A Holiday to Die For

by Marion Leigh

  Florian passed close to her. ‘Virginal as well as Catholic? I had no idea Carlo was squiring such a hot cookie.’

  Did she dream it or did he really bat his silky lashes when he spoke? She shivered in spite of the temperature.

  Max De Witt approached her carrying two glasses. ‘We haven’t met yet, though I’ve heard about you. You’re a cop, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but on leave and not thinking about police work. I intend to enjoy my vacation.’

  ‘So we’re not being investigated then?’ he said with what appeared to be complete seriousness.

  ‘Not by me, and not unless you’ve done something wrong.’

  ‘A speeding ticket or two … that’s about it.’

  ‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about.’

  Max nodded and moved off.

  Petra took a sip of her bubbly and looked around her. What she had said to Max was true. She had no intention of spending her vacation on police work, yet her years in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police had trained her to stay alert and observe. That she could never change.

  Marina De Witt was talking intently to Tony Broselli, lecturing him almost. What about, Petra couldn’t hear. Betta De Witt was standing goggle-eyed with the other young women who swarmed round Florian. Diego, Gina and Carlo formed their own little group. Jacob De Witt was monopolizing Sandrine who looked bored.

  Abruptly, Sandrine broke away and strode across to Florian. She seized his arm and pulled him to the side of the terrace not far from where Petra was standing at the back. Petra stayed where she was, making herself as unobtrusive as possible.

  ‘Why did you stop at the township? It wasn’t on my schedule.’

  ‘No, but it was on mine. Look at them, Mama, they’re converts.’

  ‘To your sordid plans?’

  Florian shook off his mother’s hand. ‘You don’t own me now.’

  ‘I told you to go easy, darling. Father John arrives tomorrow. His involvement is crucial in making this a success.’

  ‘A washed-up pervert in a black robe? You think that’s what will sway them?’

  ‘You used not to be rude about him like that. He taught you everything you know.’

  ‘Some things I didn’t want to know, and I had lessons from you too, Mama, remember? Though I agree he’s persuasive.’

  ‘Especially at the confessional. That’s on Friday.’

  Florian shrugged. He moved away from Sandrine, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. Petra averted her eyes as quickly as she could, but he must have realized she had been observing them. Luckily, Wellington was bearing down on her with a plate of mixed hors d’oeuvres and she made a show of asking him what each one contained.

  When the gong sounded for dinner, Carlo sought her out. The meal in honour of the groom and his family was being served in the manor house where there was room for twenty around the dining table. It was laid with blue and white china and half a dozen crystal glasses of different shapes and sizes stood at each place.

  ‘Have you seen the table plan?’ he asked.

  Petra shook her head.

  ‘My dear step-aunt has honoured you by seating you next to the bride-to-be. Perhaps because you’re the senior single, the equivalent of the matron-of-honour.’

  ‘What about Gina? Surely she’s older than I am?’

  ‘More used, perhaps, but a year younger I’m told.’

  ‘Women lie about their age all the time.’

  ‘What’s wrong with being the matron-of-honour?’

  ‘First, I’m not a matron; second, I don’t want to draw attention to myself.’

  ‘Therein lies a problem. Your striking black hair, blue-green eyes and china-doll complexion make it impossible to do otherwise.’

  ‘Give me a break, Mercutio!’

  ‘Ah, there’s Julia – finally! Coming through the garden.’

  Sandrine pounced on her stepdaughter as soon as she climbed the steps to the terrace.

  ‘Where the hell have you been? Your guests are waiting, the De Witts are waiting, we’re all waiting.’

  ‘I’m in time for dinner,’ Julia said flatly.

  ‘That’s not good enough. You were supposed to be here to greet Max. And you’re not wearing the green dress and the diamonds. Not even your engagement ring.’

  ‘Green’s unlucky, and I don’t like bling.’

  ‘Diamonds are not bling. They pay for a lot of what we have.’

  ‘I prefer tanzanite: it restores my spiritual balance.’

  ‘What a load of rubbish! I don’t know what to do with you, Julia. I’ve gone to great lengths to secure this marriage. Go and do your duty.’

  The De Witts and most of the guests had taken their seats in the dining room, but a few, including Petra and Carlo, had heard the exchange. Petra couldn’t understand it. Julia seemed to be working very hard to antagonize her stepmother. Surely during this important week it would have been sensible to do exactly the opposite. Then, once the ceremony was over, she could fly the coop with Max. So far, Petra hadn’t seen the two of them together. Did they love each other, or was the marriage an arranged one, as Sandrine had implied? Maybe that was one of the wedding planning services Sandrine offered – selection of a suitable groom.

  ‘What are you chuckling about?’ Carlo asked Petra.

  ‘My imagination working overtime, as usual,’ she replied. ‘Who are you sitting next to?’

  ‘I’ve been relegated to the far end of the room as a sandwich-filler between Marina De Witt and Signora Botticelli from Florence.’

  ‘Good luck!’

  Petra slipped into her seat between Julia and Diego. Max was on the other side of Julia, talking to Gina on his right.

