Recipes for Love and Murder (22 page)

‘You hit her,' I said.

‘Who do you think you are?'

His cheeks were swelling up now, like a balloon. I just stood there and looked at him.

He sighed and some of the air went out of that red balloon.

‘You are right, Tannie,' he said. ‘I was a rubbish husband. Now it's too late . . . '

‘Anna was a good friend to her. If you care about your wife, you'll treat Anna with respect.'

‘I know people think it was me who killed her. I go crazy sometimes.' He sat up, and leaned towards me. ‘But it wasn't me. I didn't kill her. You've got to believe me.'

‘I don't think it was you. And I don't think it was Anna either.'

‘Are you with the police?'

‘No, I'm investigating for the
Klein Karoo Gazette
. We got involved when Martine wrote to us, before she died.'

‘Who was it, Tannie? What bastard killed her?'

‘We don't know yet. But if you stop fighting Anna, maybe you can help us work it out.'

‘I dunno who'd do such a thing to Martine. It makes me blerrie crazy.'

He waved his bandaged paw about. I pulled up a plastic chair and sat down next to him. He was ready to answer questions; I just hoped I could remember them all.

‘Lawrence said he was sorry – he didn't mean to get you into trouble,' I said. ‘What did he mean by that?'

‘Trouble? Oh, ja, Lawrence told the police I was there on the morning Martine was killed. But that was rubbish. I was at work right up till lunch time. Everyone at work saw me there. I don't know why he said that.'

‘Maybe he saw someone who drove a car like yours?'

‘Ja, could be . . . He wasn't one to sommer talk nonsense, Lawrence.'

‘The murderer might have thought Lawrence had seen him.'

‘You think that's why he got shot?'

‘Could also be because Lawrence walked in on him when he was at your house that night.'

‘What was the bastard doing at my house?' he said.

‘Going through papers in Martine's study.'

Dirk rubbed his scratchy chin with his hand.

I asked: ‘That Mr Marius, what was he doing here?'

‘He's got someone wants to buy our land.' He swallowed. ‘My land.'

‘And are you selling?'

‘Ag, I dunno. Now he's offering twice what it's worth, so I'd be blerrie stupid to say no. But Martine didn't want to sell. She said Marius was up to no good. With her gone, I dunno . . . Marius wants me to sign an agreement. But it's too soon. I haven't spent any time at home since . . . '

He looked around as if he had lost something. His gaze fell on the water jug beside his bed.

‘Can I pour you some water?' I said.

He shook his head, but kept looking at the water jug, as if it made him sad.

‘Who's the buyer?' I asked.

His face was confused, like he'd forgotten what we were talking about.

‘The one who wants to buy your land,' I said.

‘Dunno. Marius wants to keep it quiet . . . '

‘Was Martine religious?'

‘She was a good woman. Righteous.'

‘Did she have anything to do with the Seventh-day Adventists?'

‘The what? Oh, those people. The end of the world and that. Jinne, I don't know. She did once say . . . I didn't always listen. I wasn't a good husband.'

‘Did you know Martine's friend, John Visser?'

‘That useless rubbish. What do you mean, her friend?' His face did that red balloon thing again. ‘Did you see them together? Where?'

‘No, no, I'm just asking. I hear they were together long ago.'

‘She threw him away. Long ago. And you know what?
He's
got a white bakkie! I've seen it. It looks a lot like mine. It was him . . . I'll kill him!'

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

When we opened the doors of my bakkie in the car park, waves of heat came out. I smoothed my dress under my legs so my skin didn't touch the seat.

‘Goodness gracious,' Hattie said. ‘You should get an air conditioner, Tannie Maria.'

‘They cost more than I paid for my bakkie,' I said.

‘This heat can kill you,' she said. ‘Next time we go in my car.'

I dropped Hattie back at the
Gazette
and picked up my grapes and tomatoes and headed home. The brown hills had a hazy mist around them, from the dust and the heat. There were wobbly lines on the road that looked like puddles of water – mirages. It's funny how dry heat can make something that looks like cool water. It's like the air is longing for something so much that it just makes it up. That's the problem with wanting something too much: it can make you crazy.

