Murder with Macaroni and Cheese Read Online Free PDF Page B

hostess station to take the call.
    I watch Christy walk away and then return my attention to Raynell, who’s chattering on about the fat content of some of the selections on my menu. I try not to laugh as her stout self blabs to Alvetta and me about how she’d have to double her treadmill time if she were to eat most of the items we serve. But from the looks of Raynell’s thick middle, I suspect doubling her treadmill time wouldn’t require that much exertion—after all, doubling zero minutes still nets you zero minutes.
    I find myself barely paying attention as she blathers on. I think more about how some things never change—Raynell is just as bossy, unpleasant, and condescending as she was in high school. And then, as if she can read my mind and wants to confirm my thoughts, she takes a quick breather from relentlessly critiquing my menu before she shoots her mouth off again.
    â€œSo, Halia,” she says. “Your hair’s almost the same as it was in high school. All this time and you never thought about updating it or switching to a more stylish cut?”

CHAPTER 5
    â€œO ne watermelon mint tea with a kick,” Wavonne says as she sets a glass in front of Raynell. After she places a second glass in front of Christy, who has returned to the table after “handling” one of Raynell’s phone calls, she lifts a black cast-iron pan from the tray it shared with the drinks and places it in the center of the table.
    â€œWhat’s this?” There’s a touch of excitement in Alvetta’s voice.
    â€œIt’s just cornbread,” is Raynell’s response.
    â€œIt smells heavenly.”
    â€œAnd that’s coming from the wife of a minister.” I smile at Alvetta. “It’s my grandmommy’s sour cream cornbread.” I cut into the pan of golden goodness and place a slice on everyone’s plate.
    Alvetta takes a bite. “Oh my. That is some good stuff.”
    â€œIt’s not bad,” Raynell says before taking a second bite, and a third, and then polishing off the whole slice with one last chomp.
    â€œAre you ready to order?” Wavonne asks.
    â€œI’ll have the chicken,” Raynell barks.
    â€œThe butter-baked chicken on special?”
    â€œNo. The roasted chicken. With green beans . . . no oil, and a baked potato . . . no butter or sour cream. I’m watching my figure.”
    â€œGot it.”
    â€œI’ll have the pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy,” Alvetta says.
    â€œOh . . . get the butter-baked chicken, Alvetta,” Raynell says. I bet you’ll like that better.”
    â€œUm . . . okay.”
    Some things never change, I think to myself yet again. Once a loyal subject—always a loyal subject.
    â€œAnd for you?” Wavonne asks Christy. Before she can answer Raynell pipes up. “Bring her the soft-shell crab special. That sounds good, Christy, right?”
    â€œSure . . . of course.”
    I pause for a moment before giving Wavonne my order, wondering if Raynell is going to tell me what to have as well. “Bring me the butter-baked chicken too, please.”
    Wavonne nods and turns from the table.
    â€œSo back to the menu for the reunion,” Raynell says, cutting off a second large slice of the cornbread and bringing it to her lips. For something she called “not bad” a few moments ago, she sure seems to be scarfing it down.
    â€œWhat if we went with some eighties-themed foods?” Alvetta asks.
    â€œThat’s silly.” Raynell offers her standard look of disapproval. “What are we going to serve? Capri Sun and Fruit Roll-Ups?”
    â€œActually, that doesn’t sound half bad,” I joke.
    â€œBack then, lunch sometimes consisted of an order of fries and a Diet Coke . . . and maybe some Ho Hos for dessert. I’d slice a finger off to have that metabolism back again,” Alvetta says.
    â€œYou and me both,” Raynell