Black Cat Weekly #4

TWILIGHT LADIES, by Meg Opperman

TWILIGHT LADIES,

by Meg Opperman

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases modern

masterpieces of mystery, crime, and suspense selected by

acclaimed mystery author and editor Barb Goffman.

Mwanza, Tanzania

Police Constable Kokuteta Mkama squeezed the bridge of her nose, her short nails digging crescents near the corner of her eyes. Poring over her bank statement for the third—or was it fourth?—time, she knew she had a problem.

A husband problem.

He’d stolen money from her account again.

Another girlfriend? Of course. The numbers didn’t lie.

But he would.

They’d trod this path many times in the three years they’d been married. If only her bank would let her remove him from the account. How infuriating to need his permission to keep it open when she earned her own money, kept her own counsel.

Koku switched to rubbing her temples, her pulse throbbing under her fingers. She’d saved small amounts from each pay period, preparing for the extra costs their child would bring. Costs her husband wasn’t likely to cover. Did he think she wouldn’t notice the missing money or surmise the cause?

Sweat trickled down her back and seeped through her uniform blouse, the unseasonably hot summer—especially with a baby on the way—unbearable and unrelenting. Not even Lake Victoria took the edge off the January heat. How would she ever find the energy to finish the endless stack of paperwork on her desk?

She reached into the pocket of her wilted uniform and drew out a handkerchief to mop her brow. A small fan perched in front of louvered windows blew hot air around, but did little else. Pitiful.

P.C. Lubadsa worked nearby, his pen racing across a form, not a hint of sweat on his angular face, his uniform still stiffly pressed. She sniffed. If he was as big as an ox with his first child, he’d be uncomfortable too. But she mustn’t take her foul mood out on the constable. He’d been nothing but kind, even giving her the less vigorous tasks as her girth increased.

Folding her bank statement, she shoved it into a creaky desk drawer and reached for the document on top of the pile.

The door to the outpost banged open. Koku jerked, causing her back to stiffen in pain, her belly to contract. In marched Motete Vincent. He might be a prominent businessman, but he reminded her of a spotted hyena—small head, wide-set eyes, overfed body. With a character to match. He stopped in front of Lubadsa’s desk.

“You!” He pointed a thick finger in the constable’s face. “Get me Hewa, I must speak to him about a mugging.”

“Y-yes, mzee.” Lubadsa sprang up like a gazelle, his limbs long and lean, and fled toward the back offices.

Koku eased to her swollen feet, a form clutched in her hand. “Shikamoo, mzee. Are you injured? Do you need to fill out a PF three?”

“What I need is something to drink, constable. Fetch me a Coke.” He waved a one thousand shilling note under her nose.

Koku’s lips tightened, but she didn’t dare offend him, since he was close with her commander. She reached for the bill. “Of course, mzee.”

Vincent held the money just out of reach. “You twilight ladies. So eager to grab men’s hard-earned cash.”

Koku gaped. Twilight ladies? His hard-earned cash? What about her money?

Stuffing the note into her palm, he said, “Go on then. Be quick about it. I’ve worked up quite a thirst.”

Not trusting herself to speak, she trudged to a crate of bottles by the door. She selected an empty Fanta bottle, exited, and labored toward The Fierce Sun, a small kiosk on a not-so-distant corner. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

Buses shot past, kicking up thick diesel clouds, young men hanging from the open doors, calling the stops, heavily distorted bongoland music screeching from tinny speakers. Women in brightly colored kitenges and men in slacks and button-down shirts ambled along the sidewalks heading for the bus stands. Youth in T-shirts, low-riding jeans, and knock-off Nikes jostled through the crowd, careless with their movements.

By the time she reached the kiosk, dark circles had spread from underarm to elbow, and no amount of mopping could keep the sweat from her brow. Fortunately, Baba Nkwabi still manned the shop, even with the sun rapidly setting.

He set down the tins of dried milk he’d been shelving, the lines on his forehead seeming to deepen as he took in her untidy appearance.

“Little mother, please, come inside. Sit here.” He slid a stool from behind a counter and set it in front of the large mural his youngest daughter, Anifa, had painted. It gave the kiosk its name—a trio of farmers plowing a field under a blistering, stylized sun. How apt.

“No time, Baba. I must return to the station.” She looked longingly at the stool.

“Hurry does not bring blessings.”

