Recipes for Love and Murder Read online

  Jessie nodded.

  ‘I spoke to my ma, at the hospital,’ she said. ‘Her name is Martine van Schalkwyk. The husband is Dirk.’

  ‘Can you do a close-up on that picture?’ I said. ‘No, not his face, the pond.’

  At the edge of the water, caught in the base of the reeds, were a few feathers. Small and white.

  I felt strange and had to sit down. I managed to get to my desk chair.

  ‘Maria, you’re pale as a ghost,’ said Hattie.

  Jessie put the kettle on while Hattie fanned me with a piece of paper.

  They pulled up their chairs and sat down on either side of me. Jessie handed me a cup of coffee and I took a big sip. It was sweet and strong.

  ‘The ducks,’ I said. ‘It was the lady with the ducks.’

  ‘Oh, heavens, yes, the one who wrote to you,’ said Hattie.

  ‘The bastard,’ said Jessie. ‘He killed her.’

  ‘Oh, if only . . . ’ I said, but the list of the things I wished was too long to say.

  ‘Have some beskuit,’ Hattie said, opening my tin and offering a rusk to me.

  ‘Let me investigate,’ said Jessie, standing up. ‘Please, Hattie.’

  Hattie sighed.

  ‘Talk to the police and the hospital,’ she said. ‘But you leave that husband alone.’

  Jessie opened her mouth like she was going to speak but then closed it again. She grabbed her notebook, helmet and jacket and headed off.

  Hattie shook her head.

  ‘That girl.’

  ‘I think she’ll go far,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe too far,’ said Hattie.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  We heard the buzz of Jessie’s scooter fading away and then the rattling of a big car arriving, its brakes screeching as it stopped; a door slamming, boots stomping up the pathway.

  Hattie peeped outside. Her eyebrows shot up and she scooted backwards, her hand on the door, like she might close it.

  ‘Haai!’ a woman shouted. ‘Ek soek Tannie Maria!’

  She was looking for me. Her voice was rough but had some sweet flavour, like Christmas cake with stones in it.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not currently available,’ said Hattie.

  ‘Where’s she? Who’re you?’

  ‘Would you like me to take a message?’

  Hattie was blocking the door but the woman pushed past her.

  ‘Blikemmer,’ she swore. Tin bucket. ‘I must see her.’

  She was wearing a man’s overall and no make-up. Her hair was short but deurmekaar, like she’d been running her hands through it. But you could still see she was a good-looking woman in her thirties, her eyes brown with dark eyelashes.

  ‘And you?’ she said when she saw me.

  She looked like she was going to klap one of us. Who was she going to smack first? She wasn’t as tall as Hattie, but she looked strong enough to take us both on.

  I was going to tell this rude woman that I was the cleaning lady and she was messing up the floor with her dirty shoes.

  But then I saw, stuck to the mud on one of her big leather boots, a little white feather.

  ‘I am Tannie Maria,’ I said. ‘Sit. Sit. I’ll make us coffee.’

  She sat on the edge of Jessie’s chair and frowned at me, like she didn’t like the way I was putting sugar in her coffee. But I carried on anyway, and added milk too.

  Then there was a sound like someone had stood on a puppy, and I got a fright. The woman’s face crumpled and the sound was her crying. Then she was tjanking, howling like a dog that’s been left alone. I put her coffee along with the tin of rusks on the table next to her, and pulled my chair closer to hers.

  ‘Heavens above,’ said Hattie and closed the door.

  But she needn’t have worried because the woman got much quieter. Tears ran down her face; you could see the lines because her cheeks were a bit dusty. They ran right into her mouth. She was tjanking softly now, and I could make out some words:

  ‘Tienie. My Tienie,’ she said. ‘I love her.’

  The tears kept streaming down. Ag, I felt sorry for her.

  Then there was a loud knocking, and Hattie went to open the door.

  ‘Police!’ barked a man’s voice. ‘I am Detective Lieutenant Kannemeyer. We are looking for Anna Pretorius. Her bakkie is outside.’

