by Sally Andrew
‘What would you do if you wanted to poison one person but not others?’ said Hattie.
‘Maybe the woman who served him put the poison sauce on his sosatie,’ said Jessie.
‘No,’ I said, ‘the sauces were self-service, to speed things up.’
Hattie answered her own question: ‘I’d get in front of him in the queue, remove the good bottle and give him the poisoned sauce. Then I’d wait till he was finished and take the poisoned bottle away from him.’
‘Maybe the murderer pretended to come back for more sauce,’ said Jessie, ‘and then got rid of the poisoned bottle. Threw it under the table.’
‘Ja,’ I said. ‘Piet found two yellow bottles under the trestle table. He let me sniff them. One smelt like the normal honey-mustard sauce. The other had that garlic smell, the same as Slimkat’s napkin.’
‘Surely the police would’ve seen this gadding about with sauce bottles?’ said Hattie.
‘The queue was busy, and they were watching Slimkat, not the sauces,’ I said.
‘And why the garlic in the sauce?’ said Hattie.
‘A strong flavour to hide the taste of the poison?’ said Jessie.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It was because the murderer didn’t know the recipe.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘Yesterday afternoon, I asked at the Kudu Stall for the sauce recipe,’ I told Jessie and Hattie. ‘They wouldn’t give it to me, and they told me that another woman had asked for it too.’
‘And she could be the murderer?’ said Hattie.
‘Or just another tannie asking for the recipe,’ said Jessie, looking at the last beskuit on my plate.
‘Let’s make coffee,’ I said. Mine was lukewarm and ruined by a soggy rusk.
We made fresh coffee, and Jessie carried the whole tin of beskuit out onto the stoep. I took off my jacket and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on my arms. The Swartberge were now mostly lit up, with just a few shadows in the kloofs. Those hidden ravines always kept their secrets.
‘I’d agreed not to publish Slimkat’s story until the KKNK was over. To avoid panic,’ said Jessie. ‘But now that he’s dead . . . the other papers will pick up on the story.’
‘Hmm. And you interviewed him just before he died,’ said Hattie.
‘I think he knew what was coming and was giving me his last words. Some beautiful stuff.’ Jess opened a black pouch on her belt and took out her notebook. ‘Listen to this: “We are the ropes to God. When our land is beneath us and the open sky around us, we can feel the power of our ropes.” Slimkat was in training as a healer. They dance around the fire and go into a trance. He told me that when he danced, it was as if he died, and then the others brought him back to life. He said that’s why he was not afraid of death. He’d been there already.’
‘What are the Oudtshoorn police telling the press?’ said Hattie.
‘All they gave me last night was “no comment”. But let’s see what they say this morning. They can’t deny his death.’
Jessie took off her denim jacket, under which she wore her black vest. The gecko tattoos sunned themselves on her brown arms.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Hattie. ‘Let’s have a eulogy-type article now. But we wait until we have a go-ahead from the police before we talk about the death threats and foul play.’
‘But what if The Sun gets there first?’
‘Jessie, we’re a community gazette, not newshounds competing for scoops. Anyway, The Sun doesn’t have the inside information that you have. It’ll still be big news next week.’
‘But, Hattie . . .’ she said.
Hattie just shook her head.
Jessie dipped and bit into her rusk.
‘Jirre, this rusk is good,’ she said. It helped her swallow what her editor had told her. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I’ll give you that eulogy today. But I’m going to do a bit more investigating while I’m here. Talk to the people at the Kudu Stall. See who comes to get Slimkat’s body. I may even miss some of the shows to do it.’ She looked at Hattie. Her chin was raised, and there was a rusk crumb on it.
‘I agree this is a big story,’ said Hattie, ‘but so is the KKNK. I still want a full-length report on the festival. Even if you don’t review all the shows on your original list.’ She drank the last of her tea. ‘So, Tannie Maria, we’ll head back this morning. After your doctor’s appointment.’
