Free Murder with Macaroni and Cheese by A.L. Herbert Page A

the menu. She goes on like this for about an hour, and I politely explain why most of her requests (e.g., a staffed raw oyster bar, chocolate soufflés, Kobe beef sliders) are not feasible within the available budget.
    I think she believed she was going to be able to bully me into taking a loss on the event and preparing dishes way beyond what my fee would cover. I might have been a little timid around Raynell in high school, but I’m certainly not afraid of her now. I’m not looking to make money on this catering job, but I’m not going to lose money, either. So, after a lot of hemming and hawing, we eventually finalize the menu and come to an agreement over a nice selection of appetizers, entrées, and desserts. And, if I do say so myself, come Saturday night, my old high school classmates are in for a real treat when they get a sampling of some of my tastiest recipes.

CHAPTER 11
    â€œT hose look divine,” I say to Momma as she starts popping chocolate cakes out of their pans. She’s been at Sweet Tea since five this morning. It’s eight now, which is actually early for me to be at the restaurant. I’m generally here until well after we close, so I try not to start my workday too early. Coming in during the late morning also allows very little overlap between Momma’s time in the Sweet Tea kitchen baking all of her delicious goodies and my time in the Sweet Tea kitchen supervising the rest of our creations, which, believe me, helps keep the peace around here. Momma usually starts her baking at six a.m. and wraps about four hours later, but like me, she came in early today to get a jump on the catering order for the reunion.
    Raynell’s husband (at least Raynell said it was her husband) loved Momma’s chocolate marshmallow cake so much that Raynell asked . . . well, more like insisted, that we serve it as the featured dessert for the reunion.
    Momma has twelve layers of chocolate cake cooling on the counter—enough for four cakes. As the smell of rich cocoa reaches my nose, I have to fight the urge to press my hands on them just to feel their warm velvety texture.
    As there’s always an occasional freak . . . yeah, I said it . . . an occasional “freak” who doesn’t like chocolate, to supplement the chocolate marshmallow cakes, we’ll also be serving sour cream coconut cakes. And that’s just the desserts. We’ll be starting the affair with mini corn muffins and fried chicken salad tartlets during the cocktail hour. These will be followed by a full dinner buffet of herb baked chicken, salmon cakes, and host of yummy sides. Of course, this spread is way beyond the budget of the reunion committee, but I agreed to offer a substantial discount. I’ll barely break even with this job, but I guess it’s okay considering it’s for my alma mater.
    â€œLet me get started on the frosting while they cool. Wavonne, start opening those jars of marshmallow cream, would you?” Momma calls over to Wavonne, who couldn’t have been any less helpful since she arrived with me a few hours ago. She’s currently sitting on a stool with her head against the wall and her eyes shut.
    â€œWavonne!” I call to wake her up.
    â€œHuh?” She slowly opens her eyes.
    â€œHelp Momma with the frosting, please.”
    â€œI’m so tired.” She sluggishly lifts herself from the stool. “Why’d we have to come in so early? I was up late watchin’ a Basketball Wives marathon. Those sistas live the life, Halia. They got it all—money, big houses, cars, clothes, jew-reys . . . everything. That’s the life I was meant to have . . . not being up at no damn six a.m. to make cakes. Now I just need Raynell’s husband to hook me up with a football player, and it will be me on TV covered in bling when they launch a show about football wives.”
    â€œYou know, Wavonne. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you could