Murder with Collard Greens and Hot Sauce Read online

Maurice ignores Wavonne as he runs a comb through my now-damp hair and grabs a bottle of what I guess is Monique’s frizz-free mousse from Kerry.

  “Maurice is giving my hair a quick style. Monique wants to interview Momma and me about her products. I guess Maurice is trying to make me presentable for the camera.”

  “Camera?!” Wavonne says. “I wanna be on camera. How do I get in on this?” she asks Maurice.

  “And you are?” Maurice inquires, dispensing a dollop of fluffy white mousse into his hand and beginning to work it into my hair.

  “Wavonne. Wavonne Hix. I’m Halia’s cousin. We brought the food.”

  Maurice momentarily takes his eyes off my hair and turns toward Wavonne. He runs his hand down the side of her head to feel her hair. “Oh sweetie, we’re trying to promote Monique’s products. Not have them banned in all fifty states.”

  Wavonne’s mouth drops, but before she has a chance to offer Maurice a few choice words, he makes a peace offering. “I’m only joking,” he says. “Your hair is quite . . . well . . . it has . . . potential. We simply need to get you on a program . . . some keratin, some emollients, some hot oil treatments . . . there’s hope for you yet. We’ll talk later.”

  “So you and Aunt Celia get to be on TV, and I don’t?”

  “I’m afraid it looks that way, Wavonne.”

  “Maybe we can work you in somehow,” Maurice says. “We’ll put you under a dryer and say you’re in the middle of a deep conditioning or something. Now run along and find Maurice a cocktail, would you?” Maurice says before flicking the switch on the dryer and beginning to blow out my freshly moussed hair.

  I watch in the mirror as Wavonne weighs her options. She doesn’t like taking orders from anyone, so, under normal circumstances, she would likely tell Maurice to go get his own damn cocktail. But he has offered to work her into Monique’s video and possibly help her with her hair, so perhaps she has decided to keep herself on his good side . . . or maybe it’s only because there is no point in her protesting any further as even her loud mouth can’t compete with the roar of the hair dryer. But, for whatever reason, Wavonne refrains from making any biting replies and departs in search of an adult beverage for Maurice.

  Chapter 6

  “Wow,” I say, marveling at my newly styled hair, thanks to that certain “way” stylists have with a circular brush and a hair dryer. It’s not like I don’t have a collection of brushes and my own dryer at home, but no matter what acrobatics I put myself through when combing out my hair, it never looks as good as when a professional stylist does it.

  “Much better,” Maurice says while spraying my hair, using a bottle with the Hair by Monique logo on it that reads “Flex Finish Style Lock.” He’s unsnapping my cape when Wavonne reappears with a glass of champagne and hands it to Maurice. “This is the closest thing I could find to a cocktail.”

  “I was hoping for a dirty martini, but I guess this will have to do.” Maurice takes the flute from Wavonne and quickly gulps down its contents. “Only the one?” he asks, then lifts the empty glass toward me. “You may want to down a few of these too before going on camera with Nathan directing. A glass or two of bubbly will make dealing with him slightly more bearable.”

  I hop out of the chair. “He isn’t terribly pleasant, is he?”

  “I’ve met angry pit bulls that are more enjoyable to be around,” Maurice says as Wavonne and I follow him toward the front of the salon where Nathan and the cameraman have been filming Monique’s interactions with Latasha’s staff and clients.

  “I’ve done what I can,” he says to Nathan. “This is as camera-ready as I can get her in the time allotted.”

  Nathan nods at Maurice, and, after he calls Monique over to join us, I hear him say, “Where’s the old lady?”

  “I’d thank you not to refer to my mother as an old lady,” I reprimand, even though I guess it is a technically accurate term. Momma is a lady, and she is old.

  “Your mother then? Where is she?”

  “Momma?” I call over toward the refreshment table where Momma is slicing her lemon cake and putting it on plates. “Let’s do this. I need to get back to the restaurant.”

  After Momma makes her way toward us, Nathan tells us where and how he’d like us to stand, what products to plug, and reminds us to look at the cue cards if we have any trouble remembering the names of the items he wants us to mention.

