by Marion Leigh
The receptionist greeted her with a smile. ‘How can I help, Miss? Are you checking in with us today?’
‘Unfortunately not, I’m staying at the Waterside. I’m trying to contact the daughter of a Canadian friend of mine, Vicky Dunlin.’
‘Is she a guest?’
‘No. I understand she’s working here but I have no idea where.’
‘I’ll have a look at our staff directory if you give me a minute.’
‘Thank you so much.’
Petra glanced round the lobby and through the picture windows. Behind the hotel was a marina full of magnificent yachts, both power and sail. Her pulse quickened. If the Broselli forced-march wedding included outings on some of those dreamboats it wouldn’t be half so bad. She turned back to the receptionist.
‘Vicky Dunlin is a massage therapist in our wellness centre, Miss?’
‘Minx, Petra Minx.’
‘Yes, Miss Minx. The centre is open, but I don’t know if Miss Dunlin is in. I can direct you there and you can speak to the Manager if you like.’
‘Thank you, I will.’
When Petra reached the wellness centre, a.k.a. the spa, overlooking the harbour, there was nobody at the desk. For a while she waited not too impatiently, enjoying the view through the softly veiled windows. Then she spent several minutes trying to figure out the meaning of the red and yellow motif on the wall – if it had any meaning.
She picked up a booklet outlining the spa’s treatments. The Rolling Sands massage and the Body Cocoon body mask sounded intriguing, but spas weren’t her thing. Glumly, she drummed her fingers on the desk. Finally, the ants in her pants got to be too much and she set out to find a human being.
She pushed through a door next to the desk and entered a lounging space furnished with soft white recliners and bamboo side-tables. Still nobody. Passing behind a carved screen, she continued into a corridor where a row of closed doors greeted her. Each bore a plaque engraved with the name of an exotic plant – Gardenia, Hibiscus, Frangipani, Bougainvillea … Just reading them made her want to sniff. Red lights glowed above them. Then she spotted a green light over a plaque that read Omumbiri. She turned the knob and went in.
She was met by an unfamiliar citrusy smell and the sound of waves unfurling softly on a beach. In front of her lay a large mummy-like figure covered from head to toe in white powder. Eyes as large and as green as cucumber slices stared back at her.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered, and backed out hastily.
A young woman was hurrying down the corridor carrying a tall glass containing a colourless fizzy liquid, a slice of lime and a pink paper parasol. She gaped when she saw Petra.
‘What are you doing here? We’re not ready for you yet. Please wait in Reception. Your therapist will be available soon.’
Petra blocked her passage. ‘I’m looking for Vicky Dunlin.’
‘Yes, I know you were booked for the Rolling Sands massage with Miss Dunlin. But I’m afraid she isn’t here.’
‘I haven’t come for treatment. I came to see Miss Dunlin, to bring her a message from her family in Canada.’
The young woman sighed. ‘Come back to the desk with me. I thought you were our five o’clock …’
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ Petra added sarcastically. She had already spent far too long at the desk. ‘Will Miss Dunlin be in tomorrow morning? I really need to see her.’
‘I have no idea if she’ll be in tomorrow.’
‘Is there someone else I can speak to who would know?’
‘Look, to put it plainly, Miss Dunlin has left the Cape Sands.’
‘What? When? Why?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘OK, let’s take this step by step. You have a number of staff here. Who else worked with Vicky Dunlin? Someone must know something.’
The young woman looked down into the glass she was holding as if she were consulting a crystal ball. ‘There’s only one therapist here right now – our new temp. She’s treating Mrs. Pinderally.’
‘The woman with the cucumber eyes?’
‘That’s right. Mrs. Pinderally will be in the relaxation room in a few minutes’ time. I could ask her if she’ll speak to you.’
‘Thank you. Do that.’
