Murder with Macaroni and Cheese Read Free Page A

more than an empty threat. She just used a glass to scoop herself a cup of ice out of the well instead of the metal scooper. She does this all the time, and last year, in the middle of the dinner rush, she broke a glass in the process—we had to pour hot water in the well to melt all the ice and make sure we didn’t miss any shards. Then restock the whole thing.
    â€œMy bad, my bad.” Wavonne dumps the ice back into the cooler and uses the scooper to fill her glass before placing it under the sweet tea dispenser. “What time your high school friends comin’ over?”
    â€œThey should be here soon. And I wouldn’t call them ‘friends.’ They are just former classmates. We barely interacted in high school at all.”
    â€œOh . . . so they were the popular girls?”
    â€œWhat makes you think I didn’t hang out with the popular girls?”
    â€œ ’Cause you were probably always cookin’ with Grandmommy or had your nose buried in some book.”
    â€œSo what if I spent time in the kitchen as a teenager and liked to read? I turned out okay.”
    â€œHow about the chicks you have comin’ in here? How’d they turn out?”
    â€œI don’t really know. I haven’t seen them in over twenty years.”
    â€œWhat are their names again?” Wavonne pulls out her phone.
    â€œRaynell Rollins and Alvetta Marshall. Why?”
    Wavonne starts typing on her phone. “Here’s Alvetta.” She places her phone under my nose.
    â€œAh . . . the magic of Facebook.” I take the phone, click on Alvetta’s main photo, and watch it enlarge on the screen. “She looks good . . . really good.”
    Wavonne grabs the phone back from me and looks herself. “She’s all right . . . considerin’ she’s like forty-somethin’.” She clicks on her phone again. “Says here she’s First Lady of Rebirth Christian Church.”
    â€œIs that so?” I ask. “I guess that mean’s she’s married to the pastor. Rebirth is one of those mega churches, isn’t it? With a few thousand members?”
    â€œYeah. It’s not too far from here . . . over in Fort Washington.”
    â€œDidn’t we just have a bunch of Rebirth members in here last Sunday?”
    â€œYep. The ones who hoarded three tables for over two hours.”
    â€œThey do tend to be some of our lesser-behaved after-churchers.” I don’t know exactly when we started simply referring to them as “after-churchers,” but the folks who come in here after services for Sunday brunch are one of the prime reasons I have the rare thought of getting out of the restaurant business. Diana Ross herself could walk into Sweet Tea wearing a diamond tiara, and I bet she’d be less demanding than some of the after-churchers. The ones who come from the gigantic mega churches like Rebirth are typically the worst.
    Now don’t get me wrong—I’m a Christian, and I’m all for giving God his due on the infrequent Sunday that I can get away from Sweet Tea to attend service—but some of these mega churches just leave a bad taste in my mouth. Momma attends one in Camp Springs. The few times I’ve gone with her, the collection basket went around more times than a tip jar at a strip club, which wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t suspect that half the money deposited in the basket was going toward the pastor’s Mercedes G-Class or to keep his wife, who, like Alvetta, refers to herself as the “First Lady,” in all the latest fashions from Saks and Neiman Marcus.
    â€œThose Rebirthers were here forever last Sunday. They about ran Darius and me ragged with special requests. Thank God you implemented that tip policy, or we’d have been left with their usual five percent tip.”
    Wavonne is not one for math, but it wasn’t long after she started working at Sweet Tea that she learned how to