  “Time is money, people. Time is money,” he says before filming begins.

  Once he shuts up, the camera starts rolling, and Monique begins asking us questions, things move along with relative ease. Monique, clearly a pro at this sort of thing, makes us feel comfortable and knows how to phrase a question to get the answer she wants, which makes things pretty simple for Momma and me. I talk about the volume that Monique’s mousse gave my hair while keeping it soft and, at Monique’s urging, Momma gives a run-through of her morning hair routine and all the Hair by Monique products involved. Ultimately, our product-plugging interview turns out to be fairly painless and is over in less than ten minutes.

  “You did great, ladies,” Monique says while Nathan fails to comment on our performance at all. “I say we turn the camera off for a few minutes, so I can check out some of these refreshments I keep hearing about.”

  Momma and I lead Monique toward the assortment of treats, and I hand her a plate.

  “Oh my, I shouldn’t partake. I could barely get this skirt buttoned this morning, but it all looks so good. I’ll just have a little taste.” Monique starts adding items to her plate. “A little taste of these,” she says grabbing a few spicy crab balls. “And a little taste of these.” She picks up three deviled potatoes. “And I have to have a little taste of these,” she adds, lifting several cheese balls from their tray. “Oh my! What do we have here?” she asks when she comes upon Momma’s cake. “I certainly can’t miss out on a little taste of this,” she announces, using a pair of tongs to reach for a slice of cake. “Girl,” she says to me. “In one afternoon, you’re going to take me from a size twelve to an Old Navy–size twelve with all these goodies.”

  “You’d look lovely at any size,” Momma says.

  “Wow. This is heavenly,” Monique says, bypassing the more savory hors d’oeuvres and diving right into the cake. “So moist and lemony . . . and this glaze! I may need to pack a few slices of this to go . . . you know, for a friend,” she adds with a laugh before addressing Momma individually. “So you are the baker?”

  “Yes. It’s been a hobby of mine for years, and, when Halia opened Sweet Tea, I came on board to make the desserts.”

  “Sweet Tea sounds fabulous although I may need to bring a seamstress along to let out the waistline of my clothes while I eat.”

  I chuckle. “We’d love for you to come by sometime.”

  “You must try it,” Latasha says, appearing next to us and starting to fix herself a plate of food. “All of this is only a sampling of the yummy food Halia makes at Sweet Tea. You have not lived until you’ve tried her sour cream cornbread.”

  “I do love cornbread.”

  “Why don’t you have dinner there tonight?” Latasha suggests.

  “Much as I’d love to, I don’t think I can work it out tonight. I have another salon to visit, and my personal chef already has dinner in the works back at my house. Maybe I can squeeze a visit in after the hair convention wraps, and I’m back in town after the tour.”

  “Of course,” I say. “You’re welcome whenever you can make it. We may not have my smothered pork chops on special like we do tonight, but we’ll have something equally good.”

  “Smothered pork chops?” Monique asks.

  “Served with homemade biscuits,” I entice.

  “Oh girl . . . no need to mention the biscuits . . . although they are a plus. You had me at smothered pork chops. I’ll call Alex, my chef, and ask him to halt dinner preparations. How about we arrive at about seven? That will give me time to change into something with an elastic waistband.”

&nbs
p; “Perfect. If you can let me know how many people we should expect in your party, we’ll have a table waiting for you.”

  “Well, me, Nathan, Maurice . . . and I guess I probably have to ask Odessa.” She appears to have some distaste in her mouth when the name Odessa comes out of it. “She owns the next salon I’m going to . . . Salon Soleil. And I suppose I should ask Alex, since I put the kibosh on his meal preparations.” She turns to Latasha. “And would you like to join us?”

  “Absolutely. I don’t turn away invites to Sweet Tea.”

  “Great. So that’s six of us, right?”

  “Yep. Would you like me to reserve a table for you in the back of the restaurant so you can be a bit discreet . . . so no one bothers you?”

  “Discreet? Girl, Monique does not do discreet. Do you think I’d be wearing all this razzle dazzle, standing on six inches of heel, and have all this paint on my face if I was looking to be incognito?”

