Murder with Macaroni and Cheese Read online

  “It’s Gregory again.” She hands the phone to Christy. “Tell him I’ll meet him after lunch in about an hour and a half.”

  “Mr. Simms. Hello,” I hear Christy say as she steps away from the table with Raynell’s phone.

  “Clients. They expect you to be available twenty-four seven.”

  “That’s the price of being one of the top real estate agents in all of Prince George’s County,” Alvetta coos.

  “Not all of Prince George’s County, Alvetta,” Raynell says, and then looks at me. “I only work Mitchellville, Fort Washington, and Upper Marlboro . . . sometimes Brandywine,” Raynell says, spouting off the names of Prince George’s County’s nicer neighborhoods. “Occasionally, I’ll accept some clients in Accokeek or University Park. And, of course, I take listings at National Harbor,” she adds, referring to the luxurious waterfront community in Oxon Hill.

  “Yeah . . . she don’t work in none of the Heights,” Alvetta says with a laugh.

  “You ain’t kiddin’,” Raynell replies as she pokes her fork onto Alvetta’s plate and scoops up some macaroni and cheese.

  Jokes about the “The Heights” are commonplace inside and outside of Prince George’s County—made mostly by people who don’t live in them. The Heights refer to various communities in Prince George’s County with “Heights” in the name: Marlow Heights, Capitol Heights, Hillcrest Heights, District Heights . . . People like Raynell and Alvetta, who, like me, grew up just south of most of the Heights themselves, stick their noses up at these areas, which tend to be poorer and have higher crime rates than the more uppity “outside the Beltway” locales in the county. The Heights are generally the areas of Prince George’s County that are being referred to when you hear lame jokes about PG County standing for “Pistol Grip County” or “Poor Ghetto County.”

  “Mmm-mmm!” Raynell crows before she has a chance to stop herself... and before her fork, once again, finds it way over to Alvetta’s macaroni and cheese. “Girl, this is good!”

  The compliment surprises me, and I think it surprises Raynell as well.

  “It’s my grandmother’s recipe. Cheddar cheese, heavy cream, and butter. How can you go wrong? And adding cream cheese makes it extra smooth.”

  “What’s this crispy stuff on top?”

  “Bacon and panko bread crumbs. Grandmommy used cracker crumbs, but I think the panko crumbs give it more of a crunch. That’s the only change I’ve made to the recipe. Back in the day, I helped my grandmother make it every weekend for Sunday dinner.”

  “Are you going to leave some for me?” Alvetta teases as Raynell pilfers more mac and cheese. I look on as Raynell starts helping herself to Alvetta’s chicken as well, and without thinking, I find myself pushing my own plate closer to me before Raynell starts pilfering my lunch too.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Where is that waitress? Wavy? Wolfie?”

  “Wavonne,” I correct her, before signaling for Wavonne.

  “We’re going to need another order of this,” Raynell says after Wavonne approaches the table.

  “Another order of what?” Wavonne asks as Raynell points to an empty spot on Alvetta’s plate.

  “Bring Raynell a side of mac and cheese, Wavonne, would you, please?” I ask.

  “Mac and cheese?” Wavonne asks, eyeing Raynell. “I thought Sasha Fierce here was watchin’ her figure.”

  “Wavonne!” I reprimand as Alvetta lets out a quick laugh—a laugh she immediately halts when Raynell’s disapproving eyes dart toward her.

  “Not for me,” Raynell says. “For the table to share.”

  “One mac and cheese comin’ up.”

  As Wavonne heads to one of the terminals to put in the order, our conversation returns to high school memories—football games, dances, the McDonald’s on Stuart Lane where so many students hung out after school and loitered in the parking lot on Friday and Saturday nights to watch the occasional brawl or find out who had parents out of town and a keg tapped in the backyard.

  Long after the à la carte order of mac and cheese arrived, and we’ve finished our meals . . . and Raynell has helped herself to half the food on everyone else’s plate, Wavonne returns to the table. “How about dessert? My aunt Celia has made a mean coconut custard pie. We also have her famous chocolate marshmallow cake and banana pudding.”

