Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) (20 page)

 

W
elcome to Mitchellville
says the sign I’ve just driven past. I’m on my way to what is now Jacqueline’s home—the home she used to share with Marcus that apparently became all hers upon his death. Mitchellville is not what most people picture when they think of Prince George’s County—stately homes and manicured lawns are not really part of the image the media has created, but Mitchellville is generally not the area of Prince George’s County featured on the news when drug deals and armed robberies are reported. By anyone’s definition it’s a “hoity-toity” neighborhood with oversized homes, landscaped yards, and luxury cars parked in three-car garages. It was named for John Mitchell, who owned a plantation in the area in the seventeen and eighteen hundreds. How ironic that a town named for a plantation owner is now one of the most affluent predominantly African American communities in the United States.

When I reach Jacqueline’s house, I take in the grandeur of the place. I was here once before for a holiday party a few years ago, but that was at night. In daylight you can’t help but be awed by the expansive windows, rooftop dormers, and three-car garage. One thing about Marcus: he liked to live high on the hog.

After I park the van on the street I walk up the driveway to the house and knock on the door. I’m only a little anxious at this point. In general, my nerves have been frayed since the night Marcus met his maker, so being restless has become the new normal for me.

It might not have been the best idea to come out here alone, especially if Jacqueline really did off her brother, but one of my other servers is out sick. I needed Wavonne to stay at the restaurant and help out. Besides, I’m just going to do a little questioning . . . nose around a bit and see what I can find out . . . and, just in case, my pepper spray is within easy reach in my front pocket.

“Halia. Hi,” Jacqueline, dressed in sweatpants and a tight spandex top, says when she comes to the door. She has a big glass of water in her hand.

“Hi, Jacqueline. Thanks for letting me come by and say hello. We really didn’t have a chance to talk at the gym.”

“Sure. Please, come in. I was finishing up a workout.”

She just taught two exercise classes earlier today, and she’s working out again?
I think to myself as I follow her into the house and see a mat and some free weights in a mostly empty room to my right.

“You’re so committed. Today was the first time I’ve exercised in forever.”

“It just becomes a way of life,” she says, and I know she’s not trying to sound condescending, but it sure feels that way. “And it helps with stress release . . . and, God knows, I’ve needed some of that lately.”

“I’m sure.”

“Would you like anything? A glass of tea? I was just about to whip up a salad for dinner.”

I feel like saying, “Does this body look like it eats salads for dinner?” But, instead, I politely decline. “No. Thank you. So, how are you? It must be a difficult time.”

“It is, but I was busy planning the funeral, and now I’m buried in paperwork, trying to clean up Marcus’s business dealings. I haven’t had much time to grieve. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.”

She really doesn’t look like a grieving sibling. Despite supposedly just working out, her hair is styled nicely, and her makeup is intact. She’s looks well rested and almost what you might call perky.

“It’s so hard to lose a loved one,” I say and feel a bit ridiculous, as I’m not sure how much Jacqueline really loved Marcus. “I hope you’ll come by the restaurant anytime if you need support or want to be around friends.” I feel even more ridiculous now as I really consider Jacqueline more of an acquaintance than a friend, and she probably feels the same way about me. But it’s hard to just jump into questioning her about why she was sitting in the parking lot of Sweet Tea when Josh came back to the restaurant.

“Marcus and I had our differences, but he was my brother. And it’s just so horrible how he died. The police say he took a blow to the head before he was thrown in Wellington Lake. No one should die that way.”

“Have the police told you much about the investigation?”

“Just that they have a few leads that they are following up. What about you? Have you heard anything?”

“Not really,” I lie. “The police have questioned everyone at the restaurant the night we last saw Marcus alive. I don’t think they got much useful information, though. I also talked with Charles Pritchett . . . you remember . . . Marcus’s business associate ?”

“Yes, I know Charles. Why were you talking to him?”

“I was just trying to see what I could find out. A man was seen for the last time in my restaurant. It makes a girl curious about what happened to him.”

