by Sally Andrew
‘Oooh wooo,’ cried Georgina.
‘The brakes were on,’ said the nurse, gripping the back of the chair. ‘I don’t know what happened.’
Grandpa reached out for Jamie and patted him on the knee. Candice crouched down beside him, but the boy seemed okay, humming to himself, making grabs for his granddad’s hand.
Priestess Georgie said quietly that we all came from dust and to dust we all return. Men in workers’ overalls used ropes to lower the coffin into the grave. Then they began to cover it with spadefuls of earth. There was a big mound of soil. The service was scrubbed clean of dirt, but there was no getting away from it here.
It made a soft heavy sound as it hit the lid of the coffin.
Martine was never coming back.
I picked up a handful of soil and threw it in.
I’ll do my best, Martine, I told her. I’ll do my best to find who did this to you.
CHAPTER SIXTY
At the wake, I sat with Hattie by the food. A small circle of men, including Henk, stood around Candy like they were warming themselves at her fire. Her smooth dress fitted her curves perfectly. My own brown dress was creased after the long morning.
‘So that’s Grace that Jessie is talking to? said Hattie, brushing a tiny flake of chicken pie off her lap.
I nodded. Grace was wearing a dark blue dress that matched her shweshwe headdress. ‘She looks like a princess,’ said Hattie. ‘Maria, are you not eating anything?’
I shook my head. Henk put his hand on Candy’s bare arm and leaned in close and said something in her ear. Then he left. He didn’t say hello or goodbye to me.
David collected a cup of tea and a milk tart for his father, who was parked next to Jamie’s wheelchair, not far from Candy. The old man’s hands shook as he lifted his tea cup to his mouth. His face was soft and sad. His grandson looked happy as the nurse fed him a vegan spinach pie. He must be a very dedicated nurse to have got a vegan pie because the Seventh-day Adventists had rushed in to gobble them.
‘I wonder if he understands his mother’s gone,’ I said.
Candy leaned down and stroked the boy’s hair. Jessie joined Hattie and me, her plate piled with koeksisters.
‘Grace says Dirk gave her some money,’ she said.
‘Super. Maybe he’s not such a pig after all,’ said Hattie.
‘Hmph,’ said Jessie. ‘A pig is a pig. He can’t buy his way out of that. Anyway, along with Lawrence’s life insurance she now has enough to set up in Cape Town.’
‘Hmm. So, she was the beneficiary of his life insurance?’ Hattie said.
‘Oh, stop it, Hattie, she didn’t kill anyone.’
‘It’s often the nearest and dearest,’ said Hattie.
‘Did she get anything from Marius?’ I asked.
‘Not a cent,’ said Jessie. ‘Grace tells me he offered her money if she’d “do something” for him.’
‘Marius really is a pig,’ said Hattie. ‘I visited Mrs van der Spuy this morning. She tells me Marius is campaigning hard against us. If we lose the support of the Chamber, the Gazette won’t have enough funding to continue.’
‘Oh, Hats,’ I said.
‘I am attending their meeting tonight. Hold thumbs. Where is that Mr Marius now? I saw him earlier . . . ’
‘Hah,’ said Jessie. ‘Just now, outside, Dirk, Anna and John were chasing him. Look at them.’ She nodded towards where the threesome sat together, with Didi taking care of them. ‘In bandages and wheelchairs, but they attacked him. Reghardt and Kannemeyer intervened and Marius got away.’
I explained to Hattie and Jess what had happened at John’s farm, and why Dirk and Anna had stopped torturing John to gang up on Marius.
‘Jinne,’ said Jessie. ‘A fracker. After Martine’s land.’
‘Goodness gracious,’ said Hattie. ‘If Marius works for Shaft that would explain why he had such a hissy fit about your article, Jess. Well, he’d better watch out for the terrible trio.’
‘You mean them,’ said Jessie, pointing to John, Dirk and Anna with her koeksister, ‘or us?’
‘What I also wanted to tell you,’ I said, ‘is that pomegranates are not in season, but we found a ripe one on John’s farm. He has a greenhouse.’
