The Chameleon's Tale

by Andrea Bramhall

  The rest of the journey passed by quickly. Small talk and banter filled the cab, and it was easy to see how close a team they were. They knew each other and their jobs, and they fitted together like a well-oiled machine. She was glad Imogen had insisted upon bringing them in. She just wished Imogen would take herself out of the equation rather than continually throwing herself into the middle of it all.

  The town hall in Stellenbosch had been adorned in all its finery as every prominent official in the Western Cape walked up the steps and into the ballroom. Tuxedos abounded and every colour of ball gown caught Amahle’s eye as she walked toward the security checkpoint with Imogen at her side. It wasn’t until she was waved through the x-ray machine and she had to let go of Imogen’s arm that she realized she had taken hold of her elbow as they walked. The need to touch her was unconscious but overwhelming.

  “How did you manage to score these tickets again?” Amahle asked.

  “Jim Davitson invited me.”

  “A-huh. Why?” She remembered him from the funeral where he’d been direct, professional, and courteous toward her. Even after her mother’s revelations.

  “I presume he has a buyer lined up for Frost Vineyard and wants to introduce me.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Who? Jim?”

  “Yes.”

  “As much as I trust any lawyer.”

  Amahle laughed. “And that means?”

  “Lawyers are all out for what they can get.” She swiped two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to Amahle. “Didn’t you know that?”

  “Must have missed that news bulletin. I know some very ethical lawyers.”

  “Do you?”

  Amahle looked her straight in the eye. “Yes, I do.”

  Imogen inclined her glass in acknowledgement of the compliment then took a sip.

  “Do you see your friend yet?”

  She grinned. “He’s over at the buffet.”

  Amahle turned and watched the tall man wave at them, hitch up his pants, and start toward them.

  “Imogen, how’s it?”

  “Good, Roland, good. You?”

  “Can’t complain, you know.”

  “This is my friend, Amahle. Amahle, Roland De Fries.”

  “A pleasure.” He wiped his hand on his pants before offering it to her.

  She shook his damp palm gingerly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Roland.”

  “Listen, Imogen, I’m glad you could make it. There’re a couple of people I’d like to introduce you to. Let me go get my wife, and see if I can find ’em. She’s been so excited to meet you. Wait here, okay?”

  “Okay.” Imogen smiled at him as he walked away.

  “How do you know him again?”

  “He’s a forensic accountant with Jim’s firm.”

  “Did that answer the question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why am I still confused?”

  Imogen shrugged. “Slowing down in your old age, Minister?”

  Amahle slapped her arm. “You’re three months older than I am.”

  She rubbed her arm. “Yeah, but I’m not confused or slowing down.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “Jim said it was standard practice to complete a financial report when an estate of this size was passed on to a new owner. Roland was the guy who compiled the report. He was also the guy who picked me up from the airport. He’s nice. He’s harmless.”

  She could see Imogen was hiding something from her. Her eyes darted to the left as she looked around, probably for some way to distract her. “You’re lying.”

  “What?”

  The look of shock on her face clearly told Amahle she wasn’t. She might not be telling everything, but she wasn’t lying.

  “I am not. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Then what aren’t you telling me?”

  “Things that I don’t have the answers to, and don’t want to cause problems between us if there’s no need for them to.”

  Amahle tried to make sense of what she’d said, but she couldn’t. There were too many missing parts for her. “Could you be any more cryptic?”

  “Probably not.” She ran her hand over the back of her head. “I promise as soon as I know anything for sure, I will tell you all about it. But until then, can you give me the benefit of the doubt, please? That’s what I’m trying to do for someone else at this point.”

  “When will you know?”

  “I’ll ask Roland when he comes back. While you’re here. How’s that?”

  Amahle narrowed her eyes and replayed Imogen’s words in her mind. Several things stood out, mostly the giving the benefit of the doubt to someone, not wanting it to cause problems between them if it didn’t have to, and the only things that could do that were her mother or her brother. She sighed. “More generous than I’d probably be.”

  Imogen laughed. “I doubt that.”

  “This is my wife, Beth,” Roland said from over Amahle’s shoulder. “Beth, this is Imogen Frost and Amahle. I’m sorry I didn’t get your family name.”

  “Nkosi. A pleasure to meet you, Beth.” She shook Beth’s hand and noted the worried look on Roland’s face. “What’s that about?” She pointed at his frown. “Why so serious all of a sudden?”

  “Erm, I…nothing. No reason.”

  “Roland, I was telling Amahle that you’d have completed your investigation into the financial situation of the vineyard pretty soon. Do you have a closer approximation for me yet?”

  His eyes widened further. “I’m afraid I had to apply for that court order that we’d discussed so it will be several more days before I can complete my findings and show you the evidence. Tuesday or Wednesday probably.”

  “Can you share anything with me so far that is indisputable?”

  “Nothing more than I have already shared with you. That there is evidence to prove that money is missing.”

