Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) (9 page)

 

I
t’s been four days since Marcus was killed, and even though his body was found yesterday, it still seems that aside from the murderer, Wavonne, and me, no one knows he’s dead. I keep waiting to get the news from someone and have been thinking about how I should react to hearing it. Should I try to have an emotional reaction or accept the news with subdued grief? Either way I need to pretend to be surprised, but not so surprised as to go overboard. Regardless of how I decide to feign that I’m just hearing about Marcus’s death, I trust myself to act appropriately. Wavonne, on the other hand, is a different story.

“Have you thought about how you’re going to react when you get the news that Marcus is dead?” I ask Wavonne. We’re in my van, but she’s driving. She asked to borrow it on her day off, so she could use it to make a few extra dollars delivering phone books. I decided to come along while she picks up the books, so I can chat with her and see where her head’s at around all of this . . . and make sure she has, and will continue to keep her mouth shut about our activities the night of the murder. I also want to coach her on how to react when she gets the news of Marcus’s death.

“What’s wrong with you, Halia? I already know he’s dead.”

“No. No. I mean when someone tells you the news. You’re going to have to act like it’s a surprise.”

“Don’t you worry about me. I’ll give a performance worthy of an Oscar.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.
“I think it might be best to keep it low-key, Wavonne. If you act crazy with grief, it will look suspicious.”

“I ain’t gonna act all crazy. But don’t you think I can’t shed a fake tear or two if I wanna?”

“Just don’t go overboard. I don’t want you screaming and carrying on like Aunt Faye at a funeral.” Our aunt Faye shows up to any and every funeral she can and puts on a show worthy of an admission fee. Between the weeping, the howling, and the occasional fainting spell, she always manages to make someone else’s death all about herself. Everyone (well, everyone but me and Momma, who just roll our eyes from the sidelines) rushes to her side to comfort her. “There goes Faye . . . drama, drama, drama,” Momma would say to me about her sister as we watched her antics. “She needed to be the center of attention when we were kids, and she needs to be the center of attention now.”

“I ain’t gonna act like that ol’ fool.”

“I hope not, Wavonne. The less attention we draw to ourselves, the better. Keep it quiet and dignified,” I say, before adding, “You haven’t told anyone about us moving the body, have you?”

“Oh
yes,
Halia. I just went and told everyone I know. I posted it to my Facebook page.”

“All right, all right. I’m sorry. But forgive me for being concerned. We could get in a lot of trouble if anyone found out what we did.
A lot
of trouble, Wavonne. I just want to make sure you understand that.”

“You been beatin’ it into my head for four days now, Halia. I get it. You think I wanna go to jail? I know what happens to pretty, voluptuous girls like me in jail. I ain’t interested in being no girlfriend to no big-assed heifer named Maxine.”

Wavonne pulls into the parking lot of a small building in an industrial park. There are signs directing cars where to go to pick up phone books. Supposedly there was a training about delivering the books last night, but Wavonne was allowed to opt out since she participated last year. I’m proud of her for taking some initiative to earn some extra money, and I have to admit, somewhat surprised.

I watch as Wavonne gets out of the van, hands some paperwork to an attendant, and heads around to the back of the vehicle to open the hatch. Two men start filling the back of the van with phone books. I’m always hauling around stuff for the restaurant, so I usually have the seats folded down, and I took the back one out altogether a few years ago, which makes for plenty of room to stack phone books. As they continue to pile up, I wonder how long it’s going to take Wavonne to deliver them all. It gives me some hope that maybe somewhere underneath that wig and all that makeup is a work ethic.

“Looks like your entire day off is accounted for,” I say once we’re back on the road. “How much are they paying you to deliver all these?”

“A hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Seems like a lot of work for a hundred and fifty dollars,” I say. If Wavonne would hustle and take on a few more tables she’d make about that working a shift at Sweet Tea.

“I guess.”

“Okay. Well, I need you to drop me at the restaurant before you make the deliveries.”

“I know. I’m working today, too. We’ll head back there shortly.”

“You’re working today? At Sweet Tea?” I hadn’t looked at the schedule, but I assumed she was off to make her deliveries. “If you’re working today, when do you plan to deliver all these books?” I’m eying the paperwork one of the men who loaded the van handed her with the pages and pages of addresses awaiting their yellow pages.

“You just mind your bidness, Halia.”

We travel for a few minutes while I continue to look at the list of addresses, and, when I look up, Wavonne’s pulling into the recycling center in Upper Marlboro.

“What are we doing here?”

“Like I said, Halia, mind your bidness.”

She stops in front of one of the paper recycling bins, gets out, and pops the back hatch. I watch her in the mirror for a moment before I get out of the van myself.

“What are you doing?!” I ask as she starts grabbing phone books out of the back of the van and begins throwing them in the recycling bin.

