A Holiday to Die For

by Marion Leigh

  Petra sat down on one of the stone benches in a patch of sunlight. The folly was just what its name suggested: an ornamental building, whimsical and costly with no practical purpose. But the word was also used to denote foolishness or a lack of good sense. Last night, in that place, the two had come together to cause who knew what mischief.

  Petra stood up and looked around carefully. There was no sign of Julia. She began to walk towards the shadowy recesses behind the pool. If someone was trying to hide from the bright light of day, they would almost certainly be in the grotto. The water looked cool and curiously inviting with a silvery sheen. It was about a metre deep, maybe a bit more, and uniformly so: deep enough for playing around, and plenty deep enough to drown in as Petra well knew from her years in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police’s Marine Unit.

  She shook off grim memories and studied the pool area again. The mini-lights would have been wound round the pillars and statues, the music seeping from hidden speakers and echoing round the chamber. The curved steps at either end of the pool would make it easy to enter and exit the water gracefully.

  Suddenly she had a vision of a parade of naked women entering the water at one end, sinking down and keeping the water swirling around them, then rising up in the middle to display their bare breasts as an invitation for men to join them. Is that what Julia and her friends had been doing last night under the influence of alcohol … drugs … who knew what?

  ‘Tabarnak! What’s the matter with me?’ Petra cried. ‘I must be going mad! There’s nobody here.’

  She cast her eyes over the statues. Water gushed from the dwarf’s trio of penises. Did Tony Broselli know the story about Florian’s great-grandfather? As he was the family historian, he must do.

  A shaft of sunlight hit the streams of water and something broke into rainbow colours. Julia’s diamond engagement ring had been placed on the centre penis. The ring was wet and Petra nearly dropped it, but finally she held it up like a trophy.

  ‘You have been here but where are you now?’ she whispered, slipping the ring onto the middle finger of her right hand.

  ‘Long gone, I fear.’

  Petra spun round. Father John stepped into view, clad in a black robe, his hair a tousled mane about his face. He spread his hands and adopted a humble look. ‘Our Lord works in mysterious ways.’

  What about you? Petra said to herself. And who exactly is your lord? What are you doing for him?

  She wanted to challenge Father John there and then, force him to admit that there was a deeper purpose behind everything that was happening, but a glance into his eyes told her that now was not the time. She had classed him as a suspect in a crime that had no substance, no motive, and no means of discovery – not yet. Interrogating suspects too early gave them the opportunity to cover their tracks.

  So instead of a targeted attack, all she said was: ‘Gone where?’

  ‘To have her hair and nails done.’ The answer came from behind her.

  ‘What?’ Petra stared at Florian. Father John threw him a surprised glance.

  ‘I’m not joking. I found the stupid cow mooning about in here so I took her back where she belongs. Let’s go, Sandrine’s waiting. I’ll take the mare.’

  Chapter

  23

  ‘Thanks to you, we’re running late,’ Sandrine said accusingly as Petra re-entered the spa. ‘And you’ve ruined your pedicure. It’ll have to be done again.’ She waved one of the beautician’s over. ‘Sit here. I can’t imagine what got into you.’

  ‘If only you knew,’ Petra muttered.

  Instead of sitting, she walked over to Julia. Her mousy brown hair had been shampooed and trimmed and was being blow-dried in a simple bob. In the mirror, her face was an inscrutable white mask.

  ‘I found your ring.’

  Julia’s eyelids fluttered. After a second’s pause, she said: ‘Was it in the tasting centre? I thought I’d left it there. I spent a lot of time looking for it this morning.’

  Petra nodded. And we for you. ‘Here you are.’

  The big diamond glittered as Julia slid it onto the fourth finger of her left hand where it fitted perfectly. She looked at it for a moment then turned away. ‘Cinderella will be ready for the ball,’ she murmured.

  Carlo led Max into the tasting centre where pre-wedding drinks and snacks were being served to the guests who had been bused in from Cape Town. Wellington had tipped them that Julia had been found, but the groom was still acting like a baby.