After a further ten-minute wait, Petra was admitted to the relaxation room. Mrs. Pinderally was sprawled by the window in one of the recliners. On the table next to her was the tall glass of lime and soda. She had emerged from her cocoon and was wearing a turban on her head and a short white robe that was having trouble containing her ample chest. Vestiges of white powder clung to her shiny mahogany skin. Without the green discs, her eyes were sharp, brown and accusing.
‘You’re the young lady who disturbed my meditation.’
‘I apologize for that.’
‘And you pose many questions about Vicky Dunlin. Why?’
‘To find out where she is. Her parents asked me to see how she was doing. You know Vicky?’
‘Of course. She was my regular cocoonist: every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.’
Three times a week! Small wonder the alien aroma had accompanied Mrs. Pinderally to the relaxation room.
‘Was?’
‘Yes, dear girl. Miss Vicky bade me farewell at five o’clock on Friday and Bob’s your uncle!’
‘Bob’s your uncle?’
‘Gone, vanished. Now I must break someone else in. And they charge the same price.’
‘Where did Vicky go?’
‘That information I am not privy to.’ Mrs. Pinderally blew some powder off the top of her bosom. ‘I do know she was lonely.’
‘Homesick, you mean?’
‘That is possibly what I mean.’
‘Was she friendly with the other therapists?’
‘Is anyone friendly with an interloper? In my opinion they were jealous. She was fair-skinned like you, pale-pretty and svelte, I think one could say.’
‘Was she good at her job?’
‘Under my tutelage, she became an excellent masseuse and cocoonist. I rewarded her well for her ministrations.’
‘Did you discuss anything in particular with her, Mrs. Pinderally? Anything that might give me a clue as to where she’s gone?’
‘We talked a little during our Rolling Sands sessions. Not a lot. I don’t like chatter during therapy. Capable hands are so soothing. Now, if you don’t mind, it is time for my third degree meditation, Miss?’
‘Minx, Petra Minx.’
‘Very well. Goodbye, Miss Minx.’ Mrs. Pinderally blew more powder off her chest and closed her eyes.
As Petra closed the door behind her, she sneezed three times.
Chapter
6
Petra left the Cape Sands feeling frustrated and unsettled. She walked towards the marina barely noticing how the sun was setting to the west, bathing the white hulls, superstructures and sails in reddish gold. Why had Vicky Dunlin left her job at the hotel and where had she gone? Was the information Mrs. Pinderally had given her any use at all? She suspected that the frequently massaged and cocooned Mrs. P. was prone to exaggeration and would never be a reliable witness. The truth was that Vicky Dunlin’s disappearance had come as a shock and Petra wondered whether to call A.K.
While she was debating the pros and cons, she felt her phone vibrate. She pulled it out of her pocket and looked at the uninformative screen.
‘Hello?’
There was nothing but a prolonged silence. Petra pressed the OFF button and rammed the instrument back into her pocket. She didn’t need to spend her vacation answering phones, and if Carlo was calling, she’d be back at the Waterside by six o’clock.
The beauty of the sky finally caught her attention. She searched for her camera to take a photo of the marina. The two English girls, Megan and Hilary, had spoiled last night’s sunset picture. Just as
she found the best angle, the damn phone rang again.
‘Hello?’
There was a short pause before A.K.’s gravelly voice reached her.
‘Have you been to the Cape Sands?’
‘I’m there now – at the marina, actually. But I was going to call you, Sir. Vicky Dunlin has left, disappeared you might say. It seems rather strange and I wanted to speak to you. What should we do?’
‘Nothing. She’s gone for a week’s working holiday with the Tabernacle Youth Collective.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘She cleared it with her father, and the hotel. It’s a religious group.’
The random piece of information didn’t make Petra feel any better. Neither did A.K.’s parting shot.
‘Go and see her next week after your wedding …’
The satellite connection broke and his last words were lost.
Petra just managed to stop herself from throwing Tom’s phone into the water.
When she got back to the Waterside Hotel, Carlo was waiting outside, looking up and down the street.
‘Where on earth have you been?’
‘To the Cape Sands to find Vicky Dunlin. You knew I was going.’
