Recipes for Love and Murder (23 page)

‘We must be getting close,' I said, ‘or else he wouldn't be threatening me.'

‘Getting close? What do you mean you're getting close? I told you to stay out of this.'

‘Have some lemonade, Detective.'

He paced up and down.

‘You've been getting yourself into trouble again. And look. Look where it's got you. I hope this is a warning to you.'

I had another sip; I looked at a place on my ceiling where the paint was flaking. I was wondering about who we had been irritating apart from the detective.

‘Detective Kannemeyer, do people know about Jessie and me being at the house the night of Lawrence's murder?'

‘I didn't tell anyone but I'm sure half the town knows by now. Mevrou Gouws at CBL Hardware was spreading the news.'

‘If the man wanted to murder me, why kill my veldskoene? He's trying to scare me off. It must be someone who thinks I know something . . . '

‘This. Is. Not. Your. Investigation.'

‘No, it's yours. But if you want to find the killer you should listen to people with things to tell you.'

Kannemeyer sat down at the kitchen table. He ran his hand across his hair and drank half of his lemonade. It seemed to cool him off a bit.

‘Okay,' he said. ‘Tell me what you know.'

‘I think you might need a pen and paper,' I said.

He took out a pen and small notebook. He nodded at Piet, who also sat down.

‘Help yourself to more lemonade, Piet,' I said.

He did, and he filled up our glasses too while I told them everything I knew about Grace, John, Mr Marius, Martine's brother, Candice, and even the Seventh-day Adventists.

When I'd finished I said: ‘Now maybe you could tell me your news.'

Kannemeyer shook his head.

‘You don't give up, do you? This is a police matter. But what I will tell you is that you were right about the pomegranate juice. There were sedatives in it. We are asking the Spar to try and remember who they sold the juice to.'

‘There must be a lot of people. The tellers won't remember.'

‘Not so many. There were only six litres in the crate that came in last week.'

‘And, like I told you, maybe John is able to ripen pomegranates early. Maybe he's got his own supply of frozen juice too . . . '

‘We will check it out. But please stay out of it, Maria. Please. We don't want you getting killed as well.'

My last mouthful of juice had little bits of lemon. I chewed them.

‘Jessie could be in danger too,' I said.

‘Did her shoes also come home?'

‘No. Well, not when I phoned her house earlier.'

‘We need to get you somewhere safe,' he said.

‘Detective. I'm not running away. Who would feed my chickens?'

‘We could post someone here for a while. In case he comes back. The policeman could feed your chickens.'

‘And who will feed the policeman? I'm staying here.'

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

‘I am worried about my chickens,' I said to Piet. Kannemeyer had gone. ‘They're usually in the front garden.'

Piet put the three glasses in the sink, and went outside. I found an old cotton shirt of my husband's to cover the rips in my dress, then I followed Piet into the back garden. He was squatting beside the chickens, making little birdy noises. They were huddled under a cancer bush behind the house. The red flowers on the kankerbos looked like big drops of blood. When the chickens saw me they came running.

One, two, three, four, five. They were all there, and they were fine.

‘
Cluck cluck cluck
,' they said.

‘
Kik kik kik
,' I said, and they followed me back to the stoep.

I looked at the grapes that I had dropped on the ground.

‘Sorry,' I said, and I bent down to sort through them.

I threw the squashed ones into the garden for the chickens to eat. The other grapes were fine and I washed them and put them in the fridge. The chickens were still waiting around so I chucked out a handful of crushed mielies for them and I watched them peck at the yellow pieces on the grass. Piet walked around the garden and the driveway looking at tiny things like ants and dust.

A little later, a police van came and fetched Constable Piet and dropped Sergeant Vorster. Vorster sat on the stoep and watched the light changing on the Rooiberg. The shadows were growing on the hills and there was a cool breeze blowing away the heat that had been sitting so heavy on us all day. We had finished the lemonade, but I took him some coffee and beskuit.

‘Thank you, Tannie,' he said.

‘Shouldn't you be undercover?' I asked him.

He frowned.

