by Sally Andrew
The heat had melted the dark blue out of the sky, leaving it that pale Karoo blue. But the trees and tin afdak kept the stoep cool.
I took off my apron, tidied my hair and put on fresh lipstick. I heard a car heading my way and I smoothed my dress and went outside. A bokmakierie was calling to its mate in the thorn tree. I saw his police van pulling up in my driveway. Those birds make such a beautiful trilling sound, it goes right through your heart. I walked up the pathway to wave at him. Just so he knew he was in the right place.
I watched him get out. Long trousers and his khaki cotton shirt a bit open at his neck and chest. He touched the tip of his moustache and dipped his head as he greeted me.
‘Just listen to those bokmakieries,’ I said.
‘Ja. Lovely.’
We walked to the stoep together. He sat down, fitting his long legs under the table.
‘Smells good,’ he said.
‘Lemonade?’ I poured some into a tall glass for him. He smelled good too. Like sandalwood and honey. ‘Here are the letters I told you about. I’ll just be in the kitchen.’
He started reading as I went to look after the roast and the chocolate cake. The cake needed to cool before I could ice it.
When I came out with the roast lamb and vegetables, Kannemeyer was holding the letters in his hand, and looking out across the veld at our red mountain, the Rooiberg. I could still hear the bokmakieries calling, but they sounded further away now, maybe in the big gwarrie tree.
He jumped up to help me put the roasting tray on the table.
‘Shall I carve that for you?’ he said.
I handed him the knife.
‘I’ll get the handwriting checked,’ he said, slicing the lamb, ‘but I think you’re right – these were written by Mevrou van Schalkwyk and Mejuffrou Pretorius.’ He shook his head. ‘Those white ducks . . . ’
‘You read my letters too?’ I said, spooning potatoes and pampoen onto his plate.
‘Ja. I read them all.’
‘So you can see why I feel involved. Responsible, even,’ I said, dishing the green beans.
He frowned.
‘If I hadn’t told her to leave, he wouldn’t have killed her,’ I said.
‘You can’t blame yourself, Mrs van Harten.’
‘If I had told her about people, organisations, that could help her, keep her safe,’ I said, putting some of the best lamb slices on his plate, ‘she could be alive today. Like me. About to eat a nice lunch.’
The thought that she would never eat lunch again made me very sad.
‘Tannie Maria,’ he said, ‘we don’t even know it was the husband. It might have been suicide. Maybe it was Anna. We don’t know yet. You can’t blame yourself.’
‘It wasn’t suicide. And you don’t really think Anna— ’
But I didn’t want to ruin the meal with an argument.
‘Let’s eat,’ I said. ‘Help yourself to gravy.’
The food was perfect. The lamb was dark and crispy on the outside and tender on the inside; the potatoes, golden brown; the pampoen sticky and sweet. Kannemeyer closed his eyes when he ate his first mouthful. We did not talk while we ate. I could hear the bokmakieries again, out in the veld.
When he’d finished eating he said: ‘I haven’t had such a lekker roast since— For a long time.’
A little bit of gravy was on the tip of his chestnut moustache. He smiled. That lovely white smile again. But his eyes looked sad. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. It was time to set things straight, while the food was still warm in his belly.
‘Detective Kannemeyer,’ I said, ‘you know it was her husband who killed her.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. You need evidence to convict someone.’
‘You’ve read the letters,’ I said. ‘I was there when this . . . man tried to kill Anna in the police station.’
‘Ja, Anna must lay charges against him. But that is a separate matter.’
‘Have you got evidence that someone else could have killed Martine?’
‘We are waiting on . . . reports.’
‘What reports?’
I was wondering about Anna’s fingerprints and the autopsy.
‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘Mrs van Harten. We are handling it, you don’t need to worry.’
‘But, Detective, we do worry. The man can’t just get away with it. We could help you investigate the case.’
‘We?’ he said, glancing at the watch on his thick wrist.
‘Well, us, at the Klein Karoo Gazette,’ I said. ‘We’ve got an investigative reporter, we know people in the town. We could find evidence . . .’
