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

thirty.”
    “Thirty ain’t hot with no youth, Halia.”
    “It’s all relative, Wavonne,” I say. “He was entertaining some clients. I don’t remember what sort of business he was in back then. That might have been when he started selling life insurance or mutual funds. I could tell he was putting on airs from the moment he sat down at one of my tables. He studied the wine list like he had a clue about wine and ordered an expensive bottle to share. Then he treated his guests to the works: appetizers, entrées, desserts, and cappuccino. Only problem was, when the bill came, Marcus’s credit card was declined.”
    “Reject!” Wavonne yells like she always does when a credit card swipe is declined by the approval machine at the restaurant.
    “I didn’t want to embarrass him, so rather than tell him that his card was declined in front of his guests, I slipped a note in the leather bill folder before I handed it to him that said for him to see me at the bar. You should have seen him approaching me, like a dog with his tail between his legs.”
    “So what happened?”
    “We tried another card, and it was declined, as well. We finally maxed each card with some of the total bill, but he was still thirty dollars short, and that was before my tip.”
    “He stiffed you?”
    “Not only that. I loaned him the thirty dollars.”
    “You did what? ”
    “I felt sorry for him. He was so desperate to impress. He promised me that he was about to close a deal, and he’d pay me back as soon as he could. And you know what?”
    “What?”
    “That little scoundrel never did pay me back . . . and he still had the nerve to keep bringing his clients back to the restaurant and always asked for me to be his server.”
    “You’re shittin’ me?!”
    “I kid you not. He left me decent tips from then on, but he never did pay back the money I loaned him or give me that tip he skipped out on.”
    “You let him off the hook?”
    “I did . . . until a few years ago when I needed some investors to get Sweet Tea up and running. After he’d reviewed my business plan and listened to my pitch about the restaurant, he seemed to be on the fence about whether or not he wanted to invest. That’s when I reached back several years and reminded him of the time I bailed him out, and how he’d never paid me back. I honestly think that is what sealed the deal and brought him on board as an investor,” I say to Wavonne as we pull into a parking space in front of Sweet Tea.
    “Girl, I’da had his balls in a vise grip if he’d tried to stiff my ass.”
    We walk toward the restaurant. When we reach the entrance, I put the key in the door. “That’s funny,” I add, when I notice my key won’t turn properly. “The door’s unlocked. Marcus had better still be here. If he left without locking up, I’ll beat his ass.”
    “Marcus?” I call out, wondering why he’d have all the lights off in the dining room if he was still here.
    “Anyone here?” Wavonne yells from behind me as we both stride toward the back of the dining room. “It’s stuck,” she says when we reach the kitchen door. She tries to push it open. I watch her push the door, and push it again . . . and push it again, while each time, it hits against something on the other side. Finally I say, “You do know that the door opens both ways?”
    I reach in front of her and pull the door toward us.
    “What the . . . ?” is all that comes out of my mouth when I catch sight of what was blocking the door—it was Marcus, lying facedown on my shiny ceramic tile.
    “It’s Marcus! Is he okay?”
    “Is he okay?!” I say back to Wavonne, my heart starting to race. “Does he look okay to you? Call nine-one-one.”
    Wavonne pulls out her phone, and I crouch down and take Marcus’s hand. I’m about to call his name to see if he answers . . . to see if he’s conscious, but I can tell from the feel of his hand that he’s not conscious—I can tell from the feel of his hand that