CHAPTER 20
“T
hat’s odd,” I say to Wavonne after Detective Hutchins leaves. “Who would be using Marcus’s credit card?”
I notice Wavonne divert her eyes from me toward the floor.
“Who would be so stupid as to kill a man and then use his credit card?”
Wavonne is still looking at the floor.
“Oh,
Wavonne
. No!?”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Please. Oh,
please,
tell me it’s not you.”
She looks at me. I can see the guilt in her eyes.
“Oh my God! That’s what you were doing when you were lagging behind me after we left Marcus by the Dumpster? You said you were taking a last look at him. I can’t believe it, Wavonne. You stole his wallet?!”
“I didn’t
steal
anything, Halia,” she finally responds. “He was dead. What was he gonna do with it?”
“Oh my God! What are we going to do? How could you do something so stupid!? Now we’re both going to go to jail. And for what? What did you buy? A new Gucci bag and a pair of Manolos?”
Wavonne stays quiet. She stares at me with that “I’m just a silly child” look of hers. Like she doesn’t know any better, and I shouldn’t be mad at her.
“Where did you go, Wavonne? Where did you go charging stuff to Marcus’s card?”
Her gaze goes to the ceiling as if she went to so many places it’s going to take her some time to recall all of them. “I bought this Coach bag at Macy’s . . . and I got a sweater and a pair of Juicy jeans there, too . . . oh, and a pair of heels . . . you’d love ’em, Halia . . . they’re black with a bow on the toe and rhinestones along the side with—”
“I don’t need the details of the shoes, Wavonne. Where else did you go?”
“I had some lunch at Applebee’s and bought some skin care stuff from one of the kiosks at PG Plaza. I was gonna use it to pay for a new manicure yesterday, but I thought that might be a bad idea. You know . . . ’cause they know us at the salon.”
“You thought
that
might be a bad idea. But using the credit card of a murdered man, whose body we illegally moved from the scene of the crime, in stores with security cameras and clerks who can identify you in a lineup seemed perfectly okay?”
“Well, when you put it that way . . .”
“You better hope Detective Hutchins doesn’t remember that bag you have sitting on the table when he sees it on a list of the purchases charged to Marcus’s card. Hand it over.”
I noticed the purse yesterday, but I assumed it was a knockoff she’d bought from a street vendor or something.
“Hand it over? Why?”
“So I can get rid of it.”
“Oh,
hail
no! I paid six hundred dollars for this bag.”
“
You
didn’t pay anything for it. A dead man’s credit card paid for it.” I reach across the table, grab it, and dump out the contents. “Where’s the wallet?”
Wavonne retrieves the wallet from the pile on the table and hands it to me.
“So Macy’s, Applebee’s, and a kiosk at PG Plaza? That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? Now is not the time to keep things from me, Wavonne.”
“Yes. That’s it.”
“We better pray you are not on any security cameras. If you are, we are toast.” I get up with the purse and the stolen wallet and walk into my office, which connects with the break room. It’s really more of a storage closet with a desk and a file cabinet. In my business you don’t have the luxury of grand offices. As anyone who owns a restaurant will tell you, any square footage that doesn’t have a table for customers on it, is not making you any money. I run all the cards in the wallet through the shredder and toss the remains in a trash bag with the purse.
“I’m going to get rid of the evidence. If the police come back, don’t answer any questions. In fact, I think it’s best if you take the bus home. Don’t answer the door if they come to the house. We’ll need to get rid of the shoes and the jeans . . . and whatever other nonsense you bought later. This is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Wavonne.”
“Me?! I was the one who wanted to call the police when we found Marcus. You’re the one whose brainy idea it was to move him. You was the Lucy in this episode, Halia. I was just the Ethel.”
“Which wouldn’t have been a problem if you hadn’t mucked up everything by stealing Marcus’s wallet.”
“I
told
you, I didn’t
steal
it. It ain’t stealin’ when the owner’s dead. He was—”
“Shut it, Wavonne. Just get home and don’t answer the door until we find out if they have you on any surveillance cameras.”
I walk out of the break room as Wavonne gathers her things and make my way through the restaurant and out to the van. I’ve got to find a trash can far away to throw out Wavonne’s purse, the shredded cards, and the wallet. Or maybe I should bury them . . . or burn them. As I back out of the parking space, I think about what a disaster this is, and how the whole thing will really blow up if the police are able to connect Wavonne to Marcus’s credit card. I just hope the cops find out who really killed Marcus soon. But I went and made that more difficult by tampering with the crime scene. Other than the killer, Wavonne and I are the only people who know where Marcus was killed. The location may be crucial information that the cops just don’t have.
When I reach a red light and stop the van, I begin to think of a way out of this predicament . . . a way to speed up the murder investigation. And then it occurs to me:
I
may have to be the one to find out who killed Marcus.
