Recipes for Love and Murder (7 page)

I thought she would kick him or throw herself on the floor but she just lifted her chin a little higher. Maybe she was happy at the thought of joining her Tienie.

Piet moved so quickly I hardly saw him. He knocked Dirk's arm up into the air as a shot rang off.
Boom
! Bits of plaster and dust fell down from the ceiling.

Detective Kannemeyer clamped Dirk's wrist in his big hand, and took the gun from him.

‘Enough,' said the detective.

Kannemeyer twisted Dirk's arm behind his back, and Dirk made a snorting noise. They both had ceiling dust on their hair.

‘You fat rat,' Dirk mumbled as he was pushed past Anna, out of the room.

I shook my head. Such rudeness. So unnecessary.

Anna really was not at all fat. She had some padding, like any woman who ate three meals a day. But to call her fat was just wrong.

Now the police station was full of people who'd popped in to see what the shouting and shooting was about.

‘Hello, Tannie Elna,' I said to the woman who worked in the shoe shop next door.

She was small and thin, hopping up and down like a meerkat to get a good view.

‘What's going on?' she said.

‘Would you say she is fat?'

I pointed to Anna, who was being led away by a policewoman. Elna put her head to one side and scrunched up her mouth, then shook her head.

‘No,' she said, ‘not really . . . '

‘Was someone shot?' asked a man from the Spar, the manager.

He had one of those silly little moustaches, like a little boy who's drunk chocolate milk. The hair on his head was combed sideways, to hide the bald bits.

‘Dirk van Schalkwyk was here,' said Elna.

The Spar manager's nostril curled up.

I don't know how Elna knew about Dirk; I hadn't told her. But that's what it's like in a small town. Sometimes news travels faster than the things that are actually happening. I was once told of an old lady's death before she died. But she did die, the next day, so she managed to catch up with the news.

‘I hear Martine van Schalkwyk was killed,' said Tannie de Jager from the library.

‘Who is she?' said a lady wearing a pink floral dress.

‘She's married to Dirk, who works at the Agri,' said Elna. ‘She does the books at the Spar.'

Then they were all talking at once, saying and asking I don't know what. I was looking around for somewhere quiet to sit, when the detective came back in again and said very loudly: ‘Show's over. Go away.'

The people went quiet and looked at him and each other.

‘
Voetsek!
'
he shouted, making a shooing movement with his hands, and they scuttled out like chickens.

But I stayed, standing to one side. Kannemeyer ran his hand through his short hair.

‘Can I help you?' he said.

‘You look like you could use a nice cup of coffee,' I said, looking up at him.

He smiled. It was a nice smile. Slow and warm, and it went right to his eyes. His moustache curved up at the corners. His teeth were white and strong.

‘Ja,' he said. ‘You were at the
Karoo Gazette
.'

‘I need to talk to you,' I said. ‘About Martine van Schalkwyk.'

He sighed and took a pen out of his pocket.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The next morning I stood on my stoep and watched the early light make long shadows of the hills and the thorn trees. The sun was warm on my face and I had a good feeling but I wasn't sure why. It was probably because of the lamb. I was going to make slow-roasted lamb, with potatoes, pumpkins and green beans. And a buttermilk chocolate cake.

Detective Kannemeyer hadn't listened to my whole story at the police station, but got my details and said he'd come round to my house the next day to take a statement. I could see he had a lot on his hands, so I didn't argue. He said he would call first.

On the way home from the police station, I'd stopped at the butcher because they had a special on leg of lamb. There is no better-tasting meat than Karoo lamb. You can taste the Karoo veld, and sunshine and the sweet wild herbs the lambs eat.

I was in the mood for my nice cream dress, the one with the little blue flowers. I took off my veldskoene and found my blue shoes with the low heels. I put on my apron and started with the lamb.

Once the lamb was in the oven, I went outside to pick rosemary for the potatoes. The red geraniums were flowering, and I cut some to put in a vase on the kitchen table.

When I was in the garden, the phone rang. My shoes interfered a bit with my walking, and on account of this and the distance between the geranium bush and the phone, my heart was beating fast when I picked up.

‘Hello.'

