Read Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) Online

Authors: A.L. Herbert

Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) (13 page)

BOOK: Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery)
8.75Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
RECIPE FROM HALIA’S KITCHEN
 
 
Halia’s Sweet Corn Casserole
 
Ingredients
 
10 fresh corn cobs
12 ounces Muenster cheese (usually one and one half bricks)
1 teaspoon crushed red pepper (½ teaspoon if you don’t want it too spicy)
2 eggs (beaten)
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon black pepper
• Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Generously grease an 8-inch glass pie pan.
• Remove corn from cobs and mince in food processor for about five seconds using the multipurpose blade.
• Pour minced corn into large bowl. Holding corn in place with large spatula, tip bowl over sink to drain any pooled moisture.
• Grate Muenster cheese in food processor using the shredding disc. (Cheese will grate more easily if you place it in the freezer for an hour prior to grating.)
• Reserve ¾ cup shredded cheese and add remaining cheese to the minced corn.
• Add crushed red pepper, eggs, salt, and pepper. Stir until well blended.
• Pour mixture into prepared pan and bake at 400 degrees for 50 minutes or until top browns.
• Cover casserole with foil, lower heat to 325 degrees, and bake for an additional 50 minutes.
• Sprinkle top of casserole with reserved cheese immediately after removing from oven.
• Let set for 20 minutes prior to serving.
Eight Servings
 
Note:
People always ask if they can use frozen or canned corn for this recipe. My response is always the same: “Of course you can . . . if you don’t want it to be any good.”
CHAPTER 24
 