I remembered Slimkat’s eyes on me, and I said, ‘I’d like to stay and help Jessie investigate.’
Jessie smiled at me. We made a good team. Though we hadn’t worked together since the murders of Martine and Lawrence, last year.
‘It’s not really your brief,’ said Hattie.
‘But it is all about food,’ I said.
‘You can’t drive all the way back on Jessie’s scooter,’ she said.
‘I don’t have a spare helmet,’ said Jessie.
‘I’ll make another plan,’ I said. ‘Maybe I’ll go back with Kannemeyer.’
‘Well . . . I assume you’re up to date with your letters?’ said Hattie.
I thought of the letter from the teenager about sex. I hadn’t given her a reply.
‘You have my letters for tomorrow’s edition,’ I said. ‘And I’ll be back in time for next week.’
‘Well, all right then, it’s up to you. Ah, speak of the devil. The big one with the fiery moustache.’
Kannemeyer was pulling up in a police car, a cream Volkswagen sedan. He was alone – no sign of Piet or Reghardt. My heart did a happy jump at the sight of him. But when he got out of the car he was not smiling.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said as he reached us. ‘I have bad news about Slimkat. He passed away last night.’
‘Yes,’ said Jessie. ‘We heard. What happened?’
‘You must wait for the official police report,’ he said.
‘So it is a police matter, then?’ said Jessie.
Kannemeyer didn’t answer.
‘Sit down,’ I said, pulling up a chair. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’
‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘But I was hoping to have a word with you, Maria. Alone.’
Jessie and Hattie looked at each other but did not move.
‘Can you come with me?’ he said.
‘Okay,’ I said, putting on my jacket. ‘Let me just fetch my bag.’
‘You gave full statements last night, didn’t you?’ he said to Jess and Hats as I stood up. They both nodded.
I splashed my face with water and put on some lipstick, then I headed back out with my handbag.
Jessie was asking Kannemeyer a question that I couldn’t hear, but as I got closer I caught his reply: ‘I am not the investigating officer. The case belongs to the Oudtshoorn police. I can’t give you any information.’
He was standing with his arms tightly folded, but they relaxed as he led me to the car.
I waved goodbye to Hattie and Jessie, and Jess winked at me.
‘There’s something I wanted to tell you,’ I said to Henk, ‘about the sauce.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘Shall we talk over breakfast?’ he said, as we drove off.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘How about scrambled eggs and roosterkoek?’ He slowed down and stared at me. Then he shook his head and drove us to Langenhoven Street, which was close to the festival area. We walked a block or so together. We didn’t hold hands.
Most of the shops were still closed and some stalls were just setting up, but there was a queue in front of the roosterkoek stall. A red-faced young couple were taking orders and serving. Beside them was a man in a T-shirt and a blue cap, turning the flat bread with braai tongs. Coals glowed in two metal half-barrels with big grids on top of them. There were dark toasted lines on the bread, like the stripes on field mice. The smell was delicious. Two short coloured tannies worked at a trestle table nearby, kneading the dough, then making balls and squashing them with the heels of their hands to make the round flat breads.
The queue moved quickly, and we were soon s
itting at a plastic table with our breakfast. Roosterkoek, scrambled ostrich egg and tomato chutney. I sniffed the food before popping it into my mouth. I couldn’t taste or smell garlic, and the chutney was the only sauce they had on offer. The bread and eggs were delicious, and the tomato chutney was almost as good as the one I made myself. The red-faced lady had dished it up for me; no self-service here.
‘Why did you want breakfast here?’ asked Henk, shaking a lot of salt and a little pepper onto his egg.
‘I heard it was good,’ I said.
He sighed and ate his food. He was obviously hungry.
‘I heard Slimkat had his breakfasts here,’ I said, after I’d eaten a little. The rusks worked better than the diet pills, I thought, to reduce the hunger. ‘There’s no garlic in this food. I smelt garlic on Slimkat’s breath and on his napkin. It must have come from the Kudu Stall.’
‘Why did you notice the garlic?’