‘Tannie Maria?'

‘Hats,' I said.

‘You all right, darling? You sound a tad breathless.'

I put the rosemary and the geraniums on the phone table and sat down on the chair.

‘What did Jessie find out?' I asked.

‘Can you come in to the office? To discuss the murder case.'

‘The case,' I said, because it felt good to say.

‘Well, it's not as if it's a big murder mystery. We know jolly well who did it. But we don't want the rotter to get away with it, do we?'

‘I can't come yet,' I said. ‘Detective Henk Kannemeyer is coming here today.'

‘The big chap,' she said, ‘with the strong arms.'

‘To take my statement. And read the letters.'

‘Jessie went to interview him, but he wouldn't tell her anything. Maybe you'll have better luck.'

‘I'll do my best. What did Jessie find out at the hospital?'

‘Sister Mostert, Jessie's mum, heard that it may've been an overdose. Sleeping tablets.'

‘Suicide?' I leaned forward in my chair.

‘Maybe. They still have to do the autopsy.'

‘Look, I mustn't stay on the phone. You know, in case Kannemeyer calls.'

‘You sound like you're waiting for a date.'

‘Don't be silly, Hattie. I must go.'

I rubbed the geranium leaf between my finger and thumb and breathed it in.

Suicide. Selfmoord as they say in Afrikaans: self-murder. Sjoe. In some ways it felt worse than murder. If a man treats a woman so badly that she ends her own life, it's like he has killed her twice: her heart and then her body.

When I was with Fanie I thought of killing myself. I even got as far as buying sleeping tablets.

There was a pressure on my chest like a bag of potatoes. I just let myself sit there, next to the phone. Then I was suddenly crying. For Martine, for Anna, for myself. I hadn't cried for years and there I was, crying for the second time in just a few weeks. Maybe it was not a bad thing. When I was finished, my heart felt a bit lighter.

I hadn't killed myself. I was here now, alive. I had chickens that gave me beautiful eggs, a stoep with the best view, and some real friends.

I took another sniff of the geranium and got up.

I peeled the potatoes and sprinkled rosemary, salt and olive oil over them, put them in the oven and turned up the heat. Then I took the letters from Martine and Anna outside to the stoep table, along with some tea and beskuit, and read through what the women had written, and my responses to them.

‘No,' I said to the last beskuit. ‘This woman didn't kill herself. She had plans to escape.'

I went inside and chopped up half a pumpkin, and sprinkled it with sugar, cinnamon and blobs of butter.

‘I wonder if I left the phone off the hook,' I said to the pumpkin as I put it in the oven.

I checked the phone. It was okay. I nipped the ends off the green beans and prepared the batter for the chocolate cake. I was greasing the cake tin, my fingers covered with butter, when the phone rang.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

‘
Mevrou van Harten? It's Detective Lieutenant Henk Kannemeyer. Can I come round now?'

I looked at the clock on the wall. It was noon.

‘Could you make it at one o'clock, Detective?'

He cleared his throat. Everyone in Ladismith knows business is not done between one and two. All the shops close so that people can go home for lunch. Except for the Spar. And the police station.

‘I can give you a bite to eat,' I said. ‘That is, unless . . . '

Maybe he was expected at home.

‘It's okay,' he said. ‘I've got sandwiches.'

‘No, no, I've made roast lamb.'

‘Roast lamb?'

‘With potatoes and pumpkin. Soetpampoen.'

‘Oh. Well then . . . '

I wondered who made him his sandwiches.

I put the cake in the oven and took the foil off the lamb. Then I prepared the chocolate icing. I added the rum and buttermilk and tasted the dark mixture on the tip of my little finger.

‘Mmmm,' I said. I added a pinch of salt and then tasted again. ‘Perfect.'

I cleaned the kitchen and laid the outside table. The big jug of lemonade with ice and fresh mint stood next to a tray with the letters from Martine, and her friend, Anna. My replies were there too.

The heat had melted the dark blue out of the sky, leaving it that pale Karoo blue. But the trees and tin afdak kept the stoep cool.