  “I couldn’t possibly eat another bite,” Alvetta says.

  “Me either,” I hear Christy say next to me.

  “I don’t really have much of a sweet tooth,” Raynell says as she grabs a spoon and scraps the last bits of macaroni and cheese from the metal casserole dish. “And I’ve got to run for a meeting.”

  “Just the check then?” Wavonnne asks.

  “No check, Wavonne,” I say. “The ladies were my guests today.”

  “Thank you, Halia. That’s very nice,” Alvetta says

  Wavonne is about to walk away when Raynell stops her. “What was it you said about a chocolate marshmallow cake?”

  “It really is a lovely dessert,” I say, before Wavonne has a chance to describe it as “dope” or “straight-up pimp.” “Momma makes all the desserts here. Her marshmallow cake is one of my favorites—it’s a very rich chocolate cake topped with a fluffy marshmallow frosting.”

  I see Raynell’s lips involuntarily part as I describe the cake.

  “Not for me, but I’d love a slice to take to my husband.”

  “Of course.” I turn to Wavonnne. “Wavonne, honey, why don’t you box some desserts for each of the ladies to take home.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary,” Christy says.

  “I’m happy to do it. Take it home. Enjoy it with a nice cup of coffee,” I insist.

  “Thank you.”

  “Yes, thank you, Halia,” Alvetta says. “For everything.”

  So many thank-yous today, but not a single one from Raynell, I think to myself as I catch her looking at her watch, which I noticed earlier had the word “Rolex” on it.

  “I really do have to get moving,” Raynell says. “It doesn’t look like we got that much planning done for the reunion—too much talk of Jody Watley’s big hoop earrings, and Jane Child’s nose ring/chain thing . . . and Kid’s hi-top fade. We still need to discuss the menu for the evening.” She turns to Christy. “Christy, set up another meeting for us.”

  “Why don’t I put a menu together with some prices? I can e-mail it to you.”

  “I’d really like to discuss it a bit more,” Raynell says as Christy scrolls through Raynell’s calendar on her iPad. “Christy, what have I got open tomorrow or early next week?”

  “You’re pretty booked. You’re showing properties to Gregory all day tomorrow and—”

  “I have an idea,” Alvetta interjects, and seems to look to Raynell for permission to share it. Raynell nods at her, and she continues. “Why don’t you come to service on Sunday, and then we can meet in the café afterward and discuss the final details.”

  “That would work for me,” Raynell agrees.

  I hesitate for a moment. “It’s hard for me to get away from here on Sunday mornings, but let me check with my assistant manager. I may be able to sneak off for a little while.”

  “Great, I’ll reserve you a seat in the Pastor’s Circle.”

  “Two seats,” I hear from behind me as Wavonnne returns to the table with three brown bags with the Sweet Tea logo on them. “If I’m going to help Halia with the event, I should be there, too.”

  “Two seats it is,” Alvetta says.

  “Let me call you later today to confirm,” I say to Alvetta.

  Wavonne hands a bag to Alvetta and one to Raynell, who also snatches the bag meant for Christy out of Wavonne’s hand.

  “Get the car and cool it down, would you?” Raynell hands her keys to Christy. It seems odd to me that Raynell would ask Christy to retrieve her car like she’s a valet given that Raynell parked in the front of the lot, but then I remember how Raynell was perspiring just from the short walk into the restaurant. If she ste
pped into her Escalade after it’s been sitting in the August afternoon sun, she might just melt altogether.

  We get up from the table, say our good-byes, and my guests head toward the exit with Christy scurrying ahead of Raynell and Alvetta. Wavonne and I linger behind and watch Raynell and Alvetta hover next to the door, waiting for Christy to cool down Raynell’s car.

  “For her husband,” Wavonne says, eyeing the bags Raynell has in her hand with Momma’s cake packed in them. “You know her husband’s gonna come home to nothin’ but a crumpled bag, an empty Styrofoam container, and a chunky wife with marshmallow breath.”

