Murder with Macaroni and Cheese (11 page)

CHAPTER 21

“O
h
hail
no!”

“You said that already,” I retort, slightly dazed as my eyes take in the sight before us: Raynell, in nothing but a nightshirt, flat on the floor. A shallow puddle of red surrounds her head and, at some point, streamed into the grout lines between the marble tiles.

“And I'll say it again. Oh
HAIL
NO!!!”

I try to remain calm while I bypass Wavonne. I carefully step around the blood, and lower myself to pick up Raynell's hand. I feel her wrist. “There's no pulse. She's dead.”

I gently lay her hand back on the floor and stand up.

“Not again.” The words involuntarily come from my lips as I try to make sense of what lays before us. This is not the first dead body Wavonne and I have stumbled upon. Last year, when we came across the deceased body of one of my restaurant investors (a bit of a shady fellow) in the kitchen of Sweet Tea after closing, I made the big . . . HUGE mistake of not calling the police for fear of the effect such awful publicity would have on my restaurant. Wavonne and I dragged his body out of Sweet Tea in hopes of keeping my restaurant out of the news surrounding a murder investigation. The whole thing turned into a huge disaster with Wavonne almost going to jail. I'm
not
making that blunder again.

I grab my phone and dial 911. “I need the police. I've found a dead body.”

The operator asks a few questions and connects me with the police. I provide the few details that I can, and the officer on the line advises us to stay put and not touch anything until the authorities arrive.

When I disconnect from the call, I maneuver myself around Raynell's body and cautiously step out of the bathroom. I stand next to Wavonne just outside the door. We both can't do anything but stare. As we take in the dastardly scene I oddly begin to notice the sound of birds chirping outside. It's already pretty hot even though it's still morning, but there is a light breeze coming through the open window in the bathroom, and the morning sunshine is cascading through a skylight in the ceiling. I can't help but notice how Raynell, lying lifeless on the floor, is such a sharp contrast to the beautiful day outside.

“Standing here staring at her is not going to bring her back to life.” I lightly pull Wavonne by the shoulders a few steps back from the bathroom door.

“What do you think happened?” Wavonne asks.

“I don't know. Maybe she fell. She was really drunk when she left the reunion.”

“Or maybe someone pushed her.”

“Maybe.”

“So what are we supposed to do now?”

“I don't know,” I reply. “The officer on the phone said not to touch anything, so I guess we should just stay put.”

Wavonne and I do just that for about five minutes. We are hovering next to the bathroom door when we hear a loud knock on the door downstairs.

“Prince George's County Police,” I hear a male voice call up the steps.

“We're up here.”

Wavonne and I hurry out of the bedroom and down the hall. We meet the officer at the top of the steps.

“She's in the master bedroom . . . the bathroom, actually.”

“And you are?” the policeman asks.

“Halia. I'm Halia Watkins, and this is my cousin, Wavonne Hix. We came by to pick up a check from Raynell. When she didn't answer the door we became concerned.”

“How did you get in?” he asks as the three of us quickly walk down the hall.

“The door was unlocked. We let ourselves in.”

“You're friends of the deceased?”

“Yes . . . well, no . . . sort of. I went to high school with her. We planned our reunion together. It was last night. I catered the event, and Raynell was supposed to have a check for me this morning.”

“Fine, fine,” the officer says as we reach the bathroom.

He looks at Raynell and back at Wavonne and me. “Have you touched anything?”

“Aren't you going to confirm she's dead?”

“Don't need to. See how her feet are sort of a bluish brown color? That's blood pooling. She's dead.” He says this like it's just another day at the office. I guess for him, maybe it is.

“Did you touch anything?” he asks again.

“No . . . well, the door handle to let ourselves in. Maybe the banister on the stairway.”

“I opened the bathroom door,” Wavonne says.

“And we opened the closet door over there when we were looking for Raynell . . . and I felt her wrist to check for a pulse. I think that's it.”

“Have you seen anything suspicious or out of the ordinary since you arrived?”

I look at Raynell's dead body and then narrow my eyebrows at him.

“Other than the deceased, that is.”

“No. Nothing that I can think of.”

“You think she fell? Or did someone whack her?” Wavonne asks. “Girlfriend was not the most popular sista in PG County.”

“I have no idea, but a crime scene team is on the way. For now, I think it's best if you ladies step outside until we get a formal statement from you.”