‘Mrs van Harten,’ he said, standing up. ‘I appreciate the information you have given me, but this is a murder investigation for the police to handle.’
‘There’s cake,’ I said. ‘Buttermilk chocolate cake. With rum in the icing.’
‘Sorry. I have to go.’
The bokmakieries had gone quiet now; from far away on the R62 came the sound of a truck driving up towards Oudtshoorn.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Now of course I was cross with Kannemeyer after that. He was stubborn. Rude, in fact. How could he leave without cake? But I was more cross with myself. I should’ve brought it out sooner.
I went into the kitchen and began icing the cake. If he had only seen it. Or smelled it.
‘I messed up,’ I said to the cake. ‘If he had a taste of you. He would have agreed to anything I asked.’ I licked a piece of rum and chocolate icing off my finger. ‘Anything.’
I called the Gazette. Jessie answered.
‘Kannemeyer’s come and gone,’ I said. ‘Can you two come here for a meeting? I’ve got a chocolate cake asking to be eaten.’
‘Yes,’ said Jessie. ‘Tell the cake yes.’
The three of us sat on my stoep in the hot afternoon. Jessie’s eyes were wide because she had been driven here by Hattie. Little yellow birds were eating insects on the lawn, while the chickens lay in the shade of the geranium bush.
‘You look nice, Tannie M,’ Jessie said, looking at my cream dress with the blue flowers, and my blue heels.
‘Yes, you should have told us we were dressing up for tea,’ said Hattie.
‘Ag, Hats, you always look smart,’ I said.
She was wearing a fitted shirt and long white cotton skirt. Jessie was in her sleeveless black vest and shorts. I poured our coffee and tea. Jessie’s eyes opened even wider when I cut her a slice of cake, then they rolled towards the top of her head as she took a big bite. For the second bite, her eyes were closed.
‘Darling, just a sliver for me, please,’ said Hattie. She patted her neat blonde hair. ‘So! How was the meeting with the big detective?’
‘He read the letters and agrees they fit. He’ll get the handwriting tested.’
I handed her a thin piece of cake, and cut myself a nice piece.
Jessie’s phone sang, Light my fire.
‘Sorry,’ she said. She took it from her pouch and glanced at it and smiled. ‘It’s just a message. Carry on, Tannie M.’
‘But I messed up with him,’ I said. ‘I didn’t give him cake in time, and he wouldn’t tell me anything. And he doesn’t want our help. He wants us to stay out of it.’
Jessie said something but her mouth was full of cake, so I couldn’t understand it.
‘What she is attempting to say,’ translated Hattie, who had not yet touched her cake, ‘is that Kannemeyer wouldn’t speak to her, but Reghardt did.’
‘Who’s Reghardt?’ I asked.
‘Reghardt Snyman is an old school-friend of Jessie’s who happens to be a policeman. And who happens to be sweet on her.’
Jessie wrinkled her nose at Hattie.
‘What?’ said Hattie. ‘I’ve seen how he looks at you.’
Jessie stroked a gecko tattoo on her arm. The cake was making her happy. And maybe the mention of Reghardt too.
‘Kannemeyer did say that maybe it wasn’t Dirk who killed his wife,’ I said. ‘He thinks it might
’ve been suicide, and it seems like they suspect Anna too.’
‘This cake is totally awesome, Tannie,’ Jessie mumbled between crumbs. ‘Is there brandy in the icing?’
‘Rum,’ I said.
‘Did Hattie tell you about the sleeping tabs?’
‘Ja,’ I said. ‘But Martine wrote to me that she was planning to leave. I don’t think she was suicidal.’ I picked up the letter and read: ‘I am making a plan that will allow me to leave. I will just have to tread water till I get it right.’
‘Maybe she meant leave this mortal coil,’ said Hattie as she nibbled on her cake.
‘My ma was on shift at the hospital when they brought the body in and she saw that there was a wound on Martine’s head,’ said Jessie. ‘Then the LCRC came and took the body to Oudtshoorn; they will do the autopsy there.’
‘The LCRC?’ I said.