  Hattie said nothing and for the second time someone pushed past her. The policeman was big and tall with short hair and a thick handlebar moustache. It had a nice shape, like he took care of it. His moustache was a chestnut colour and his hair was a darker brown with silver streaks above his ears.

  The woman jumped up from her chair, knocking the tin, and spilling the rusks onto the floor.

  ‘Anna Pretorius,’ said the man, ‘you must come with me for fingerprinting.’

  Anna wiped her face with the back of her hand and then, with that same hand full of dust and tears, she made a fist and punched the policeman in his jaw. He jerked back and touched his fingers to his face. His eyes were a storm-cloud blue. He reached out his long arm. The long arm of the law they say, but I’d never seen it in person before, you know, reaching out like that. But she ducked under his long arm and darted for the door. He seemed to move slower than her, but somehow he caught her. She was jumping, and beating out with her fists, her face as red as a beetroot. But he just wrapped his arms around her, like a giant bear, and pinned her to him until she went still. There was sunlight shining on his arms and you could see that chestnut-coloured hair again.

  ‘Konstabel Piet Witbooi,’ he said.

  A little guy with the high cheekbones of a Bushman popped up beside the detective. His hair was like peppercorns and his skin was wrinkled and yellow-brown like a sultana. His hands moved quickly and quietly as he slipped handcuffs around Anna’s wrists. I thought she was still going to kick and bite, but when I saw her face I realised the fire had gone out of her. The tears were slipping down her cheeks again.

  ‘Why do you need fingerprints?’ I said to the policemen.

  They did not reply, but I knew the answer. Anna was a suspect in the murder of her friend.

  ‘You’ve got to help me,’ Anna said, looking at me with her wet brown eyes.

  I knew that I would try. But I also knew that I would never be able to help her with her biggest trouble. That huge eina loss of the one she loved.

  And then, it was funny, and I know it was a selfish thing to do, but I felt jealous of her, standing there looking so miserable, with the big policeman holding her. I envied her love. That deep love I had never had.

  Constable Witbooi and Detective Kannemeyer and Anna left Hattie and me standing there, looking down at the muesli buttermilk rusk crumbs, trampled all over the floor.

  I shook my head. What a sad story.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘You blerrie dyke bitch,’ said the pink-faced man in khaki shorts.

  Now that wasn’t how I expected to be greeted when I went into the Ladismith police station. I was there to tell the detective about the Gazette letters I’d got from the dead woman and her friend. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him earlier.

  The rude man was swearing at Anna: ‘Blerrie bitch.’

  Anna stood in front of a long wooden counter next to Constable Piet Witbooi. He turned and greeted me with a nod. Anna’s handcuffs were off and there was ink all over her fingers. The room was big, with pale yellow walls and small metal-framed windows, and an old humming air-conditioning unit. There was a corridor leading off this room, with doors to smaller offices. On the other side of the counter sat a young black policewoman at a wooden desk, busy with some paperwork.

  Anna glared at the rude man, her eyes bright and her nose twitching.

  ‘She hated you, you ugly warthog,’ she said. ‘Vlakvark.’

  He did look a bit like a warthog: stocky, his eyes small and his hair wiry. A big nose. And brown and grey scraggly whiskers on his jaws. Where had I seen him before?

  ‘You blerrie fat rat,’ he said.

>   She was baring her teeth at him now, but not in smiling way. She didn’t look like a rat; more like a rock-rabbit, a dassie. With her soft fur and dark eyes. I wondered if the dassie was going to sink her teeth into the warthog.

  ‘She was mine,’ he said.

  Now I recognised him: Dirk van Schalkwyk – from Jessie’s photographs.

  The policewoman said something, but I could not hear, because at that moment the aircon unit made a loud rattling sound.

  ‘She hated you,’ Anna hissed.

  ‘I’ll blerrie kill you, you fat kakkerlak,’ he shouted.

  That was just silly. She looked nothing like a cockroach.

  ‘Hey!’ said Detective Kannemeyer, coming out of the office at the back. He stared down at us all. He really was a tall guy. ‘Stop that.’

  ‘Go ahead, warthog,’ said Anna, standing up straight, pushing her shoulders back. ‘Kill me, you murderer.’

