top Air Jordans.”

  I chuckle. “I didn’t have Air Jordans. I had the Converse Weapon. Boy, did I think I was something else in those things. I remember getting those shoes for Christmas along with a new Walkman.” I turn to Christy, who has been quiet up to this point. “Do you even know what a Walkman is?”

  Christy smiles. “Yes. Those portable cassette players.”

  “We’re probably boring you to tears. I’m sure the eighties are long before your time.”

  “She’s fine,” Raynell says before Christy can respond. Even by Raynell standards she seems to treat this Christy girl pretty bad.

  “I am. Really. It’s fun to watch you guys reminisce.”

  I doubt she meant it, but if Christy was telling the truth, we decide to give her a rocking good time and launch into a series of chats about everything from Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam to Salt-N-Pepa to the hair bands the white kids listened to. We are deep into a discussion about Brenda K. Starr and “I Still Believe,” which Christy admits to knowing only as a Mariah Carey song from her teen years, when Wavonne and Darius show up with our entrées.

  I see eyes go wide as Wavonne sets the butter-baked chicken down in front of Alvetta and me. Raynell appears unimpressed when Darius serves her the roasted chicken, but I can’t say I blame her. It’s a nice dish, and the chick
en is tender, but it’s really just one of a few items I added to the menu with little enthusiasm to meet the occasional requests we get for lighter fare. I’ll be the first to admit that much of the food we serve at Sweet Tea is not for calorie watchers or people monitoring their cholesterol, but we do offer a few dishes for the more health-conscious. In addition to Raynell’s roasted chicken, we have several salads, a low-calorie but flavorful steamed shrimp dish, a grilled fresh fish that changes daily, and we’ll (albeit grudgingly) broil our crab cakes rather than fry them upon request.

  I turn to Christy and see her eyeing her soft-shell crabs curiously and recall how Raynell essentially forced her to order them.

  “Where are you from originally, Christy?” I ask as if I’m just trying to get the conversation rolling again.

  “I grew up outside of Hartford.”

  “Connecticut? So that explains why you’re looking at those soft shells so apprehensively. Soft-shell crabs are definitely a Maryland thing. I don’t imagine they were terribly common in New England.”

  “No. I’ve never had them before.”

  “You’ll like them.” Raynell reaches over and breaks off a crispy batter-coated claw from one of the crabs on Christy’s plate.

  “Do you want to switch?” I ask her. “How about you take my chicken? I’d love to have the crabs.” Soft-shell crabs are one of those “love ’em or hate ’em” foods. If you were brought up on them, there are few things better than a Maryland blue crab freshly caught just after shedding its hard shell, seasoned, battered, and fried-up golden brown. And if you really want to eat it like a local, you’d slip it between two pieces of soft white bread. But if they are unfamiliar to you, the idea of biting into what looks like a giant deep-fried spider can be less than appetizing.

  “Are you sure?” She seems to look at Raynell for her approval.

  “Of course.” I go ahead and switch the plates before Raynell has a chance to offer or decline to give her blessing.

  “That’s very nice of you,” Christy says.

  I sense Raynell is about to reprimand Christy for not eating what she ordered when her phone rings for the second time since she arrived.