“Tell that to the hyena,” grumbled Koku. “A Coke, please.” She handed over the cash and the empty bottle so she could take away the soda and he’d still receive the bottle deposit when the supplier came to replenish the stock.

“Here’s two. Send Lubadsa with the empty.”

“Baba, you don’t have to do this.” But as she said it, she took a grateful mouthful.

* * * *

Entering the outpost, Koku saw Assistant Superintendent Justice Hewa and Motete Vincent speaking in quiet tones, their heads together. Where Vincent resembled a hyena, Hewa was the leaner, more cunning jackal. His teeth were just as sharp, though.

Noticing her, Hewa waved her over. “Grab your notepad and come with us.”

Now what? Koku did as asked and fell in behind the strange procession—Vincent’s step heavy like he meant to trample the air underneath his shoes, and Hewa with his parade-like gait. For her, every step a misery, her ankles the size of overripe mangoes. Where was Lubadsa anyway?

Once inside A.S. Hewa’s office, Koku shuffled over a slippery vinyl mat until she sank onto a wooden bench worn smooth with time. Motete Vincent filled the more comfortable chair across from the assistant superintendent, snatching the soda and change with barely a word of thanks.

At least the ceiling fan forced the worst of the heat from this room.

Hewa nodded toward the open door, and Koku hefted herself to her feet, closed it, then returned to the bench. Would the tortures of this day ever end?

“We have a sensitive situation, P.C. Mkama,” Hewa began. “I want you to keep an unofficial filing of what you are about to hear—”

“There’s no need, Justice, I don’t want my name associated with this nasty business.”

Vincent wrinkled his nose.

Hewa held up a hand. “In the event there is a need at a later time.”

“Fine. But there won’t be.” Vincent harrumphed. “So, I was on my way to meet my distributor, when I saw a woman stranded on the side of the road.”

“A young woman?” Koku couldn’t help but ask.

Vincent’s back snapped straight. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything. But, yes, a young woman.”

Hewa scowled at her.

Koku bent over her notebook, pretending she didn’t notice.

“Go on, Motete. P.C. Mkama won’t interrupt again.”

“She flagged me down. Said she’d been robbed and asked for a lift. How could I say no?”

The one who is far away, the tree does not fall on him. Wise words from her grandmother, yet so seldom heeded.

“And, of course, when you opened the door, a bunch of thieves ambushed you.” Hewa nodded like this was the obvious outcome. Using a pretty girl to get a motorist to pull over was a trick employed since the days of colonial rule. It still worked.

Vincent cleared his throat, his jowly cheeks reddened. “No, no. Not quite like that.”

Koku paused her pen, waiting for Vincent to continue. Could he be a third fool? Her senses hummed with excitement, but she kept her delight to herself.

“She... ” He cleared his throat again, glared at Koku. “This, this, night hound demanded money and a ride to town or said she would scream and tell people I had forced her into my vehicle for s****l molestation.” He lowered his voice. “Rape.”

Koku kept her expression neutral, but Hewa thumped his fist on the desk. “She didn’t! I have never heard of such rubbish behavior!”

And he hadn’t. But she had. Two others had come forth earlier in the week to speak privately with P.C. Lubadsa about their situation.

“It’s true!” shouted Motete Vincent, clearly pleased to have a rapt audience. “What was I to do? I begged her to understand I was in no position to give her money. But she said she would scream and even my wife would not believe me. My wife! Can you imagine?”

Koku wiped her face with her handkerchief, hiding the small smile tugging at her lips. Well now. Not your everyday mugging. A clever girl.

“You, sir, have been caught by a mascara-painted lady. A night hound, truly!” Hewa said. “How much did she steal?”

Vincent shifted in his seat. “As it happened, I was carrying a lot of money in a case. You remember, of course, that I was meeting my distributor? He, ah, prefers to be paid in cash. Nature of my business.”

Motete Vincent owned several large shops in the region that specialized in mining equipment and supplies. She couldn’t afford to buy even batteries for her torch there, his prices so inflated. But the Canadians and South Africans didn’t seem to mind.

“How much?” Hewa leaned toward his friend.

“A million shillings.” Vincent’s voice came out as barely a whisper.

“Aiii, no!” Hewa said.

Koku gasped, her pen slipping from her fingers. The largest theft yet!

Both men scowled at her.

“You stick to your work, P.C. Mkama. Your opinion wasn’t asked for,” Hewa snapped.

