by Marie Moore
I slid off the bed, picked up the carafe, and poured myself a glass of water. After a sip, I continued. “Later, I wondered about it, because I knew he had lied to George and I couldn’t imagine why. Dennis told George he was not going with us because he didn’t feel well and was going to lie down and rest. But he didn’t. He didn’t take a nap at all. He left. As soon as George went to the bar, Dennis left, and I know that for sure because I saw him. Plus, Dennis was clearly no travel agent—any experienced agent could see that—so I wondered why he was pretending to be one.”
“Yeah. I heard that goofy thing he said in the cable car about the Cunard ship.”
“He made a lot of slips like that, Jay, and he was always wandering off from the group, even in Cape Town.”
“So you think his death might not be random?”
I paused before answering. “Well, that’s a big leap. I can’t say that. But he for sure broke the camp rules for whatever reason and that got him killed. Whatever Dennis may have been, he wasn’t stupid. He knew the risks of walking in the bush alone. He was told, just like the rest of us. Why he deliberately put himself in danger, or what he was doing in our group, posing as an agent, I don’t know. But he had a reason, and it must have been a good one, for him to take a risk like that. It cost him his life.”
Jay stepped over to the bar and poured two glasses of wine. His panic was subsiding. Jay is afraid of big bad cats, but not big bad people.
He handed me a glass. “Cheers. When you saw Dennis walking on the ditch, did you see anyone else?”
I took a sip. “No. He was alone.”
“Did you see anyone following him?”
“No.”
I thought back to the sight of Dennis marching along. I had not seen anyone following him, but I hadn’t been looking. I supposed that someone could have been following him, slipping along unseen under the cover of the overhanging bank. There was a lot of traffic outside our back door. That dry riverbed was beginning to turn into four-lane. First the animals, then Dennis, then the guy with the flashlight in the early morning. Where were they all heading?
Jay gave me a searching look. “Have you told anyone else about this?”
“Only Rebecca, just now. She thought it was strange, too. She said she thought Henrik, um, I mean Mr. van der Brugge might check into his background if there is an investigation.”
Jay frowned. “What do you mean, if? There must be an investigation.”
“Well, they will certainly look into it, Rebecca said, and the officials have been called. But she also said that they will likely just write it up as an accident. After all, he did wander out into the bush alone and unarmed, as far as anyone knows, and there are certainly wild animals out there that have to be respected. Everyone is well aware of that. It’s a fact of life here.”
Jay shuddered, but he was putting his stuff back into the wardrobe.
“I thought you were leaving.”
“Well, I’ve changed my mind. Someone’s got to look out for you, Sidney. And you need to keep your mouth shut about Dennis. We don’t really know anything about any of these people. You are probably right. Dennis’s death was probably caused by his own carelessness. But if it wasn’t, if he was involved in something nasty that we don’t know about, others may be involved as well.”
He closed the cabinet drawers and sat down on the end of my bed again. “You are right about the rules, and you don’t have to worry one minute about me breaking them. I’m sure not going strolling alone in the bush. But I think you also will need to keep your eyes and ears open from here on out, babe, and your mouth shut. This whole deal is really strange. I guess talking a bit to Rebecca was okay—she’s sort of in charge of the camp—but don’t tell anyone else about what you saw. That little walk Dennis took was not only fatal, it was fishy. If there is anything funny going on around here, neither one of us needs to be involved in it. We are only here for a few days. We need to steer clear. It’s just not our problem.”
He drained his glass. “Change into your swimsuit, sweetie, and grab a couple of towels. We’re going to the pool to recover.”
Chapter 15
By mid-morning the pall cast over the camp by Dennis’ gruesome end had basically lifted. It’s probably a sad commentary on modern society or something, but that’s how it was.
“I mean,” Connie said, sipping a piña colada, “it’s not like we really knew him.”
“Stop making that straw gurgle,” George said. “You don’t have to drink every drop. They will bring you another one. And I must say that none of you realize how very traumatic this is for me. I knew Dennis well. I roomed with him, and I’m very sad about his death.”