By the time I got to my own driveway, my dress was stuck to the car seat. I was looking forward to a nice glass of lemonade and ice. I parked in the shade of the rhus tree, and peeled myself out of the bakkie. I brought with me the grapes and tomatoes. The tomatoes were sweating in their bag.

‘I'll get you in the fridge now-now,' I said.

It was quiet. Too quiet. Maybe the birds were lazy to sing in this heat, I thought, but what about the insects? When I walked up the pathway, my footsteps sounded loud.

My chickens, where are my chickens? I thought. They weren't scratching in the compost heap, and I couldn't see them lying in the shade.

Then I stood dead still. There was something brown lying on the doormat on my stoep. What was it?

I took a step forward.

My brown veldskoene.

For a moment I was pleased to see them again; my khaki veldskoene and I hurried forward to welcome them back after their long walk home. Then I remembered when they had disappeared. The night of Lawrence's murder.

Each shoe was sliced in half, like it had been sawn with a bread knife.

I dropped the box of grapes. I heard a rough cry that I thought was my own, but when I looked up I saw a crow flapping across the sky. I wanted to get under cover. I stepped around the splattered grapes and dead veldskoene, and opened my front door. It wasn't locked. I hardly ever lock it. I closed the door behind me and tried to lock it but the key was gone. The house was very quiet. Just the sound of my heart beating.

I put the tomatoes in the fridge and went to the phone. I wanted to see Henk Kannemeyer. I phoned the police station and asked for him. The man I spoke to had a thick, sleepy voice.

‘He's not here,' he said. ‘Can I help you, Mevrou?'

‘Send a police car to my house.'

I gave my name and address. He took a long time to spell it and write it down.

‘What's the problem, Mevrou?'

‘I need the police.'

‘Has there been a break-in to your house?'

‘I'm not sure. My key's missing.'

‘You've lost your keys?' he said.

‘A murderer was here.'

‘Was someone murdered?' he asked.

‘My veldskoene,' I said. ‘Cut in half.'

‘Your veldskoene were murdered?' the man said. ‘Lady, is this a joke?'

‘No,' I said. ‘I need Detective Kannemeyer. Doesn't he have a cell phone?'

‘We don't just give the detective lieutenant's number out.'

‘Piet, is Constable Piet Witbooi there?'

There was silence.

‘I need to talk to him. This is serious.'

The phone went quiet. I wasn't sure if he'd put the phone down or had gone to call Piet. Then I heard a background noise, so I kept hanging on.

At last a voice came on the line: ‘Hallo. Konstabel Piet Witbooi.'

‘Piet, it's me, Tannie Maria. My brown veldskoene, from the night Lawrence was shot. They are on my doorstep. Cut in half.'

‘We're on our way.'

I called Jessie on her cell. No reply. I phoned her house and a girl answered, one of her sisters or cousins. She had a big family.

‘Maria van Harten here. Can I speak to Jessie, please?'

‘Jessieeeeeeee!' she shouted.

I heard her footsteps as she walked off.
Thump. Thump
. My heart was going faster – I was holding my breath.

‘She doesn't wanna talk, Tannie,' reported the girl when she came back. ‘She says she's not feeling well.'

‘But she's okay?' I said, breathing out.

‘Jaaaa,' said the girl.

‘Go and look on your doorstep – tell me if there's anything there,' I said. ‘Some boots.'

‘Huh?' said the girl.

‘Just be a good girl and go look,' I said.

She tramped off and then came back.

‘Nothing there, Tannie.'

The phone went dead.

I heard a tapping sound, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

It was a little bird. Pecking at its reflection in the window.

Fighting with its own shadow.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

‘Piet,' I said, ‘thanks for coming.'

I was glad to see him. He was with a young policeman who introduced himself as Sergeant Vorster. Vorster had soft curly hair and smooth brown skin, like a baby's. Piet was wrinkled like an old man but he moved liked a youngster. He stepped around the grapes, and bent low to peer at the veldskoene on the doormat from this side and that; he studied the dust on the stoep. With his hand he directed Vorster back, out of the way.

Lemonade, I thought. I should pour us all lemonade and ice. That's what I had come home for, not this shoe-killing business. Vorster answered a call on his cell phone.