He starts talking into his walkie-talkie, and Wavonne and I do as we are told and leave the bedroom. But before we make it out of the house, the homicide team arrives, and a small group of people walk past us on the stairs. They have their hands full with cameras and cases and plastic bags . . . and pay us zero attention.

“You!?” I hear from a male voice as Wavonne and I step outside the front door.

“Detective Hutchins. We meet again.”

Detective Hutchins and I have a wee bit of a history. He was the homicide detective on the case that involved the first dead body Wavonne and I had the pleasure of stumbling upon. He mostly regarded me as a pest during that investigation . . . at least until I ultimately solved the case and identified the murderer.

“What are you doing here?”

“Wavonne and I found Raynell's body. We came by to collect payment for a catering job. When she didn't answer, we let ourselves in and found her in the bathroom. I—”

He cuts me off. “I'll have an officer collect a statement from you. Please wait out here.”

With that he enters the house and leaves Wavonne and me to stand outside until someone sees fit to speak to us. I call Laura while we wait and, without giving any details, I tell her that Wavonne and I are delayed and ask if she can go into the restaurant and cover for me. She agrees even though I had promised her the morning off, which is fortunate considering nearly an hour and a half passes before the same officer who first came to the house comes outside and officially interviews us. By this time, Wavonne and I are misty from the heat, which has probably gone up ten degrees or so from when we first got here.

We go over our story again, give him details about last night including Raynell's condition when we last saw her alive at the hotel. I tell him that it's my understanding that her husband is at a church retreat in Williamsburg, so she was likely home alone last night. He asks a few more questions about the reunion and requests Christy's contact information as we told him that she drove Raynell home.

“Thank you for your cooperation. You're free to leave,” he says when he's done questioning us.

I feel like saying, “What if I don't want to leave?” but I refrain. Instead I nod and motion for Wavonne to follow me as I walk toward the van.

“We're leaving?” she asks.

“Of course not,” I say. “Has he gone back inside yet?”

Wavonne looks over her shoulder. “Uh-huh.”

“Good.” I stop walking. “We'll wait here until Detective Hutchins comes out.”

“Can we wait in the van with the air conditioning on?” Wavonne wipes her brow with the top of her hand. “Much longer in this heat, and this wig's comin' off . . . and don't nobody need to see that.”

“Fine.” I hand her the keys. “Go wait in the van.”

While Wavonne heads off to sit in the air conditioning, it occurs to me that perhaps I should call Terrence or maybe Alvetta, and she can break the news of Raynell's death to him.

I fumble for my phone in my pocket and tap the screen a few times. “Hey, Alvetta. It's Halia,” I say after lifting the phone to my ear.

“Hi, Halia. How are you? Fun night last night. The food was just—”

“Alvetta,” I interrupt her. “Sweetie, I have some bad news.”

There's silence on the other end of the phone.

“It's about Raynell.”

“What? What is it?”

“Gosh. Now I'm thinking I shouldn't have called you. I should deliver the news in person.”

“News? What news? Just tell me.”

“Alvetta.” I take a deep breath. “Raynell . . . Raynell appears to have had a fall or something. It looks like she hit her head on the bathroom sink or the side of the tub . . . and . . . well . . . well, she didn't survive the fall.”

“She's dead?”

I pause before responding. “Yes.”

“Oh my God!”

“I'm so sorry.”

I go into the whole story about why we came over, how we found her, and explain that the police are currently in the house, but I'm not sure she's really hearing any of it.

“Alvetta, are you at home?”

“Yes.”

“I'll be leaving here shortly. Why don't you give me your address, and Wavonne and I will stop by and check on you. Do you want me to call Terrence, or would you rather do that? Or we could let the police make the call.”

“No, no. He shouldn't hear it from the police. I will tell him.”

Wishing I had just gone to see Alvetta in person to begin with, I try to wrap up the call as delicately as I can and remind her that we'll be over shortly.

I'm about to end the waiting game for Detective Hutchins and drive over to Alvetta's when he finally emerges from the house.

“What are you still doing here? Officer Taylor told me he asked you to leave.”

“No. He said we were ‘free to leave.' ”

Detective Hutchins sighs.

“What did you find out? Do you think it was just an accident?”

“I'm sorry. I should be sharing details of a crime scene investigation with you
because?
”

“Because you know I won't leave until you do. Look, she was a friend,” I lie. “And I'm the one who found her. Can't you just give me an idea of your initial thoughts?”