“T
hat mean white girl and her husband are here,” Wavonne says to me, poking her head through my office door.
“Did you get them seated?”
Wavonne nods.
“Tell them I’ll be right out.”
I close the file I’m working on and get up from my chair. When I reach the dining room I see Heather and Josh at a table near the front windows. I wave and smile as I approach.
“Thanks so much for coming,” I say and pull out a chair for myself. “Have you had a chance to look over the menu? Lunch is on me.”
“Thank you,” Heather says with a coldness in her voice. “But that’s really not necessary.”
“I insist,” I say while Darius appears with two iced teas for the couple.
“Is that the passion fruit tea we have on special today?” I ask as he sets the glasses on the table.
“None other.” He smiles at Heather and Josh. “Are you ready to order or do you need a few more minutes?”
“This fried chicken salad sandwich sounds really good,” Josh says to Heather. I’m not sure, but I think this might be the first time I’ve heard his voice.
“You’ll love it. We make it with fried chicken instead of roasted chicken, so you get all the crispy breading mixed in there with some mayonnaise, sour cream, roasted pecan chips, a pinch of sugar, and a few other seasonings. It’s a really popular item. We only serve it at lunch.” I can always count on Darius to sell the hell out of my menu.
“Sold,” Josh says with a smile. He has a friendliness about him that his wife lacks.
“On a croissant or honey wheat bread? Both are brought in fresh every day from Hot Buns Bakery down the street.”
“A croissant, please.”
“And for you, ma’am?” Darius asks Heather.
Heather looks up from the menu. “Do you have the corn casserole I had last time?”
“Afraid not,” Darius replies. “That’s an occasional special.”
“We actually made it special for you,” I say, trying to get Heather to warm up to me a bit before I grill her about the night Marcus was killed. “Marcus said you were a vegetarian.”
“I think Marcus misunderstood. I do eat meat, but only when it comes from humane farms.” She turns to Josh. “The fried chicken in that sandwich you just ordered probably came from a factory farm.”
“Actually, Heather,” I say, “all the chicken served here comes from a local farm near Frederick that raises them free range—they’re outside most of the day. All the eggs we use come from another free range farm in Delaware.”
“Told you, hooka’,” I hear Wavonne say under her breath as she walks by the table.
“Really?”
“Yep. I get as many of my meats and animal products as possible from local humane farms. I like to know where the food I serve comes from. I toured a regular chicken farm . . . a ‘factory farm’ I guess you called it, on the eastern shore a few years ago and was horrified at what I saw. The very next day I started making calls to local farms.”
Heather smiles, and I immediately sense a shift in her attitude toward me. Nothing bonds people more than a common cause or concern. “In that case, I think I’ll have the chicken salad sandwich, as well . . . on a croissant, also.”
“Sure. Those come with house-made potato chips. We’ll have them right out to you.”
“Are you going to have anything?” Josh asks me.
“I’m sure Darius will bring me a sandwich, too.”
“He mentioned you bring in fresh baked bread every day?”
“We do. When I opened Sweet Tea I wanted to make everything from scratch—even the bread for my sandwiches, but bread making is very labor-intensive and time-consuming, especially when you factor in rising time for the dough. I eventually decided to compromise. I couldn’t bear the thought of having institutional bread in plastic bags coming through the door, so I negotiated a deal with Hot Buns up the street. They make fresh croissants, honey wheat bread, and buns for our burgers every day. Laura, my manager, usually picks up the order on her way in each morning.”
“You really have a commitment to quality,” Heather says. “It’s sort of refreshing.”
“I try. I really do.” I’m glad to hear some kind words from Heather and take them as my cue to dive in and get down to business. “So, do you two live nearby?”
“We’re in Bowie.”
“Nice. So you own a home there?”
“Not for long,” Heather says.
“Yeah. It looks like Marcus may not have been on the up-and-up. Like I said, I was thinking about getting involved with the Reverie Homes program, but it sounds like that might not be such a good idea.”
“I’d run away from the program as fast as you can, Ms. Watkins.”
“Halia. Please.”
“It was all a scam. Marcus took us for thousands of dollars, we’ve lost our savings, and now we’ll likely lose our home.”
Heather’s demeanor has softened, but as she speaks I see something other than the usual anger in her eyes . . . sadness or maybe fear. She probably really isn’t such an unpleasant person, but, more likely, someone who is scared senseless about losing her home.
“So many promises were made. We talked to people at one of the seminars who had their houses paid off . . . or at least said they did. And we met Marcus at
church
. We figured we could trust him.”
“You go to the Church of Christ?” I ask with surprise. The Church of Christ, where Marcus takes his mother on Sunday, is almost exclusively black. It seems odd that a young white couple from Bowie would go there.
“No. We go to St. Pius. That’s where we met Marcus.”
“You met Marcus there?” I ask as it dawns on me that Marcus may have been going to churches all over town trying to find easy targets for this mortgage scheme.
“Yeah. He was there every Sunday. He was even a Eucharistic minister.”
Oh, he was sly, that Marcus
.
“He struck up a conversation with us at Bible study, and one thing led to another, and next thing I knew we were telling him about the house we’d just bought.”
“Let me guess. He somehow managed to turn the conversation toward your mortgage payments.”
“No. Not at all. He didn’t mention it the first time we met, or the second . . . or third. He never brought it up at any of the Bible study gatherings or the few times we went out to dinner afterward with him. He was building our trust.”
