Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits - A.L. Herbert A Mahalia Watkins Mystery

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cocktail or a glass of iced tea right away.”

      “Vodka soda,” Russell barks while looking at his phone.

      “Dry martini for me, please.”

      “And for you, boss?” Wavonne asks me.

      “Just water for now.”

      “What a lovely place.” Cynthia looks around. “Isn’t it a lovely place, Russell?” She pokes his arm with her finger.

      “Um... yes... very nice.” He barely lifts his head from his phone before looking back down, pecking on the screen, and bringing it to his ear. “Russell here. What’s this I hear about a delay in the tile? The tile has to be down before we can move on with other installations.”

      Although I can’t make out his exact words, I hear a male voice on the other end begin to respond, but Russell lets him speak for about a nanosecond before talking over him. “I’m not interested in the ‘whats and whys.’ You’ve been hired to handle those. I want that tile down by the end of the week.”

      The man tries to reply but, once again, Russell talks over him. “I repeat: I want the tile down by the end of the week. Make it happen. I need you to meet deadlines. This is a Russell Mellinger restaurant. If you want to miss deadlines go work for Chili’s.”

      I’m honestly surprised at why he would bother at this point, but I hear the man start speaking again and, to no one’s surprise, Russell interrupts him for a third time. “Are we clear?”

      The man begins with his excuses yet again, and it’s almost painful to hear the vague rumbling of his voice coming from the phone when we all know Russell is just going to cut him off.

      “Are we clear?” Russell repeats in the harshest tone he’s used thus far.

      Finally, Russell gets the one word answer he wants and disconnects the phone without saying good-bye. “Idiots,” he says. “It’s a world full of idiots.” He turns to Trudy. “Trudy, put a tickler on my calendar to follow up with Jim about the tile tomorrow... and line up some candidates for his job if I end up firing him.”

      “I’d say, ‘forgive him, he’s not usually like this,’” Cynthia says to me, “but, unfortunately, he’s always like this. Can you believe I’ve put up with him for thirty years?” She turns to Russell. “Can you take it down a notch? You’re a guest here, and we need to firm up plans for tomorrow.”

      “Tomorrow. The show. Yes.” He sets his phone down on the table. “As soon as Tilla or Tina or whatever the hell her name is gets here, we’ll go over some of the logistics.”

      “Twyla,” Cynthia corrects, and as the name hits my ears I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. How many Twylas can there be in the local restaurant business?

      “Twyla Harper?” I ask.

      “Yes.”

      Twyla Harper?!” Wavonne says, setting a highball glass down in front of Russell and martini glass down in front of Cynthia. “Of Twyla’s Tips, Tricks, and Tidbits?”

      Wavonne is referring to a regular cooking segment Twyla used to have on the local news.

      “That’s the one,” Cynthia says.

      “Is that so,” Wavonne replies in a wicked tone. “Things just got interestin’.”

      Chapter 3

      “Interesting? How so?” Cynthia asks.

      “Well...” Wavonne pulls out a chair and sits down. “Twyla and Halia here have a bit of a sordid history.”

      “We do not.”

      “Twyla owns Dauphine in the city,” Wavonne elaborates. “Overpriced, mediocre-at-best, Cajun food. Halia worked for her many moons ago.”

      “Really?” Cynthia looks in my direction.

      “Yes. Those were my government job days. I was a loyal civil servant at the Census Bureau for quite some time and worked part time at a bunch of different restaurants around town over the years. Dauphine was the last place I worked at before I quit the bureau and opened Sweet Tea. It was still a happening place back then.”

      “Dauphine?” Russell asks.

      “Yes. It was very popular for a number of years, but I’ve heard through the grapevine that it has not been doing well for a while... that it’s really starting to show its age.”

      “As is Twyla,” Wavonne says. “That old hen must be sixty-somethin’ by now.”

      “Yes, around or about,” I say.

      “Is that the extent of your history with Twyla?” Russell asks. “That you were once in her employ?”

      Wavonne cackles loudly. “That would be a no,” she answers for me. “Twyla was ridin’ high when Halia opened Sweet Tea. She had a good story... the same story as Halia actually . . . as a whole bunch of people, I guess. She’d quit a nine-to-five job as a lawyer or a librarian... or a lab techni—”

      “She was a loan officer,” I say. “For whatever reason, when she opened Dauphine, the press ate up her ‘leave your humdrum office job and follow your dreams’ tale. She was featured in the Washington Post and was on the local news . . . and she eventually ended up with a spread in People magazine and a guest appearance on one of the national morning talk shows.”

      “The first year or two Dauphine was off the chain busy,” Wavonne says. “Twyla landed a regular cooking segment on the local news that promoted her restaurant and helped pack ’em in. She was great on camera. She has a thick, and if you ask me, overdone, southern accent and knows how to lay on the sugar when she wants to.”

      “Yes. We’re aware of her quasi-celebrity status,” Cynthia says. “That’s how we ended up casting her as a guest judge. How does Halia factor into any of this?”

      “Well... like I said,” Wavonne replies, “Twyla had a good story and talked a good game... got lots of publicity. There was only one problem. Girlfriend couldn’t... can’t cook worth a damn. She could get people in the door with all the press and hoopla, but no one came back. A few years after she opened, the place was hurtin’ big time, but things started to turn around when she hired someone who actually knew her way around a kitchen.”

      “Halia?” Cynthia asks.

      “Yep. She pretty much saved the joint.”

      “Wavonne is exaggerating, but I was able to up the kitchen’s game a bit and help her develop a steady clientele. She hired me as a front of the house manager, but the longer I was there, the more time I spent in the kitchen helping her and the line staff. Twyla opened a restaurant with no experience. I’d worked in a dozen restaurants by the time I came on board at Dauphine and had always had a knack for cooking, so I was able to really contribute there... improve recipes, change a few work-flows... implement some quality control. I also tried an approach to working with the kitchen staff that was somewhat... shall we say novel to Twyla—I was kind and respectful to them.”

      “I have a few friends who work at Dauphine. They say she’s a total pill,” Wavonne says. “My girl Nicki... she’s a server there . . . calls Twyla ‘the Wet Hen.’ And Adam... he works in the kitchen... calls her ‘Twyla the Hun.’”

      “Wow,” Cynthia says. “She seems so nice in the TV clips I’ve seen of her and has been so pleasant when I’ve talked with her on the phone.”

      “She’s sweet as molasses when it suits her, especially when she’s on camera,” Wavonne replies. “But once the cameras are off, or she’s in the kitchen out of earshot of her customers, she’s suddenly Evillene trying to get her sister’s shoes back from Diana Ross in The Wiz.”

      “She’s not that bad, Wavonne,” I defend. “She eventually made me a sous-chef at Dauphine even though I’d never had any

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