‘Ja,' he said, ‘we're here.' He put his phone away. ‘Lieutenant Kannemeyer is op pad. On his way.'

‘Excuse me,' I said.

I needed to freshen up. A clean dress at least. This one was all sweaty. I grabbed that nice dress with the purple roses from my bedroom cupboard – I hadn't worn it in a while, but I liked it – and popped into the bathroom. I took off my sticky dress and dropped it in the laundry basket. No time to shower, but I washed my face and wiped myself down with a facecloth. I heard a car arriving, and a door slamming.

I slipped the purple-rose dress over my head and pulled it down. It was tight and wouldn't come past my shoulders. What was wrong with it? It had never done this before. I pulled harder. No luck. So I tugged to get the dress back off but it wouldn't move. My arms were stuck up in the air. I heard footsteps on the stoep.

I hopped up and down, tugging on the cloth. Nothing moved. I was stuck.

‘Konstabel Witbooi,' Kannemeyer called at the front door. ‘Can I come in?'

I twisted and wriggled inside that dress. My mouth was full of cloth, so I couldn't breathe so well. Piet and Kannemeyer were in the house, talking. I heard a van driving off. Vorster, leaving. My arms were getting tired and I felt dizzy. I leaned against the wall to catch my breath.

I strained against the dress and felt it tear. I helped it to tear some more, then I pulled it off and I was free.

Whew
. I sat down on the toilet lid. First my veldskoene cut up, now my dress torn.

I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was a red as a tomato, and I was sticky again from the fight with the dress. I did another face-and body wipe with the cloth.

There was a knock on the bathroom door.

‘Sorry, Mrs van Harten.' It was Kannemeyer's voice. ‘Just want to know you're okay.'

‘Fine,' I said. ‘Coming.'

I dug out my dress from the laundry basket. As well as being sweaty, it was now totally rumpled from being bunched up in there. I tried stretching it out, but it was no good. Piet and Kannemeyer were right there; there was no way I could get to my bedroom. I held up the purple-rose dress. The torn bits were only at the back. I pulled it on. This time it fitted nicely and I did up the zip. When I turned around I could see two big rips in the mirror, but from the front it looked fine. I brushed my hair and put on my lipstick. I took a sip of water, but it didn't do the trick. Lemonade, I needed iced lemonade.

I stepped out of the bathroom and stood with my back to the wall. They were standing close by, looking at my sash window.

‘This doesn't lock,' said Kannemeyer to Piet, frowning.

‘Detective,' I said. ‘Lemonade?'

He looked at me and smiled; his moustache went up at the tips. I walked sideways like a crab, so they couldn't see my back.

‘It looks like he didn't come further than the doorway,' said Kannemeyer.

He had my brown veldskoene inside a clear plastic bag. Like a tiny body bag. I carried on crabbing past the dish rack, where I picked up three glasses.

‘Was your door locked?' asked Kannemeyer.

‘No,' I said, ‘and the key was in the front door. Now it's gone.'

Kannemeyer shook his head and tugged at a moustache end.

‘Can you go and stay somewhere else for a while?' he asked.

I was working my way across to the fridge.

‘It's okay,' he said. ‘Constable Witbooi has checked the floors, you can walk there.'

‘I don't want to leave,' I said, opening the fridge behind me.

Kannemeyer frowned. I felt on the fridge shelf behind me for the jug of lemonade. Piet came forward and picked up the jug and gave it to me. I filled our glasses and then managed to crab my way along to an armchair not far from the kitchen table. Ah, at last, cool lemonade. Piet swallowed his down, but Kannemeyer didn't pick up his glass.

‘I don't think you realise how serious this is, Mrs van Harten. Konstabel Witbooi has looked at the tyre tracks and the shoe prints. This is the same man who killed Lawrence. Maybe Martine too. It's no joke.'

‘This is my home,' I said.

‘Just for a while, till we catch him.'

‘How will you do that? Have you got leads?'

‘You're not safe here. Your windows don't even lock.'

‘Any suspects?'

‘Maria. Those shoes – cut up like that – are a threat on your life.'

I took a sip of my drink, and looked down at the khaki veldskoene that were safe and whole on my feet.