Jacqueline nods.

“Other than you, he said he was the last one to leave Sweet Tea the night Marcus died.”

“Yes. He and Marcus chatted for a bit after everyone else left, and then I left about ten minutes after he did.”

“After you left, did you come back here?”

“Yes. I went home and went to bed.”

“So I guess you didn’t wait up for Marcus?”

“Marcus was a grown man. Besides, he usually spent Saturday nights at Mother’s. Why all the questions, Halia?”

I’m silent for a moment, wondering if I should play my hand and tell her I know she came back to the restaurant later that night and ask for an explanation or just see what I can find out through further questioning without telling her what I know. “Did you really come back here, Jacqueline? Straight back here?”

Jacqueline raises her eyebrows at me. “Of course I did. Where else would I go that late at night? What are you getting at, Halia?”

I remain quiet for a second or two before speaking. “Jacqueline, I know you came back to the restaurant later that night.”

Jacqueline stops sipping on her glass of water, and there’s a noticeable change in her demeanor. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. I know you came back to the restaurant the night Marcus was killed.”

“Do you care to explain how you know what you think you know?” She’s trying to appear calm, but I’ve clearly agitated her.

“Is that really necessary, Jacqueline?”

She looks at me intently, and her unease seems to be morphing into something more. I’m starting to see panic in her face, and my own heart starts to pound.
Did she really kill Marcus? Why else would she look so flustered? Am I sitting next to a murderer?
I place my hand in my pocket and grasp my pepper spray.

“Halia, you can’t tell anyone. Really, you can’t.”

“Please, Halia! I don’t want anyone to know.”

Is she really asking me not to tell anyone that she killed her brother?
“Jacqueline, how can I not tell—”

“I would just die, Halia . . . I would
just die
if anyone knew that I snuck back to the restaurant to get some of your fried chicken.”

“Jacqueline, I have to tell the police that you—” I cut myself off as what she says begins to register. “Wha . . . What? Wait a minute.... What did you say?”

“It just looked so good . . . all juicy and crispy . . . and the others at the table were eating it and enjoying it so much . . . and I had that damn salad with grilled chicken. Do you know how
tired
I am of salads with grilled chicken?! Your fried chicken was all I could think about the whole way home.”

I don’t say a word. I still can’t believe what I’m hearing.

“By the time I got home, my mouth was watering . . . hell, I was practically clucking like a chicken myself. Then I remembered that you told Marcus you had left a tray of fried chicken in the walk-in refrigerator. I’ve got copies of all of Marcus’s keys, so I went back, let myself in, and got me some of that fried chicken.”

Got me some of that fried chicken?
Did Jacqueline, prim and proper Jacqueline, just say “
got
me some”? I know my fried chicken is good, but I didn’t know it was good enough to make Jacqueline start talking like Wavonne.

“Oh Halia, it was
so
good! I grabbed a few pieces and was in and out of the restaurant in a flash. I didn’t think anyone would know. I should have waited until I got home, but I couldn’t help myself. I started chowing down right there in my car in the parking lot under cover of night.”

“So what I’m hearing is that you went back to the restaurant to get some
chicken?
”

Jacqueline looks down at her lap, hiding the shame on her face.

“So you didn’t kill Marcus?”

“Kill Marcus!?” she says, quickly lifting her head. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Quite possibly,” I say. “You really just went back to Sweet Tea to get some chicken? Really?” I ask, and it occurs to me that Jacqueline’s story is too ridiculous to not be true. No one could make that up.

“Isn’t that how you knew I was there? You noticed the chicken missing?”

“Um . . . no.” Does she think I go around inventorying pieces of fried chicken and, even if I did, I had told Marcus to wrap some for his guests, so it would have made sense that some had gone missing. “Let’s just say someone saw your car in the parking lot.”

“Curse that damn car Marcus bought me. It’s impossible to be inconspicuous in that thing.”