Another sigh. “It appears that she fell. You and your cousin both indicated that she was extremely inebriated last night. In fact,” he says, opening a folder in his hand and looking at a piece of paper, “according to the statement by your cousin, and I quote, ‘She was straight-up crunked out her mind when she left the party.' There are no signs of forced entry or that she struggled with an attacker. We'll need her husband to confirm nothing is missing, but we didn't find any indication of robbery, either. It's logical to deduce that she slipped in the bathroom and hit her head on the edge of the tub. If she did survive the fall, she probably was unable to get up or call for help. She likely either died from the impact or blood loss.”

“Well, an autopsy certainly needs to be done to confirm the cause of death.”

“
Really?
Thanks for the tip, Ms. Watkins. We never would have thought of that.”

I roll my eyes.

“Of course there will be an autopsy, but it may be awhile. The OCME is backed up and cases way more suspicious than this will take precedence.”

“OCME?”

“Have I stumped the all-knowing Detective Halia Watkins?” he asks with a snarky look on his face. “Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.”

“Oh. Good to know,” I say. “I assumed her husband has not been notified. I've asked a good friend of both Raynell and her husband to break the news to him.”

“That's fine.”

“Okay. Thank you, Detective Hutchins. I guess I'll be on my way.”

I turn away from the house and join Wavonne in the car. The cool air emitting from the vents in the dashboard is a welcome relief from the heat. I'm about to put the van in drive when we catch sight of Raynell's body concealed in a gray plastic bag being wheeled out toward a white van.

“Guess that's the last we'll see of Raynell Rollins,” Wavonne says.

“I guess so.”

“Can't say I liked her much, but I will say this: the sista did have some good hair.”

“Well, I'm glad you thought of something positive to say about her,” I reply as I put the car in drive and head to Alvetta's home.

CHAPTER 22

“I
can't believe she's dead,” I say to Wavonne as we veer off the highway toward National Harbor, a haughty waterfront development on the Potomac River.

“I guess the phrase ‘too mean to die' don't apply in her case.”

“Detective Hutchins seems to think it was just an accident—that she fell over drunk.”

“Detective Hutchins didn't know her, and how salty she was . . . and how many people hated her.”

“The woman is dead, Wavonne. No need for name-calling.”

“Just speakin' the truth, Halia.”

“Maybe so . . . maybe so,” I say. “Now, what's the building number again?” I ask as I maneuver the van down Waterfront Street and take in all the hotels, glitzy shops, and restaurants.

“Turn here. It's on American Way.”

I make a left, and we head up a hill.

“There it is.” Wavonne points to a swanky building about twelve stories tall. The awning over the main entrance reads “The Echelon.”

Alvetta mentioned that we could park in the garage and get a visitors' pass from the front desk, but I see an open spot on the street and decide to grab it instead. I pay the meter and Wavonne and I walk toward the building. When we reach the entrance, I punch in a code that Alvetta gave us and hear a buzzing sound as the door unlocks.

“This looks more like a Ritz Carlton than an apartment building,” I say to Wavonne as we step into the cool air and breathe in the scent of a mammoth display of fresh flowers on an elegant round table in front of the doorway. We step across the lightly hued bamboo floors and find that not only is there a front desk with a clerk clicking away on his computer, but, on the other side of the lobby, is a sharply dressed young lady sitting behind a wraparound counter with the word “Concierge” adorned across the front panel in gold letters.

“Classy.” Wavonne takes note of the sleek furnishings and modern light fixtures on our way to the elevators.

“We in the wrong bidness, Halia. You should have opened a church instead of a restaurant.”

I laugh. “It quite possibly would have been more profitable. . . and maybe less work.”

We step into the elevator and Wavonne presses the PH button.

“I was thinkin' I needed to land me a pro football playa, but maybe what I really need is a minister.”

I'm considering, once again, reminding her that she could actually try to earn her own money as we ride to the top floor of the building, but decide not to bother.

When the elevator doors open, Wavonne and I make our way to Alvetta's unit, and knock on the door.

“Hello,” I say when she opens the door. “I'm so sorry.”

“Thank you.” She motions for us to come in.

For a moment the three of us just stand there in her softly lit foyer. I'm unsure of what else to say, and Alvetta doesn't seem to quite have it together. She's in a robe, and, while her eyes are looking at Wavonne and me, I can tell that her thoughts are elsewhere.

“I'm sorry,” she eventually says. “Please. Let's go into the living room.”

