‘Yum,’ said Jessie, when she saw the doughnuts I brought back from the Spar.
I put my mince in the little Gazette fridge and made us all tea and coffee to go with the doughnuts. Then I sat down and I told them what Marietjie had said.
Jessie and I ate up our doughnuts, while Hattie pecked at hers.
‘I spoke to my cousin, Boetie, last night,’ said Jessie. ‘I think he knows something about the pomegranate juice at the Spar, but he was too stoned to make sense. He’s a bit of a daggakop but his ma says he only smokes after hours – so I’ll talk to him another time.’
‘You have to admit, there really is rather a substantial pile of evidence against Anna,’ said Harriet.
‘But it’s all rubbish,’ said Jessie.
‘Her prints are on the murder weapon. She’s got means, motive and opportunity,’ said Hattie.
‘So have lots of other people.’
I gave Jessie a napkin, to wipe the icing sugar off her mouth.
‘Maybe we should warn her,’ I said. ‘Tell her to get a lawyer.’
‘There’s no reply at her house,’ said Jessie. ‘And she doesn’t have a cell.’
‘I wonder if Dirk would know how to find her,’ I said.
‘Sanna from the AgriMark tells me he’s moved back home,’ said Jessie. ‘I wouldn’t mind another look at his place.’
‘Ja, we left in a bit of a hurry last time.’
‘I’ve got his phone number,’ said Jessie. ‘Or shall we just maar go?’
‘Let’s just pop in.’
‘My dear girls, I implore you to be careful,’ said Hattie, standing up and putting her unfinished doughnut on my desk. ‘And before you go gadding off again, I want your completed copy for this week’s website and paper edition.’
Jessie and I made a quick job of finishing that doughnut, then we washed our hands and sat down at our desks.
I looked at the envelopes on my desk. I thought about the bloody letter from the anonymous murderer. He didn’t deserve a response from me. He certainly didn’t deserve a recipe.
I sorted through my letters and decided to open the two that had Oudtshoorn postmarks. This is a town a hundred kilometres east of Ladismith, famous for the Cango Caves and ostrich farming.
The first said:
I’m an ostrich farmer. I know how to make biltong and an ostrich steak, but I need a change. My wife used to do all sort of lekker things with the meat. But she is gone now. For a while I missed her so much I couldn’t think of making anything. Now I minced some of my meat, but I don’t really know what to do with it. Can you help maybe? Thank you.
Before I answered, I read the other Oudtshoorn letter. It was from a woman who had too many sweet potatoes:
Suddenly, after a year of almost nothing, my vegetable garden is just full-full of sweet potatoes and I don’t know what to do with them. I’ve made some fritters, and even sweet potato jam, but I live alone and haven’t got such a sweet tooth myself and my children live far away and don’t come and visit all that often. I thought of giving the potatoes away, but I don’t really know my neighbours all that well and have been a bit shy since the accident. The scars are not so bad any more, but still I feel people staring.
I decided to give them both one recipe. A cottage pie made with ostrich mince and a mashed sweet-potato topping.
Why not meet at the Farmers Co-op on Saturday mornings at 10 a.m., I wrote. You could swap some meat for vegetables . . .
‘Maria,’ Hattie said, ‘I’ve just got an email addressed to you. It’s marked as urgent. Here, you can look at it on my computer. I’m popping out for a minute.’
She stood up and I took her chair.
Oh, Tannie Maria, the email said.
Thank you so much, the braai went really well. You were right, the bread was easy to make and she was very impressed. She said I was a very good cook. Haha.
Sorry about writing an email instead of a letter but this is an emergency. I wish there was someone else I could ask, but I can’t, and I need help.
We, you know, did it, together. And we have done it now three times. It’s amazing being so close and breathing her smell and there is no need for words. We feel so good together. Too good. The problem is I get so excited it’s all over for me in two minutes and she doesn’t always get a chance to, you know . . .
Is there medical treatment for me?
Karel, the mechanic (in need of brakes)
Jessie’s phone rang: I’m your man. She answered it with a smile and went outside to talk. I tried to think of some advice for Karel. But what did I know about good sex? I’ve always imagined it would be something like a really good cake. That gave me an idea.
I wrote:
Here is a way you could slow yourself down. Memorise a good recipe, then say it inside your head if you are getting overexcited. This should distract you enough to make it last longer, but still keep your mind on something delicious.
Then I gave him a recipe for a chocolate cake. Not the one I made for Kannemeyer, but a fluffy chocolate mousse cake, made with dark chocolate. The recipe required a long time to beat the eggs and sugar to make them very thick and frothy, and the cake was topped with cream and berries.
Jessie and I drove along the dirt road to Dirk’s farm in my little blue bakkie. It was afternoon now and there were fat clouds above us. But instead of cooling us down, they were just trapping in the heat. We rode with the windows wide open, and what with the sound of the wind and the bumping car, we didn’t try and talk. It was good to be riding with Jessie again. Back to the scene of the crime.
The klapperbos were flowering; the little red lanterns looked like Christmas decorations. And there were purple handfuls of reëngrassie popping up between the wire-grass that grew by the side of the road. Jessie pointed out a shiny green sunbird that was landing on an aloe flower, and I slowed down to look at it.
‘Whoa,’ said Jessie, as a mongoose came charging down the road, racing towards us. I put on the brakes, and it darted into the grass.
Then we heard a whole lot of bangs in a row.
‘Gunshots,’ Jessie said.
But we kept on driving, heading towards the farmhouse.
The sound of shooting got louder.