“Yeah, really . . . how’s a girl supposed to pilfer covert fried chicken in a flashy car? You need to get yourself a Chevrolet,” I say with a laugh.

Jacqueline looks at me sternly, not even cracking a smile.

“Oh,
come on,
Jacqueline. It’s funny.”

A slight grin comes across her face, and I can’t help but start to snicker at the thought of her, probably still dressed in her designer pantsuit, holding a fried chicken wing to her mouth with perfectly manicured fingers, and gnawing the meat off the bone like a beaver collecting wood for his dam.

“It’s not that funny, Halia,” she says, rolling her eyes, her smile widening.

“Are you kidding? It’s a riot,” I say, not even trying to keep it in anymore.

Jacqueline starts laughing with me. “Oh girl, I was like a pig in shit . . . one wing after another, and when I was done I wanted more,” she says, sounding less and less like the perpetually dignified woman I’m so used to. “I got a grease stain on my Lafayette jacket, and I didn’t even care.”

We’re both laughing, and I’m enjoying a side of Jacqueline that I’ve never seen before.

“That was a real moment of weakness for me.” She wipes her eyes. “I pride myself on discipline and healthy living, but every now and then, a girl’s
gotta eat
.” She pauses for a moment. “Did you really think I killed Marcus?”

“No, no. Of course, not,” I say and think about how Jacqueline must have been scurrying around my kitchen, wrangling pieces of fried chicken, completely unaware of the fact that her brother had been killed in that very spot moments earlier. “I’m just trying to figure out what happened. I guess, as a next of kin, some people might assume that you stand to inherit much of Marcus’s estate. That might cause some people to wonder if—”

“Marcus’s estate? Oh, now,
that’s
funny, Halia. What estate ?”

I look around me. “This house, for instance. Rumor has it you co-owned it with him.”

“This house,” Jacqueline says, looking around her the same way I just did, “will be in foreclosure any day now. Marcus tied it up in that asinine mortgage program and, just like for Josh and Heather, the payments from Reverie stopped some time ago.”

“So Marcus actually thought the program was legit? He must have if he invested in it himself.”

“I’m sure he knew what he was getting into. Marcus was a lot of things, but stupid was not one of them. I’m certain he knew it was a scam, but figured he’d be able to recruit enough new chumps to keep the whole thing going long enough to get this place paid off.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Marcus’s elaborate lifestyle was mostly a façade trailed by calls from creditors and overdrawn accounts. He was always just keeping his head above water . . . making minimum payments here and there to keep the repo man away. About the only smart investment he made, Halia, was in your restaurant. But he insisted on keeping up appearances. I guess we both did. I like nice things as much as he did. We were both living beyond our means . . . and it’s finally caught up with us . . . or
me,
at this point. I’m sure I’ll have to be out of here in a matter of months. Even that damn gold car will probably have to go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh well. It will be a fresh start—a start without Marcus. I almost can’t imagine it,” she says, looking away from me. “He got on my nerves to no end, and it’s no secret that he was a pain in my ass, but he was my big brother. He always took care of me. He gave me a job to supplement my fitness business, a place to live . . . even a car. He was slick and always scheming, but he wasn’t all bad. I’ll miss him. I’m a bit lost without him . . . so much to figure out.”

I reach for her hand and see just a hint of tears forming in her eyes. “You’ll be okay, Jacqueline. Time is the best medicine in these situations. Just take as much of it as you need to sort things out.”

“Thank you, Halia.” She sits up straighter and grabs a tissue from the coffee table. “I’ll be fine. Like you said, it will take some time. I think I’ll feel better once the police find out who actually did kill Marcus.”

“I think we’ll
all
feel better when that happens. I’ve been chatting with the others at the table that Saturday night. Régine has a rock-solid alibi, and I’m quite certain Josh and Heather are innocent. So if they didn’t do it, and you didn’t do it, assuming it was someone at Sweet Tea that night, Charles is the only suspect left, but he didn’t have a motive.”