CHAPTER 21
I
’m driving back to the restaurant thinking about how I just threw a six-hundred-dollar purse wrapped in a garbage liner in a Dumpster behind a 7-Eleven. I also threw out the wallet and its shredded contents in a trash can—this one a few miles away in front of the Walmart. It didn’t seem like a good idea to pitch them together just in case either one is found. I’m glad to see there are no police around when I pull back into the parking lot. I won’t be able to relax for a moment until I know Wavonne is not going to be arrested.
“Things okay?” Laura asks me when I step into the kitchen. I’ve been disappearing from the restaurant so much over the past few days, she’s bound to be concerned.
“Yes. I just had to run a quick errand. Momma needed something.”
“She’s okay, I hope?”
“Yes, she’s fine, but I’ve got to make a few phone calls. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
When I get in my office, I close the door, but then I think about how I generally don’t, and how now is not the time for me to be doing things that seem unusual, so I quickly open it again. I get seated at my desk and rest my chin on my thumb. I start to think back to the last night we saw Marcus alive and wonder if I can piece anything together that will give me some ideas as to who offed him. I think about the people at the table with him the night he was killed: the young couple that was so cross with him a few days earlier and seemed equally annoyed with him that night; his business associate, Charles, whom I know almost nothing about; Jacqueline; and Régine. I wonder if any of them have a motive for killing him. Of course, Marcus knew a slew of people, but his dinner companions seem like the most logical place to start in terms of identifying suspects. I wonder if that cockamamie mortgage program Jacqueline mentioned earlier has anything to do with his murder.
I swivel my chair around to face the computer and Google “Marcus-Rand-mortgage-program.” Unfortunately, the search yields results for any Marcus Rand who has ever had a mortgage. I try “Marcus-Rand-mortgage-Maryland.” Nothing useful comes up.
“What was the last name of his business associate?” I ask myself. I remember Charles being his first name, but I can’t remember what Jacqueline said his last name was. I could call her, but I don’t want her to know that I’m looking into this.
It’s a long shot, but I type “Charles-mortgage-pay-off-quickly” into the search engine, and, bingo, the first site on the list is for Reverie Homes. The summary underneath the link to the site reads, “Recoup your investment and pay off your home IN FULL in as little as seven years.” I click on the link and start perusing the site. It’s a page personalized for Charles Pritchett, who apparently is “Vice President of Investor Relations” for the greater Washington, D.C., area. I see a photo of him in the top left corner, and I recognize him from the night in the restaurant. I click on the “About Charles Pritchett” button and read his bio. It’s overflowing with words like “caring,” “experience,” “expertise,” and “knowledge.” It talks about how he’s recruited more than two hundred home owners into the program, and how many of them are now mortgage free. I love how he uses the word “many” . . . such a relative term . . . it could mean two, or two hundred, or two thousand. Or, considering how shady this whole program appears, it may mean zero.
I continue to click around the site, which mostly confirms what Jacqueline already told us—home owners make a big investment up-front and then Reverie Homes helps them pay off their mortgage from the profits they make off their other lines of business. I’m about to close the site when I see a link that says, “Attend a Free Information Session.” When I click on it, a calendar appears, and I see that Charles is hosting a forum tonight at the Gaylord Hotel at National Harbor. I’m thinking about how I just might attend that session this evening when I see Laura standing in the doorway.
“Detective Hutchins is here to see you,” she says.
I feel my shoulders rise ever so slightly with tension, and tell Laura to let him know I’ll be right out. I knew he’d be back, but I didn’t think he’d be back so soon. As she walks away, I take a deep breath and compose myself.
“Detective Hutchins. What can I do for you?” I say when I reach the back of the dining room, where he’s seated at a small table behind an almost empty glass of freshly brewed peach iced tea that Laura must have gotten for him.
“You said you left the restaurant with your cousin the night Marcus was last seen alive, correct?” he asks, bypassing any niceties.
“Yes. We left here shortly before midnight, stopped by the grocery store, and went home.”
“Are you sure, Ms. Watkins?”
“Please. Call me Halia. And yes, I’m sure. Why?”
“We haven’t been able to obtain any security camera footage of the person who used Marcus’s credit card, but we traced one of the purchases as a handbag from the Macy’s in Marlow Heights. We found the clerk who rang up the purchase, and she remembered selling it . . . only because the woman who bought it complained that they didn’t have the one she wanted in stock and then went on to criticize what a mess the store was, saying something to the effect of seeing flea markets that were better organized.”
“What does any of this have to do with me?” I ask, ready to strangle Wavonne for behaving so stupidly. How could she be so foolish as to make a spectacle of herself when she was using a stolen credit card?
“The clerk’s description of the woman who purchased the bag fits your cousin.”
“How so?”
“The clerk said it was a twentysomething black woman with shoulder-length curly hair, flashy costume jewelry, tight clothing . . . and . . . well, an ample backside.”
“A twentysomething black woman with curly hair, flashy jewelry, tight clothing, and a big behind? Are you kidding me? You just described half the hoochies in PG County.”
