Murder with Macaroni and Cheese Read Free Page B

calculate percentages—working for tips will do that for a person. People really should leave at least twenty percent of the total bill for good service, and no server likes to get less than fifteen percent. But if Wavonne is on the other side of a five or ten percent tip, we all know to batten down the hatches. Even with her poor impulse control she knows better than to chase after a customer who’s stiffed her. So instead, she complains to no end to whichever staff member is within earshot. Usually words like “project ho” or “thot” are involved.
    â€œI hated to do it, but I had to do something .” I’m referring to the Sunday brunch tipping policy I implemented last year that automatically adds an eighteen percent gratuity to all parties. We’ve always added gratuity to parties of six or more, but some of our less refined customers started breaking up into smaller parties to avoid the charge, and it was becoming a particular problem on Sundays. Most of my customers are decent tippers, but certain after-churchers see it fit to leave well below the industry standard tip amounts. And I’m all for spreading God’s word or what have you, but I’m sorry, religious literature left on the table after a customer departs does not constitute a tip and is certainly not going to pay my servers’ rent or their car payments.
    â€œLet’s see what else we can find out about her.” Wavonne starts tapping on her phone again.
    I’m about to lean my head over and see if she’s found a profile for Raynell when I spot a slick black Hyundai Equus glide into a parking space in front of the restaurant. I move closer to the door, and, as the car comes to a stop, I see one of those clear stickers on the back window with a drawing of a church outlined in white. I lean toward the glass to make out the writing underneath the sketch—it says Rebirth Christian Church .
    â€œI guess the First Lady has arrived.”
    â€œThink she’s upset that we ain’t got a red carpet?” Wavonne asks, walking toward me.
    I chuckle. “Maybe so. I guess a tall glass of iced tea will have to do.”

CHAPTER 3
    W avonne stands next to me as we watch the door to Alvetta’s luxury sedan open. My eyes are initially drawn to her towering pink heels as they make contact with the pavement. I follow them up to a lovely floral dress paired with a short light blue jacket—a bolero jacket, I think it’s called.
    â€œOh hail no!” Wavonne says. “I just saw that outfit online.”
    â€œThe dress?”
    â€œIt’s not just a dress, Halia. That is some Oscar de la Renta . Costs like two thousand dollars. I bet those Blahniks on her feet were another thousand, easy.”
    One of Wavonne’s favorite things to do, often when she should be waiting on customers, is to look at high fashion online, snap screen shots of what she likes, and then try to find lookalikes at T.J. Maxx or Ross.
    â€œI guess I’m in the wrong business. Clearly religion is much more lucrative than owning a restaurant.”
    â€œYou ain’t kiddin’. If I’d known landin’ a minister would get me all up in some de la Renta, I’d go to church with Aunt Celia more often.”
    â€œOh you would, would you?” I ask as I open the door to greet Alvetta.
    â€œHalia Watkins!” Alvetta calls to me as she carefully navigates her heels on to the raised sidewalk in front of Sweet Tea.
    â€œAlvetta!” I smile. “You look amazing. The picture of summer,” I add, eyeing her dress of pastel flowers. And, considering it’s nearly ninety degrees today, being dressed for sunshine is certainly appropriate.
    As she makes her final approach toward the door, I’m reminded of how beautiful she was in high school . . . and still is. She has the same long legs and hourglass figure . . . the same dewy brown skin, high cheekbones, and full eyelashes