  The realization of what Imogen suspected hit her. She knew with absolute certainty who Imogen and Roland suspected of stealing from the company. She’s trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. Given what her mother and brother were claiming against Imogen, she doubted she would be so diligent in her pursuit of the truth. And still she’s here with me. Helping me. Protecting me.

  Imogen leaned close to her ear and whispered, “You aren’t your family, Ami.”

  “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  “You’re an open book.” She winked and took the empty glass from Amahle’s hand and deposited it on the tray of a passing waiter. “Beth, I’ve got to thank you for those delicious koeksisters the other day. They were amazing.”

  “I’m glad you liked them. They’re Roland’s favourites,” Beth said.

  “I can understand why that is. Are you a chef or something?”

  Beth laughed. “No, not at all.”

  “Beth works as a sales representative for a pharmaceutical company.” Roland smiled proudly at her. “She’s their top seller. May as well be the only one they have on staff. Isn’t that right, darling?”

  Beth smiled tightly. “Might as well be.”

  Amahle noticed the tense set to Beth’s shoulders and wondered what Roland had said wrong; her demeanour was so different from the last time Amahle had seen her. The bored young woman at Alain’s funeral was most definitely missing tonight. “We’re in the same industry then, Mrs. De Fries. Do you have to travel or are you based in Cape Town?”

  “Oh, call me Beth, please. I get to go all over the place really. Anywhere the company thinks I can make a deal for them.”

  “They must value you a great deal then.”

  She shrugged. “Oh, I’m sure it’s all about the sales figures. In my industry you’re only as good as your last deal.”

  “Cutthroat.”

  “You have no idea.” Beth sipped from her glass.

  “Oh, there he is. Fred,” Roland called over their heads. “Over here.” He motioned the older man toward
them. “Fred Pugh, this is my friend Imogen Frost. Imogen, Fred here is the major general of the Stellenbosch Police Department. He is a man with a sterling reputation, and someone I can vouch for personally.” He clapped his big hand on the general’s shoulder. “After all, he’s my father-in-law.”

  Fred shook Imogen’s hand and kissed Beth’s cheek before holding out his hand to Amahle. “Minister.” He inclined his head. “An honour.”

  Amahle remembered him from the funeral too. He was the man who had been arguing with Jim and Beth and then broke off the argument when Roland had appeared. She wondered what they’d been arguing about. It certainly hadn’t seemed like the appropriate time or place for a disagreement, hence it had stuck in her memory. As he pulled his business card from his pocket and gave it to Imogen, Amahle felt a shiver run up her spine and glanced around to see where the draught was coming from, but she could see nothing. She looked back at the general and noticed that his hand shook slightly as he held the card. She could smell the sweat coming off him and saw it bead on his upper lip. While he looked calm, collected, and confident, she realized that underneath it he was anything but. What she didn’t understand was why.

  “Roland said you have something you need to speak about. Call me.” He pointed to the card now in her hand. “I’m free all day tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Imogen said. “I really appreciate it.”

  “No worries. Now I best get back to my wife, or she’ll have my guts for garters. Roland.” He clapped him on the shoulder and kissed Beth’s cheek. “See you both for brunch?”

  “I’ll come with you, Papa.” She turned to Imogen and Amahle. “It was lovely to meet you both. Perhaps you’ll join us for brunch tomorrow? Roland could pick you up.”

  “Oh, thanks. We’ll see. If we can make it I’ll call Roland and get the address,” Imogen said before Beth disappeared into the crowd. “She’s lovely.”

  “Yes. Fred really is a good guy. I’m not just saying that because he’s her dad. He’s fair and doesn’t stand for any kind of shit in his department.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Can you tell me what kind of trouble you’re in?”

  “It’s best if you don’t know, Roland.”

  He whistled. “That kind of trouble, man.” He tapped the card still in Imogen’s hand. “Call him first thing. He’ll help.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jim Davitson walked over to them, a broad smile on his face and his arms spread open wide. “Imogen, you look ravishing, my dear. Simply ravishing.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheeks. Amahle stared at him as his hands slipped lower and lower down Imogen’s back.

  “Jim, thank you for the invite.” She reached around her back and gripped his hands, pulling them around playfully. “You’ve met Minister Nkosi?”

  “I do believe I’ve had that pleasure.” He bowed over her hand, placing a theatrical kiss on it that made her skin crawl. “At your service, Minister.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Davitson.”

  “Have you met up with your boss?”

  “James is here?”

  “Yes, yes. I invited him myself. He’s around here somewhere.” He waved his hand in a circle to encompass the whole room. “Now, Imogen,” he said as he slung an arm around her shoulders, “I have someone I’d like you to meet.” He steered her away from the small group, leaving Amahle alone with Roland.

  “He’s not normally such an old letch.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The wandering hands. He’s a decent guy. He lost his wife last year, and I think he’s a bit lonely. Too much punch.”

  She frowned at him.

  “You looked like you were going to flatten him when he put his arm around her. I didn’t realize you were seeing each other.”

  “Why do you assume we are?”