“Sorry, sir.” She leaned forward to retrieve the pen, but her belly prevented her. Both men stared as she eased from the bench, knelt, and seized it. Now the hard part. Using the bench for support, she hefted herself upward, wobbling like a newborn giraffe, and resettled her bulk. Was she truly not due for another month?

“I assume you’re ready to continue now?” Her boss’s eyes were narrowed.

“Yes, sir.” Mpumbavu!

“Motete,” Hewa said, “I understand you do not want to lodge a formal complaint, but you must see that we can do nothing if you do not come forward. What of the other men who will fall victim to their own kindness? We can—”

“No! Think of the ridicule! I wouldn’t be able to show my face at work! Tricked by a twilight lady. And my wife. Do you think she would believe I was only doing a good deed for a strange lady? I don’t need that sort of trouble in my household.”

The same reason the others refused to report.

Hewa steepled his fingers, pursed his lips in what Koku thought of as his thinking face. After a time, he said, “Perhaps if you describe this night hound, I can talk to the Mwanza Times and give an anonymous accounting on your behalf. An article on Twilight Lady Lures and Carjacks Lone Men would wake up unsuspecting men to the danger.”

Koku coughed to hide a growl that threatened to spill over. Yes, rich men were in danger. Run to the newspapers. Alert the people’s militia. Call the president. Something had to be done.

“Did you have something to say, P.C. Mkama?”

“Yes, sir. Would you like me to make note of the description?”

* * * *

After she’d been dismissed, Koku struggled back to The Fierce Sun kiosk, a torch in one hand, the empty soda bottle in the other. This time she took the shopkeep up on his kind offer and sank onto the stool.

“Bless you, Baba Nkwabi,” she groaned.

“Where’s Lubadsa?” he demanded, a broom in his work-worn hand. “Surely, he wouldn’t let you make a second trip in this heat? And in the dark no less.”

“He’s out.” Koku leaned against the mural, concentrated on slowing her breathing to a normal pace, and wiped a sodden handkerchief across her brow.

He clucked his tongue in disapproval, whisked the broom across the floor like he was mad at it. “He could have come with it tomorrow. He won’t be pleased.”

“Why should he care? I’ve saved him a trip.”

“Little mother, you must realize he’s sweet on you. He follows you like a hungry puppy.”

“More like a worried hound.” She patted her belly. “Afraid I’ll burst like a tomato on his shift.”

Baba Nkwabi laughed, set his broom aside. “May you raise many children!”

“You’re too kind, Baba! But one is quite enough for now.”

“Ah, little mother, you remind me so much of my Anifa. Such a good girl. Did I tell you, she’s started housekeeping for an mzungu? An American, I think.” He swiped a cloth across the counter, shook his head. “So much money, those people.”

“I wouldn’t say no to it.”

“God has given you all the wealth you need. A child brings much happiness to his mother.” He patted her shoulder, then stepped to the shop opening and dragged a metal gate halfway across.

True, but with her bank account depleted, she’d welcome some less divine wealth too. She eased to her feet. “Thank you again for the soda, Baba. Good deeds never perish.”

“Good is what God wills, little mother.”

* * * *

Twenty minutes later, Koku slumped in her chair, reviewing her bank statement again. How could her husband do this?

When they’d courted, he’d been generous. After the wedding, that had dried up like a barren field. Especially once he’d opened a second electronics shop downtown. Always carrying more petty cash in his pocket than she made in a month. But where was the money for their household? “That’s why you draw a salary,” he’d say. Or “Should I not take care of my businesses?” Or “I’m meeting with some associates. I’ll need the money for expenses.” He meant beer. She’d accepted this. Why else would she set aside money for their baby?

The girlfriends and his thievery were another matter entirely. A dog ought to prefer bones, but he had a rich man’s tastes and craving for prestige. Especially when it came to keeping girlfriends. At least he hadn’t taken a second wife. That she couldn’t bear.

Setting the incriminating document aside, she created a folder for Motete Vincent’s complaint and added it to the other two unofficial filings.

When P.C. Lubadsa appeared in the doorway, she covered the bank statement with some stray paperwork.

“Aisee, sista, you look tired,” he said. “Go home, and I will finish anything that needs to be done.”

“Gladly,” Koku said, eyeing his now rumpled uniform. She went to wipe the sweat from her face, but her saturated cloth did little but shift it around on her brow.

