Hot Property. Cheryl Ntumy S.

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      Dedication

      To Tinkerbell, Puss in Boots and Charlie Chaplin (who never showed up).

      Chapter 1

      1

      It was a beautiful house. It had four large bedrooms, two bathrooms, excluding the en suite, a massive kitchen and a huge backyard with a pool. It was two storeys high, and the little balcony outside the master bedroom was just begging for a lovesick Juliet to lean over it, gazing at her Romeo, who would stand on the flawless lawn in the back garden.

      The tiles were the colour of wet beach sand, mottled, with a thin border design. There was a chandelier hanging over the foyer that was a little too Baroque for the modern design of the house, but that was the only blemish on an otherwise perfect work of art.

      Normally, Keabetswe Rantao would be taking it all in, running her fingers along the walls and enjoying the sound of her heels clicking against the tiles in the empty house. But not today. Today she was standing still in the bare living room, arms folded across her chest. The only part of her that moved was her eyes as they followed Mrs Patel, the prospective buyer, around the house.

      Please say yes, she thought desperately.

      Mrs Patel emerged from the kitchen. “It’s beautiful,” she declared.

      Keabetswe smiled. “Yes, it is.”

      Mrs Patel hesitated. “You know, I’m really not a superstitious person.”

      Uh-oh. Keabetswe’s heart sank. That was how every rejection began. She managed to maintain her smile, even though her thoughts were racing. “I’m very glad to hear that.”

      She approached the woman and said, “It would be a shame to let such a lovely place go because of an incident that took place ages ago. The Millers built many wonderful memories here until that tragic day, and I think your family could build memories here, too.”

      “Hmmm.” Mrs Patel glanced around the foyer. Was it Keabetswe’s imagination, or did her gaze linger on the exact spot near the kitchen door where Ruth Miller’s body was found?

      “Did you see the view from the master bedroom?” Keabetswe prodded.

      “Yes. Lovely.” Mrs Patel turned to her and sighed. “I don’t mind it myself, you see,” she said, toying with her sleeve in a way that suggested she minded quite a lot. “It’s the children. I’m not sure they’ll be comfortable knowing someone was killed in their house.”

      “Do they have to be told?” Keabetswe blurted out in desperation. The look she received was answer enough. “Of course. I understand.”

      Mrs Patel shrugged. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to find me something else.”

      Keabetswe’s smile was fixed on her face. “You’re sure?”

      “Absolutely.” Mrs Patel headed for the door. “You’ll give me a call, won’t you?”

      “Of course. Have a good day, Mrs Patel.”

      Keabetswe followed her outside and stood in the driveway, waving. What a disaster. She walked back into the house, stopping briefly in front of the mirror near the staircase.

      “Take a deep breath,” she told her reflection, and watched the dark-skinned, square-jawed face in the glass mimic her. As usual, she wore no make-up other than a coat of mascara and lip gloss. Her skin was as smooth as the wood that framed the mirror. She patted her long dreadlocks, which were pulled away from her face with a yellow ribbon, then turned away from the mirror and reached into her handbag for her phone.

      After two rings, she heard the clipped voice of her boss, Esme Gould. “Bad news,” Keabetswe told her.

      “No!” cried Esme. “I was so sure she would take it. At least tell me it was the chandelier she didn’t like.”

      Keabetswe laughed. “Strangely enough, no one seems to mind the chandelier. It was the murder, of course.”

      Esme groaned. The previous owners of the house, the Millers, were a high-profile couple and the murder of the wife, Ruth, had been all over the media for months.

      “We’ll have to figure out something,” said Esme. “That house has been empty for two years! Get me a tenant, Kea. I don’t care who it is.”

      “I’m working on it.” After hanging up, Keabetswe locked up the house and made her way to her Toyota Yaris, frustrated.

      She had tried for ages to sell or rent out the house, but nobody wanted to live in a house where somebody had been murdered. What she needed was a mystery buff, or at least someone who didn’t have children. She took a last glance at the house from her car window as she pulled out into the road.

      She wouldn’t mind living there herself, if she could afford it. She didn’t believe in ghosts.

      It was nearly 4pm when Keabetswe reached the Peckham Gould Estate Agency. She would have gone home, but she had some work to catch up on. Most of the other agents were out, and the office was quiet. She waved as she passed Esme’s office, and walked across the chocolate-coloured wall-to-wall carpet to the sunny corner where her desk was.

      She sat right by the window, gazing out over Cape Town’s City Bowl. The view might not have been inspiring to others, but Keabetswe had always been fascinated by buildings. Every time she looked out of the window, she spotted some new facet of one of them that she had failed to notice before.

      Just as she reached her desk, her phone began to ring.

      “Peckham Gould. Keabetswe speaking.”

      “You’d better not have forgotten,” cautioned the breathless, high-pitched voice of her best friend, Phemelo.

      Keabetswe smiled. “Forgotten what? Was I supposed to do something?”

      “Kea!”

      She laughed. “Don’t panic, my dear, I’m just joking. Of course I didn’t forget. Give me an hour to wrap things up here, and then another hour for traffic and groceries. I’ll be home around six, okay?”

      “I have a million swatches,” groaned Phemelo. “And they’re all in ridiculous colours like salmon pink and meringue. I have ten different shades of light blue! I’m going crazy!”

      “I can tell.” Keabetswe sank into her swivel chair and spun it around lightly. “Calm down. I’ll see you soon and sort out everything.”

      Keabetswe hung up and shook her head, then turned on her computer. A moment later, she was lost in her work; Phemelo’s wedding drama was the last thing on her mind.

      * * *

      Keabetswe stepped into her Vredehoek flat and kicked off her high heels. It was a fully furnished apartment subsidised by Peckham Gould, decorated in impersonal neutral colours, like a hotel.

      Keabetswe hadn’t done much to change it. All the quirky pieces she had bought seemed out of place in the modern apartment, so she kept them in boxes СКАЧАТЬ