  She smiled at Julia. ‘Those are nice colours you’re wearing,’ she said, looking at Julia’s blue and yellow dress and trying to engage the girl. ‘They suit you.’

  ‘Not according to my stepmother.’

  ‘Mothers aren’t always right, even if they think they are.’

  ‘Stepmother.’

  ‘It must have been tough, losing your real mother when you were how old?’

  ‘Thirteen. Unlucky number.’

  ‘Not at all. But a difficult age when you’re already trying to deal with so many changes. You have to learn to cope with the shock and the anger, and then with new people in your life. Bereavement counselling can help. Did you have that?’

  ‘Dad made me go and see a woman who had no idea how to talk to me.’

  As I don’t.

  ‘She looked like a witch with black eyebrows and a beaky nose. I only went to one session. Then Dad looked after me – until she came along.’ Julia gestured in Sandrine’s direction.

  ‘Is that your engagement ring?’ Petra asked.

  ‘No, if it were, I’d be wearing it on the other hand.’

  ‘Well, it’s very attractive, and unusual.’

  Petra was about to give up on Julia and turn to Diego who was crowding her when the girl showed a spark of life.

  ‘It’s my mother’s ring: a blue tanzanite. She inherited it from her mother.’ Julia moved her hand to show off the colour.

  ‘Incredible how it changes when you do that. Now it’s more violet and burgundy.’

  ‘That’s part of the magic of tanzanite, the mood changer. It can restore balance and good fortune.’

  ‘I hope it works for you,’ Petra said.

  ‘So do I. The sooner I get out of here, the better off I’ll be.’

  Chapter

  11

  At half past nine on Thursday morning, Petra and Carlo boarded Florian’s minibus, eager to visit the town of Stellenbosch.

  Florian blended well with the students who thronged the streets of the historic university town. The majority were Afrikaners, typically bronzed and blonde with the ene
rgy unique to young, bright, beautiful people. Petra noticed the gleam in Carlo’s eyes and knew it was reflected in her own.

  Although Florian was no blood relation to Tony Broselli, some of Tony’s enthusiasm for the past had rubbed off on him. He walked them through the tree-lined streets and lanes, pointed out the earliest buildings in what he said was the second-oldest town in South Africa, and waxed lyrical about the range of cultural activities on offer.

  By the end of the morning, Petra was smitten. As she liked to tell her friends, she was at heart a small town girl. The mountain backdrop and the village atmosphere reminded her of summer days spent in the Alps with Carlo, Ben and Romeo. To her surprise, she found that the memory was sweet, not bitter, and put it down to the magic of Stellenbosch. There was only one thing missing: water. She preferred to be close to a lake or the sea. South Africa’s dry river beds didn’t cut it.

  Florian’s looks could easily lead people to underestimate him, Petra thought as she noticed how he kept his flock under surveillance. Today he had chosen not to bring his stick. Instead he was relying on his sharp eyes and natural magnetism to keep them together. Certainly none of the girls was going to stray far.

  Petra took her seat in the minibus and kicked off her boat shoes. They were the most comfortable type of shoe to wear for sightseeing she found, yet her feet were sticky.

  ‘I’m ready for an afternoon at leisure,’ she remarked to Carlo as they began the drive back to Vredehof for lunch. ‘A swim then a lounge by the pool.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I forgot to tell you. I’ve arranged for us to visit the biscuit factory this afternoon.’

  ‘What? Are you crazy? We’ve been running on eight cylinders since we got here and now you want to visit a biscuit factory!’

  ‘Cakes, too, I’m told.’

  ‘Forget it, Carlo. I’m resting up. There’s another dinner tonight, and I’m about socialized out.’

  ‘This isn’t socializing, I can assure you. It took me a while to convince Sandrine to take us. Please, you must come with me. I need your eagle eyes,’ he added quietly.

  ‘Now that sounds intriguing. What have you got up your sleeve?’

  Carlo put his index finger to his lips. ‘Our gorgeous guide is ever watchful. I am as you know supremely interested in baked goods.’

  Petra nodded with understanding. ‘Of course.’

  He racheted his voice up a notch or two. ‘Look at those mountains …’

  Petra turned to the window and looked out. They were south of Stellenbosch heading back to the wine farm. The jagged hills were purple in the distance.

  Why was Carlo so keen to visit the biscuit factory? How far was it from the estate? How were they going to get there? Was Sandrine going to show them around? Were other guests going too? As she was pondering these questions and naturally getting no answers, the minibus drew up at what South Africans called a “robot”, in other words a traffic light. Drumming her fingers idly on the window frame, she suddenly sat up and took notice.

  Parked on the verge was a white van with a curtained window in the back. Stencilled on the side in large letters were the words Tabernacle Youth Collective. She tugged at Carlo’s sleeve and pointed.

  ‘Carlo, look!’

  ‘What’s so interesting about a white van?’

  ‘It belongs to the Tabernacle Youth Collective.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Remember I told you about Vicky Dunlin, the daughter of a friend of A.K.’s? She was working at the Cape Sands and A.K. asked me to check on her.’

  ‘Right. So?’

  ‘Vicky Dunlin went off on holiday with that group.’