‘So you think maybe he . . . ?’ said Hattie.
‘He used to be in love with Martine,’ I said, ‘and she was crazy about pomegranate juice.’
‘Does his girlfriend know?’ asked Jessie, looking at Didi, who was feeding John a chicken pie.
I nodded.
Hattie raised her eyebrows, and said, ‘Hell hath no fury . . . ’
‘I wonder if the Spar has got anywhere with the pomegranate juice?’ I said.
‘I’ll ask my cousin Boetie,’ said Jessie. ‘He works there.’
Hattie looked around the hall. She was taller than us and had a good view of all the people from Ladismith and far away: Martine’s family and friends, work colleagues, Seventh-day Adventists.
Then she looked at us, and said, ‘Any one of the people in this room . . . ’
Jessie completed her sentence: ‘ . . . could be the murderer.’
Beneath the chatter of the people, we heard a long low moan.
‘What was that?’ asked Jessie.
‘It’s the grandpops,’ Hattie said.
Grandpa was bent over, clutching his stomach. His cup and plate with the half-eaten milk tart were slipping off his lap, onto the floor.
Candice rushed to his side and we followed, pushing our way through the crowd that was gathering around him.
‘Help,’ said Oupa, his face green. ‘I’ve been poisoned.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
We three Gazette girls moved in like a team. Jessie stood in front of Oupa’s wheelchair, looking like a bodyguard in a movie. Hattie stood behind the chair, like a strong, sharp thorn tree, giving protection and shade. I got there too late to save Tannie Kuruman’s milk tart. It was trampled on the floor, sticking to the bottom of the shoes of the Seventh-day Adventists.
‘Call Kannemeyer,’ I said, but Jessie was already on her cell.
‘They’re on their way,’ she said.
‘We need an ambulance,’ said Hattie.
‘My car will be quicker,’ said Candice.
Hattie stood aside to let Candy wheel the old man forward.
Jessie stayed close, clearing a path for them
‘Move it. Move it,’ she said to the people in the way.
Candice drove the wheelchair like a sports car, but Oupa seemed to handle it. Hattie and I walked in their trail and got left behind. David was following too, but not rushing to catch up.
We watched Candice, Jessie and the old man zoom away in the red MG.
‘You look peaked,’ said Hattie, patting my shoulder.
‘I had a bad night,’ I said.
‘Why don’t you nip home and rest? I’ll stay and wrap up.’
‘Thanks, Hats. Funerals make me tired.’
I walked the block from the church to my bakkie. The road was flat, but I felt like I was climbing one of those Karoo koppies.
I drove out of town, between the hills that looked like big animals sleeping under a warm blue sky. I wanted to pull over and join them. But I managed to drive myself home. I even made Vorster a cup of coffee and threw out mielies for the chickens. Then I took off my shoes and lay down on my bed and fell into a black hole of sleep.
I dreamt of nothing.
I woke up and blinked and looked out my window at big grey clouds and realised it was evening. I must have slept for hours.
I heard a clanging sound in my kitchen. I could feel my heart in my chest like a rabbit running. Then I got angry. I did not want to be afraid in my own home. If something was going to happen to me, then let it happen. I was not going to be that rabbit, afraid of its shadow. I looked around for a weapon. All I found was my hair brush so I picked that up.
I walked through towards the kitchen, barefoot and armed. There was Henk Kannemeyer, putting a frying pan
on the stove. I stepped back into the corridor and used the brush on my hair.
‘Maria?’ he said.
‘Coming,’ I said.
I scooted into the bathroom. I got a fright when I saw myself in the mirror. My cheek was creased from sleep and my eyes were puffy. I did what I could and changed into a fresh blue dress and went into the kitchen.
‘Hope you like scrambled eggs,’ he said, beating the eggs in a bowl.
He was still wearing the blue shirt from the funeral, but the tie was gone and his sleeves were rolled up.
‘I’m not really hungry.’