Petra told him about her lack of success and A.K.’s call, then about Mrs. Pinderally and the strange aroma that accompanied her.
‘Omumbiri, you say? It’s a resin used by the Himba women of Namibia to perfume their skin, a type of myrrh I think. But enough of that, Sandrine is sending a helicopter to take us to Camps Bay.’
‘What for?’
‘That’s where other members of the wedding party are staying and where we should have stayed last night. She insists we stay there tonight and have dinner together, so get your luggage.’
‘But I’ve paid already for tonight. So have you!’
‘I’m sure Sandrine will refund our money if we ask her.’
‘It’s principle, not money, Mercutio.’
‘Sandrine has plenty of the latter but little of the former I fear.’
‘Not your favourite aunt then?’
‘Step-aunt. No blood connection there, thank goodness. Uncle Tony’s first wife was a much sounder apple though I have to confess, not as hot.’
‘Lusting after someone we don’t respect, Mercutio?’
‘Is that so unusual? Think Don León, tesoro mio!’
Petra felt herself blush at the reference to her quest to find Emily Mortlake who had vanished after taking a summer job on board Don León’s megayacht in the Mediterranean.
‘How quickly can you be ready?’ Carlo added.
‘Give me five. I hardly unpacked. I’ll change when we get there.’
The liveried flying machine carried them over Table Mountain and Signal Hill, past Sea Point and Clifton, and deposited them at their new digs in under half an hour. The boutique hotel offered a completely different experience from the bustling Waterfront. Petra’s Italianate suite, decorated in aqua and white, was stylish and comfortable. She caught her reflection in the sunburst mirror and noted that her cheeks and nose had acquired a little colour on the tour to Robben Island. She made a mental note to protect her skin well.
The last streaks of pink were lighting up the sky as Petra and Carlo seated themselves on the hotel’s terrace overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The waiter hurried over with flutes of South African sparkling wine. Petra took a sip and pulled out her camera with an apologetic glance at Carlo. This time neither Megan and Hilary nor A.K. spoiled her composition.
‘Don’t I recognize that gold silk chemise?’ A sly grin that reminded Petra of Inspector Clouseau in the Pink Panther films contorted Carlo’s face. ‘Let me take a picture for posterity.’ He reached into a black camera bag and drew out what looked like a new Nikon.
‘And talking of posterity, I’ll take one of that too.’ He had swivelled round in his chair and was facing the double glass doors where a woman of about Petra’s age was making her entry, accompanied by a bearded man some years her senior.
The cheetah-print mini-dress was less than a metre long from bandeau top to tight bottom, Petra calculated. Her skin was dusky, her hair blonded and pinned up in a loose coil on the back of her head. Easy to shake out and toss, Petra thought, summing her up. Her beau could only be described as hairy: head, chin, chest, arms and legs, as revealed by his open-necked short-sleeved shirt and Bermuda shorts.
Carlo stood up as they approached. ‘Gina and Diego,’ he hissed. ‘Long-time friends of the family according to Sandrine. From Rome.’
As the evening wore on, Petra found it difficult to maintain an interest in the conversation. Carlo and Gina discovered mutual friends and lapsed into Italian which she understood but spoke less well than she had done as a teenager. Diego was keen to practise his English but dripped sweat each time he leaned towards her, coming on strong. His arms between the elbow and shoulder were covered with complicated geometrical patterns in black and coloured inks. When Carlo began to count the spots on Gina’s dress, Petra could contain her annoyance no longer.
‘Basta, Carlo. That’s enough. I think it’s time we called it a day.’
If that was how the week was going to be, she’d rather go home now.
Chapter
7
Sandrine Broselli hated anyone to call her Sandy. If they did, she would raise her perfectly arched eyebrows and walk away. Her servants and staff called her Miz’ Broselli. Tony, her husband, called her ‘darling’. She called him Anton.
This Petra discovered next day, soon after the limousine dispatched by Sandrine deposited her, Carlo, Gina and Diego in front of the Cape Dutch homestead in the heart of the Stellenbosch Winelands. She quickly began to suspect that Sandrine Broselli hated other things too.