‘I always notice food,’ I said. ‘And I had to lean close to Slimkat to hear him.’
Henk was cleaning his plate with the last of his griddle bread.
‘When Slimkat collapsed, he was looking at me and Jessie,’ I said. ‘Like he had something to tell us. He’d told Jessie about the attempt on his life, and he’d told me about his last meal: kudu sosaties with honey-mustard sauce.’
‘Piet said you thought the smell on Slimkat’s napkin was the same as the squeeze bottle he found under the table.’
‘Ja,’ I said. ‘But I can’t be a hundred per cent sure; I smelt it, not tasted it. Can’t you get that tested at a lab? To check if they were the same? And to see if there was poison in the garlic sauce?’
‘We are,’ he said. ‘But it takes time . . . I may be back in Ladismith by then.’
‘But the Oudtshoorn police will carry on the investigation, won’t they?’
‘Ja, I’m sure. But this man died on my watch. I want to catch who did it.’
‘He was a good man,’ I said.
Henk wiped his mouth and chestnut moustache with his napkin. ‘Do you reckon that the garlic sauce was meant to be an imitation of a Kudu Stall sauce?’
‘Definitely,’ I said. I pushed my half-eaten breakfast over to him, and he started in on it but kept his gaze on me as I spoke. ‘I could smell honey and mustard in it too. But it was a different kind of mustard. It might have been Colman’s. I think the Kudu Stall used Dijon mustard. But what I wanted to tell you was that earlier in the day, I went to ask at the Kudu Stall if they would give me the recipe. The girl there said that another woman had also asked for the recipe. And I wondered if the murderer tried to get it, so they could make their own sauce – but with poison.’
‘Seems like quite a risk for that woman to take; someone could recognise her,’ said Henk.
‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘but there’s so much going on at the festival, and maybe lots of tannies asking for recipes. It would also be risky if Slimkat started eating the kudu and then stopped because the sauce was no good.’
‘I wonder why he didn’t stop eating, if he could taste it was different?’
‘Maybe it wasn’t very different, and it probably still tasted nice. It smelt nice enough. Not as good as the original, but nice. I also think Slimkat’s big love was for the kudu. The sauce was not as important to him.’
‘Thank you, Maria. You have been very helpful.’ He reached under the table and held my hand. ‘I’m sorry you got mixed up in this, but I’m glad you are safe.’ His hands were big and warm. ‘You know I find it hard when you’re in danger.’
‘Ja,’ I said. ‘But I’m fine.’
‘How have you been?’
He was stroking the palm of my hand now, and it made warm lines rush down my arms and legs.
‘Okay,’ I said, giving his fingers a squeeze. ‘Hattie wants me to see a doctor here in Oudtshoorn. To help with the sleeping. The not sleeping.’
‘That’s not a bad idea . . . Maria, I hope you are heading back to Ladismith now that this . . . death has happened.’
‘Well, actually the Gazette is doing a story on it, and I was going to stick around and help Jessie—’
‘No,’ he said loudly. Too loudly, his hand holding mine too tightly. ‘You must go back.’
I pulled my hand away.
‘I don’t like to be bullied,’ I said, and looked away from him, so he couldn’t see the memory of Fanie in my eyes.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean . . . But you promised me that you’d stick to recipes. You’d stay out of murder cases. It’s not your case to investigate. It’s not even my case. I am only helping out.’
‘I’m helping out too,’ I said, thinking of Slimkat’s eyes and still not looking at Henk.
‘Yes, and you’ve been a help. A big help. What you’ve told me. But there’s a murderer around, and sticking your nose in puts you at risk.’
I didn’t reply. It was my nose that had been most helpful so far.
He reached for my hands, which were pulled up against me, hiding on my lap, but his arms were long and he found my hands and held them both in his, and tugged on them till I looked at him. His eyes were big and grey-blue and full of an expression that was nothing like what I’d ever seen in Fanie’s eyes.
‘I love you, Maria,’ Henk said.
