Murder with Macaroni and Cheese by A.L. Herbert

Tomlinson cast-iron skillet. . . and don’t get me started on the Manitowoc QM-30 Series Self-Contained Cube Ice Machine that’s been on my wish list for a couple of years now.
    Momma starts the mixer and begins to whip the frosting. As the butter and marshmallow cream blend together she slowly adds powdered sugar to the whirling bowl. When the icing has creamed together nicely, she adds a touch of vanilla, gives it a final mix, and voilà , we have Momma’s famous marshmallow frosting.
    â€œYeah . . . good luck with that, Wavonne. From what I know about Raynell, she isn’t keen on helping anyone but Raynell. Not to mention she doesn’t seem to be terribly fond of you in particular.”
    I grab two serrated knifes from the knife block, hand one to Wavonne, and we both help Momma slice the small domes off of the tops of the cake layers, so they will lay smoothly on top of each other.
    â€œMy knees are not what they used to be. Give them an eye-level look and make sure they are even,” Momma asks me.
    â€œLet me do that for you two old hens,” Wavonne offers. “Drop it like it’s hot,” she says as she squats down to get her face level with the cakes. “Perfect.”
    We’ve helped Momma enough with her baking to know the drill from here. We take four circular pieces of plywood that I’ve already covered with decorative purple foil and lay them on the counter. These will function as the serving platters. We place four strips of parchment paper on each platter, so they lie just underneath the edges of the cakes to keep icing off the foil while we work. We then place a dollop of frosting on the center of the boards to anchor the cakes before we flip a moist chocolate layer onto it.
    â€œNow, you girls be careful,” Momma says as she goes down the line with a pastry brush and sweeps away any loose crumbs so they don’t get in the frosting.
    â€œThat’s too much, Wavonne!” Momma calls as she watches Wavonne haphazardly plop a glob of frosting onto one of the layers. “These are for Halia’s former classmates. We want them to be perfect.”
    Wavonne removes some of the icing with her spatula and starts to spread it around. “I wanna slice up one of these for breakfast, Aunt Celia,” she says as we begin on the second layer. “Girl, hook me up with a slice of this cake and maybe a caramel flan latte, and I’d be like a pig in—”
    â€œDon’t even think about it, Wavonne. We need four for the reunion, and that’s all Momma’s made.”
    â€œ ‘Bring me those jars.’ ‘Too much icing.’ ‘No cake for you,’ ” Wavonne mutters under her breath, mimicking Momma and me. “That Russian woman who runs the prison kitchen on TV barks fewer orders.”
    Momma and I ignore her as we continue to pull the cakes together. When we finally get all three layers assembled and frosted, Momma, ever the perfectionist, slips a thin spatula in hot water, quickly dries it, and uses the heated tool to carefully smooth out the cakes.
    â€œYou can tell people you made them, Halia,” Momma says as we stand back and admire our finished work. “If these cakes can’t land you a man, nothing can.”

CHAPTER 12
    I can’t believe I’m pulling up in front of Raynell’s house to pick up the desk she’s donated to the silent auction like I’m some sort of moving service. I’m already catering the reunion at zero profit. You’d think that would be enough. I guess I could have just said no and told Raynell to make other arrangements, but she’s a hard person to say no to. Besides, I did want to see her house, which I now see I correctly assumed would be quite impressive. And yes, I thought of asking Wavonne to make this run, but my understanding is that this desk is an antique and might be fragile. Wavonne can be careless, and I’m sure I’d never