Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits. A.L. Herbert
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have to buy a membership.”
“Oh yes,” I say. “He was here for brunch a few months ago and asked if he could have extra bacon instead of the toast that came with his meal... and walked off with two sets of my silverware and the salt and pepper shakers. The one that never tipped, right?”
“That’s the one. Cheap and stupid, but damn is he handsome,” Wavonne coos. “So, yesterday I’m in the city... at the wig shop lookin’ for a new party wig. And as I’m leavin’, I see him walkin’ outta the stab-and-grab next door. I was like—”
“Walking out of the what?” Momma inquires.
“The stab-and-grab... that dumpy little minimart on Good Hope Road,” Wavonne clarifies. “Anyway, I went right up to him and gave him a piece of my mind—”
“Not too big of a piece, I hope. There’s only so much there to begin with,” Momma jokes.
“Very funny,” Wavonne replies. “I’m halfway through givin’ him a good ‘what for’ when he tells me he wasn’t gettin’ back to me because he was in the slammer.”
“Jail?”
“No, Halia. He was deejayin’ at some hip downtown club called the Slammer,” Wavonne jibes. “Yes, he was in jail . . . said he tried to pull a ‘dine and dash’ at the Carolina Kitchen in Hyattsville. Only, without his car, he could only dash to the bus stop a couple of blocks away. The cops picked him up while he was waitin’ for the number eighty-three to Rhode Island Avenue.” She pauses for a moment and takes in my reaction to what she just said. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you he was cheap and stupid.”
“Cheap and stupid... and a convict? So, when are you going to see him again?” I ask, knowing that Wavonne overlooking cheap, stupid, and a criminal record is nowhere near outside the realm of possibility.
“Friday night. I’m off, and apparently it’s six-dollar shrimp night at Bonefish Grill in Brandywine.”
“Seriously?” Momma questions. “You’re going to date a felon who’s not even smart enough to plan a viable getaway? I wouldn’t want Halia dating a felon, and at her age, her options are far more limited than yours.”
“I don’t think dinin’ and dashin’ is a felony, Aunt Celia. If it was, he’d still be in jail,” Wavonne says. “And did you not hear me mention what a looker he is?”
Momma takes a deep breath to keep herself from protesting further. Much like myself, she’s learned there is nothing she can say to keep Wavonne from doing anything—whether it’s dating a lawbreaker, spending a week’s pay on a purse, or taking on a “second job” by buying into pyramid schemes that mostly involve her constantly annoying her Facebook friends with posts trying to sell weight loss potions, makeup, or jewelry.
Wavonne, who’s about fifteen years my junior, is almost thirty years old and has been a handful ever since she came to live with Momma and me when her own mother (Momma’s sister) was no longer fit to look after her. We didn’t have much luck reining her in when she was a teenager and seem to have even less these days.
“Relax, Aunt Celia,” Wavonne says, after Momma exhales with a long sigh. “I’m not gonna date him. I’m just gonna string him along until Melva’s wedding in September. I wanna show up with a little arm candy, and Marvin will do quite nicely. If I have to look at his fine mug over two-for-one tacos or half-price burgers for a couple of months to be the bridesmaid with the hottest date, so be it.”
I’m foolishly about to make a futile attempt to change Wavonne’s mind when I hear my name called from behind. I turn and see my hostess, Sondra, poking her head through the kitchen door. “There’s a woman here to see you,” she says to me. “She was knocking on the glass doors. I told her we weren’t open yet, but she wouldn’t go away. She looks harmless enough, but she’s very persistent.”
“Did she say what she wants?”
“No, she just keeps insisting that she needs to speak with you.”
“Okay.” I untie my apron, hang it up, and exit the kitchen. Once I’m in the dining room I find a tall, lanky woman, who I guess is around or about fifty. She has short brown hair with a few gray streaks and is wearing black flats and a gray tweed suit, which seems like an odd, and highly uncomfortable, clothing choice for the warm weather we are having. As I approach her and take in her sharp edges, the word “severe” comes to mind. She reminds me very much of Miss Jane Hathaway from The Beverly Hillbillies.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m Halia Watkins. What can I do for you?”
“Trudy McAlister.” She extends her hand, which I politely shake. “Do you mind if we have a seat?”
“Um... no, I guess not.” I gesture for her to follow me to a booth against the wall. “What’s this about?” I inquire as we sit down.
“I have an opportunity I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Thank you,” I say, realizing she is probably selling something. “But I don’t need any artwork, I already have an alarm system, I’m not interested in installing an ATM, and I’m really not looking to switch suppliers for anything at the moment.”
“Not that kind of opportunity,” she says. “Let me ask you: Are you familiar with the program Elite Chef?”
“Halia don’t watch much TV,” Wavonne calls. I should have known she’d sidle her way to the dining room to see what this mystery lady wants. Wavonne is like a curious cat... if cats wore teased-up wigs and too much makeup. She always has to know what’s going on. “I’ve seen Elite Chef... the one with all the cooking challenges and that smokin’ hot host, Leon Winfield,” she adds, sliding into the booth next to me. “Why?”
Trudy doesn’t answer. Instead she shoots a “who the hell is this?” expression in my direction.
“This is my cousin, Wavonne. She’s a server here,” I say. “Elite Chef? No, I’m not familiar with it. I spend most of my time here, and the TV behind the bar is usually on one of the sports channels. What does it have to do with me?”
“Well, as the young”—Trudy stumbles for a moment and takes in all-that-is-Wavonne—“um... lady said, it’s a cooking show... a competition to encourage African American engagement in the culinary arts. We started it with BET two years ago when Russell Mellinger was—”
“What do you mean ‘we’?” Wavonne, who gets very excited about anything that has to do with television or the movies... or just pop culture in general, asks. “You’re involved with the show?”
“Yes, I’m Russell’s assistant.”
“Russell Mellinger? The Russell Mellinger?” I ask. “I may not be familiar with Elite Chef, but I’m highly familiar with Mr. Mellinger. He owns the Barbary in New York... and Honeycomb in Chicago....”
“And Cobalt Blue in Los Angeles . . . and New England Oyster Bar in Boston,” Trudy says. “We started the show when he was opening the Barbary—the first season’s winner is still the executive chef there. Last year, when he was opening Cobalt Blue, we did a second season to find a head chef for that restaurant. We’re currently filming the third season, and this year’s winner will be appointed executive chef at Sunfish, Russell’s newest venture—it’s slated to open in just a few weeks near National Harbor here in Prince George’s County. Russell is also taking his first foray in the lodging business—he’s opening a luxury hotel, more of an inn, really, along with the new restaurant. He and his wife are staying there while they’re in town producing the show.”
“The new restaurant won’t be serving soul food, I hope? I so do not want to have to compete with Russell Mellinger in my own backyard.” I say this like I’m joking, but honestly, the idea would not thrill me. National Harbor is only a few miles from Sweet Tea, and although I trust our food and service would stand up to any competition, from what I’ve heard, Russell is known for being a businessman