  RECIPE FROM HALIA’S KITCHEN

  Halia’s Macaroni and Cheese

  Ingredients

  1 pound large elbow macaroni

  8 slices of bacon

  1 garlic clove, minced

  3 tablespoons all-purpose flour

  3 cups whole milk

  1 cup half-and-half

  1 teaspoon hot pepper sauce

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ½ teaspoon black pepper

  4 cups sharp cheddar cheese (grated)

  1 pound softened cream cheese

  1 cup panko (Japanese) bread crumbs

  3 tablespoons melted butter

  • Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.

  • Boil pasta with a pinch of salt for 7 minutes, or according to package directions. Drain. Set aside.

  • Fry bacon in a large frying pan until crispy. Remove bacon from pan, blot with paper towels, and chop into thin strips. Set aside.

  • Add three tablespoons bacon grease to large saucepan. Add minced garlic and sauté over medium heat for 1 minute. Slowly add flour while constantly stirring mixture until a roux or paste forms.

  • Add milk, half-and-half, hot sauce, salt, and pepper. Continue stirring until sauce thickens (8–10 minutes).

  • Remove pan from heat and drain sauce through sieve (to remove any lumps) into large glass or metal bowl. Add cheddar and cream cheese. Stir until sauce is smooth.

  • Add cooked pasta and blend. Transfer to well-greased 13-by-9-inch baking dish.

  • Mix bread crumbs with butter and chopped bacon and sprinkle over macaroni and cheese.

  • Bake until bread crumbs are crispy, about 30 minutes.

  Eight Servings

  CHAPTER 7

  “Oh my,” I say as traffic stalls and I realize we are likely not headed toward a typical church service—cars don’t come to a near standstill before the building is even in view at a typical church service.

  “Ain’t he fine,” Wavonne says from the passenger seat next to me about one of the police officers directing traffic. “We should have brought some of your honey butter, Halia . . . put a little on him and eat him right up!”

  “Wavonne!” Momma calls from the backseat. “We’re heading to church, for goodness sake.”

  “Sorry, Aunt Celia,” Wavonne says. “I’ll ask the minister to bless the butter first.”

  I chuckle as we’re guided through a maze of orange cones. As the van creeps forward, we eventually round a corner, and Rebirth Christian Church comes into view. The land in the general area is flat, which makes the enormous circular-shaped church resemble Ayers rock rising from the Australian outback.

  “It looks like the Verizon Center with a steeple on it,” Momma says.

  “That is one big place. I bet they could host the BET awards in there.”

  “The parking lot . . . or should I say lots . . . look completely full,” I say as our forward motion comes to yet another halt.

  Momma lowers her window. “Excuse me,” she says to one of the men directing cars. “What’s causing the delay?”

  “It’s like this every Sunday, ma’am. You need to wait for the current service to wrap. The parking spaces will open up when the nine a.m. worshippers start to leave. Then we’ll get you moving.”

  Momma thanks the man and puts the window back up.

  “All that parking.” I’m eyeing the vast lots surrounding the church. “And there still isn’t enough to ease this backup.”

  “Says here more than ten thousand people attend services here every Sunday,” Wavonne says, staring down at her phone. “Ooh, let’s check out the pastor.” She taps on her phone. “Mmmm . . . not bad for an older guy.” She turns her phone toward me.

  “He’s a good-looking man.”

  “Let’s see what they say about Ms. Thang.” Wavonne taps a few more times. “Well, la-te-da.” She turns the phone toward me again.

  I view the photo of Alvetta in a conservative navy blue suit and white blouse. She’s accented the outfit with a simple strand of pearls. “She looks nice, and I have to hand it to her, if she was going for a ‘minister’s wife’ look, she nailed it.”

  “Says here she’s a graduate of Howard University, where she received a bachelor’s degree in psychology, which she’s found to be an asset when called upon to counsel church members,” Wavonne reads aloud from Alvetta’s bio. “Oh lawd—girlfriend’s a headshrinker.”

  “Since when did an undergraduate degree in psychology qualify you to counsel people?” Momma asks. “Don’t you need at least a master’s degree or a PhD?”

