The Monster's Daughter (43 page)

“It matters. More than you realize right now.” Tessa bowed her head. “And it matters to me.” The knot in her stomach tightened as she thought of Dean, the child they could never have. Flippie. The pointless despair of it all was suddenly overwhelming and she couldn't stop the tears.

“It's okay, luv.” Jeff touched her cheek.

“No.” Tessa pushed his hand away. “There is a man,” she said. “If he finds me, he'll—”

“I won't let anybody hurt you.”

“Ben will kill you. He's done it before. I'm not going to let …” She closed her eyes, struggling to let go. She hadn't told Dean who she was. It had strained their marriage, a barrier that she never could get past. She was reminded of the disconnect every time he called her Lilly. But in the end her lies had done nothing to protect him. She was sick of secrets, the guilt she felt about his death. Jeff and Markus had been like family, yet she kept secrets from them too.

Jeff gripped her shoulders. “What's going on? Please tell me. Let me help you.”

Tessa wondered if she even had it in her to completely trust another human being again. She struggled against the thing that separated them, the words stones in her mouth. “My name is Tessa.” She held her hand to her mouth, tears flowing freely now. “I am Theresa Morgan.” Her name felt new and ancient all at once, a thing that had remained hers, the bedrock under the changing seasons. She looked up at Jeff, studying his reaction. “I was born in 1901.”

Joyboys was packed. Mismatched lounge chairs and couches strained under the weight of rotund posteriors eager to take refuge from the sweltering heat. The converted vestry had no air-conditioning, but the walls were thick brick, and huge ceiling fans teased the multicolored drapes on the windows. Almost everybody had heard about the death of the suddenly sainted Trudie Pienaar, but an occasional intake of breath with a shocked hand in front of the mouth signaled the uninformed.

Joey moved about the coffee shop in a wifebeater and denim shorts, his hair gelled into a faux Mohawk. He stopped at each table, the belle of the ball, taking orders for sandwiches, chocolate cake and iced coffees in exchange for gossip and flirtation with the ladies of the district. In the kitchen, Gertie, Maria's counterpart, stacked orders on trays, mumbling in Xhosa every time Joey placed a new order ticket on the serving hatch.

Alet observed the scene from the doorway. In front of her, three elderly ladies waited for a table to open up. She walked around them, trying to get Joey's attention.

“Wait your turn, girlie,” said one of the women, her hair rinsed a cotton-candy blue.

“I'm not here for cake, Mrs. Dippenaar.” Alet bristled. “I'm in uniform.”

“So is he.” Mrs. Dippenaar pointed a gnarly finger across the room, where Strijdom sat with his wife, two huge pieces of quiche in front of them. Captain Mynhardt and his wife completed the party.

Alet rolled her eyes. She turned back to Mrs. Dippenaar. “
Ja, Tannie
, but I'm actually working, see?”

Mrs. Dippenaar raised an eyebrow to her two friends, the meaning clear. Word about Alet's misadventures had gotten around. She shrugged it off. Let them play judge and jury. If life in a small town had taught her anything so far, it was that people were only interested in the truth when it fit their way of seeing things.

“What will it be, doll?” Joey's overpowering aftershave partly masked the smell of sweat.

“Can we talk, Joey?”

“Darling, look at this place.” Joey tilted his head, his expression mocking her request.

“Won't take long, man. And I'll take an ice coffee to go.”

Mrs. Dippenaar pursed her lips. One of her companions whispered something in her ear and she nodded vigorously, giving Alet the evil eye.

“Come into the kitchen with me. Gertie's struggling to keep up.” Joey weaved through the beaded curtain to the kitchen.

Gertie looked shell-shocked, sweat forming dark patches on her brown uniform. “No more,
Baas
Joe, no more.” She had kicked her shoes to the corner, navigating the linoleum floor barefoot.

“Relax, Gertie, darling.” Joey stood behind Gertie and gave her shoulders a playful pat. “Deep breaths. It's only till lunch. Then they'll all go over to the
braai
and we won't have to worry till tonight.”

