Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) Read Free Page B

ship has sailed.”
    “Are you going through the change already?”
    “No one calls it ‘the change’ anymore, Momma. And no, I’m not menopausal. I’m barely over forty.”
    Momma looks genuinely relieved. “Oh good. Then there’s still hope. Remember Irene Beyer’s daughter, Bernadette? You went to high school with her. Irene said she’s getting married next month. And, God forgive me, but that girl is downright ugly . . . looks like a lizard. Some of the other girls at church call her Sheneneh, from that show we used to watch years ago. What was it called?”
    “Martin.”
    “Irene’s daughter does look like her. If Sheneneh can find a man, I’m holding out hope for you, Halia.”
    “That’s your barometer for my hopes of relationship? Sheneneh!? Who, I think you’ll remember, was played by a man .”
    “Oh, don’t be so sensitive, Halia. An old woman has to grab hope where she can get it.”
    “You’re not that old, Momma.”
    “Tell that to my bum hip and my sore back. I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to be able to be the dessert goddess around here.”
    To hear Momma talk you’d think she was a stooped-over old woman, when she’s still pretty spry at seventy-three. She’s up at 5 a.m. every morning and into Sweet Tea shortly after six. She usually bakes until ten or so then keeps busy the rest of the day. She often goes to afternoon service at her church, plays cards with some friends, or does some volunteer work. But she threatens to quit on a daily basis due to her advanced age and whatever ailment she decides is the most pressing at the time—mostly so we all tell her how lost Sweet Tea would be without her and her creations.
    I give Wavonne a look that says “it’s your turn this time” and she begins to pour it on.
    “Aunt Celia, you can’t hang it up. There ain’t nobody who can bake like you. What we gonna tell customers who come in here wantin’ some of your cakes and pies? They might turn around and walk out if they hear you done put yourself out to pasture.”
    Momma is about to respond when we all take notice of Marcus coming back through the front door.
    “What up, Marcus?” Wavonne asks.
    “Hello, Mrs. Watkins,” Marcus says to Momma. “You look particularly lovely this morning.”
    “Thank you, Marcus.”
    “May I ask what delicious desserts you’ve prepared today?”
    “Red velvet cake, pineapple upside-down cake, and my spiced sweet potato pie. And we still have lemon berry bars and peanut butter pie from yesterday.”
    “No banana pudding?”
    “Nope. Not today.”
    “Here it come,” Wavonne says out of the corner of her mouth.
    “Any chance you can whip up a batch for my guests tonight?”
    “Did you not hear what she said, Marcus?” I ask. “We’ve got a host of lovely desserts.”
    “It’s just that I raved about Mrs. Watkins’s banana pudding to my guests.”
    “Marcus, assuming you can get the corn, you already have us preparing one unplanned special.”
    “I know. I just want tonight to go off without hitch. What do you say?” he asks, a bright smile that says he always gets what he wants never leaving his face.
    “Don’t ask me. Ask the dessert goddess.”
    Marcus turns his pearly whites toward Momma with a hopeful look.
    “Wavonne, grab me my apron, would you? I guess I need to make some pudding for this gentleman.”
    “Thank you so much, Mrs. Watkins. I’m sure my guests will love it.”
    Momma doesn’t respond as she takes her apron from Wavonne, loops it over her head, and begins to tie it around her waist.
    “Thanks again, ladies,” Marcus says as he turns to leave.
    “God forgive me,” I ever so slightly hear Momma say as she turns toward the kitchen door. “But I just don’t care for that man.”

CHAPTER 3
     
    I don’t know where Marcus found so much fresh corn, but he did, and now he’s thrown off my whole afternoon, and spun my kitchen into a frenzy. My sweet corn casserole is very labor-intensive to make;