  Petra stared at the van. She could see a man sitting in the driver’s seat, but not his face. There was no door in the back of the van or on the side facing the road. Most likely there was a sliding door on the far side. She wondered why they were stopped.

  ‘What a coincidence!’ she said as the lights changed and the minibus pulled away. ‘A.K. asked me to go and visit her after the wedding.’ She craned her neck to see if she could see anyone inside or in the passenger seat of the van. ‘Now I’m curious. I must find out more about the group. They might be doing a project near here.’

  ‘How will you find out? There was no address or phone number on the van.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to find a number and call them. And if Vicky’s in the area, I could go and see her this week instead of after the wedding.’

  ‘Work it into Sandrine’s schedule you mean?’

  ‘I’ll find a way. I can always pretend I’m sick.’

  ‘Not this afternoon, we’re going to the biscuit factory, remember?’

  ‘All right, but you must promise to tell me what’s going on.’

  Chapter

  12

  Sandrine had left a new set of instructions for Petra and Carlo. Instead of “leisure”, they were to meet Florian and herself immediately after lunch, at half past one. They would return to base at half past four.

  ‘I didn’t expect two minders,’ Carlo remarked. ‘I was hoping you’d have the opportunity to do what you’re good at: wander round and snoop a bit.’

  ‘Why, Carlo? What’s all this about?’

  ‘Probably nothing, but a colleague of mine who works for Interpol in France called me last week. His area of expertise is trafficking in illicit goods. He knew I was coming to South Africa and asked if I could visit a company called Dragées d’Aix, S.A.’

  ‘Dragées are sugared almonds, aren’t they? The French often give them to guests at weddings and christenings to take home as gifts or favours.’

  ‘Right, the Italians too. In this case, the South African company has taken the name of one of the most famous almonds in France. Not only that, but the French manufacturer alleges that the South African company has ordered identical keepsake tins from China, is filling them with inferior product and exporting them to Europe – essentially passing them off as the real thing and stealing their business.’

  Petra gave a Gallic shrug complete with hands. ‘It sounds unlikely to me. I’d have thought that the cost of importing the tins, filling them with locally made product, and re-exporting them back to Europe would be too expensive to make it worthwhile. In any case, why bother? Sooner or later, the French manufacturer would get an injunction or something against the company.’

  ‘That was my thinking too. And South Africa doesn’t produce anything like enough almonds to meet demand, so the nuts would have to be imported as well as the tins. Anyway, I said I’d take a look if I could. My colleague gave me a Post Office Box mailing address for the company in the Western Cape and an email address.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Yes, but after a lot of searching, I found a page that seemed to link Dragées to Delapore Biscuits.’

  ‘You think Delapore makes them?’

  ‘That’s what we’re going to try and find out.’

  Sandrine was waiting in her silver BMW at the bottom of the manor house steps when Petra and Carlo arrived just as the clock in the stable tower struck half past one. She had traded jeggings for a micro-skirt that left the whole of her slim tanned legs in full view. Not a lot of imagination was required to visualize what she had on under the skirt. Silver heels completed her outfit. She pointed to Carlo and patted the seat beside her. Florian was in the back seat. He leaned across and opened the door for Petra.

  The sprawling complex that belonged to Delapore Biscuits was on the outskirts of Durbanville. Petra counted at least four structures in the front row and there were more behind.

  Sandrine led them inside the first building, where biscuits were made, and attached herself to Carlo. Clearly he didn’t mind. From time to time, Petra caught him taking a peek at Sandrine’s impressive chest. Florian steered Petra along behind them.

  Over the clatter of machinery,
Sandrine began to explain the biscuit-making process. She showed them the industrial mixing machines that handled the dough, the cutters that made the shapes, and the ovens where the biscuits, or cookies as Petra called them, were baked.

  Petra noticed that all the staff were female, wearing pale blue dresses, white aprons, and white mob caps to cover their black hair. When she asked Florian why there were no men, he gave a curious reply:

  ‘If the women are working, they’re off the streets and don’t have time to make babies.’

  Stunned, she couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Once the biscuits were baked, they were left to cool; then the trays were slotted into tall trolleys and wheeled to the packaging area. Petra looked for tins, but the women were putting the biscuits into boxes. ‘Where are your tins of fancy mixed biscuits?’ she asked Florian.

  ‘That’s a limited market. We prefer to go for volume, and boxes are cheaper and easier to store.’

  She couldn’t fault him on that response.

  Sandrine moved them swiftly out of the packaging area, through a door that led outside and across a courtyard. Petra fell into step with Carlo.

  ‘Fascinating, isn’t it, Carlo? I had no idea how complicated a process it was. What’s in the other buildings at the back?’ she asked Sandrine, waving a hand in their general direction.

  ‘Offices and the order department. Nothing of interest to visitors. The next part of our tour is the cake division.’

  Petra glanced around the courtyard. She noted a small white-washed hut that had a water tank and a solar panel on its roof. The door was slightly open and there was a faint aroma that had nothing to do with cakes or biscuits. Florian was watching her, so she made an effort to catch up.