  ‘You’re not gonna get away with it,’ said Dirk, pulling a gun out from under his shirt.

  I thought she would kick him or throw herself on the floor but she just lifted her chin a little higher. Maybe she was happy at the thought of joining her Tienie.

  Piet moved so quickly I hardly saw him. He knocked Dirk’s arm up into the air as a shot rang off. Boom! Bits of plaster and dust fell down from the ceiling.

  Detective Kannemeyer clamped Dirk’s wrist in his big hand, and took the gun from him.

  ‘Enough,’ said the detective.

  Kannemeyer twisted Dirk’s arm behind his back, and Dirk made a snorting noise. They both had ceiling dust on their hair.

  ‘You fat rat,’ Dirk mumbled as he was pushed past Anna, out of the room.

  I shook my head. Such rudeness. So unnecessary.

  Anna really was not at all fat. She had some padding, like any woman who ate three meals a day. But to call her fat was just wrong.

  Now the police station was full of people who’d popped in to see what the shouting and shooting was about.

  ‘Hello, Tannie Elna,’ I said to the woman who worked in the shoe shop next door.

  She was small and thin, hopping up and down like a meerkat to get a good view.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said.

  ‘Would you say she is fat?’

  I pointed to Anna, who was being led away by a policewoman. Elna put her head to one side and scrunched up her mouth, then shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘not really . . . ’

  ‘Was someone shot?’ asked a man from the Spar, the manager.

  He had one of those silly little moustaches, like a little boy who’s drunk chocolate milk. The hair on his head was combed sideways, to hide the bald bits.

  ‘Dirk van Schalkwyk was here,’ said Elna.

  The Spar manager’s nostril curled up.

  I don’t know how Elna knew about Dirk; I hadn’t told her. But that’s what it’s like in a small town. Sometimes news travels faster than the things that are actually happening. I was once told of an old lady’s death before she died. But she did die, the next day, so she managed to catch up with the news.

  ‘I hear Martine van Schalkwyk was killed,’ said Tannie de Jager from the library.

  ‘Who is she?’ said a lady wearing a pink floral dress.

  ‘She’s married to Dirk, who works at the Agri,’ said Elna. ‘She does the books at the Spar.’

  Then they were all talking at once, saying and asking I don’t know what. I was looking around for somewhere quiet to sit, when the detective came back in again and said very loudly: ‘Show’s over. Go away.’

  The people went quiet and looked at him and each other.

  ‘Voetsek!’ he shouted, making a shooing movement with his hands, and they scuttled out like chickens.

  But I stayed, standing to one side. Kannemeyer ran his hand through his short hair.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he said.

  ‘You look like you could use a nice cup of coffee,’ I said, looking up at him.

  He smiled. It was a nice smile. Slow and warm, and it went right to his eyes. His moustache curved up at the corners. His teeth were white and strong.

  ‘Ja,’ he said. ‘You were at the Karoo Gazette.’

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ I said. ‘About Martine van Schalkwyk.’

  He sighed and took a pen out of his pocket.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The next morning I stood on my stoep and watched the early light make long shadows of the hills and the thorn trees. The sun was warm on my face and I had a good feeling but I wasn’t sure why. It was probably because of the lamb. I was going to make slow-roasted lamb, with potatoes, pumpkins and green beans. And a buttermilk chocolate cake.

  Detective Kannemeyer hadn’t listened to my whole story at the police station, but got my details and said he’d come round to my house the next day to take a statement. I could see he had a lot on his hands, so I didn’t argue. He said he would call first.

  On the way home from the police station, I’d stopped at the butcher because they had a special on leg of lamb. There is no better-tasting meat than Karoo lamb. You can taste the Karoo veld, and sunshine and the sweet wild herbs the lambs eat.

  I was in the mood for my nice cream dress, the one with the little blue flowers. I took off my veldskoene and found my blue shoes with the low heels. I put on my apron and started with the lamb.

  Once the lamb was in the oven, I went outside to pick rosemary for the potatoes. The red geraniums were flowering, and I cut some to put in a vase on the kitchen table.