  I laugh. “No, I guess not. We’ll make sure your table is front and center.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Then it’s all settled. We’ll see you later this evening at Sweet Tea.” I turn to Momma. “We should really get going. Where’s Wavonne?”

  “She’s in the back under a dryer. That hairdresser fellow told her they would film her.”

  I look toward the rear of the salon and see Wavonne under a dryer, anxiously awaiting the camera.

  “Were you going to get some footage of my cousin?” I ask Nathan and Maurice. “I think she’s waiting for you under the dryer.”

  “I did tell her we’d try to work her in,” Maurice says to Nathan.

  “Isn’t she the one whose hair smelled like that Chinese restaurant back in New York . . . the one shut down by the health department?”

  “Yes,” Maurice says. “But it’s been washed. I have her under the dryer with Monique’s Heat Rescue conditioner. Just ask her a few questions and tell her to wave to the camera. From my limited interaction with her, I sense it’s easier to just let her have some camera time. If we don’t do it here, she might show up at the next salon with some fresh hell mix of mayonnaise and horseradish on her head.”

  “One of those?” Nathan asks. “Reality TV has made everyone think they should be famous.” He gestures for the cameraman to follow him toward Wavonne.

  Momma and I watch as Wavonne is completely tickled to get some time on video. She’s smiling and moving her hands around as she talks. At one point, she seems to have trouble hearing Nathan and tries to lift the dryer, only to have Maurice push it back down again, making sure to keep her hair out of the shot.

  When they are done filming, Nathan moves on with the camera guy, and Maurice lifts the dryer from over Wavonne’s head. He then runs a comb through her hair. I think Wavonne was hoping for a full blowout from him, but he only offers her some final tips and sends her on her way.

  * * *

  “Tonight should be interesting,” I say once the three of us are finally out the door and on our way back to Sweet Tea. “Celebrities in the restaurant always make for an eventful night.”

  Truth be told, I’m not that keen on having famous people in Sweet Tea. They just create a frenzy with my other guests and even my staff. I get local celebrities in the restaurant all the time . . . politicians, local newscasters, players from the Redskins, and the Wizards, and the Nationals. Most of them are okay and fairly easy to deal with, but every now and then we get the occasional pop singer playing at the Capital One Arena or a Hollywood actor filming on location. That’s when paparazzi creates a nuisance outside the restaurant, and we get demands about clearing out the bathroom for celebrity use or all sorts of other inconveniences to my staff and my customers.

  “Do I get to wait on the table?”

  “Sure.” I don’t usually have Wavonne wait on VIP guests, as she is, at best, a mediocre server, but I know I’ll never hear the end of it if I refuse, so I don’t even bother saying no.

  “Monique’s nice enough,” I say. “And I guess Maurice is okay, but that Nathan—I wish she hadn’t included him in the dinner.”

  Momma and Wavonne exchange looks following my remark.

  “What? What did I say?”

  Momma and Wavonne look at each other again before Wavonne responds, “I doubt she’d come to dinner without her husband.”

  “How do you know that he’s her husband?”

  “He pops up on her commercials sometimes.”

  “Seems like she could have any man she wants,” I say. “I wonder why she chose him.”

  “You could take a lesson from her, Halia,” Momma says. “Sometimes you can’t wait for the absolute perfect man. Sometimes you have to accept some flaws and just work with them if you ever expect to give your momma some grandchildren.”

  “Momma, I’m well into my forties. Man or no man, I think your grandchildren ship has sailed.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Momma replies when we reach the restaurant. “I’m going home. Good luck tonight,” she adds, before stepping away.

  “Thanks,” I say, opening the door to Sweet Tea and thinking of all I have to do to get ready for the usual Friday night dinner rush and the added commotion of a celebrity guest. “I’ll need it.”

  Chapter 7

  “They’re here!” Wavonne calls as she peers out the front window. Fortunately, she seems to have already lost interest in her homegrown hair potions and is back to sporting one of her wigs.

  I walk over to her and look over her shoulder. I’m thankful that, for this visit, Monique has left her flashy tour bus behind, and all the parking spaces it takes up, as I watch her and her entourage exit a midsize SUV.