“Maybe so, Ms. Watkins, but ‘half the hoochies in PG County’ didn’t know Marcus Rand. Your cousin did know him, and she fits the description.”
“Yes. She knew him, but not well, Mr. Hutchins. She only saw him when he came into the restaurant. I’m not sure I would even call them friends. And, frankly, Mr. Hutchins, I’m not sure I like where this conversation is going. You don’t honestly think Wavonne had something to do with Marcus’s murder?”
“I’m just doing my job, Ms. Watkins . . . Halia. Are you sure that was the extent of their relationship? They never dated or had a thing going?”
“A
thing
going?” I say, my irritation showing. “No. They never had a
thing
going, Mr. Hutchins.” I don’t like him talking about Wavonne as if she’s a murderer. She may be lazy and stubborn . . . and steal credit cards off dead bodies, but she’s no murderer . . . and if anyone is going to talk smack about Wavonne, it’s going to be me. “Besides. Wavonne was with me all night.”
“Are you positive? She couldn’t have left the house quietly after you were asleep?”
“You’ve met Wavonne. Does she seem like the type of person who would be able to do
anything
quietly? So yes, I’m certain she didn’t leave the house after we went to bed.”
“I’ll still need to speak to her. Do you know where she is?”
“No,” I lie. “She’ll be in for the dinner service at four thirty, but I need her waiting tables, not talking with you.”
“I’ll be back then. I’ll try to keep it brief and let her get to work.”
“Really, Mr. Hutchins, my cousin isn’t the smartest girl in the world, and she may not be the hardest worker, but one thing I know for sure, she is not a killer.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” Detective Hutchins says to me, nods, and turns to leave.
Once he’s out the door, I scurry to my office and waste no time calling Wavonne.
“Hey,” she says.
“Get in here now,” I say with a sense of urgency. I’ll need all the time I can get to coach Wavonne on how to answer Detective Hutchins’s questions when he comes back in a few hours.
CHAPTER 22
I’
m trying to act like I’m not worried, and I’m making an effort to keep my eyes off Wavonne and Detective Hutchins, who are seated in the back of the dining room. But when I do occasionally steal a glance, I see Wavonne talking way more than she should be. I told her to answer questions with simply a yes or no as often as possible and to stick to the story without adding any embellishments:
We left the restaurant around eleven forty-five. We stopped by the grocery store and have a receipt that showed we were there for almost an hour, and then we went straight home, and went to bed.
Why are her lips moving so much if that’s all she’s saying?
I think to myself.
I would have preferred to sit there with them, but Detective Hutchins asked to speak to her alone, and I thought it would look odd if I insisted. And yes, I did think about trying to find a lawyer to be present during the questioning, but again, I figured that would make Wavonne appear guilty. And honestly, Wavonne only needs to follow simple instructions about what to say. Even she can’t screw up something so easy, can she?
I’m keeping busy checking in on tables and manning the hosting station, when I see Detective Hutchins get up from his chair and extend his hand to Wavonne, who accepts it and gives it a quick shake.
“Everything go okay?” I ask Detective Hutchins as he heads toward the door.
“Fine. I’ll be in touch if I need anything further.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay and have some dinner? Tonight’s special is a butter baked chicken . . . the meat falls right off the bone.”
I’m glad when he politely declines and says he has another appointment to get to.
When I see his car pull out and head toward the exit, I walk over to Wavonne, who is still seated with her phone in one hand and a glass of tea in the other as if she’s a customer instead of an employee.
“So?”
Wavonne pauses from tapping the screen of her phone with her long red fingernails and looks up at me. “It went okay. He just axed me some questions about what happened the night Marcus was killed and what sorta relationship I had with him.”
“
Asked
you. He just
asked
you.”
“Yeah. That’s what I said.”
I roll my eyes and decide to save the grammar lesson for later. “What did he tell you?”
“I told him the truth. I ain’t never done the dirty-dirty with Marcus.”
“What did you tell him about the night Marcus disappeared ?”
“Exactly what you told me to tell him. I told him we went by the grocery store on the way home, and went home, and went to bed.”
“So what were you talking about all that time?”
“He asked me a lot of questions about what happened before we left the restaurant. He wanted to know if I knew anything about the people Marcus was having dinner with that night.”
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t know much about the couple at the table or about Marcus’s friend, Charles. I told him what I knew about Régine—that she’s Marcus’s usual type . . . sort of hoe-baggish with big tits.”
I wonder if Detective Hutchins suspects any of Marcus’s dinner companions. If he knows something about them that I don’t. If he knew that the murder happened here in the restaurant, he would definitely be more suspicious of them.
“You know, Wavonne, it might be nice if you’d get back to work. Darius has been covering your tables since Detective Hutchins got here.”
Wavonne sighs at me, grabs her phone, and gets up from the table. As she walks away, I look at my watch and realize I’ve got to get moving if I’m going to make it to the Reverie Homes presentation that starts in less than an hour.