‘Sorry, the Local Crime Registration Centre. They do the forensic testing for this region. Though some things they send off to the forensic lab in Cape Town. And Reghardt told me – off the record, of course – that the LCRC was given a fire poker for fingerprinting.’
‘A poker?’ I said. ‘Did her husband klap her with it?’
‘Well, if she was hit on the head, then I suppose we can rule out suicide,’ said Hattie.
‘She could’ve drugged herself and, like, fallen and hurt her head,’ said Jessie. ‘Or he could have hit her with the poker and it was just the last straw and she killed herself.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ I said, passing the letters to Jessie. ‘Look at these again.’
‘Didn’t you give these to the detective?’ asked Hattie.
‘No. I let him read them, but when he didn’t want to stay for cake, I was a bit upset and told him they were Gazette property and I would make copies and drop off the originals tomorrow.’
‘He could’ve just taken them, you know,’ said Jessie. ‘Being a murder case and all.’
‘He’s a real gentleman, that detective,’ said Hattie.
‘Elna le Grange said Martine was a bookkeeper at the Spar,’ I said.
‘Ja, that’s true,’ said Jessie. ‘My cousin Boetie works there. He says she went in twice a week. A nice lady, he said. Quiet.’
She quickly read through the letters I had given her.
‘Dirk was a pig,’ she said. ‘But Anna might have been moerse angry when Martine told her not to come around any more.’
She read out loud from Anna’s letter: ‘She says I mustn’t go to her house.’
‘Oh, golly,’ said Hattie. ‘Maybe that’s why they wanted her fingerprints. To see if they matched the ones on the poker. But Dirk is the abusive one, not Anna. He got wind of her plan to leave, and killed her.’
Jessie’s cake was finished. She got out her pen and paper, and started making notes.
‘I know it seems obvious to us that the husband did it,’ she said, ‘but we need to find a way of proving it. It’s also possible, objectively speaking, that someone else did it.’ She took a sip of her coffee. When she was writing, Jessie spoke in a different way. Less like a small-town coloured girl and more like an SABC TV presenter. ‘We need to establish cause of death. Identify suspects and possible motives. We also need to find evidence to convict the guilty party.’
‘You’re right,’ I said, cutting another slice of cake for Jessie. ‘I suppose Anna’s letter shows she might kill for love. Then Martine told her not to come round. That might’ve upset Anna a lot. Maybe Martine was planning on leaving not just her husband, but also Anna.’
‘Love does funny things to people,’ said Hattie, looking at the first letter. ‘Martine said she wants the relationship platonic from her side. Perhaps Anna wanted more.’
I gave Hattie some more tea.
‘And,’ said Jessie, ‘Martine’s son is in George. Maybe she was planning on leaving Ladismith altogether to go and be nearer to him.’
We were all quiet for a while, drinking and eating and feeling rather pleased with ourselves as investigators. On the grass, termites were gathering grass and sticks, just like we were gathering clues.
I was also feeling pleased with the chocolate cake. It was perfect. Moist, dense, rich and satisfying. You can hold the idea of the best chocolate cake in your mind like a memory from childhood; but when you eat a real cake it’s often a bit of a disappointment. Not this one.
I heard the bokmakierie calling in the veld. I felt bad. Anna had asked for my help, and here we were talking against her when maybe all she was guilty of was love.
‘I think I should go and take Anna some cake,’ I said, ‘and see what she has to say.’
‘Good idea,’ said Hattie, ‘she trusts you.’
‘I could also take a slice to Kannemeyer,’ I said, ‘along with the letters.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘You’re here bright and early this morning, Tannie Maria,’ said Hattie as I walked into the office. ‘Bee in your bonnet?’
The heat had not yet settled onto the day, and the ceiling fan was off.
‘I can’t ignore all the other people who write letters, just because some are in trouble or dead.’
I put Martine and Anna’s letters and a Tupperware with two big pieces of chocolate cake onto my desk, and picked up a pile of envelopes and some pages of email printouts. I heard Jessie’s scooter arriving and I turned on the kettle. Then I sorted through my post. It was important to start the day with the right letter.