We follow her into an expansive living room decorated with contemporary furnishings, and Alvetta sits down on a long sofa.

“Talk about a ‘deluxe apartment in the sky,' ” Wavonne says under her breath as we lower ourselves into a pair of lounge chairs with polished stainless steel frames.

“That's a lovely view.” I look past the sofa through the glass doors that lead to a terrace overlooking the Potomac River.

“It is. I was sitting out there having my coffee when you called . . . enjoying a rare Sunday morning at home with Michael out of town.” Alvetta pauses for a moment. “It's really true? Raynell is really . . .”

“I'm afraid so. It looks like she slipped in the bathroom and hit her head.”

“I just can't even wrap my head around it.” Alvetta's looking at her lap. I can see her mouth begin to quiver as she tries to keep from crying. “She was just . . . last night . . . I just saw her last night. . . .”

Her attempt at holding back tears is unsuccessful.

“I know. I know. We are all shocked.” I join her on the sofa and put my arm around her.

“I don't know what I'll do without her. We've been best friends for more than twenty years.”

I keep a hold on her and just let her cry while Wavonne grabs a box of tissues from an end table and brings it to Alvetta.

“I wish I knew what to say, but . . .” I struggle to find words. “Have you reached Terrence?”

“Yes. Well . . . no . . . I talked to Michael, actually. He said he would break the news to Terrence. They should both be home shortly.” She wipes her eyes with a tissue and tries to pull herself together. “Are the police sure it was an accident?”

“They seemed pretty sure. There was no sign of forced entry or struggle . . . or anything like that.”

Alvetta wipes her eyes a second time and blows her nose. “I don't know . . . I wonder. I love . . .
loved
Raynell like a sister, but even I can admit that she had a mean streak. There's no shortage of people who might want her dead. Raynell probably had some sort of high school run-in with half the people at that reunion. Remember she was supposed to share a locker with Gina Holmes and threw her books all over the hallway. And how she thought it was funny to steal other girls' towels when they were in the shower so they had nothing to dry off with. And what she did to Kimberly Butler with the Nair. God bless Raynell, but she really could be horrible. And, back then, I guess I wasn't much better. I stood right along side her malicious reign. I think half the reason I stayed friends with her was because I feared the alternative.”

“I don't dispute that she could be really awful. But do you really think anyone would still hold that much of a grudge? That they would kill her?”

“If you axe me,” Wavonne says, “from what I've heard, she makes the chicks in that white teen movie about the ‘mean girls' seem like Girl Scouts.”

“She was rough in high school.”

“She wasn't exactly Mary Freakin' Poppins as an adult, either.”

“Wavonne, the woman is dead. Show some respect,” I reprimand.

“She's right,” Alvetta says. “Maybe she wasn't as mean as she was in high school, but girlfriend was still a little rough around the edges.”

“A
little?
”

I give Wavonne a look.

“I'm just callin 'em like I see 'em, Halia. Like Alvetta said, there are probably people out there who wouldn't mind seein' her dead.”

“It seems there're almost too many people to count,” I say. “Gina Holmes, Kimberly Butler . . . every girl she ever stole a towel from.”

“Even Gregory Simms might have a motive,” Alvetta says.

“Gregory?” I ask. “What do you mean? Wasn't he just working with Raynell to find a local property for his restaurant?”

“Yes, but him seeking out Raynell to work as his real estate agent always seemed odd to me . . . you know . . . given their history.”

“What history?”

“Come to think of it, I guess few people knew, but Raynell and Gregory dated senior year.”

“No way.”

“Yes. Of course, in true Raynell-fashion, the whole thing was quite nefarious. Raynell was only using him.”

“For what?”

“Haters can say what they want about Raynell, but she was a smart cookie with enough ambition for two people, which is why she was such a good real estate agent. She was very organized, detail oriented, and could market a house just shy of being condemned as ‘a quaint fixer-upper with loads of potential. ' But one thing she never could master was math . . . numbers, figures—she had absolutely no aptitude for them.”

“And Gregory led the math team to a state championship,” I say.

“Exactly. Raynell had the extracurriculars and the grades in everything but her math classes to get into the best colleges . . . and she could achieve a tidy score on the verbal portion of the SATs, but her math score was dismal. That's where Gregory came in.”

“I don't remember them being a thing.”

