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

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      “They’re fine.”

      “Ahem... liar... ahem,” Wavonne mutters.

      “What? We are fine.”

      “Halia might be fine with Twyla, but Twyla’s still got a beef with Halia. I saw her fuming at the Rammys last year when Halia won in the casual brunch category.... Bitter as a Brussels sprout, that one.”

      “Bitter about what?”

      “About her restaurant going the way of Mariah Carey’s music career. You know... still around but not terribly relevant or successful. Even her silly little cooking segments on the local news got canned a few months ago.”

      “What’s Halia have to do with that?”

      “She left Dauphine and took all of Twyla’s customers with her.”

      “I did not,” I protest. “At least that was never my intention.”

      “When Halia left Dauphine, the place went back to bein’ the second-rate eatery it was before she worked her magic in the kitchen.” Wavonne turns to me. “Give me your phone.”

      “Why?”

      “Because you don’t let me have mine on me when I’m workin’ the floor.”

      I hand her the phone. “What do you want it for?”

      “I bet it’s still online,” she says, tapping a few keys and scrolling. “Here it is. This is what the Post critic said shortly after Halia left Dauphine.” Wavonne begins reading. “‘Without the talents of sous chef Mahalia Watkins, who recently left to open Mahalia’s Sweet Tea, Dauphine has, once again, become mundane . . . ordinary... not awful, but the food has lost that something extra that abounded when Ms. Watkins was manning the kitchen. It’s unclear whether or not Dauphine will survive Ms. Watkins’s exit. Proprietor and executive chef Twyla Harper kept the doors open prior to Ms. Watkins’s employ with some good old-fashioned southern charm and a knack for garnering publicity. Without some significant retooling in the kitchen, Dauphine will, once again, have to rely on Ms. Harper’s flair for hospitality and her weekly television appearances—and perhaps a regular supply of DC tourists who have not already paid a ‘one and done’ visit to the establishment to bring in customers and keep the lights on. It certainly will not be the quality of the food that fills the seats at Dauphine.’”

      “Ouch,” Russell says. “That had to hurt.”

      “Boy, did it ever. This was back when people actually read newspapers, so having the Washington Post tell the entire DC area that someone else was responsible for the success of her restaurant did not go over well with Twyla the Hun. And, not only did the Post say Dauphine had gone in the dumper following Halia’s exit, it also told them where to go to find Halia. The one mention of Halia leaving to open her own restaurant brought all the Dauphine regulars to Sweet Tea... and they’re still comin’.”

      “You’re tempting me to play up this angle during the show,” Cynthia says. “It could be good for ratings.”

      I laugh. “There’s no angle to play. Really. Twyla and I are fine. Wavonne likes to dramatize everything.” I turn to Wavonne. “And shouldn’t you be getting back to work?”

      “Yeah,” Wavonne grumbles, getting up from the table.

      “Interesting dynamic you have with your wait staff,” Russell says with raised eyebrows. “Do your servers always pull up a chair and start gossiping with customers?”

      “Not my entire wait staff... just Wavonne. She’s family . . . for better or worse. She—”

      Before I can finish my sentence, I hear someone calling from the front of the restaurant. “Yoo-hoo!” I catch someone bellowing and feel little need to divert my eyes from the Mellingers to find out who just entered my dining room as I don’t know anyone other than Twyla Harper who uses the word “yoo-hoo,” unless they’re asking for a chocolate soda.

      Chapter 4

      “Yoo-hoo” pings through the air again as I turn my head to see a mature woman sashaying toward us underneath a mound of teased platinum-blond hair—your guess is as good as mine as to whether her vivid locks are her own or on loan from some woman with a shaved head in Peru. In my opinion, blond hair on black women isn’t always a flattering look, but her golden tresses, like anything that makes Twyla conspicuous, seem to work for her.

      As she teeters on three-inch heels in our direction, in a royal blue dress, her face shrouded in heavy makeup, I look past her out the front windows and see that she’s still driving the same ginormous white Cadillac Coupe de Ville from 1970-something that she had when I worked for her. Much like her hair and her clothes... and her shoes, her car screams “notice me!”

      “Twyla,” I say, getting up from the table while Russell and Cynthia remain seated. “What a pleasure. It’s been forever. How are you?”

      “Hi, darlin’. I’m fantastic.” She kisses me on the cheek. “Busy busy... You know, Dauphine, my volunteer work, trying to stay fit.” She looks me up and down. “I wish I could carry extra weight the way you do. You make it work.”

      I swallow and remind myself to let her petty jibe go. “Thank you. I like to think a little thickness takes a few years off.” I scan her from head to toe the same way she did me. “As you get older you can start to look like a bag of bones if you get too skinny.” Okay, so I didn’t exactly let her little barb go. “Let me introduce you to—”

      “I know Russell and Cynthia. I dined at the Barbary in New York last year.” She shakes hands with both of them. “You remember me, right?”

      “Of course,” confirms Cynthia, but her eyes say she has no recollection of ever meeting her.

      “Please have a seat,” I invite.

      Twyla pulls out a chair. “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” she says, taking a napkin and sweeping some nonexistent crumbs from the seat before sitting down. “Are the rumors true?” She slides her chair closer to the table. “I heard you were having some money issues and sold out to Cracker Barrel.”

      I laugh. “No. Sweet Tea is still all mine.”

      “Hmmm... Wonder how that gossip got started. Maybe because Sweet Tea has a similar feel to Cracker Barrel . . . all folksy and informal.”

      I’m about to respond when I notice that somewhere during Twyla’s exchange with me, Russell’s eyes lit up. “This is ratings gold,” he says.

      “What’s ratings gold?” Twyla asks.

      “The two of you. Like Mariah and Nicki behind the American Idol desk.”

      “Oh, don’t be silly,” Twyla says. “I love Halia.” She puts an arm around me. “And there’s plenty to love.”

      “That’s because the food is so good here.” I look at her petite figure, up and down. “You have to wonder about the food quality of a restaurant owned by a wisp of a thing.”

      Twyla is about to speak when Wavonne reappears at the table, hands everyone a menu, and goes over the evening’s specials: corn and crab chowder, honey-braised pork chops with homemade applesauce, and a blackberry cobbler for dessert.

      After Wavonne takes Twyla’s drink order, I ask her to give our guests a few minutes to look over the menu, and once some decisions have been made, Russell starts talking about the show.

      “So tomorrow we’ll do a little dog and pony thing at the African American museum. We’ll get some footage of us walking around with the three remaining contestants, and you can get to know them. Then we’ll all meet up in the museum café for lunch and to announce the challenge for this episode. You’ll have a nice break while production assistants take the contestants to the store to get any necessary ingredients for the evening’s competition. We’ll need you at the inn no later than six.”

      “The

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