  Carlo escorted him over to the bar and asked for two beers.

  ‘Shape up, man. You’re marrying my cousin, don’t forget. Tough stock the Brosellis. You never met Julia’s mother, but she was a good egg.’

  ‘A good egg?’

  ‘Indeed. Never floated to the top to become flotsam or jetsam as a bad egg would.’

  Max looked bemused.

  ‘We Brosellis have an unusual sense of humour. You’ll get used to it. How about your family? You’re Belgian, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, although my mother’s family is from Amsterdam.’

  ‘How did you meet Julia?’

  Max looked surprised at the question. ‘Through a friend of my father’s.’

  ‘I gather you’re taking Julia to Europe. Will you live in Belgium?’

  ‘No, Amsterdam. That’s where I work.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a customs broker and freight forwarder.’

  ‘That must be good business – Schiphol’s a very busy airport.’

  Max shrugged. ‘I make a living.’

  Carlo glanced at the nondescript watch he had brought to South Africa with him, then at the diamond-studded Rolex on Max’s left wrist. ‘I’m sure you do. Come on, it’s time to be thrown to the lions. Oops, what am I saying? A good job you’re not going on honeymoon to a game park.’

  Tony Broselli looked as nervous as a teenage boy on his first date despite the fact that by Sandrine’s standards, it was a small wedding. He exhaled deeply as Carlo arrived with Max.

  ‘Cheer up, Uncle! Where’s the second-best man? I’m the first, of course.’

  ‘Florian’s gone to check on the bridesmaids.’

  ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

  ‘Here he comes,’ Max said, with a grimace. He ran a finger under his collar to detach it from his skin. ‘With Father John.’

  Father John was wearing a white robe and a black scarf embroidered with gold motifs draped over his shoulders. He clapped Tony on the back and made the sign of the cross. Then he went to stand under the rose arbour next to a small table covered with a white cloth on which lay a black leather-bound book.

  A ripple went through the assembled guests as Florian, dazzling in his white jacket and black trousers, joined Max and Carlo in the arbour.

  ‘I presume you’ve got the ring, buddy,’ Carlo said.

  ‘Naturally.’ Florian dipped a hand into his top pocket and brought out a simple gold band which he immediately put to his lips.

  Max’s face turned a deeper shade of red.

  ‘Cut the crap, Florian,’ Carlo snarled. ‘Or I’ll beat the shit out of you!’

  ‘My, my, tempers are high. Julia has my blessing. I’m sure Max here will take care of her once she’s left the fold, won’t you, Max?’

  Max’s face was purple. Carlo grabbed his arm.

  ‘You’ll soon be shot of him. Here she comes.’

  The horse-drawn carriage conveying the bride and bridesmaids drew up as the first bars of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March drifted across the rose garden. Wearing a short magenta dress that clung in all the right places and a white wide-brimmed hat, Sandrine was waiting at the entrance to the garden with Tony and a footman to help them out of the carriage. She fussed around Julia, straightening her headdress and rearranging the veil that obscured her face. Tony dropped a kiss on top
of his daughter’s head and held out his arm.

  Petra had been instructed to keep two paces behind Julia to leave room for her train. The two flower girls would follow; Betta and Roz would bring up the rear. The little girls were by turns giggly then solemn, reminding Petra of Megan and Hilary. She wondered how they were getting on and how far into their Higher Ground tour they were.

  Julia should not have been wearing what she was Petra realized, as she walked behind her up the aisle between the rows of wedding guests. Unlike Sandrine’s magenta number, Julia’s cream lace concoction clung in all the wrong places. The bow neck emphasized her broad shoulders and the cap sleeves did nothing to hide the thickness of her upper arms. The train springing from the centre back of the dress added weight round her middle where she didn’t need it. Sandrine was not such a good wedding planner if she had allowed the bride to choose that dress, unless she deliberately wanted Julia to look dumpy and unattractive. And if that were the case, what was her motive? Something to do with Florian?