I took off my apron, tidied my hair and put on fresh lipstick. I heard a car heading my way and I smoothed my dress and went outside. A bokmakierie was calling to its mate in the thorn tree. I saw his police van pulling up in my driveway. Those birds make such a beautiful trilling sound, it goes right through your heart. I walked up the pathway to wave at him. Just so he knew he was in the right place.

I watched him get out. Long trousers and his khaki cotton shirt a bit open at his neck and chest. He touched the tip of his moustache and dipped his head as he greeted me.

‘Just listen to those bokmakieries,' I said.

‘Ja. Lovely.'

We walked to the stoep together. He sat down, fitting his long legs under the table.

‘Smells good,' he said.

‘Lemonade?' I poured some into a tall glass for him. He smelled good too. Like sandalwood and honey. ‘Here are the letters I told you about. I'll just be in the kitchen.'

He started reading as I went to look after the roast and the chocolate cake. The cake needed to cool before I could ice it.

When I came out with the roast lamb and vegetables, Kannemeyer was holding the letters in his hand, and looking out across the veld at our red mountain, the Rooiberg. I could still hear the bokmakieries calling, but they sounded further away now, maybe in the big gwarrie tree.

He jumped up to help me put the roasting tray on the table.

‘Shall I carve that for you?' he said.

I handed him the knife.

‘I'll get the handwriting checked,' he said, slicing the lamb, ‘but I think you're right – these were written by Mevrou van Schalkwyk and Mejuffrou Pretorius.' He shook his head. ‘Those white ducks . . . '

‘You read my letters too?' I said, spooning potatoes and pampoen onto his plate.

‘Ja
.
I read them all.'

‘So you can see why I feel involved. Responsible, even,' I said, dishing the green beans.

He frowned.

‘If I hadn't told her to leave, he wouldn't have killed her,' I said.

‘You can't blame yourself, Mrs van Harten.'

‘If I had told her about people, organisations, that could help her, keep her safe,' I said, putting some of the best lamb slices on his plate, ‘she could be alive today. Like me. About to eat a nice lunch.'

The thought that she would never eat lunch again made me very sad.

‘Tannie Maria,' he said, ‘we don't even know it was the husband. It might have been suicide. Maybe it was Anna. We don't know yet. You can't blame yourself.'

‘It wasn't suicide. And you don't really think Anna— '

But I didn't want to ruin the meal with an argument.

‘Let's eat,' I said. ‘Help yourself to gravy.'

The food was perfect. The lamb was dark and crispy on the outside and tender on the inside; the potatoes, golden brown; the pampoen sticky and sweet. Kannemeyer closed his eyes when he ate his first mouthful. We did not talk while we ate. I could hear the bokmakieries again, out in the veld.

When he'd finished eating he said: ‘I haven't had such a lekker roast since— For a long time.'

A little bit of gravy was on the tip of his chestnut moustache. He smiled. That lovely white smile again. But his eyes looked sad. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. It was time to set things straight, while the food was still warm in his belly.

‘Detective Kannemeyer,' I said, ‘you know it was her husband who killed her.'

‘Maybe. Maybe not. You need evidence to convict someone.'

‘You've read the letters,' I said. ‘I was there when this . . . man tried to kill Anna in the police station.'

‘Ja, Anna must lay charges against him. But that is a separate matter.'

‘Have you got evidence that someone else could have killed Martine?'

‘We are waiting on . . . reports.'

‘What reports?'

I was wondering about Anna's fingerprints and the autopsy.

‘Ma'am,' he said, ‘Mrs van Harten. We are handling it, you don't need to worry.'

‘But, Detective, we do worry. The man can't just get away with it. We could help you investigate the case.'

‘We?' he said, glancing at the watch on his thick wrist.

‘Well, us, at the
Klein Karoo Gazette
,' I said. ‘We've got an investigative reporter, we know people in the town. We could find evidence . . .'

‘Mrs van Harten,' he said, standing up. ‘I appreciate the information you have given me, but this is a murder investigation for the police to handle.'

‘There's cake,' I said. ‘Buttermilk chocolate cake. With rum in the icing.'

‘Sorry. I have to go.'

The bokmakieries had gone quiet now; from far away on the R62 came the sound of a truck driving up towards Oudtshoorn.