  When I was in the garden, the phone rang. My shoes interfered a bit with my walking, and on account of this and the distance between the geranium bush and the phone, my heart was beating fast when I picked up.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Tannie Maria?’

  ‘Hats,’ I said.

  ‘You all right, darling? You sound a tad breathless.’

  I put the rosemary and the geraniums on the phone table and sat down on the chair.

  ‘What did Jessie find out?’ I asked.

  ‘Can you come in to the office? To discuss the murder case.’

  ‘The case,’ I said, because it felt good to say.

  ‘Well, it’s not as if it’s a big murder mystery. We know jolly well who did it. But we don’t want the rotter to get away with it, do we?’

  ‘I can’t come yet,’ I said. ‘Detective Henk Kannemeyer is coming here today.’

  ‘The big chap,’ she said, ‘with the strong arms.’

  ‘To take my statement. And read the letters.’

  ‘Jessie went to interview him, but he wouldn’t tell her anything. Maybe you’ll have better luck.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. What did Jessie find out at the hospital?’

  ‘Sister Mostert, Jessie’s mum, heard that it may’ve been an overdose. Sleeping tablets.’

  ‘Suicide?’ I leaned forward in my chair.

  ‘Maybe. They still have to do the autopsy.’

  ‘Look, I mustn’t stay on the phone. You know, in case Kannemeyer calls.’

  ‘You sound like you’re waiting for a date.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Hattie. I must go.’

  I rubbed the geranium leaf between my finger and thumb and breathed it in.

  Suicide. Selfmoord as they say in Afrikaans: self-murder. Sjoe. In some ways it felt worse than murder. If a man treats a woman so badly that she ends her own life, it’s like he has killed her twice: her heart and then her body.

  When I was with Fanie I thought of killing myself. I even got as far as buying sleeping tablets.

  There was a pressure on my chest like a bag of potatoes. I just let myself sit there, next to the phone. Then I was suddenly crying. For Martine, for Anna, for myself. I hadn’t cried for years and there I was, crying for the second time in just a few weeks. Maybe it was not a bad thing. When I was finished, my heart felt a bit lighter.

  I hadn’t killed myself. I was here now, alive. I had chickens that gave me beautiful eggs
, a stoep with the best view, and some real friends.

  I took another sniff of the geranium and got up.

  I peeled the potatoes and sprinkled rosemary, salt and olive oil over them, put them in the oven and turned up the heat. Then I took the letters from Martine and Anna outside to the stoep table, along with some tea and beskuit, and read through what the women had written, and my responses to them.

  ‘No,’ I said to the last beskuit. ‘This woman didn’t kill herself. She had plans to escape.’

  I went inside and chopped up half a pumpkin, and sprinkled it with sugar, cinnamon and blobs of butter.

  ‘I wonder if I left the phone off the hook,’ I said to the pumpkin as I put it in the oven.

  I checked the phone. It was okay. I nipped the ends off the green beans and prepared the batter for the chocolate cake. I was greasing the cake tin, my fingers covered with butter, when the phone rang.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Mevrou van Harten? It’s Detective Lieutenant Henk Kannemeyer. Can I come round now?’

  I looked at the clock on the wall. It was noon.

  ‘Could you make it at one o’clock, Detective?’

  He cleared his throat. Everyone in Ladismith knows business is not done between one and two. All the shops close so that people can go home for lunch. Except for the Spar. And the police station.

  ‘I can give you a bite to eat,’ I said. ‘That is, unless . . . ’

  Maybe he was expected at home.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’ve got sandwiches.’

  ‘No, no, I’ve made roast lamb.’

  ‘Roast lamb?’

  ‘With potatoes and pumpkin. Soetpampoen.’

  ‘Oh. Well then . . . ’

  I wondered who made him his sandwiches.

  I put the cake in the oven and took the foil off the lamb. Then I prepared the chocolate icing. I added the rum and buttermilk and tasted the dark mixture on the tip of my little finger.

  ‘Mmmm,’ I said. I added a pinch of salt and then tasted again. ‘Perfect.’

  I cleaned the kitchen and laid the outside table. The big jug of lemonade with ice and fresh mint stood next to a tray with the letters from Martine, and her friend, Anna. My replies were there too.