  “I’m sorry. Everyone around here knows your story, Minister. Whether we’ve met you or not, we all know what happened to you and your girlfriend. You and Imogen seem very close.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  “You didn’t. But you’re not the first to assume we’re seeing each other either.” She stuck a thumb over her shoulder at her protection detail. “They did too.” She remembered laughing when Imogen had told her about the assumption Laura and her colleagues had made. Suddenly, it didn’t feel so funny. It felt dangerous.

  Across the room, she could see Imogen practically fighting with Jim’s increasingly daring hands.

  “Maybe it’s because of the way you’re looking at her now.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Like you want to rip his head off and ride off into the sunset with her.”

  Amahle laughed. “You have a sappy romantic heart, Roland.”

  He shrugged. “It works on my wife.”

  She shuddered. “That’s more information than I needed to know.”

  He placed his hand on her back. “You go rescue your not girlfriend, and I’ll go find my other friend to introduce to you both. He’s always late, but he should be here by now.”

  *

  “Mr. Pienaar, It’s lovely to meet you.” Imogen shook hands.

  “And you, Ms. Frost. Jimbo here tells me you might be looking to off-load some of your land.”

  “Oh, no. I’m not looking to split the land and holdings. If I sell, I sell it as a going concern, Mr. Pienaar.”

  “That’s some sale you’re looking for there, missy.”

  “It’s a large one, for sure, but it’s a good business with a lot of export trade. It’s a good investment for anyone.”

  “Sure, sure. But in the current economic market, you’ll get a much quicker sale if you parcel it off.”

  “I’m not in need of a quick sale.”

  “Imogen?”

  She turned at Amahle’s voice, immensely grateful that she’d stepped in between her and Mr. Snake Hands himself. “Hi.”

  “Roland needs you for a second, if you can spare the time?”

  “Certainly.” She wrapped her fingers around Amahle’s hand. “Gentlemen,” she said as she let Amahle lead her away. “Thank you,” she whispered into the back of her hair.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I feel like I’ve been slimed.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t you remember watching Ghostbusters when we were kids?”

  “Oh God, yeah. The little green snot thing.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Ew.”

  “So who’s he got lined up for me now?”

  “I’ve no idea. He said he was going to find his friend, but he wasn’t sure if he was here yet.”

  “Ah, so you came to rescue me.”

  “I’d say you looked like you needed a hand, but I think you really had too many.”

  “Very funny.”

  “You can’t blame him, I suppose.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, look at you.”

  Imogen looked down her body. “What?”

  “Don’t give me that. You’re bloody gorgeous, and you know it.”

  She grinned at Amahle. “You think so?”

  Amahle stared at her, looking like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if she should.

  “I don’t see Roland. Would you do me the honour?” Imogen held out her hand and inclined her head toward the dance floor as the band struck up a gentle fox-trot.

  “You want me to dance with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes”

  “At the mayor’s ball? In Stellenbosch? In South Africa?”

  “Where else?”

  “The moon. Do you have any idea how that will be received?”

  “It’s just a dance, Amahle.”

  “No, it isn’t. Not here, it isn’t. Do you have any idea of the level of homophobia that is entrenched in this country?”

  “You’re an out lesbian who’s been elected, twice, to the Houses of Parliament.
How bad can it be?”

  “Trust me, it’s bad. I might be an out lesbian, but people haven’t had to face my sexuality as I haven’t had a partner to confront them with.”

  “Why would that make a difference?”

  “They can ignore the fact if it isn’t presented to the public every day. Dancing with you on that dance floor is asking for trouble. And that’s without even thinking about the current mess we’re in.”

  “If you were in a relationship you think you wouldn’t have been voted in?”

  “I know I wouldn’t.”

  “But South Africa was one of the first countries to give equal employment rights to the LGBTQ community.”

  “I know. It was one of the first campaigns I worked on.”

  “So, how can you say there’s homophobia?”

  “Because it’s true.”

  The contradiction had her head reeling. Was it really as divided as Amahle said, or was she worrying for no reason? Was it really so difficult?

  “Every year at least five hundred lesbians are subjected to corrective rape. They’re raped so they’ll ‘get a taste of a real man and straighten themselves out.’ Five hundred plus. Simply because they’re lesbians. A hate crime, and do you know how many of those five hundred per year reported crimes have ever gone to trial?”

  “No.”

  “Thirty.”

  “What? Thirty per year is a ridiculous—”

  “No, thirty total. Since 2000, when the phrase was coined by a lawyer from Amnesty International. Since then, thirty corrective rapes have gone to trial.”

  “That’s fifteen years. What happened to the rest?”

  “No one was ever charged because the rapists weren’t found, despite some of the victims naming their attackers. Naming them, giving the police officers addresses, and getting all the evidence collected in a timely fashion. The police don’t investigate corrective rape.”

  “Why the fuck not?”

  “Because they don’t disagree with it. They don’t see it as a crime that needs to be investigated and so won’t ‘waste’ police resources on it. I’ve even heard some people refer to it as a public service.”

  “That’s fucking sick.”

  “Yes, it is. So, no.”