‘You know,' I said. ‘In plain clothes, and hidden away. In case he comes back.'

He shook his head.

‘I'm here to protect you,' he said, and took a sip of coffee.

I prepared the bed in the spare room. I would make a simple supper of Welsh rarebit. I went out to the chicken hokkie and collected some eggs. When I passed Vorster on my way back, I thought I'd better check with him about supper. Maybe he was a Seventh-day Adventist or something.

‘Do you eat eggs and cheese sauce? For supper.'

‘I'm going home for supper. Detective Lieutenant Kannemeyer's doing the evening shift from seven o'clock.'

My kitchen clock said it was five o'clock. I put the eggs in a bowl on the kitchen counter. I decided they could wait till breakfast. I suddenly felt like making tomato lamb stew and a honey-toffee snake cake. The yeast dough for the cake takes a while to rise, but if I put it in the evening sun right away it would be okay. The lamb in the bredie should stew all day. I looked at the clock again, but it didn't give me any more time, in fact it was getting less. I had some slow-cooked lamb stew in the freezer. I could just add the tomato and the bredie spices. I had to work fast to get the slow meal on the road. Once the lamb was defrosting in the cast-iron pot on the stove and the cake dough was rising on the stoep, I boiled the potatoes and scalded and peeled the tomatoes and found the spices. I was glad I had allspice and mace, because I really like them in my tomato bredie. I added the ingredients to the lamb in the pot. When it was simmering sweetly I wrapped it all up and put it in the hotbox to carry on cooking slowly.

I was on the stoep, checking on the honey-cake dough, when I heard the car coming. My hands were full of flour and I had my apron on over my dress and shirt, but I wasn't going to go and change again. I brought the cake dough in, tidied my hair a bit and put on the kettle. Then I rolled the cake dough into a long fat sausage, and twisted it into a loose spiral on the baking tray.

He knocked on the door, although it was open.

‘Something smells good.'

The tips of his moustache were sharp, as if they had been waxed. He had changed into jeans and a white cotton shirt. It looked soft and faded, like he had worn it a lot. His gun was on his hip, and he was carrying a small suitcase and some plastic bags.

‘Coffee?' I said, as I poured the almond honey sauce over the cake.

‘Please,' he said. ‘Milk and one sugar.'

He put the bags on a kitchen chair, and his suitcase on a couch in the sitting room. He drank his coffee standing up while he studied the front door. I could smell the cardamom in the honey cake as I put it in the warming drawer to rise.

‘You'll need to get a new lock put in,' he said. He took some tools out from one of the plastic bags, and fixed a big bolt onto the front and the back of the door. ‘That will have to do for now. Here's the padlock and keys for the front bolt.'

He put them on the table, next to a bag of flour. He fixed a smaller bolt onto the window with a broken lock. I didn't tell him that I liked to leave my doors and windows open.

‘Are you hungry?' I said.

‘I brought some pies,' he said, pointing to a packet on the chair.

‘Oh, okay.' I said, washing my hands. I dried them on a dishcloth. ‘I've made tamatiebredie, Detective.'

‘Call me Henk.'

‘And honey-toffee snake cake,' I said.

I couldn't get my tongue to say his first name.

‘Sjoe. I guess I could have those pies for lunch tomorrow.'

He pointed to my face.

‘You've got some flour there. On your cheek.'

I wiped it with the back of my hand.

‘You missed it,' he said.

I tried again.

He shook his head and came closer to me. I could feel the warmth coming off his body, like he had just come out of the oven. He was a lot taller than me. I could see the red and copper hairs on his chest. His hand brushed my cheek next to my mouth.

‘There,' he said.

He smelled like fresh-baked cinnamon bread and honey. He stepped back. My mouth felt dry. I poured myself some coffee, my hands shaking. When I picked the cup up, the coffee spilled onto my hand.

‘You all right?' he said.

I put the cup down, and wiped my hands on my apron.

‘It's been quite a day,' I said.

‘Sit down,' he said.

I sat. I put my elbows on the table and rested my forehead on my hands.

‘Have you got some brandewyn?' he said.

