We went to Tannie Kuruman’s café, where we killed two birds with one stone: we ordered two of her delicious chicken pies, and while they were being heated up, we spoke about the catering for the funeral.
‘What do you reckon we should provide?’ Candice asked Tannie Kuruman.
Tannie Kuruman adjusted the little red doek on her head, and looked at Candy’s purple heels and lilac dress and then at her face. It was quite a way up for Tannie to look, what with Candy’s height and heels, and Tannie K having more width than height. She folded her arms, and then looked back down again at Candy’s orange toenails. Maybe she was struck dumb by the look of Candy, or perhaps she couldn’t understand her American English.
So I repeated what Candy said in my own words: ‘What kind of kossies shall we give the people? At the funeral?’
Tannie Kuruman cleared her throat and spoke: ‘What about my little pies? I can do the chicken ones.’
‘Ja,’ I said, ‘and maybe some of those sausage rolls you make.’
‘Ooh, ja, and the melktertjies. Little milk tarts.’ She looked at Candy when she translated. ‘And small koeksisters . . . Cake sisters?’ She pointed through the glass counter at the twisted plaits of dough, fried and dipped in syrup. ‘Those.’
Candy smiled. ‘Sugar, I know what koeksisters are. That sounds just peachy. Whatever you two decide. Just send me the bill.’
‘Well, for thirty rand per person I can do something simple. Or for fifty I can make it more special. How many people?’
‘Special is good,’ Candy said. She looked at me. ‘Sixty people, you reckon?’
‘That should be fine.’ Funerals were not so popular in Ladismith as they were in the old days. ‘Can you maybe have some pies and puddings without meat or dairy?’ I said. ‘In case some of those Seventh-day Adventists come . . . ’
‘Ja,’ said Tannie K. ‘I’ve fed them before. Those children look a bit skinny to me, you know . . . ’
Our chicken pies smelled wonderful, and we took them outside and sat on a bench in the shade of a jacaranda tree and looked out onto Church Street. Candy was nibbling on her pie, but I took a big bite of mine, so that I could get the crust and the filling in one mouthful. Just then I heard a scooter. It was Jessie – turning in towards the café. Maybe she was coming to pick up lunch. Candy waved at her, and she saw us there on the bench, together, with our pies.
The look on Jessie’s face made me stop chewing.
I wanted to spit out my mouthful and call to her. Tell her that she was my investigating partner, and the person I most liked to eat with. I chewed very fast but by the time my mouth was free, she had turned around and sped off.
That fast eating meant my food was quickly gone, which wasn’t clever because it left me hungry. But then Candy’s cell phone rang and she gave me the remaining half of her pie.
‘It’s good,’ she said, ‘but I’m done.’
‘David! Sugar!’ she said into the phone, then more quietly: ‘What are you wearing?’ She laughed. ‘Did you get my message? Yeah . . . Wednesday. How’s my uncle Peter doing? . . . Really? I didn’t think he was capable of tears. Are you sure it’s not an eye infection? And his health?’ She stood up and walked away from the bench. ‘This afternoon . . . No, her lawyer’s here in Ladismith . . . Yeah . . . ’
Then I couldn’t hear what she was saying any more. When she came back she pulled a face.
‘David,’ she said. ‘Martine’s brother. I hope he gets a decent suit for the funeral. He has absolutely no fashion sense.’
I brushed the pastry flakes off my hands, and stood up. Twice I’d heard her speaking badly about this man, her cousin, but she sounded friendly enough to him on the phone. Maybe that’s how family politics goes.
‘Hell, sometimes I wonder about David,’ said Candy, as we walked to her car. ‘He’s been wanting to get his hands on his old man’s money for a long time. My uncle’s such a miser, but he’s had stomach cancer for the last year, and the doctors say he’s too old for an op. David’s been circling the old man like a vulture, making himself useful, he says. Taking him on holidays. They’re at Sanbona now. You know, that luxury game lodge . . . ’
We got into the MG. The seats were hot.
‘Did he visit her last week?’ I asked.
‘He says he didn’t,’ said Candy, starting up the sports car, driving out. ‘They were gonna come and see her. But they hadn’t got around to it.’
‘Was he close to her?’
‘The only thing David’s really close to is his cheap suits. And his longing for an expensive life. But he was her brother. I can’t believe he would, you know . . . ’
‘But with Martine dead, he’d get all his father’s money,’ I said.
‘That’s what he thinks,’ said Candy.
Then the wind was moving too fast for us to talk any more.
Candy dropped me and my grapes and tomatoes outside the Gazette office.
‘Martine’s lawyer asked me to come and see him,’ she said, looking in the car mirror as she put on orange lipstick. ‘About her will, I reckon. And I’d better stop in and talk to Dirk about the funeral.’
I couldn’t see Jessie’s bike outside, but I went in to look for her anyway. I put the fruit on my desk.
‘Jessie’s not feeling too well,’ Hattie said. ‘She says she’ll work from home. How did it go with John?’
‘Interesting,’ I said. ‘And Tannie Kuruman will do the catering.’
I told her about our discussions with John. Then I called Jessie on her cell, but couldn’t get through. I tried her home and no one answered.
‘I’m a bit worried about Jessie,’ I told Hattie.
‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘She has been acting strange.’
Hattie didn’t know the whole story, but I still felt it wasn’t for me to tell her about Jessie’s private life.
‘How about a cup of tea?’ I said.
I sat down at my desk with my tea and a beskuit, so I could have a quiet think. Then the office phone rang.
‘That was Sister Mostert,’ Hattie said, as she put down the receiver, ‘Jessie’s ma. She wants us at the hospital. Right away.’