Something popped and I jumped. It was just the toast in the toaster. He took it out and put in two more slices of bread, then went back to beating the eggs.
‘It’s about all I know how to make,’ he said. ‘And when I put the chickens in the hok there were some eggs there, waiting.’
He opened the fridge. How did this man make his way into my chicken hok, my kitchen, my fridge?
‘Have you got yogurt?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Here’s some.’ He added a spoonful to the egg mix. ‘I couldn’t find your cutlery. To lay the table.’
‘I’ll do it.’
I dropped a knife and we both bent down to pick it up; our arms touched while we were upside down. I stepped back, holding the knife. I washed it and laid the table.
He put the toast and eggs on our plates and buttered his toast.
‘I need to talk to you,’ he said, looking at me with his storm-blue eyes. ‘About Candice.’
I studied my own dry toast.
‘This isn’t an easy thing to do,’ he said. ‘I know you are friendly with her.’ He put his knife down. ‘You probably trust her.’
‘You don’t have to do this, Detective,’ I said.
‘I worry about you . . . ’ he said.
‘You have no— ’ What was the word? ‘ —obligation. To me.’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this . . . ’
‘No, you shouldn’t. You don’t have to explain anything to me. You can do as you like.’
‘Maybe you’ve already worked it out. About her.’
‘Yes. I’m no fool.’
‘So you are being careful?’
I frowned at him as he put the scrambled egg onto his toast. A breeze rattled the sash window.
‘I worry for your safety,’ he said.
‘My safety?’
‘Maria, Candice could be the murderer.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
‘What?’ I said.
‘I don’t want you spending time alone with her.’
‘What?’ I said again. ‘You had supper with her.’
‘She has motive, means and opportunity.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘She comes into a lot of money. Martine made Candice the trustee for her son.’
I rearranged my knife and fork on the table. Got them parallel to each other.
‘Martine wasn’t rich,’ I said. ‘Dirk paid for their son’s special needs place. She didn’t have enough money to leave her husband.’
‘Martine’s father had money in trust for her.’
‘Yes, I heard he had lots of money, but that he wouldn’t give his children anything. Thought they should be independent or something . . . ’
‘I’d rather not tell you the whole story, but it may the only way to get you to believe me.’ He ate some of his meal and then explained: ‘Long ago Martine had a miscarriage and was very upset about it. Her father told her she’d only get her money when she had a child. In a funny way he thought this might help, but Martine didn’t see it like that.’
‘So, did her father then give Martine the money when she had her son?’
‘No, because when she did have a child, she wouldn’t allow her father to see him. So then he removed her from his will, but left her share to his grandson in a trust fund. But as it stands, Jamie only gets the money on Grandpa’s death. It’s a lot of money.’
‘I still don’t get it,’ I said. ‘Even if what you say is true, Candy’s very rich. She doesn’t need the money.’
Kannemeyer shook his head.
‘She was very rich. She earned well as a model and then her father, Martine’s uncle, left her a fortune. But she married a Texas oil farmer who lost most of it on a bad deal. He cheated on her, and she got a bit of money out of the divorce, enough to set herself up in the clothing business. She does okay . . . but nothing like what she’ll be getting.’
‘And the oupa wouldn’t mind her stealing from a sick boy?’
‘He’s happy for Candy to be the trustee. There’s more than enough money for them both.’
‘How do you know all this?’
He tugged at the corner of his moustache.
‘When we’re not busy getting you lot out of trouble,’ he said, ‘we get a bit of work done.’
‘But Candy wasn’t even here when Martine died,’ I said. ‘She’s only just arrived.’
It felt strange to be defending Candy. But it was one thing to believe she was a man-stealer. Quite another to think she would steal a life. Murder her own cousin.
‘Her car rental shows she’s had the car for a week.’
‘And it was a man. We saw a man the night of Lawrence’s murder.’
‘Are you sure? She’s quite a big woman, and she might have been wearing a man’s shoes.’
‘She doesn’t walk like a man.’
‘You saw a flash of someone in a storm.’
‘You’ve seen her, Detective. She does not walk like a man.’