  Petra added these questions to the long list she had already compiled in her mind, stubbing her toe as she bumped against the first step up to the arbour. Sandrine waved her back. The bridesmaids didn’t climb the steps but waited at the bottom while Father John conducted the ceremony. There was room in the arbour only for the bride’s father, the bride, the groom and the best man. Florian had his back to the audience yet still managed to turn his head, causing another ripple to run through the crowd.

  ‘Too gorgeous to be true,’ Petra murmured crossly with an annoying twinge of something she was reluctant to identify.

  Mercifully Father John kept the ceremony brief. He made no reference to the kind of things he had eulogized the previous afternoon: purity, ritual cleansing, sacred vows. Instead, he gave a five-minute pep talk on the importance of procreation then asked if anyone objected to the marriage. Nobody did, though Florian rolled his eyes for the crowd.

  Following the exchange of vows, Florian produced the ring, and Max and Julia were pronounced man and wife. Julia lifted her veil just enough for Max to brush her cheek with his lips. By four o’clock, the ceremony was over and Petra was ravenous.

  She smiled into the video camera wielded by the photographer’s assistant and half-hoped the clouds that had moved in would encourage the photographer to cut the posing for formal pictures short. He was agonizing over background and camera angles, shouting and bullying the bridal party as he pulled them into position, trying to impress Sandrine. She gave him free rein until he made a fatal mistake that delighted Petra. He called her Sandy. The effect was instantaneous.

  Sandrine clapped her hands. ‘Right, everybody. We have enough pictures. Drinks are being served on the pool terrace. Wellington will show you the way.’

  With a sigh of relief, Petra moved away from the bridal party to look for Carlo. She felt a hand on her waist and spun round.

  ‘Love the ringlets and the flowers,’ Florian said, twisting his other hand into her long dark hair where the hairdresser had sown a few white daisies.

  Petra’s stomach lurched. Beneath her dress, between her breasts in the underwired bra, hung her black and silver cross. It would be so tempting to pull it out, reveal its secret, and use it to repel his advances – if she could. She knew better than to underestimate Florian’s strength and determination. His beauty bordered on the effeminate, but his body was lithe and muscular. And part of her that she couldn’t always control was responding in a most irresponsible and unladylike way.

  Not for the first time, Florian seemed to change his mind. He withdrew his hands and walked across to where Roz and Betta were holding on to the two flower girls. He squatted down in front of the group.

  ‘Tinkerbell and Sweet Pea, my Fairy Princesses!’ He lifted the hand of the four-year-old to his lips and kissed it, then the hand of her five-year-old cousin. ‘Prince Florian, at your service.’

  The little girls giggled uncontrollably, adoration lighting up their faces.

  Chapter

  24

  Petra walked into the marquee and grudgingly admitted to herself that Sandrine had staged a fine wedding. The food looked scrumptious, and whether by accident or design, she had devised an innovative table plan that should prevent any bad scenes between the bridal couple and Florian.

  Instead of the usual long head table seating the bridal party, she had placed two round tables for eight in the centre of the marquee. The first was reserved for herself, Father John, Tony, Julia, Max, and three of the De Witts: Marina, Jacob and Betta. Florian had been assigned to the second table with Petra, Roz, Gina, Diego, Raquel, Carlo and Ana.

  Although she was sitting on Florian’s left, Petra hoped he would pay more attention to Roz and Gina on his right. Carlo was lolling back in his chair, keeping an arm round the shoulders of Raquel and Ana.

  Petra looked across to Sandrine’s table. Betta had her eyes fixed on Florian. Julia had taken off her veil and appeared serene but not smiling. Father John was laughing at a private joke with Sandrine.

  Petra had been to several Italian weddings in Canada so it was no surprise when Carlo stood up and banged his spoon against his wine glass, shouting ‘The bride and groom, the bride and groom!’ Other guests joined in until the glasses rang. The din would only end when Julia and Max kissed. Eventually they did. After the third or fourth time, Julia seemed to relax and even enjoy the attention.