Gertie gave him a dubious look. Joey took a huge tub of ice cream out of the freezer and started scooping the contents into an industrial-size blender. “You'll love André, Alet,” he said while cleaning the scoop. “He was on TV, you know.”

“
Isit?
”

Joey dumped milk into the blender. “
Ja
. Two episodes on Egoli. He's got talent.” He reached for the instant coffee, a glint in his eyes. “And by talent I also mean his enormous schlong.”

“You didn't!” Alet stole a glance to see if Gertie had heard Joey above the hum of the blender.

“Uh-huh.” Joey looked like a cat that had stolen cream. “Might even become a thing.” He sighed wistfully. “Joey du Plessis … No, Joey Joubert-du Plessis.”

The beginning was always exciting. Alet thought of Mike, the fact that she hadn't returned his call. That addictive thrill usually preceded a
fokop
by a hair's breadth for her, and she didn't know if she could face another one this soon.

“
Baas
, Joey, take those trays,” Gertie yelled over the din.

“Just a sec, Gert.” Joey poured a third of the blender's contents into a Styrofoam cup. “I'm dying to hear what you think of him, Alet.” He handed her the coffee shake. “On the house.”

“Thanks. Look, Joey, I need to ask you something.”

“Mmm?” Joey lifted a tray from the counter. “Hey, Gertie, is this table eight? I need another slice of carrot cake, my girl.”

Gertie clicked her tongue. “You didn't write it on the slip.”

“Joey?”

“
Ja
, doll. What is it?”

“You know Boet's foreman, Jakob? Did he know Trudie?”

Joey raised his eyebrow. “Is he a suspect?”

“I'm only trying to figure something out.”

“There was talk when I was a kid. I don't know.”

“What talk?”

“People said he often spent the night there. And I'm not talking the maid's room, if you know what I mean.” Joey winked. “Big scandal.”

“Are you saying Trudie had an affair with Jakob?” Alet found the idea preposterous even as she uttered the words. She tried to picture staunch Trudie with the wacky farmhand.

“Ooh. Jilted lover kills the object of his affection!”

“No.” Alet raised her index finger to Joey. “Don't you dare tell that to anyone, hear? All I need is more misinformation.”

“You're so boring.”

“Do you know anything else about Trudie and Jakob?”

Joey shrugged. “Ask Tilly. She lived with her, didn't she?” He leaned over the tray. “See you tonight. Mwah.”

“Letta, there was a call. Hit-and-run,” April shouted over the heads of the people at the service desk. Saturday mornings brought the inevitable slew of minor crimes on the farms that had gone unreported during the week.

“Okay,” Alet said. “I'll take over here.”

“No, hey. Sarge asked for you to go out, see?” April looked put out.

“Mathebe took it?”

April nodded. “Guy's dead.”

“Shit.” Alet handed April her untouched coffee shake. “For you.”

“Sheesh. Thanks, hey.” April smiled, forgiving easily.

The body had been discovered just outside town, on the road to the golf course. While cattle starved and crops failed in one part of the district, here, just over the hill, sprinkler systems kept the course a luminous green that looked almost radioactive amidst the barren brown hills.

Mathebe and Dr. Oosthuizen stood at the side of the road, their discussion muted, Mathebe nodding and asking an occasional question to which Oosthuizen responded with expressive hand gestures. He stopped his explanation midsentence, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose as Alet came within earshot. A covered body lay perpendicular to the side of the road, skid marks thick on the road's tar.

“Sergeant?” Alet shaded her eyes from the sun, realizing that she'd left her cap at Joyboys.

Mathebe gave a nod of acknowledgment and walked over to the body.

“We need you to help with an ID,” Oosthuizen said. He gestured for her to step closer.

Alet had a sinking feeling. The two men looked at each other before Oosthuizen lifted the sheet. The body of a black man was on its side, one leg at an unnatural angle. The right arm was splayed overhead.

Oosthuizen lifted the arm up carefully to expose the face. “It's the Terblanche foreman?”

Alet put her hand to her mouth. She managed to nod in confirmation.

“I should have a report for you by this evening.” Oosthuizen covered Jakob again.

“When did you find him?” Alet tried to get her emotions under control.

“An hour ago,” Mathebe said calmly. He shook hands with Oosthuizen.