“Liar,” Fernando said. “You are not sad, my friend. You are glad he is gone. You disliked him. You told us all that you did.”
“Wrong. I didn’t dislike him, it was more than that. I loathed him. I despised him. That doesn’t mean I wanted him munched. I just wanted him to leave. To go away. And yes, I am glad he is gone, if you must know, but I am sad he was eaten.”
“Can we just change the subject, people?” Jay said, “No more about Dennis, okay? Just talk about something else. Case closed.”
“Wendy and Tilda suggested that we have a memorial service,” I said. “But no one has stepped up, so I guess that’s not happening. Are y’all okay with that?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Lord, yes.”
“Sidney, get real,” said George. “No memorial service. Enough about that. Not happening. Dennis is history. Now I’m going to the spa for a massage, guys. See you at lunch.”
No one was in a mood for more conversation and the group soon drifted apart. Jay followed George to the spa; Connie went to have her nails done. Fernando pulled off his shirt, slipped into the pool, and started swimming laps. After a few moments of surreptitious admiration of that superb sight, I fell asleep in a hammock.
When I woke, I opened my eyes to find that everyone had disappeared except the chef, Willem, who was standing over me with a tray of snacks.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to wake you. I didn’t realize that you were sleeping. I apologize for disturbing you. But now that I have, would you like some hors d’oeuvres?”
He extended the tray of delightful little treats. I chose three and popped one into my mouth. “Thank you! This is wonderful!”
“Would you like more?”
“Actually, yes, I would, but I hate to be such a pig.”
“Take all you want, Miss, there’s no one else here to enjoy them.”
I looked around, and he was right. Everyone seemed to have vanished, leaving us quite alone at the pool. I saw his frank appraisal of my red swimsuit, what little there was of it.
Willem set the tray down on the table and leaned against one of the carved wooden posts of the pavilion. He was an interesting-looking man, with a short, sturdy body, powerful arms, and round head with strands of blond hair falling into his sharp Dutch blue eyes. His deep tan was emphasized by his chef’s whites.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“No, it won’t bother me. There is a breeze.”
“I do,” Mabel’s harsh voice rang out. She had just emerged from the library with an Afrikaans dictionary, of all things. She sat down in a lounge chair near the edge of the pool, out of the sun, and opened the book. “Please don’t smoke.”
Willem gave her a sharp look of annoyance but put the cigarette back in his pocket.
“Stay a moment, Willem,” I said, patting the chair beside me. “Tell me how you came to be a chef in a game lodge.”
“Thanks, I will,” he said, shooting a glare over his shoulder at Mabel, who was making a great show of ignoring us, though she had positioned herself close enough to overhear our entire conversation. She was really beyond annoying.
“I have some time before we begin the luncheon service,” he continued. “Everything is running very late today.”
We spent se
veral minutes watching some water buffalo drink from the waterhole while we chatted about the camp cuisine and the challenges of providing gourmet meals in a rustic setting. He spoke briefly of an early career in farming in Zimbabwe, telling his terrible story of how he was forced from his land like so many others.
“Cooking is not really what I planned to do, what I wanted to do. It was just what I could do. I grew up on the land, had worked the land all my life, like my father before me. After they took my farm, I had nothing. Nothing except my car and what little I could carry in it. We left Zimbabwe in the middle of the night and bribed our way across the Limpopo into South Africa, feeling lucky to be alive. I cast about for a bit, taking odd jobs so we could eat. I was always handy in the kitchen, so one thing led to another. I got a bit of training, Henrik gave me this job, and here I am.”
“What sort of man is Henrik? Is he a good boss?”
“Yes, he is. He’s fair. He doesn’t skimp on things. He pretty much gives me free rein in how I run the kitchen, isn’t always checking behind me, as long as the guests are happy. He’s actually not here much. He also has lots of cash, so he doesn’t have to watch his pennies like most of us.”