“What’s it look like I’m doin’?”

I stand there for a moment as I watch in disbelief as she grabs phone book after phone book and tosses them in the bin.

“You didn’t think I was actually goin’ to trek all over PG County dumpin’ phone books on people’s doorsteps, did you?”

“What’s going to happen when people call and complain about not getting their books?”

“Who you think is gonna complain? Who uses a damn phone book anymore? What do you do with the phone books that get left on our doorstep? You throw them on the recycling heap at the curb, that’s what you do. I’m just speedin’ up the process.”

I don’t approve of what’s she doing, but she does have a point.

“You gonna help me or what?”

I sigh and take a long breath. Then, before I have a chance to answer, Wavonne steps into the van, picks up a book, and tries to hand it to me. I just look at her and leave my arms by my side.

“Don’t get all high and mighty with me, Halia Watkins. Need I remind you of what I helped you with recently?”

“Fine,” I say and accept the books as she hands them to me and start flinging them into the bin. We go about this for several minutes, and when we’re almost finished, I notice a BMW pull up behind us. It’s a shiny gold color and looks familiar. And we’re not talking tan or sparkling beige—we’re talking
gold
. The car is the same color and sheen of that gold foil they use to wrap chocolate coins. When the driver opens the door and steps out, I recognize Jacqueline. She doesn’t see me at first and walks around to the trunk of the car, pops it open with her remote, and lifts a large cardboard box filled with papers. She hurries over to the Dumpster, and after realizing that the box will not fit through the openings on the side, she lifts it over her head and lets in fall into the Dumpster from the top. I catch myself starting to giggle. The sight of Jacqueline in her fancy clothes and four-inch heels hauling around a box at a refuse center is something to behold. It’s not until she’s heading back to her car that she sees Wavonne and me. I can see her hesitate for a moment, as if she’s wondering if she can get away with pretending not to see us.

“Hello,” I call over to her, not giving her the chance to ignore us.

“Hi, Halia,” she responds, clearly embarrassed to be seen doing something that resembles manual labor. She nods at Wavonne, who’s still inside the van.

“Can you believe I had to do this myself? Marcus’s cleaning lady usually handles the recycling, but I guess Marcus wasn’t there to let her in this morning, so she went home. I needed to get the home office tidied up for a meeting Marcus has tonight. I hope he comes back from whatever nonsense he’s been up to by then.”

“Still no word from him?”

“No. This isn’t like him to be out of touch for so long. And quite frankly, it’s annoying me. I’ve got papers he needs to sign, and clients keep calling me looking for him.”

“Have you thought about contacting the police?”

“If he doesn’t turn up today, I may have to, but I’m not sure it’s the best idea to get the police involved. The last thing Marcus needs is them poking around in his business. . . .” She lets her voice trail off as if she’s said too much. “Not that Marcus has anything to hide,” she adds, but the look in her eyes tells me she knows (and she knows that I know) that Marcus has plenty to hide. “He’s just very private.”

“Of course,” I say. “I don’t think
anyone
wants the police poking around in their business. I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon enough anyway,” I lie, thinking how Marcus isn’t the only one with something to hide.

She’s about to say her good-byes when she sees the remaining phone books in the back of my van.

“What are you two doing with all those phone books?” she asks.

“Nothin’,” Wavonne says defensively. “Just recyclin’. Bein’ green and all that jazz.”

Jacqueline flashes a condescending smile. “If you say so. You two have a good day.”

She gets back into her car, and I’m reminded of how much she hates it. I don’t know if Marcus bought it for her or just lets her use it as sort of a company car, but I overheard her talking on the phone a while back about how tacky a gold BMW was and questioning why Marcus didn’t let her pick the car out herself or at least get her something more dignified and elegant. “A gold BMW is so
PG County,
” I heard her say into the phone as if she wasn’t born and raised in the hood with the rest of us.

As she drives off, I start to wonder about her as I’ve been wondering about everyone since the night of the murder. Could she have been the one to kill Marcus? They might have been siblings, but while Marcus did seem to have a certain fondness for Jacqueline, he was a demanding boss and often dismissive with her. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard Jacqueline say a positive thing about Marcus, and she was probably on a fresh low from Marcus making her track down two hundred ears of corn the day he was killed. Did he make a final demand of her the night he was murdered? Did Jacqueline snap, grab a frying pan off the counter, and whack him with it in a fit of rage? She did say she was the last one with him at the restaurant, and she certainly had the strength to hit him hard and maybe even move his body on her own. She’s very fit and just lifted a heavy box of paper over her head like it was it nothing.

All these thoughts are milling about in my head until Wavonne brings me back to the task at hand.

“You gonna stand there starin’ off into space or you gonna help me get rid of the rest of these buggers?” She hands me another book.

I take it and throw it in the bin.