Alet followed him to the squad car. “This was an accident?”

“You said you saw him yesterday, Constable. That he was drunk.”

“
Ja
, but—”

“It is conceivable that he ended up on this road. There are no streetlights. A speeding car might not have noticed him until it was too late.”

“Jakob knew our murder victim. He works on the farm where her body was discovered. Don't you think it's somewhat suspicious that he suddenly turns up dead?”

The crease between Mathebe's thick brows deepened. “Yes. I do.”

“So it's homicide.”

“We have to wait for the autopsy report, but Dr. Oosthuizen feels the injuries to the body are not explained by the impact alone.”

“He was killed before?”

“Severely beaten, but some of the injuries had started to heal. Where are you going, Constable?”

Alet headed for the van. “I'm sick of people lying to me.” She slammed the door shut and sped off before Mathebe could stop her.
Fokken
Boet Terblanche. No matter which way she looked at it, he seemed to be there. She felt stupid for denying the possibility that he could be anything but the man she'd once thought him to be. Jakob was loyal to Boet. Could that loyalty have made him protect Boet from a murder conviction? She honked at a slow-moving car in front of her. When it didn't move any faster, she sped around it.

Alet stopped in front of Zebra House, her mood flammable, double-parking next to the red pickup. It was only when she got out that she noticed the smashed left headlight and the dent on the driver's side. She had explained the smashed passenger window with an attempted break-in when she returned the vehicle to Tilly, but she was sure that that had been the only damage.

“Where's
Mies
Tilly?” Alet asked a bewildered Maria as she stormed into the restaurant. A few heads looked up from their rum-and-Cokes.

“
Mies?
”

Alet didn't wait for Maria to answer. She stormed through to the empty kitchen and opened the office door. Jeffrey Wexler looked up from his laptop. In the corner, Tilly lay curled up on a small sofa, her
face pale, her expression blank, her chestnut hair limp and greasy in a low ponytail. She barely acknowledged Alet's presence.

“Constable Berg. I do believe it's customary to knock, even in the boondocks.”

“Tilly, I need to speak to you.”

Tilly turned her head away. “Not now, Alet.”

“We can do it here or at the station.”

“What?” Tilly narrowed her eyes, her irises disappearing.

“Jakob is dead.” Alet watched a semblance of emotion creep into Tilly's expression. “How did he know your
ma
?” Tilly bit a hangnail on her ring finger. Alet turned her attention to Wexler. “What's wrong with her?”

Wexler got up from his chair. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?” He gestured toward the kitchen. Tilly didn't move. Alet nodded and followed him.

Once the office door was closed behind them, Alet got in Wexler's face, her voice seething. “What is going on here, Mr. Wexler?”

“Calm down, luv.”

“Look, you pissant, it's Constable Berg. And I've had just about enough of all the
kak
you people have been dishing me, see?”

“Mathilda is having a rough time.”

“No shit. Doesn't explain the state she's in right now. Or the way the red pickup looks.”

Wexler showed no reaction, calmly filling the kettle with water.

Alet crossed her arms. Her dislike for the man was intensifying exponentially. “Well? I'm waiting.”

“I believe Dr. Oosthuizen gave her a sedative prescription.”

“She's high?”

“She's been through a lot.”

“And the pickup?”

“Probably a little run-in with a lamppost. Nothing serious. Lucky, really, considering the state she's in.”

“I'll need the keys.”

Wexler gave her a questioning look.

“The vehicle has to be ruled out in our homicide investigation, Mr. Wexler.”

“Homicide?” Wexler paled.

“
Ja
. Jakob was the victim of a hit-and-run. And Mr. Wexler? I'll need you to stay in town until all of this is sorted out.”

Alet went back to the office. Tilly had not moved from the sofa. “Come, Tilly, you can't stay here.” She knelt next to Tilly when she didn't get a response. “I need you to sober up. Okay? I need you to come with me and explain what happened last night.”

Tilly blinked hard, trying to focus through hazed confusion. She nodded slowly. Alet helped her up. Heads arched together as they walked through the restaurant, their progress carried on a flutter of whispers.