it was definitely not a fit over a couple of pilfered soft drinks.
“Kukho isidumbhu kule room!”
“Hehn? I … uhhh …” Confusion gradually edged out frenzy from the girl’s eyes. Quickly, Vee put a hand over her ear, and then turned it palm up, adding an exaggerated shrug. She repeated the action a few times, hoping the mime got through: language barrier.
The maid looked incredulous. “You can’t hear Xhosa?”
“No,” Vee breathed, relieved.
“Are you sure?”
Vee restrained an eye-roll. “Very. What’s wrong?”
It took another flustered moment before the girl remembered herself. She clapped her hands in distress, muttering and shaking her head as she clutched the front of her uniform. “There’s a dead body in the room. Where I was cleaning!”
“Whetin you say?” Vee cried.
Chapter Five
Aay my pipo, what kinda trouble dis now? Vee thought.
The person on the floor was unmistakeably dead. It looked like a woman; she couldn’t be sure yet. The barely-there ‘dead smell’ punched a greeting up her nostrils right in the doorway, forcing her to make an about-turn as she fought her gag reflex. It was nowhere near an exact science, but all it took was a whiff of that imperceptibly rank odour and she had enough to make a strong guestimate. Fresh: half a day, maybe a few hours on that, but not much longer. She couldn’t explain how she knew exactly, but she did. The wondrously incalculable side effects of war … her mind could be tricked into forgetting, but her hyperexcitable nose was rewired for eternal stubbornness.
“Whose room is this?” she asked.
“Ms Greenwood. Rhonda Greenwood. She’s the deputy manager.”
The girl from housekeeping, who’d whispered the name Zintle, stayed wedged in the doorway linking the small lounge to the bedroom, intent on not moving an inch closer to the action. Mouth-breathing as much as possible, Vee knelt over the body. Rhonda’s cheeks and nose sported a dull, ruddy hue. She examined the bruising behind her ear, near the back of her head, and shuddered.
“How long she been lying here?”
Met with silence, Vee turned. Zintle looked horribly affronted, as if stupid was anyone who thought a dead person sprawled in a room under her charge was something she’d keep quiet for any length of time. “No, I mean how often are these rooms cleaned? When last did anybody see her? Last night?”
Zintle nodded. “Yes. Most of the managers work late, especially now when it’s busy. But sometimes … she comes to bed early. But not too many times. She works hard.”
Vee studied her, eyes narrowing when Zintle aimed a guilty look at the wall.
She turned back to the body. She licked her finger and brought it close to the woman’s nose. No breath. Greenwood was definitely dead. She patted the pockets of her cargo pants for her phone. The screen registered four missed calls. She scrolled through the listing: three from Titus, one from Joshua. She cursed quietly, pressed ‘exit’ and switched to camera mode.
“She’s staying here by herself?” She held her breath and snapped the first couple, one close-up and one wide-shot, of the body propped on its side against the lower bedframe.
“Yes. All the senior guys have rooms but their partners don’t stay here with them. It’s not allowed. I mean, they stay the night sometimes but not usually. Especially not during peak season.”
“Hhmm.” Vee snapped another close-up of Greenwood’s face, lungs starting to ache as she leaned close to get the blotchy nose and raw lump behind her ear in the frame. Behind her, she heard Zintle’s gasp at her audacity. Trust me, I don’t want to be doing this either. Then why was she? She clicked on, capturing the protruding tongue and thick foam in and around the woman’s mouth. When she finally had to inhale, the strong, gassy hit of booze made her gag.
“So you’re telling me all the senior staff here got their own chalets?”
“No, no. They can have a room now and then if they want it, especially if they work late. It’s like that in the business.” The sound of Zintle’s voice had shifted from the doorway to what sounded like a spot directly behind her. “Only Ms Greenwood and Ms Motaung, the general manager, have chalets. They practically live here.” Over the click of the phone’s electronic shutter, Vee heard a dull clink and thunk on the floor behind her, much like the sound of glass against wood.
“They aren’t married. I doubt they even have men,” Zintle said.
Vee ignored the disapproving tone, staring at the body with sympathy. Don’t mind her yaah, she’s young and naive, she thought. She had enough experience with age to know when you got to Rhonda’s, likely twice what Zintle was, you weren’t thrilled about blossoming into an overweight, unmarried, workaholic lush. Bet you never imagined ending up here either, Vee mused as she photographed the swipe of lumpy vomit on the carpet.
“Did you see her last night, before you went home?”
“I’m not doing nights this week. I went home at eight, when the new shift starts. There’s a bus that takes us into Oudtshoorn but it was running behind so I got a lift.”
Vee frowned, peering in at Greenwood’s hands. Shaking her head, she squatted, zoomed, snapped, and examined the shot at length. Something was off about the fingernails … Puzzled by the sudden silence, she lowered the cell and peeped over the expanse of queen-sized mattress into the adjoining bathroom, in time to see Zintle working the neck of a bulging black rubbish bag into a knot. At the sound of gurgling, Vee popped to her feet and dashed over.
“Nawww,” she groaned as water swirled down the bathtub’s drain.
“Yintoni?” Zintle looked panicky. “I only let the water out. I shouldn’t do that?”
“No, I don’t think you’re supposed to do that. Maybe there was evidence in it.”
Zintle’s apprehension switched to disgusted disbelief. “Ngumphambano lowo,” she said. “That’s crazy. Like what, urine?”
Vee giggled into her hand. Zintle cracked a smile. “Yeah, maybe urine. I don’t know.” She gave Zintle a comforting pat on the shoulder. “I’m sure it doesn’t matter.”
Nonetheless she captured all angles of the bathroom and flicked through her efforts, Zintle craning her neck over her shoulder. When she reached the end, Zintle wrinkled her forehead and made a mouth-shrug. The gesture pretty much summed up the entire gallery: meaningless. Vee started to put the phone away.
“Must everything be correct?” Zintle asked. At Vee’s quizzical frown, she continued: “Do you want photos of the room exactly how it was? Before I found her?”
“Yes, but … you moved anything?”
“Loo glass.” Zintle pointed to a wineglass on a sidetable in the bedroom. “Loo glass ibime pha ngasebhafini.” She clicked in irritation and repeated, “That glass was by the bathtub.” Her face clouded. “Ndiyicholile. I touched it. I picked it up with my fingers.”
Vee