“So when did he tell you about the program?”
“He didn’t actually. He let us ask him about it. He invited us over for dinner one night and just
happened
to leave some literature about it lying around. Josh saw it on the kitchen counter and asked about it,” Heather says, narrowing her eyebrows at her husband. She seems to be implying that all of this is his fault.
That cunning little shit,
is all I can think. I look at the pair across from me. Neither one of them can be a day over twenty-five, and Marcus developed a friendship with them, played them for fools, and set them up to lose their savings and their home.
“I was wary of the whole thing, much more so than Josh . . . he’s more trusting. But I agreed to attend one of the presentations, and so many people were there who spoke about investing in the program, and how they were now mortgage free. Marcus somehow made it all make sense. We were such idiots.”
“You said you invested thirty thousand dollars in the program ?”
“
Threw away
thirty thousand dollars is more like it. At first, the program delivered as promised and helped us pay the mortgage down, but a few months ago the checks stopped coming, and we can’t make the payments without them. We’re facing foreclosure and financial ruin.”
“So last Saturday, when you were here for dinner with Marcus? What did he tell you then?”
“He was giving us the same song and dance as before, but that time he brought reinforcements. Mr. Pritchett came with him to tell us the same thing Marcus had been telling us for months: that there had been a few setbacks with the company’s investments, but things were on the mend, and our payments would resume soon.”
“That explains the tension at the table that night . . . and what a night it turned out to be. You know, that was the last night anyone saw Marcus,” I say, realizing it wasn’t the smoothest transition to talking about Marcus’s death, but it was the best I could do.
“Yes. The police mentioned it when they questioned us.”
“So they questioned you, too?” I figure mentioning that I was questioned as well will help me ease into asking them what they told the police. I can try to make it sound like I just want to compare experiences with them.
“Yes. We talked with them for over an hour.”
“Really? What could they have talked to you about for so long?”
“They had a lot of questions about our relationship with Marcus. And then they actually started asking us where we went after we left the restaurant. If I didn’t know better, I would think we were suspects in his killing.”
I laugh awkwardly. “I felt that way, as well, when they questioned me. I think they are just talking with everyone who might have any information.”
“I hope so,” Heather, who’s been doing all the talking at this point, says.
“So did you tell them the same thing I did—that after you left here you went home and went to bed?”
“Yes,” Josh chimes in before Heather has a chance to speak. “Mr. Pritchett and Marcus’s sister were still here when we left. We went home and went to bed. That’s pretty much the whole story.”
The way Josh uncharacteristically broke into the conversation and the “end of discussion” tone in his voice tells me that his words are so
not
“pretty much the whole story.”
Heather shoots Josh a look like a mother might give a child who’s spoken out of turn. “Yeah. We went home from here. It was late, and we were tired. Marcus had calmed me down some, but I was still pretty pissed off. When I got home—”
“When we got home,” Josh says, interrupting Heather, “we pretty much just went to bed. And I wouldn’t say we were pissed off . . . just concerned. Didn’t you ask us here to talk about the Reverie Homes program?” Now Josh is the one sounding cold. He’s trying to come across as firm, but you can tell it’s out of character for him, and he mostly ends up sounding nervous.
“Yes, but I guess you’ve told me what I need to know. What was it you said? I ‘should run away from the program as fast as I can?’ ”
“That would be my advice,” Heather says.
Josh’s tone has made it clear that my little question-and-answer period about the night Marcus was killed is over. He clearly does not want to talk about it, nor does he want his wife to talk about it. Now I guess the question is
why?
When lunch arrives at the table, I decide to lay off the questions about the night Marcus died and just try to make polite conversation with them. I don’t want to come on too strong, or I’ll never get any useful information out of them. I ask them a few more questions about the mortgage program and tell them what I’ve heard about it. They tell me a little bit about their home and how much they love it and fear losing it. Otherwise, we mostly talk about general things like the weather and where we grew up, and who we like on
American Idol
. After chatting with them at length, I just can’t believe that either one of them is a killer, but I do think they (or at least Josh) are keeping something from me about the night Marcus was bludgeoned on the head with one of my frying pans.
By the time lunch is over, all three of us are more relaxed. They decline dessert, but I insist they take some blueberry pie to go, so Darius boxes two slices for them. They offer to pay, but I refuse their credit card and decide to walk them out to their car.
“Thanks again for the wonderful lunch,” Heather says as she puts her key into the trunk of their car, so she can put the boxed pie in there.
“You’re more than welcome. I hope you’ll come back,” I say and, right before Heather goes to shut the trunk I get a whiff of a familiar smell . . . a very familiar smell indeed.
Why,
I wonder to myself,
is the scent of spiced rum mixed with dark chocolate coming from the trunk of Josh and Heather’s car?
BOOK: Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery)
8.75Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

A Christmas Wish by Joseph Pittman
Zombie Outbreak by Del Toro, John
The Hesitant Hero by Gilbert Morris
The Killing Circle by Andrew Pyper
Cake by Nicole Reed
Notes From Underground by Roger Scruton
The Giving Season by Rebecca Brock