‘Haai, Hattie and Tannie M,’ said Jessie. ‘What’s up?’
She was eying my Tupperware. You couldn’t see through it, but Jessie had a sixth sense when it came to cake.
‘Sorry, my skat, it’s for Anna and Kannemeyer. Could you make copies of these on your scanner thingy?’ I handed her the letters. ‘So I can give the originals to the detective.’ I rattled the rusk tin to distract her from the cake, but it only had crumbs in it. ‘Coffee?’
Once we all had our coffee and tea and no rusks, I chose a plain brown envelope with a thumbprint of black grease next to the Riversdale postmark. Riversdale is a big town, about a hundred kilometres away. Well, not really big, just not as small as Ladismith.
The letter was from a guy in trouble, who signed his name as Karel. He had a lot to learn, but he seemed willing, and I did my best to help. Dear Tannie Maria,
I am writing to you for love advice. Don’t bother with the recipes. I can’t even boil an egg.
I met this girl at a Brandy Festival and I like her a lot. She has eyes that sparkle, and an amazing smile. Her name is Lucia. We sat together at a wooden table and I hardly said a word but I offered her my slap chips and she ate some.
When she smiled at me, I felt like a bunch of birds was trying to fly out of my chest.
I wanted to say something but I couldn’t.
I am a mechanic, and my fingernails are always a bit black, no matter how much I scrub them. Lucia is clean and smells so good. She is small and neat, like a Mini. I am more like a truck.
I feel like such an idiot. I want to see her again, but I don’t know how to talk to her.
And what if I ask her out and she says no? Or what if she comes but I say nothing the whole time?
Karel
I got out my pen and paper and wrote:
Dear Karel,
What if she says yes? Ask her out by SMS. Take her to a movie.
There is no need to feel an idiot. You might think boiling an egg is simple, but it is really quite a tricky thing to do. The perfect egg is one that’s been boiled for exactly three minutes. The problem is that if you put the egg straight into boiling water, the shell cracks. But if you put it into cold water, it’s hard to know when to start timing. There are three different ways to deal with this. I like the first way best.
Heat the egg before you add it to the boiling water. Do this by putting the egg into a small bowl which is about one quarter full of cold water, then slowly add hot water from the kettle. Use a spoon to lower this warm egg into the boiling water.<
br />
or
Add a teaspoon of vinegar to the boiling water – this makes the egg think twice about cracking.
or
Put the egg in cold water and stand and wait till it boils.
Have a spoon and egg cup ready and eat straight away, because the egg carries on cooking inside its shell. Serve with toast, butter, salt and pepper.
I was sure a lot of people would be glad to see my response. How to boil an egg is a question that many are too embarrassed to ask. Karel was brave to bring it out in the open like that. I had high hopes for him.
I had just started to study another small blue envelope when the phone rang. Hattie answered.
‘The detective,’ she whispered. She winked as she handed me the phone. ‘For you.’
‘Maria speaking,’ I said.
‘Anna Pretorius has been arrested,’ the detective said. ‘She won’t call a lawyer. She wants you.’
‘Arrested?’
‘Can you come down to the station?’ he said.
‘For hitting you in the jaw?’
‘For murder, Mrs van Harten.’
‘Did she kill that man who tried to shoot her?’
I know I was being dense, we’d discussed it ourselves, just yesterday. But I didn’t want to believe it.
‘For the murder of Martine van Schalkwyk.’
This was really bad news.
But on the plus side, I could deliver both slices of cake at once.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I pulled into the shade of a rubber tree in the police station car park. On the passenger seat beside me were the letters for Kannemeyer, and a Tupperware containing two slices of chocolate cake.
Piet popped his head out of the station door, then came across the dusty tarmac to meet me.
Oh dear, I thought, what about a slice for Constable Piet?
Piet smiled at me as I got out; his yellow-brown face became even more wrinkled, and his almond eyes narrower. He led me to the station, through the busy reception area and along a passageway to Kannemeyer’s office, moving silently in his leather sandals. Kannemeyer was on the phone and I sat down to wait for him. Piet left, which took pressure off the cake situation.