Detective Storm van der Merwe and Andreas Moerdyk are back in this thriller by Dead in the Water author, Irna van Zyl.
1
“IT WAS THE DAY THE COUNTRY’S most infamous food blogger keeled over and died in Chef Zeb Tswalo’s award-winning restaurant in the Hemel-en-Aarde Valley.
Everyone was chatting in the hushed tones they use in smart restaurants, politely sampling their elegant portions, slowly sipping their expensive wine, when the whole place shuddered as the food critic stumbled forwards, her hand tightly clasped over her mouth and her face red with effort while she struggled up from her table, knocking the chair backwards in her rush towards the bathroom.
For a few seconds it looked as if she might reach her destination in time, but then, as if the sluices of her body had opened, the entire contents of her stomach shot out and showered over the floor and the nearby diners’ tables, shoes and handbags, and she came crashing down with a terrible clatter.
Face down in her own mess.
Thereafter, with diners, waiters and the chef gathered around her, she gave one desperate convulsion before she sagged back with a last gasp in front of all the shocked faces.
THIRTY MINUTES EARLIER, Detective Warrant Officer Storm van der Merwe was picking at the sugar crystals she’d scooped out of a bowl straight onto the table in Chef Zeb’s restaurant. Picking and licking and smacking the sweetness off her fingers while her closest friend, Katriena – Kat – Vermaak, babbled non-stop.
“No wonder the Dip has so many enemies. I’m telling you, she ripped the place apart in her typical fashion. She’d had it with the bad service and the monotony of what she called the brown food, and then – can you believe it? – she even used a word like crap in her review. Shi-it, sister. I mean, no place can deteriorate that fast. That’s why I wanted to come and experience it for myself again. Absolutely.”
The two of them were sitting at a square wooden table with a white paper tablecloth and wooden chairs with red riempies in what Kat had described as the best eating establishment in the whole of the Hemel-en-Aarde Valley – and in fact the whole of the Hermanus area, for that matter.
Storm was only half-listening and slightly distracted by the enthusiastic foodie couple next to them who were photographing every inch of their food, so absorbed that they had hardly eaten a thing. Again, Storm picked at the sugar crystals. If only she could fast-forward time to when she could phone her boss about the confusing message he’d left on her voicemail.
But she glanced up quickly when Kat interrupted herself to stage-whisper: “Can you believe it? Speak of the devil. She really is everywhere.”
“I am here by special invitation of Chef Zeb himself. And it’s not my style to announce my visits. Never has been and never will be.”
Behind them, at the entrance, stood a big woman with a voice like a foghorn which projected across the restaurant. “No, I don’t have a booking, but I am sure you can accommodate me. I am here by special invitation of Chef Zeb himself. And it’s not my style to announce my visits. Never has been and never will be.”
“Who’s that?” asked Storm.
“Shh,” Kat whispered with her finger to her lips. “It’s her.”
A redheaded waitress at the front desk tried her best to handle the situation and walked ahead to the first available table close to the entrance.
“Who is she?” asked Storm again.
“Sandra Dippenaar, the much-feared and notorious food blogger I was just telling you about. Fiercest of the fierce among the critirati. They call her the Dip – naturally it has to do with not just her surname and, um, her heavy … hand. It’s also because she really likes to dip in and out of her food. All of it. And I mean all.” Kat waved in the direction of the menu.
Storm watched as the Dip swayed forwards like a giant Egyptian goose.
Her shoulders bent as if she was self-conscious about her size, her greyblonde hair tight in a French bun. Draped over her light-blue linen suit was a blue and lime-green scarf, and her progress was not helped by brown slip-on wedges on her swollen feet.
She had hardly found her seat when the maître d’ stormed from the back and began to faff around her. “No, no, no, we have a much better table than this one. Come, come, here to the corner.” Clearly upset about the lack of VIP treatment her guest had received so far, the maître d’ showed the Dip to a two-seater with its view of the valley on both sides.
Another pair of earnest waiters came running towards them, scrambling to place clean cutlery, glasses and serviettes on the table.
The blogger again took up her seat, this time with a slight sigh and a satisfied grin on her face, talking to the maître d’ and leaning forwards as if she wanted to emphasise something.
In the meantime, the redheaded waitress came rushing in with a small bottle of water and a glass with a slice of lemon in it. She reminded Storm of an overzealous kid trying too hard to be the teacher’s pet.
Storm looked down at the view of the Hemel-en-Aarde Valley through the pine trees where the sun was shining brightly on rows and rows of vines.
Such brilliant light after a week of proper rain. Much-needed first winter rains, luckily fairly early in the autumn.
She glanced sideways at her big purple watch.
She really needed to phone Brigadier Lewis Witvoet to check if she understood his message correctly. Her job was on the line about something her ex-colleague Andreas Moerdyk had done. How was that possible?
On top of everything it was a Sunday and selfishly she normally reserved the seventh day exclusively for her dogs. But Kat always had a way of twisting her arm. So here she was now, pretending to be interested in her friend’s stories.”
Extracted from Death Cup, out now.
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