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

hear the end of it from Raynell if the desk ended up being scratched or otherwise damaged in transit.
    Oh well . . . I guess it’s for a good cause—at least I hope the Raynell Rollins Foundation is a good cause and not one of those charities with operating expenses sucking up all the donations before they get to the people they are actually supposed to help. For all I know, the donations go to subsidize Raynell’s salon appointments and first-class vacations.
    I step out of my van and take in the sheer size of Raynell’s home. My first thought is damn, that’s a lot of windows . I start counting them—fifteen windows along just the front of the house and three more in the rooftop dormers overlooking the expertly landscaped yard. Most of houses in newer suburban neighborhoods have brick facades in the front, but the sides and rear are generally covered in siding to save on cost. But this is not the case for the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Terrence Rollins. I can’t see the back, but both sides are brick from the roof to the ground.
    I walk toward the double front doors, and, based on my experience shopping for wooden tables and chairs for the restaurant, I suspect they are mahogany.
    I press the doorbell and hear it chime inside the house. A moment later I’m surprised to see Raynell open the door. I was sure it would be a housekeeper.
    â€œHalia. Hello.” Her eyes veer past me toward the driveway. “Gosh. The neighbors are going to wonder who’s here in that ramshackle thing,” she says of my van, which I’ll admit is no Mercedes, but it’s only five years old with a few minor nicks on it. “Come in.”
    I step inside onto gleaming hardwood floors and look up at the foyer ceiling that goes clear to the top of the house. A large window above the front doors carries beams of light onto a mammoth contemporary chandelier dripping with a few hundred thin rectangular crystals. To the left I see a formal dining room with yet another smaller, but no less exquisite, chandelier hanging over a shiny dark wood table (also mahogany I believe) that seats ten people. To the right is a formal sitting room with lush carpet and contemporary furniture.
    â€œThe desk is in the family room.”
    I follow Raynell as we walk alongside the staircase to the kitchen, which opens into a two-story family room with exposed beams and a stone fireplace. The entire wall along the back of the kitchen and the family room consists of floor-to-ceiling windows. I remind myself to lift my jaw back up as I examine the kitchen. It’s better equipped than some of the commercial kitchens I worked in earlier in my career. It’s a regular utopia of rich wooden cabinets offset with metal hardware, stainless-steel appliances, and glossy granite countertops. There’s a large island in the middle and a long glass-top table in the dining area in front of the windows. I guess you might call the area with the table “the breakfast nook,” but that term doesn’t seem to do it justice.
    â€œI love your kitchen.”
    â€œWe never use it,” Raynell says with zero enthusiasm, and continues walking toward the adjoining family room.
    I want to shout what a crime that is—to let such a lovely well-appointed kitchen go to waste—but I keep my mouth shut and follow Raynell.
    â€œHere it is.”
    I look down and see an ornate piece of furniture . . . what you might call a “period piece.” While quite handsome, it is decidedly out of place among all the modern furnishings in Raynell’s home. It hosts a bunch of cubbies and drawers and stands on thin legs that descend into claws—I think they are called ball-and-claw Chippendale legs. It’s adorned with metal pulls and outlined with a trim that looks like a detailed wooden rope.
    â€œIt’s lovely,” I say. “How old is it?”
    â€œI had it appraised a few weeks ago. The appraiser thought