The woman was poured into flesh-coloured jeggings worn without underwear. A fuschia-pink shirt was buttoned tightly across a pair of uplifted boobs and tied underneath them. The diamond flashing in her navel reminded Petra of the one that had decorated Don León’s hapless assistant, Monica. In Carlo’s words, Sandrine was hot and clearly thought so herself. She came gliding down the steps of the homestead in high heels as if she were a model on a Paris catwalk.
Tony Broselli followed her out of the house. Petra was expecting a dark, handsome, Mediterranean type, a foil for Mrs. Broselli’s blonde Afrikaner looks. Instead, she saw an older man with a crew cut and a pleasant oval face. Medium colouring, not quite as tall as Sandrine in her heels, soft spoken. There was genuine warmth in his voice when he greeted them.
‘Welcome to Vredehof, our peaceful farm. The estate has been associated with wine production for nearly two hundred and fifty years,’ he said. ‘The house dates back to 1789, the year of the French Revolution. In fact, the row of camphor trees at the back was planted at that time to commemorate the storming of the Bastille. I’ll show you where …’ The large diamond in the signet ring on his right hand caught the sun as he made an expansive gesture.
His wife threw him a warning look. ‘Not now, Anton. Wellington will show them to their rooms and we’ll all meet for pre-lunch drinks on the terrace at noon. Lunch will be served at twelve-thirty. Dress is casual until six this evening.’
‘Of course, darling. I’ll wait for my appointed time slot.’
Petra and Carlo exchanged glances.
‘The schedule for the next five days, one copy for each of you, has been placed in your rooms,’ Sandrine announced, her voice as chilled and dry as a Martini. ‘Please study it and address any questions to me.’
Carlo drew himself upright and saluted. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ He lowered his voice. ‘This is much worse than the last time I was here three years ago,’ he said to Petra.
Wellington, a grizzled African with impossibly white teeth, took them to a long two-storey building constructed in the same style as the gabled main house. Petra and Carlo were given a twin-bedded roo
m next door to Gina and Diego’s.
‘A good job I brought my PJs,’ Petra said.
‘What? A girl of mine wearing clothes in bed?’
‘Yes, Mercutio, and I’m not a girl of yours.’
He made a moue that caused her to burst out laughing.
‘I wonder whether Sandrine ever laughs,’ she said.
‘What a challenge! Now you’ve set me thinking.’
Petra picked up the schedule that lay on the night table and groaned: ten pages of instructions. Three meals a day, fixed times and locations, dress specified. Four formal evenings, plus the wedding on Saturday. She hadn’t anticipated such formality and doubted she had enough clothes. Between now and the wedding, there was only half a day at leisure. She felt exhausted already and wondered whether she could skip lunch. But Sandrine’s ‘we’ll all meet for pre-lunch drinks’ had been an order. The only way out would be to plead illness.
‘Do you know how many guests are expected, Carlo?’
‘Ninety I heard, but only thirty are staying here. The rest are being bused in on Saturday for the wedding.’
‘That’s still a lot of people to accommodate.’
‘Not on an estate as extensive as this.’
Petra nodded at the first page of the schedule. ‘We get the grand tour after lunch.’
At noon, the guests, who now numbered sixteen, mustered on the terrace behind the manor house for drinks. The twelve newcomers had arrived in two white limousines just in time. They included a family from Florence, another from Venice, two English girls not unlike Megan and Hilary, and two fair-skinned Spanish girls from Galicia. Carlo stuck as close as he could to Gina and Diego, while Petra befriended the Spaniards, Ana and Raquel, enjoying the opportunity to speak Spanish again.
After a delicious meal served by three Xhosa women overseen by Wellington, Tony Broselli led them into the house. It had been in his wife’s family for over eight generations, he said. As soon as Petra stepped into the cool high-ceilinged interior, she felt history envelop her. She hardly dared walk on the rich patina of the wooden floors.