“No. You wouldn't. Raynell put the moves on him, and they started dating, but Raynell insisted they keep it on the down low. There was no way she was going to let the entire school know she was dating a math geek. At first she only got him to tutor her, but eventually she convinced him to let her cheat off him in calculus. And I don't know how, but somehow Raynell managed to engineer a swap when they took the SATs and Gregory completed her test, sacrificing his own score.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep. Leave it to Raynell. Like I said, she was no dummy and could come up with schemes that would make a professional con artist jealous. She strung poor Gregory along for several months, but after he tutored her, let her cheat off him, and took the SATs for her, he was of no use to her anymore. By the spring, she'd gotten her college acceptance letters, and there was no way she was going to the high school social event of the year with a nerd. She dumped him a few weeks before prom, forbade him to tell anyone about their relationship, and managed to snag Trey Lotti as her prom date.”

“I can't believe he never told me. Gregory and I were friends. We were on the debate team together. I never knew he had a thing going with Raynell. I actually ended up going to prom with him. I had no idea I was a rebound date.”

“He was probably afraid to tell anyone,” Alvetta says. “After the way Raynell treated him, it's odd that he reached out to her for help with his real estate aspirations. Although, maybe she reached out to him if she got word he was looking for space in the area and convinced him to come on board with her. Raynell is . . .
was
a master manipulator. She was able to cast a spell over him in high school. Maybe she did it again.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Who knows what Gregory's motives were, but I knew him pretty well in high school, and I just can't imagine he could kill someone—even Raynell.”

“What about that Kimberly chick?” Wavonne asks. “We saw her eyes shootin' daggers at Raynell all night.”

“Really?” Alvetta asks.

“Yes,” I confirm. “She was visibly jarred when she caught sight of Raynell at the reunion. And rightfully so, given how terrible Raynell was to her. But I suspect Kimberly got her revenge by just showing up and looking fabulous.”

Alvetta takes a breath. “All this speculation is probably silly. It sounds like it was an accident. We all saw how drunk she was when Christy drove her home.”

At the mention of her name, I'm about to ask Alvetta if she is aware of any motive Christy would have for killing Raynell when we hear some clatter at the front door and see Michael walk into the apartment.

Alvetta gets up from the sofa to greet him, and he gives her a hug. “I'm so sorry,” he says. “I still can't believe it.”

“I know. I know,” Alvetta responds. “How is Terrence doing?”

“I think he's mostly in shock. I was already on my way home when you called, so I had to tell him over the phone. It should have been done in person, but I wanted to tell him before the police did.”

“Is he back in town? Should we go over and stay with him?”

“No. He drove on to Roanoke to tell Raynell's parents in person. He may stay there tonight or come back later this evening,” Michael says, and just now seems to take note of Wavonne and me. “Hello.”

“Hi, Michael,” I say. “We just stopped by to check on Alvetta. We'll get going now that you're here.”

“Thank you. I'm sorry you had to . . . to find her . . . well, you know.”

“Yes. I'm sorry, too.” I offer a polite smile. “Come on, Wavonne. Let's go and give them some privacy.”

We hug both of them and then head toward the door.

“So sad,” I say to Wavonne once we're out in the hall. “I'm glad Michael is there with her.”

Wavonne pushes the button for the elevator. “So what do you think, Sherlock? You think Raynell buyin' the farm was an accident?”

“I don't know. It seems like it probably was, but if she were a nicer person, I'd be more confident that no foul play was involved. I know better than to not call the police immediately after finding a dead body, but I wish I had taken some time to look around the Rollinses' house before they got there, and see if anything seemed out of sorts. I had been to the house once before. I may have been able to tell if anything was out of place. Although I guess Terrence can do that when he gets home.”

“Terrence? Terrence is a
man,
Halia. Men don't notice anything unless it involves a football or a pair of titties.”

I snicker. “That's not too far from the truth, Wavonne. Maybe we could swing by the house before going back to Sweet Tea. The cops may still be there. Maybe we can just say we stopped by to see if they needed anymore information from us, and then I can try to poke around a bit.” I look at my watch. “Actually, by the time we get back over there they will have probably gone. They were wheeling Raynell's body out of the house when we left earlier. I'm guessing they were probably about finished and locked the house. We won't be able to get in.”

We step into the elevator.

“Promise you won't get mad?” Wavonne asks as the doors close.

“Mad about what?”

Wavonne raises her eyebrows at me.

“
What?
What did you do,
Wavonne?
Why do you look like a puppy that's just chewed up a pair of designer shoes?”