Free Recipes for Love and Murder by Sally Andrew

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