Recipes for Love and Murder. Sally Andrew

Well, not really big, just not as small as Ladismith.

      The letter was from a guy in trouble, who signed his name as Karel. He had a lot to learn, but he seemed willing, and I did my best to help. Dear Tannie Maria,

       I am writing to you for love advice. Don’t bother with the recipes. I can’t even boil an egg.

       I met this girl at a Brandy Festival and I like her a lot. She has eyes that sparkle, and an amazing smile. Her name is Lucia. We sat together at a wooden table and I hardly said a word but I offered her my slap chips and she ate some.

       When she smiled at me, I felt like a bunch of birds was trying to fly out of my chest.

       I wanted to say something but I couldn’t.

       I am a mechanic, and my fingernails are always a bit black, no matter how much I scrub them. Lucia is clean and smells so good. She is small and neat, like a Mini. I am more like a truck.

       I feel like such an idiot. I want to see her again, but I don’t know how to talk to her.

       And what if I ask her out and she says no? Or what if she comes but I say nothing the whole time?

       Karel

      I got out my pen and paper and wrote:

       Dear Karel,

       What if she says yes? Ask her out by SMS. Take her to a movie.

       There is no need to feel an idiot. You might think boiling an egg is simple, but it is really quite a tricky thing to do. The perfect egg is one that’s been boiled for exactly three minutes. The problem is that if you put the egg straight into boiling water, the shell cracks. But if you put it into cold water, it’s hard to know when to start timing. There are three different ways to deal with this. I like the first way best.

       Heat the egg before you add it to the boiling water. Do this by putting the egg into a small bowl which is about one quarter full of cold water, then slowly add hot water from the kettle. Use a spoon to lower this warm egg into the boiling water.

       or

       Add a teaspoon of vinegar to the boiling water – this makes the egg think twice about cracking.

       or

       Put the egg in cold water and stand and wait till it boils.

       Have a spoon and egg cup ready and eat straight away, because the egg carries on cooking inside its shell. Serve with toast, butter, salt and pepper.

      I was sure a lot of people would be glad to see my response. How to boil an egg is a question that many are too embarrassed to ask. Karel was brave to bring it out in the open like that. I had high hopes for him.

      I had just started to study another small blue envelope when the phone rang. Hattie answered.

      ‘The detective,’ she whispered. She winked as she handed me the phone. ‘For you.’

      ‘Maria speaking,’ I said.

      ‘Anna Pretorius has been arrested,’ the detective said. ‘She won’t call a lawyer. She wants you.’

      ‘Arrested?’

      ‘Can you come down to the station?’ he said.

      ‘For hitting you in the jaw?’

      ‘For murder, Mrs van Harten.’

      ‘Did she kill that man who tried to shoot her?’

      I know I was being dense, we’d discussed it ourselves, just yesterday. But I didn’t want to believe it.

      ‘For the murder of Martine van Schalkwyk.’

      This was really bad news.

      But on the plus side, I could deliver both slices of cake at once.

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      I pulled into the shade of a rubber tree in the police station car park. On the passenger seat beside me were the letters for Kannemeyer, and a Tupperware containing two slices of chocolate cake.

      Piet popped his head out of the station door, then came across the dusty tarmac to meet me.

      Oh dear, I thought, what about a slice for Constable Piet?

      Piet smiled at me as I got out; his yellow-brown face became even more wrinkled, and his almond eyes narrower. He led me to the station, through the busy reception area and along a passageway to Kannemeyer’s office, moving silently in his leather sandals. Kannemeyer was on the phone and I sat down to wait for him. Piet left, which took pressure off the cake situation.

      The detective nodded at me, but carried on with his call. He looked big, even when he was sitting down. His desk was solid teak and had a polished reddish glow that went well with his chestnut moustache.

      ‘Mmm . . . uhuh . . . ’ he was saying, leaning back in his leather chair.

      Outside his office window were thorn trees, and the shadows of the branches fell on the white walls and on his shirt and chest.

      My chair was also wood and leather. It was a comfortable office of a man who spent a lot of time there. I wondered about his home life.

      There was a fan on his desk, and I leaned towards it to feel the breeze on my face. My dress was sticking to me from the heat. Between the files and papers on his desk, I saw a photograph in a silver frame. It was Kannemeyer, younger, with his arm around a woman. She was pretty and her face was turned up to him like a flower to the sun. And he was shining love down on her.

      ‘Okay. Ja . . . Ja nee. Bye,’ he said.

      He put down the phone and cleared his throat.

      ‘Mrs van Harten,’ he said.

      ‘I brought you some cake,’ I said. ‘And a slice for Anna.’

      I pushed the Tupperware across the table and opened it so he could see the two big pieces wrapped in wax paper. He did that slow smile of his that showed off his white teeth and lifted his chestnut moustache at the corners.

      ‘Thank you,’ he said.

      ‘So, what’s happening with Anna?’

      ‘There is quite a case against her.’ He ran his fingers across his moustache. ‘Her prints were on a fire poker that was used to hit Martine van Schalkwyk. Fresh tyre tracks from her bakkie were in the dirt driveway.’

      ‘What does she say?’ I said.

      ‘She won’t talk to us. She won’t call a lawyer.’

      ‘Anna wouldn’t kill her friend. She had no reason to.’

      ‘Could be a crime of passion. Photographs were smashed. Including Martine and Dirk’s wedding photo,’ Kannemeyer said, glancing at his own photograph. ‘Van Schalkwyk says the woman was in love with his wife. Your letters support that. Did you bring them?’

      I put my letters on his desk, but I didn’t want them used like that. He was laying out the evidence against Anna. Neatly, like he was laying a table. I didn’t want to eat at that table.

      ‘The letters show that Martine’s husband was threatening to kill her,’ I said. ‘He broke her arm. It’s him you must arrest.’

      ‘There’s no evidence that he did kill her.’

      ‘Were his fingerprints on the poker?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Isn’t that a bit funny?’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t he use the fire poker in his own house?’

      I took his piece of cake from the Tupperware and put it on the table. The corner