  During a quiet interlude, Petra put down her spoon and patted her stomach. The last mouthful of guava cheesecake had been a stretch. Coffee would be next, then the speeches. That would give her time to digest before the dancing.

  Florian caught her off guard. Standing up, he banged his spoon against his glass and yelled ‘The bride and groom – and the best man and the bridesmaids!’

  Petra shied away but he was too quick. He grabbed her and kissed her with such an exquisite combination of strength, passion and expertise that she was unable to put up a fight. Betta ran across the floor and dragged at Florian’s arm. Then it was Roz’s turn. Petra could see by the demonic gleam in his eyes that he loved every minute of it … the adulation, the spectacle, the power. If Sandrine was jealous of her blue-eyed boy’s success with women, she wasn’t showing it. She was watching with a smile on her face, but Petra would have wagered that it didn’t reach her eyes.

  Florian rose to his feet again, his glass ringing. Petra pushed back her chair, ready to flee. She breathed a sigh of relief when he focussed his attention on the centre table. Carlo caught her eye and winked.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, friends, relatives and guests, as the best man here and the de facto master of ceremonies, I have the honour of saying a few words about my good friend Max who has today plighted his troth to the lovely Julia. I know I should make you laugh by telling you stories about Max’s adolescent escapades and Julia as a chubby teen or by letting out some of the secrets all families have, but I’m going to break from tradition. I have too much respect for Max and Julia to embarrass them in front of you all. However, I do want to say something about my dear stepsister Julia and apprise you of ways in which, like her, you can help this beautiful country of ours to fulfill its destiny.’

  What a nerve. Julia had gone chalk white and Petra was afraid she might faint.

  ‘First of all, I want to thank Julia for the work she has done in spreading the word about Father John’s outreach programmes which are bringing change to African villages. Over the past few years, she has devoted herself to the cause and allowed us to introduce many more people to our schemes. Of course we rely heavily on donations and volunteers, and I want to thank too my dear mother, Sandrine, and my stepfather, Tony, for their contributions.

  At Italian weddings, it is customary not only to make a lot of noise,’ he continued, banging his spoon against his glass again, ‘but also to dance with abandon. During the dancing, it is also customary to stuff money into the pockets, cleavages, etc. of th
e bridal couple or to pin bank notes to their clothing. Those who prefer the more decorous approach will find a dish of pins in the centre of each table. In any event, Julia has decreed that all the money collected tonight will be donated to the African villages that we and Father John support. So be generous, my friends, and have fun! To the bride and groom!’

  After the toast, there was a round of applause. Florian took a 5,000 Rand note out of his jacket pocket. He held it up for everyone to see then marched across to give it to Julia. For a moment, Petra feared he was going to stuff it down the front of her dress and cause a scene. Instead he presented it to Max with a flourish, as if he were repaying a debt.

  Petra leaned across the table to speak to Carlo. ‘Isn’t it amazing how he can say so much so convincingly without giving any real information? I’d like to know exactly how the money is going to be spent. Have you any idea?’

  ‘I know Tony and Sandrine support charity work in the north of the country as well as in Namibia, but that’s it. If you want details, you’ll have to ask the man himself.’

  Raquel nudged Carlo’s arm. ‘Ana and I have decided to go and work in one of the villages.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Anything we can to help. But first, we’re going to travel around. Florian has a friend who runs tours that combine sightseeing and volunteer work.’

  Petra leaned closer. ‘Do you know who he is or the name of the company?’

  ‘Not yet. Florian’s bringing us more information tomorrow.’

  Petra made a mental note to talk to Ana and Raquel again in the morning. It could be just a coincidence, but it sounded suspiciously like what Megan and Hilary were doing.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said as Wellington placed a plate of petits fours on the table then disappeared. When he returned, he was carrying a pile of heart-shaped silver tins. He gave one to each person at the table. Petra studied hers then looked questioningly at him.

  ‘What’s this, Wellington?’