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

earn your own money and have your own career to pay for all those big houses and big cars . . . and all that other stuff?”
    Wavonne looks at me like I have horns. “What kind of fool would work when she can land a man to pay her bills?”
    â€œThe kind that knows she might not ever find that rich brother.”
    â€œOh, I’ll find me a rich brotha all right.”
    â€œWell, until such time, you need to earn your keep around here.” I nod toward the jars Momma asked her to open.
    â€œShe doesn’t have it all wrong, Halia,” Momma chimes in, and I’m reminded of why I prefer not to share the kitchen with her. “A little less career and a little more husband hunting isn’t the worst idea in the world.”
    I sigh. “Yes, Momma.”
    â€œDon’t moan at me. This reunion is a perfect opportunity for you to get out there. There must be an old high school flame . . . or someone who’s recently divorced . . . or someone. . . anyone for you to connect with.”
    â€œHalia had a flame in high school?” Wavonne looks up from the jars toward me. “Ooh girl, gimme the deets.”
    â€œThere are no old flames, Wavonne. Other than the occasional homecoming or prom date with guys who were usually more friends than boyfriends, my high school years were pretty devoid of romance.”
    â€œSo, in other words, your love life was as borin’ then as it is now.”
    â€œMy love life is not that bad,” I protest. “I date.”
    Momma lets out a loud dramatic laugh. “Since when?”
    â€œI went out with Jeremy Hughes just . . . well, okay . . . it was like a year ago. And there was Timothy Jenkins.”
    â€œThat was even before Jeremy, and we all know that was more a bidness meetin’ than a date. You just wanted to get a discount on some kitchen equipment,” Wavonne says. “And as for Jeremy . . . any man who wears more foundation and concealer than I do . . . and who takes you to a freakin’ Sound of Music sing-along at Wolf Trap is hardly husband material.”
    â€œI tried to set her up with Stan, the UPS driver,” Momma says to Wavonne as if I’m not in the room. “But she didn’t move fast enough, and now he’s dating that mousey little thing who manages the Walgreens.”
    â€œMartha Brennen? That tiny lil’ rodent?” Wavonne, who is always combing the aisles of the Walgreens next door for cheap makeup or accessories, asks. “That ho-bag follows me around whenever I go in there like I’m gonna steal somethin’. I don’t know what that little Polly Pocket thinks she would do if I did take anything—she barely comes up to my rack. Even Halia could take her in a fight,” she adds, turning to me. “Run down there and fight for your man, Halia. Go on.”
    â€œStan is hardly my man.” I laugh. “Why don’t you both focus on your own love lives, which, if I recall correctly, are no more existent than mine.”
    â€œThat may be, but I’m gonna get that Raynell to set me up with a Redskin. Then I won’t have to be all up in here at the butt crack of dawn makin’ cakes.”
    Momma takes the jars from Wavonne and scoops their contents in a large metal bowl she’s already filled with softened butter, secures the bowl into one of my favorite kitchen gadgets, my five-quart stainless steel Hobart N50 mixer. I just upgraded to it a few months ago. It cost a mint, but it works beautifully. Some people get excited over the Audi A6 and the BMW 500 . . . or Versace and Ferragamo. But if you want to see me light up, let’s talk about the Hobart N50 mixer or the Kolpak P7-068-CT Walk-In Cooler . . . or the Duke E102-G Double Full Size Gas Convection Oven. Some girls dream of fancy cars and jewelry—for me, a freshly sharpened Misono 440 Molybdenum Santoku knife makes me positively giddy. I’m a sucker for a freshly seasoned