“Well, you are very good at running your kitchen, Willem. Your food is delicious. Are the dishes you prepare mostly South African or are they from Zimbabwe?”
He seemed pleased by the praise. His blue eyes lost a bit of their wariness.
“A little of both,” he replied. “Some of them are Dutch, family recipes. My ancestors were original Voortrekkers, Boers who fled the British in ox wagons. Actually, now that I think of it, the bulk of the dishes that make up my menus here in camp are from recipes I used in Zimbabwe.”
“Do those require special ingredients? Isn’t it difficult to get things from Zimbabwe, under the present regime?”
He smiled, but the blue eyes had hardened again. “It would be, yes, if I had to get my supplies there. Quite difficult. I could send for things, I suppose, but the bribes I would have to pay would be more than the cost of the food. Luckily, I don’t have to. I can find all I need right here. I would never personally try to go grocery shopping across that border. I can’t set foot in Zimbabwe. I expect there’s still a price on my head in some circles in Harare.”
Willem was certainly the most interesting chef I had ever met. I wondered just how bad life had been for this man. Undoubtedly, there was much more in his experience that he had left unsaid.
“You have truly an amazing story, Willem. But earlier, you said ‘we’ left Zimbabwe. Who else came with you?”
“My wife.”
That surprised me. I had thought he was single. No one had been introduced as his wife.
“Oh. I haven’t met her,” I said, wondering who she might be. “Is she here in camp?”
“She is not. Cast out, living by our wits ... It was too much for her. She couldn’t take it. She left me for another, a rich man. But later, she left him, too.”
As he said this, his sharp blue eyes held a look of grim satisfaction. “I’ll never be as poor as that again. Never. I can promise you that. I’ll never forget those days. I’ve done pretty well for myself since then. I’ve managed to save a bit of cash, even bought into this operation. I only have a small bit, nothing like Henrik, but my interest will grow in time.”
Willem stood and picked up the tray. “Well, then,” he said, “that’s more than enough of my sad story. I must get back to the kitchen. Lunch will be served soon.”
An odd sound interrupted his narrative, a deep, rough sound, like a saw cutting wood.
I glanced in the direction of the sound. “What is that noise?” I asked. “Are they building onto the kitchen?”
“No,” he laughed, “it’s only Sheba, Mr. van der Brugge’s leopard. That’s one of the sounds she makes. Henrik raised her from a cub. Lions killed her mother.”
“A leopard? Really? What a strange pet! Aren’t you afraid of her?”
“No,” he laughed. “I like her a lot. She keeps me company. I help him train her. I work with her a bit every day. Sheba is as well trained as a wild cat can be.”
We heard the strange, sawing cough again.
“Her main enclosure is just behind the kitchen,” he continued. “He has another for her at his house. Sheba sleeps most of the day and is usually pretty silent. That rough cough means that something has disturbed her. Perhaps she longs for a mate, or for her lunch like everyone else. And speaking of lunch, I really must go now.”
He paused in the doorway, giving me a sharp look. “You should ask your friends for a report on tonight’s meal. I am serving roast springbok with a wild mushroom and claret reduction,” he said, watching me closely with his sly blue eyes. “I understand you will not be dining with us.”
“What? Oh, no, that’s a mistake. I will be at the table with my friends tonight. I just skipped breakfast because I was sad and didn’t feel like eating after what happened. I’m okay now. I’ll have lunch, and I will be here tonight as well. Where else would I be?”
“At Mr. van der Brugge’s table. In his house. You are to be his guest for a private dinner tonight after the evening game drive. His only guest. At least, that’s what he personally ordered, not an hour ago. He asked me to send his invitation for a private dinner to your room and that has already been delivered. I was also asked to plan a very special dinner. I hope you enjoy it.”
I was speechless.
“Right then, I’m off to the kitchen.”
He gave me a sly smile and walked away.