I coughed and choked like I had just swallowed a big bug. Henk got up and came and patted my back.
‘Are you all right?’
I nodded, but I couldn’t speak.
‘Please, Maria, for our sake,’ he said, squatting down beside me, holding my shoulders in his hands and looking into my eyes with that same expression of his. ‘Forget about this case. Go home.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Okay.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I had both Henk and Hattie telling me what to do. I don’t like to be pushed around, but I was tired and lost, and they seemed to know the way. Before I left Oudtshoorn, I went to the doctor.
Doctor Walters had short white hair and kind blue eyes. His office was small and cosy, and he sat behind a leather-topped wooden desk. Against the wall were bookshelves, packed with fat books.
‘How can I help you, Mrs van Harten?’
‘My boyfriend thinks I need help after I was kidnapped by a murderer last year. My friend thinks I need sleeping tablets. The FAMSA counsellor says I am obsessed with food and must go on a diet.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘My problems are bigger than that . . .’
He waited for me to explain.
I said, ‘I have nightmares, and I wake up shaking. And I remember things . . . Well, it’s more like they are happening right now.’
‘Things about the kidnapping?’
‘No . . . Bad things that happened with my husband. He is dead now.’
‘When did he die?’
I swallowed. ‘A few years ago. But the problem is getting worse lately. Since . . . since I’ve had a boyfriend. It’s made it worse somehow.’
‘Hmm,’ said the doctor. ‘Did you have a traumatic experience in the past?’
I looked at the paperweight on his desk. It was a glass cat with wide staring eyes that could see right though me, like I could see through it.
‘Were you abused by your husband, Mrs van Harten?’
I nodded. Should I tell this man what really happened?
‘Do you experience any feelings of dissociation?’ he asked.
He was changing the subject now. I wouldn’t have to tell him my secret.
I frowned and asked, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you sometimes feel disconnected and far away from others, or even from yourself? Do parts of your body feel as if they are operating in a discordant fashion?’
I nodded. ‘Sometimes my hands do something different from what my head wants them to,’ I said. I remembered how I’d struggled to heat up that orange pudding when I was upset. And how that time with Henk, my mouth had called out something without asking me first.
He said, ‘Are your n
ightmares like flashbacks – as if you are reexperiencing the event in the present?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘just like that.’
‘Is your current boyfriend abusing you?’
‘No. The opposite; he is so good to me.’
‘Sometimes intimacy brings up old wounds,’ he said. ‘Do you experience feelings of powerlessness or depression?’
‘I do feel sad about what’s happening. I’m not in control of my life, like I should be.’
‘And low libido? Sexual drive?’
‘It’s not that I’m not interested, but we can’t get really close, that kind of intimacy, because I feel sick, and the shaking and flashbacks start up again.’
‘Hmm. Did you have bad sexual experiences with your late husband? Rape?’
I looked at the glass cat and nodded.
‘And these psychological problems have been going on for more than six months?’ he asked.
‘Yes. But like I said, it’s got worse recently.’
‘It sounds like you have PTSD,’ he said. ‘Post-traumatic stress disorder. It sometimes occurs after a traumatic event or series of events. Most common in men after war experiences, and women after domestic violence.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Oh.’
I felt relieved to have a name for my problem and a man who understood it.
‘Can you fix it?’ I said.
He gave a sad smile. ‘Unfortunately there is no quick fix for PTSD. But, over time, counselling can help. You said you have a counsellor?’
‘Yes, but I am not sure she understands . . . like you do.’
‘Counselling is not my department, but try to find yourself a PTSD counsellor or support group.’
‘It’s funny,’ I said, ‘I just spoke to someone yesterday who was in a PTSD group. A mechanic—’
‘Well, do look into that. What I can give you is an antidepressant, which can help improve your mood and regulate your sleeping.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘okay.’
He wrote out a prescription and handed it to me.
‘It may take a little while to work properly, but be patient,’ he said. ‘It will take the edge off while you sort out your problems.’
