Free Murder with Fried Chicken and Waffles (Mahalia Watkins Soul Food Mystery) by A.L. Herbert Page A

began as a way for me to get out of going to church. Every Sunday, Grandmommy would host a big family get-together after service. Anywhere from fifteen to thirty people would show up on Grandmommy’s doorstep after services, and there was no way Grandmommy could go to church and prepare a meal for that kind of crowd unless people wanted to eat at midnight. Grandmommy always said feeding the churchgoers was her way of worshiping God. It wasn’t long before I realized that, if I stayed back and helped her, it could be my way of worshiping God, too, which was a hell of a lot better than trying to sit still for three hours while some old windbag preached, and a bunch of fools got to hootin’ and hollerin’ in the aisles as if they were overcome by the Holy Spirit . . . when the only thing those damn drama queens were overcome with was the desire to be the center of attention.
    Grandmommy and I would start cooking at nine in the morning. The menu varied from week to week, but one thing that was always a staple was fried chicken and waffles. Often it was my job to batter the chicken, which Grandmommy always marinated in seasonings the night before. Sometimes I’d mix up the waffles using the whipped egg whites we always added to make them extra fluffy. Other days I was busy rinsing greens or mashing sweet potatoes. I don’t remember if pre-shredded cheese was as available in the seventies as it is now, but regardless, I often spent a good deal of the morning grating cheese by hand for the macaroni.
    I learned so much on those Sunday mornings, and I loved that time with Grandmommy. I was one of thirteen grandchildren, so I considered myself lucky to get a whole morning of alone time with her once a week. I helped her almost every Sunday from the time I was twelve until after I was eighteen and left for college. It was after I’d gone away to school that she had a heart attack and just didn’t have the strength to host Sunday dinner anymore. But I never forgot her recipes, and after six years of apprenticeship, I could make a soul food meal that would knock your socks off. Before I opened the restaurant I would even have family over once every six weeks or so for Sunday supper. Of course, it didn’t have the same feel as when we all gathered at Grandmommy’s house, but the food was just as good, and it helped to keep the family connected.
    Sweet Tea has been such a great way to keep my grandmother’s memory alive, and despite the hours I have to put in there and the headaches it gives me every day, I love that restaurant, and I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to it. Maybe calling the police and letting them find Marcus’s dead body on the floor of my kitchen wouldn’t kill my business. I honestly don’t know how my customers would react to the news, but I just can’t take the chance. I have bills of my own to pay, and I’m mostly supporting Momma and Wavonne, as well. No, I just can’t take that chance. The police will be notified of his body soon enough, and they can investigate from there.
    I try to put the whole thing out of my mind, but the memory of Marcus’s stiff hand is hard to ignore. Marcus was smarmy and always up to no good, but one thing I will say about him: the world is now a much less interesting place without him in it.

CHAPTER 12
     
    I pull into the King Town Center with the expectation that I might see a spectacle of red and blue flashing lights and yellow police tape. Surely someone has stepped into the alley behind the shopping center and seen Marcus’s body. But everything seems to be “business as usual” as I maneuver my van into a parking space and turn off the ignition. And that’s when I see it: Marcus’s car, a sleek black BMW. I was so frazzled as we left Sweet Tea last night that I didn’t even notice it in the parking lot.
    When I step into the restaurant, it’s bustling like a busy beehive. My servers are straightening up the dining room and filling condiment