Chapter 16
The invitation, handwritten on paper imprinted with the snarling leopard logo, was on my bed when I walked into Hut No. 1.
The only problem was that it had been opened, and someone large and redheaded was reading it. Aloud.
Dear Sidney,
Please join me for dinner this evening at my home after Sundowners. Nigel, my driver, will bring you.
—Henrik
“Excuse me, I believe that is mine,” I said, snatching it out of his hands. “And get off my bed with your shoes. Mess up your own bed.”
“Well, well, well, little Miss Secrets,” he said, not budging an inch, but at least nudging the shoes off onto the floor. “Don’t be so huffy. It was pushed under the door and it wasn’t sealed. Confession time, Sidney. Just what did you do to rate this little treat? Or what are you planning to do? Tell Uncle Jay, sweetheart. I won’t breathe a word to anyone, I promise.”
“Yeah, right, you bet. Not until you needed a funny story over drinks. Where I have dinner or with whom is none of your business or anyone else’s, for that matter. And that envelope was addressed to me, not you, my nosy friend. You had no business opening it.”
He sat up, laughing at me, and as always, enjoying my indignation. “Are you in a snit, babe? A real one?”
“Probably not, but you shouldn’t have opened my mail. Boundaries, remember? We need some boundaries here.”
“When have we ever had boundaries, Sidney?” He got off the bed and padded over to my closet. “Now, what are we going to wear?”
When Gabriel blows the trumpet, Jay is not going to heaven unless they have designer robes. He loves a logo more than anything, so his dive into my closet for a good dinner dress was beyond disappointing for him. He came up empty. Big surprise.
“This stuff you brought is pitiful. I guess you’re stuck with wearing that black thing or the red sundress again. Really, sweetie, when we get back home, I’m taking you shopping.”
“Great! I would love that! Does that mean you are paying?”
“Of course not,” he said as he headed to the shower to begin his evening ritual, “I’m just offering my expert advice. You know I never have any money. Neither do you, really. What you truly need is a sugar daddy to buy you a nice wardrobe. Take a lesson from Connie. What about van der Brugge? Play your cards right tonight and he might buy you a dress or two. If that doesn’t work, there’s always Silverstein. He’s got a ton of money.”
He closed the bathroom door just in time. My aim was off. The shoe just barely missed his head.
* * *
Jay was belting out a show tune in the shower, so I almost didn’t hear the faint tapping at the door.
I opened the front door, looked out, saw no one, and closed it. But the insistent tapping continued, and I finally realized that it came from the back door, the sliding glass one in the window wall on the river side.
I pushed aside the louvered wooden shutters and saw Winsome, the night maid, standing on the deck, waiting impatiently for me to unlock and open the glass.
“Winsome! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were there. I almost didn’t hear you. You should have knocked or called out, instead of tapping. Please, come in.”
“No. Miss,” she whispered, “I can stay only a moment before I am missed. I cannot come in. Please, step outside. I must speak with you, quickly.”
She seemed very nervous, her head constantly swiveling, her eyes darting back and forth as she scanned the paths, the brush, and the riverbed.
I stepped out onto the deck, sliding the wooden shutters closed behind me. “Well, here I am. What is it? You are upset, Winsome. Is something wrong?’
“Tonight, Miss,” she whispered. “Tonight I speak with Ingwe. He tells me that you are coming for dinner at the big house. Fine dinner, you know the dinner I mean, with Mr. van der Brugge.”
What is going on here? Jungle drums beating out Sidney’s dinner plans?
“Yes,” I said with a smile, “I have been invited to have dinner tonight at Mr. van der Brugge’s house. Did you say Ingwe? Is that a nickname?”
“Ingwe is a bad man, Miss. You must stay away from Ingwe, Miss. I tell you, stay away from him. You have been kind to me, so I come to warn you. Do not spend time with him. Do not talk to him. Do not believe what he says. Only harm comes from Ingwe. That is all I can say but you must listen, must believe. I know him. Stay away from Ingwe.”