  “Is that a . . . ?”

  “A what?”

  “Oh my God!” Wavonne says. “It is! It’s a Bentley Ben-tayga.”

  “Is that a nice car?” I ask.

  Wavonne looks at me like I’ve been living under a rock for the last ten years. “Last I heard, it’s the most expensive SUV you can buy . . . like more than two hundred thousand dollars. Chris Brown has one, and I saw on TV that Rick Ross bought one for his daughter’s sweet sixteen.”

  “Wow,” I say, as the group approaches the front door, more about how crazy it seems to spend so much money on a car than about being impressed by the vehicle in any way.

  As Ms. Dupree and her guests make their entrance into Sweet Tea, conversations cease throughout the restaurant, and all eyes are on Monique. She’s changed clothes since the gathering this afternoon and is now wearing a pink skirt, a white jacket trimmed with pink fur, and white heels with pink polka dots.

  “Hello, hello!” she calls with a smile as she waves to my customers, who are either busily asking their tablemates who she is or busily telling their tablemates who she is.

  “It smells wonderful in here. Thank you so much for having us,” she says to me. “You know Nathan and Maurice . . . and Latasha,” she adds before limply gesturing to the striking woman next to her. “This is Odessa Thornton. She owns Salon Soleil in Upper Marlboro.” Monique makes Odessa’s introduction with little warmth or enthusiasm, and something about the body language between the two ladies makes me think they are not the best of friends.

  “Hello. I’m Halia, and this is my cousin Wavonne. Welcome to Sweet Tea.” I extend my hand to Odessa. She’s quite beautiful but has a much more subdued presence than Monique. Her light brown skin is a shade or two paler than Monique’s, and her petite figure seems slight next to Monique’s more robust frame. In contrast to Monique’s waves of flowing black hair, Odessa has a simple, yet elegant side swept bob with subtle copper highlights. And while she’s stylishly dressed in a pair of form-fitting dark jeans, an off-the-shoulder beige blouse, and nude patent leather pumps, her taste in fashion is clearly much more understated than Monique’s.

  “Thank you,” Odessa says. “I’m excited to be here.”

  She shakes my hand and then reaches for Wavonne’s. Wavonne accepts her grasp, but I notice her eyes looking over Od
essa’s shoulder while she greets her. When my own eyes follow the focus of Wavonne’s attention, I see an extremely good-looking young man with dark brown skin, a finely developed physique, and a trendy haircut that I only know is called a Low Fade with Twists because there was a gentleman next to me at the salon a few weeks ago getting the same style, and Latasha gave me the lowdown.

  “And this is Alejandro Rivas, my personal chef,” Monique says of the handsome man with much more zeal than when she introduced Odessa. “His cooking is the reason I get those peculiar glares from the salesgirls if I happen upon the petite section at Neiman Marcus. I always tell them I’m passing through on the way to the real women’s clothing section.” She looks Odessa up and down. “Who wants the body of a twig anyway? So not sexy.”

  Odessa rolls her eyes. “I’ve never really been in the real women’s section at Neiman’s. Don’t they usually keep it hidden and out of the way . . . somewhere in the back of the store? And isn’t there a barn door or something you have to go through to get to it?”

  Monique laughs as if she’s more amused by Odessa’s comments than annoyed. “Oh Odessa, you can be quite witty when you stay on your meds.”

  There’s a momentary silence while the rest of us try to make sense of the exchange of barbs between the two women. I get the feeling Odessa is about to offer yet another counter dig, but, fortunately, Alejandro cuts in between them before she has a chance and extends his hand to me.

  “You can call me Alex,” he says with a noticeable accent that I recognize as Dominican.

  “So nice to meet you.” I turn my head toward Wavonne. “This is my cousin Wavonne.”

  Wavonne shakes his hand while grinning from ear to ear. Then, without releasing her grip, she leans in closer to me. “Girl, forget the pork chops. I’m suddenly in the mood for some mofongo,” she whispers.

  With all the introductions completed, I lead Monique and her associates to their table. Once they get settled in, order some drinks, and begin reviewing the menu, the general fascination exhibited toward them from my other diners seems to diminish a bit.