Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) by A.L. Herbert
Authors: A.L. Herbert
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Marcus’s charm and good looks to see the fiend underneath. For all I know, she hit him over the head with my frying pan and was just over here this morning trying to look innocent.
CHAPTER 16
M issing dead body or no missing dead body, I have a restaurant to run. While it would be nice to have time to stew about the implications of a murderer on the loose, there are water glasses to be filled, cornbread to bake, and sweet tea to brew. It’s Tuesday afternoon, and the lunch rush is just getting started. As usual I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off—seating patrons, checking in with tables, making sure the kitchen operations are running smoothly, etc., which takes my mind off Marcus. I just can’t think about him anymore. I keep telling myself that his body will turn up soon enough. And, if it doesn’t, Jacqueline will file a missing person’s report. One way or another, an investigation will be started, and the police can get down to business. Maybe it’s better that someone moved the body—the farther away from my restaurant Marcus is found, the less chance of anything about this situation being connected to me and Wavonne. The only thing that makes sense is that the murderer moved Marcus . . . maybe to buy some extra time before any police involvement. But how did he or she know that Marcus had already been carted out of the restaurant by Wavonne and me? It really scares me to think that someone may have been watching us as we dragged a corpse along the alley. Then again, maybe the murderer came back after we left just to make sure Marcus was dead, found the restaurant locked, and searched the area until he or she came upon Marcus out back.
I try to lay to rest thoughts of Marcus as I carry a pan of cornbread out to a four-top where three men in suits are seated on a lunch break from work.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I hope Darius is taking great care of you.” I set the pan on the table. “Be careful. It’s hot.”
For a brief period I stopped serving my cornbread in the cast-iron pans. They’re heavy and hard to clean, and occasionally I get customers who touch the searing pans and burn themselves. But when I started baking the bread in sheets, cutting it into slices, and serving it in baskets, I got so many questions about what happened to the cast-iron pans and comments about what a nice presentation they made, I decided to bring them back.
“Thank you,” says one of the men while the others at the table nod.
“My pleasure.”
I turn toward the kitchen, and I’m almost out of earshot when I barely overhear their conversation. I can’t make out exactly what they’re saying, but I hear the words “dead” and “body” and “pond.”
My antennas go up, and I immediately grab a pitcher of water to have an excuse to go back to the table.
“I don’t know. There were four police cars over there. When I stopped at the traffic light, I asked one of the bystanders what was going on, and she said they had pulled a body out of the pond,” I hear one of the gentlemen say as I top off water glasses that are almost full to begin with.
“What’s all this?” I ask as if I’m just generally curious. I figure if you hear people talking about pulling a body out of a pond, it doesn’t sound suspicious to inquire further about their conversation.
“Apparently the cops found a dead body over in the pond at the entrance to Wellington Acres.”
Wellington Acres is a newer housing development down the street from the restaurant. As you drive into the neighborhood, Wellington Lake sits to the left, but as my customer said, it’s really more of a pond. It houses a small fountain that seems to be broken more than it’s working, but it’s pretty when it’s in operation. There’s a jogging trail around it and sometimes people picnic on the perimeter. I’ve never seen anyone swim in it. I’d be surprised if it’s more than three or four feet deep.
“Really?”
“Yeah.
CHAPTER 16
M issing dead body or no missing dead body, I have a restaurant to run. While it would be nice to have time to stew about the implications of a murderer on the loose, there are water glasses to be filled, cornbread to bake, and sweet tea to brew. It’s Tuesday afternoon, and the lunch rush is just getting started. As usual I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off—seating patrons, checking in with tables, making sure the kitchen operations are running smoothly, etc., which takes my mind off Marcus. I just can’t think about him anymore. I keep telling myself that his body will turn up soon enough. And, if it doesn’t, Jacqueline will file a missing person’s report. One way or another, an investigation will be started, and the police can get down to business. Maybe it’s better that someone moved the body—the farther away from my restaurant Marcus is found, the less chance of anything about this situation being connected to me and Wavonne. The only thing that makes sense is that the murderer moved Marcus . . . maybe to buy some extra time before any police involvement. But how did he or she know that Marcus had already been carted out of the restaurant by Wavonne and me? It really scares me to think that someone may have been watching us as we dragged a corpse along the alley. Then again, maybe the murderer came back after we left just to make sure Marcus was dead, found the restaurant locked, and searched the area until he or she came upon Marcus out back.
I try to lay to rest thoughts of Marcus as I carry a pan of cornbread out to a four-top where three men in suits are seated on a lunch break from work.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I hope Darius is taking great care of you.” I set the pan on the table. “Be careful. It’s hot.”
For a brief period I stopped serving my cornbread in the cast-iron pans. They’re heavy and hard to clean, and occasionally I get customers who touch the searing pans and burn themselves. But when I started baking the bread in sheets, cutting it into slices, and serving it in baskets, I got so many questions about what happened to the cast-iron pans and comments about what a nice presentation they made, I decided to bring them back.
“Thank you,” says one of the men while the others at the table nod.
“My pleasure.”
I turn toward the kitchen, and I’m almost out of earshot when I barely overhear their conversation. I can’t make out exactly what they’re saying, but I hear the words “dead” and “body” and “pond.”
My antennas go up, and I immediately grab a pitcher of water to have an excuse to go back to the table.
“I don’t know. There were four police cars over there. When I stopped at the traffic light, I asked one of the bystanders what was going on, and she said they had pulled a body out of the pond,” I hear one of the gentlemen say as I top off water glasses that are almost full to begin with.
“What’s all this?” I ask as if I’m just generally curious. I figure if you hear people talking about pulling a body out of a pond, it doesn’t sound suspicious to inquire further about their conversation.
“Apparently the cops found a dead body over in the pond at the entrance to Wellington Acres.”
Wellington Acres is a newer housing development down the street from the restaurant. As you drive into the neighborhood, Wellington Lake sits to the left, but as my customer said, it’s really more of a pond. It houses a small fountain that seems to be broken more than it’s working, but it’s pretty when it’s in operation. There’s a jogging trail around it and sometimes people picnic on the perimeter. I’ve never seen anyone swim in it. I’d be surprised if it’s more than three or four feet deep.
“Really?”
“Yeah.
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