I pointed to the top cupboard. He found the brandy behind the vanilla essence and poured some into a glass, then stirred in a spoon of sugar and put it in front of me. The brandewyn was sweet and warm and made a small fire inside my belly.

‘For the shock,' he said.

He was talking about the veldskoene on my doorstep. And yes, that was scary. But the thing that was making my whole body shake was the shock of a man touching my face. With gentleness.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Maybe it was the brandy, because I hardly ever drink, but that whole night felt like a dream.

Henk Kannemeyer wiped down the kitchen table and found plates and knives and forks, which he laid out nicely. He checked the rice on the stove, and when it was ready he put it on the table.

‘I can smell that bredie, but I can't see it,' he said.

I pointed out the hotbox, and he put the bredie on the table, and dished up my plate and then his.

‘Eat,' he said.

I was staring at the plate and the table with wide eyes. I had never seen a table laid and a plate dished up by a man before. It looked fine. The smell of the tomato stew came swimming up to me, and I ate.

‘When must the cake come out?' he said.

I couldn't believe I had forgotten the cake. I had remembered to put it in the oven but not to take it out. I looked at the clock.

‘In two minutes,' I said.

Then I forgot about it again. But he remembered it.

When we'd finished our dinner, he put the honey-toffee snake cake on the table, together with small plates and cake forks. He had chosen the salad plates instead of the cake plates but it didn't matter.

‘You are a fine cook, Maria. I haven't had food as good as this in a while.'

He smiled at me. But his eyes looked sad.

Then the brandy made me ask: ‘Do you not have a wife, Detective?'

The sadness in his eyes turned to pain, and he looked away.

‘She was a really good cook,' he said, then he swallowed. ‘She died four years ago. Four years and three months.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said.

But I was not really sorry at all. I felt so pleased that he had no wife that my heart did a little dance. Then I felt terrible that I was glad. I could feel his pain even from across the table.

‘I'm sorry, Henk,' I said again, and this time I meant it.

I cut a big piece of cake and put it on his plate. The honey-toffee had seeped nicely into the top crust, and the almonds were toasted and caramelised. When we had finished our cake we just sat and listened to the frogs.

He sat still, looking at the table, while I tidied and washed up.

It was a quiet evening. But although we didn't talk much, it felt like a lot was said.

Then the strangest thing happened, while I was standing there at the sink, with my hands in the soapy water, and the big man at the table behind me, and my tummy full of good food and brandy. I felt a new kind of happiness. A different kind of happy from when I bake a good cake, or see my chickens, or get a visit from Hattie.

I was getting a taste of something I had always been hungry for but never known how to cook. Maybe I was going to have a real life before death after all.

Detective Kannemeyer went around the house locking up. The sash windows in my bedroom allowed an opening at the top, and I was glad to see he left a gap for fresh air.

He laid a sleeping bag out on the couch.

‘There's a bed for you in the spare room,' I said.

‘I can listen out better from here,' he said. ‘He might try the front door.'

He went outside and walked around the property with a torch. I brought the bedding through from the spare room, and made up the couch with sheets and pillows. On a warm night like tonight, a sleeping bag can get too hot, and a sheet can be just right.

I brushed my teeth and put on my nightie, dressing gown, and just a little bit of lipstick. Then I went to say goodnight.

‘I'm a light sleeper,' he said, ‘but if you hear anything – anything at all – wake me.'

When I lay down, my head felt very light. It might have been the brandy evaporating. My door was a little open and I heard him walking to the bathroom and wondered if he had brought his toothbrush and pyjamas.

I heard him lie down on the couch. I listened to the frogs sing and an owl calling and its mate answering. Then there was a low growling sound. I sat up. I wasn't very frightened – it sounded like an animal, not a murderer. I got out of bed and walked towards my door. The growling got louder. It was inside the house! I was about to call Kannemeyer, when I realised I knew that sound. The sound of a man snoring. I tiptoed to the lounge. Henk was lying fully clothed on top of all the bedding, his mouth slightly open, snoring evenly. I stood for a moment and watched the rise and fall of his chest.