Kannemeyer sighed and said, ‘She might be working with someone else.’
‘A man who also gains from Martine’s death . . . ’ I said. ‘The brother! He’s been close by. He was at Sanbona game reserve last week.’
‘You don’t need to worry about it,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to warn you to be careful. I don’t want to discuss the murder case with you.’
He’d finished his meal and he put his knife and fork together. I opened the rattling window to let in the cool breeze. It washed through the house.
‘Is there anything else you can talk about?’ I said, sitting down again. ‘How was your day?’
We could pretend he wasn’t my bodyguard, that he was just visiting me. I buttered my toast. My hunger came rushing back, like a lost dog coming home.
‘Well . . . ’ He twisted the tip of his moustache with his finger. He would play the game. ‘I saw a little bokkie on the way here.’
‘What kind of bokkie?’
‘A steenbuck.’
‘They are hard to spot,’ I said between mouthfuls. ‘They lie so still in the shadows.’
‘They mate for life,’ he said. ‘And I went to the Spar.’
‘What if their mate dies?’
‘No, then they find another. Unless they are too old.’
The breeze brought in the smell of damp earth. Perhaps it was raining on the Swartberge.
‘What did you buy at the Spar?’ I said.
The eggs were delicious. Light and fluffy.
‘I wasn’t shopping. Things are being stolen off the shelves. Tins and dried goods, lentils, rice, that sort of thing.’
‘They called you in?’
‘The manager thinks it may be staff. The packers.’
‘Why does he think that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, probably because it’s been going on and on. Something small is stolen every day.’
‘It doesn’t seem worth it to me. They could lose their jobs. Small town like this, it’s hard to get another job.’
Kannemeyer shrugged.
‘I’ve told them to keep an eye on the shoppers who come in every day. The people who buy their lunch there, chips and pies.’
I nodded and asked, ‘What about security cameras?’
‘Expensive. More expensive than tins and rice.’
I wiped my plate with the last piece of toast
and popped it in my mouth. He started to clear the table and I joined in, putting the washing up in the sink. Then I served him the last piece of snake cake. He smelled of honey, like the cake.
‘What about you?’ he said.
The cake looked good but there wasn’t enough for two.
‘I’m full,’ I said.
‘I mean, how was your day?’
‘Mine?’
We were sitting again now, at the table. He ate the toffee cake with his fingers. His grey-blue eyes were on me; he was ready to listen.
This was a strange feeling, a man sitting there ready to listen to me. I suppose it was something I’d always wanted and now that I had it I didn’t know what to do with it.
I said: ‘Funerals make me tired. I don’t know why.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘Heavy, like I’m carrying the weight of a dead body.’
He nodded. I thought of Kannemeyer’s sad face when he was bearing the coffin.
‘But it feels like more than that one dead body,’ I said. ‘It’s like all the other deaths from before are also there.’
He looked down at his plate and pressed his fingertips onto the last crumbs. They kept falling off but he pressed his fingers onto them again and again.
I could hear the first drops of soft rain on the stoep roof.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The next morning I was up before the birds, and made us breakfast. I couldn’t very well do scrambled eggs so I made poached eggs – what my mother used to call ‘calf’s eye’ eggs – in a tomato base, with some fried beef sausage. I also baked a quick batch of cheese scones, and a pot of mieliepap. Kannemeyer folded the sheets on his couch, then helped me carry the breakfast outside. There was butter and apricot jam with bread, and milk and sugar for the maize porridge. And a small plate of John’s grapes, which were still black and firm.
We sat on the stoep and while we had breakfast we watched the Rooiberg turn red, and then the tops of the rolling brown hills getting lit up. I was hungry but after eating a cheese scone and one poached egg and sausage I was satisfied. When I was finished with eating and looking at the sun-red hills, I watched Kannemeyer eat. He needed a shave but his moustache looked very smart. He was a man with an appetite, and he ate something of everything that we’d laid out. When he had finished with the warm food, he slowly ate a small bunch of grapes, while he looked at my garden and at me.