  “I suspect just being the wife of the pastor qualifies you for all sorts of things.”

  We wait a few minutes longer, and departing church attendees finally start to make their way out of the lots and traffic begins to move. When we eventually secure a spot in Lot D to the left of the church I text Alvetta to let her know we are here.

  Momma and I walk toward the building, moving slowly in an effort to let Wavonne keep up as she tries not to tumble over in the ridiculously high heels she’s wearing.

  I examine the crowd as we approach the entrance. I was expecting to see worshippers dressed to the nines—especially the women. I was anticipating regal suits and big showy church hats. But, while most of the people walking toward the church are smartly dressed, women in full suits are in the minority. I don’t see a single hat, and some people are dressed rather casually in slacks or even jeans.

  We step through the main entrance and see nothing even reminiscent of the churches I’m used to attending. While Momma now attends another mega church across town, she came from a Methodist background, and Daddy was Catholic, so we dabbled between the two religions when I was growing up. I’m used to dimly lit, almost somber interiors . . . stained glass windows, organ music, uncomfortable pews, and people talking in a whisper if they are talking at all.

  Rebirth is designed like a sports arena with a brightly lit wide corridor that appears to circle the perimeter of the building. To the left of the vast hallway, which is lined, trade-fair style, with various booths and tables promoting church activities, I get a peek through some double doors into the . . . I’m not sure what to call the area where the service is actually held—the terms “theater” or “stadium” come to mind, though. We’re about to start perusing the various promotional stalls when I see Alvetta walking toward us.

  “Halia!” She strides forward on a pair of exquisite pointed-toe pumps. “So glad you could make it.” As usual, she looks flawless in a close-fitting skirt somewhere between pink and peach and a white silk blouse.

  “Me too. You remember Wavonne, and this is my mother, Celia Watkins.”

  “Yes. Of course. Hello, Wavonne.” She turns to Momma. “Alvetta Marshall.” Alvetta extends her hand to Momma. “Welcome to Rebirth Christian Church.”

  “Thank you. I’m looking forward to the service. I’m the only regular churchgoer in this bunch.” Momma casts disapproving eyes on me and Wavonne. “Good luck with these two heathens.”

  Alvetta laughs. “How about I show you around?”

  We follow Alvetta down the main walkway.

  “This is the Grand Hall. It loops around the worship center. As you can see, our ministries set up tables to recruit new members before and after the services. We have over a hundred different ministries.” Alvetta starts pointing to various tables. “That�
��s the artist ministry, the fitness ministry, the photography ministry . . . over there is the magazine ministry—”

  “Magazine ministry? Can I get me a free copy of Us Weekly?” Wavonne asks.

  “Afraid not. The magazine ministry produces the church’s monthly magazine. It’s full color and has a readership of over twenty thousand people.”

  “Full color? That sounds expensive,” I say, thinking of how much money I’ve spent on color printing for the restaurant.

  “Not at all. We sell advertising that more than covers the costs of production and distribution.”

  As we continue to walk through the Grand Hall Alvetta smiles and waves at the other churchgoers. She even stops to hug or offer a quick kiss on the cheek to some of them. She has a confidence about her as her heels click along the pristine hardwood floors that was absent when she was at the restaurant with Raynell a few days ago.

  “Let me show you the kids’ area.”

  We follow Alvetta a few more steps down the hall, make a right through some doors, and I swear we’ve fallen through a hole into Wonderland or a Smurf village.

  “Damn.” Wavonne looks around and catches sight of the cartoonish-looking artificial tree in the center of the room. Its painted leaves go up to the high ceiling and continue outward, creating a canopy over the room that is dotted with oversized multicolored mushrooms, rabbits, deer, and other woodland creatures. The forest theme is continued on the walls in the form of a vibrant mural. There is a reception area on the far side of the room where parents are checking in their children.

  Wavonne leans in and, oddly, exercises some discretion by lowering her voice. “Forget the service. I bet some of them be droppin’ the little rugrats off here for some free baby sittin’ and headin’ to the mall.”