Lubadsa pulled a crisp handkerchief from his shirt pocket, held it out for her.

“I... ” She dropped her gaze to the desk.

“Go on. Take it.”

She met his eyes, then grasped the cloth, her fingers brushing his. “Thank you. I’ll make sure to wash it.”

“So, did you fill a PF three for Motete Vincent?” A lopsided grin tugged at Lubadsa’s lean face.

“The only injury that hyena suffered was to his pride. A doctor can’t treat that even if the form gives him permission.”

“You’re a cheeky lady, P.C. Mkama.”

“Thank you, P.C. Lubadsa. From you, I know that’s a compliment.”

“Indeed.”

“Before I go... ” Koku rubbed her lower back to ease the tension. “Tell me what trouble you’ve been up to. I know it will be instructive.”

Lubadsa slid his chair close, sank down, and stretched his long legs before him.

“No trouble, madame. I simply suggested to the A.S. that I examine Vincent’s four-by-four for evidence.”

“And did you find anything?”

“Another card.”

“The same?”

He plucked it from his pocket, held it out to her. “Indeed.”

In each instance, a blank business card had been found in the vehicle of the victims, a lipstick kiss pressed to the center of the card. She turned it over once, then placed it in the proper file. “I didn’t tell Hewa about the other victims.”

Lubadsa shrugged. “No one comes forward. What should we do?”

“Ha! You found something else!”

“You know me too well, P.C. Mkama.” Reaching back into his pocket, he drew out a thin gold bracelet with a single charm in the shape of a stylized sun. He handed it to her, but she didn’t set it in the file, closing it in her fist instead.

She smiled.

“You think it’s funny?” he asked.

Koku shrugged. “That rich, married men who think they can press a stranded young lady for s*x are hijacked and their money stolen? No, it’s terrible.”

Lubadsa shook his head, but returned her smile. “You are trouble, sista.” He reached over and tugged her bank statement from under the pile. “You have much to deal with, I think. You might try the Pour House.”

She struggled to her feet, squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Lubadsa. You’re a gem among men. You’ll make assistant inspector yet.”

He blushed. “One can only hope.”

* * * *

Instead of boarding the usual bus to her neighborhood, Koku took the one to Kono ya Bweru. Squeezing out of the overcrowded tin can, she brushed off her uniform and sneezed as dust from the traffic rolled past her in waves. The heat still clung like an unwanted lover, but at least the night air held the faint promise of rain. She wiped her face with Lubadsa’s handkerchief, breathed in his subtle cologne.

Lumbering over heavily rutted paths with her torch leading the way, she stopped outside a corrugated shack. A couple of mismatched tables were set outside where Pour House patrons swilled locally brewed moonshine, chang’aa. Illegal, yet popular among city residents, chang’aa raids by the police or local militia, while infrequent, did occur. Members of the Force were forewarned so as not to be caught drinking at such an establishment during a raid.

Some of the patrons eyed Koku uneasily. She wasn’t surprised. She didn’t belong here, and her uniform raised lots of questions. But it couldn’t be helped.

Switching off her torch, she pulled open a loosely hinged door and ducked inside. The grainy, sweet smell of the moonshine made her nauseated, and the odor of close-packed bodies, combined with the heat of the evening, caused her to take a steadying breath. Tables sat crammed together, leaving little space to step, especially for someone in her condition. She inched through a sticky-floored aisle, knocking against tabletops, patrons swearing when she jostled their drinks. Finally, she saw who she searched for and made for the back corner.

Two women huddled at a table, deep in conversation. One young, the other middle-aged and finely dressed. As Koku approached, the middle-aged lady’s eyes drifted to her. The woman blanched, slid from her seat, and stumbled for the door. Koku smiled. Good.

Sinking down into the wobbly chair the older woman had just vacated, she examined the woman she’d come to see.

“How did you find me?” Anifa asked.

“I saw your father today. He is a nice man.”

“Yes.” Anifa took a cautious sip from her jug.

“He thinks you work for a foreigner.”

“I know.”

Koku drew out the bracelet, set it on the table. “Yours, I believe. I didn’t know you also do jewelry. A very distinctive style. Like the sun in the mural.”

Anifa blinked. Blinked again. She gathered the bracelet from the table, undid the clasp, and looped it around her wrist.

“Are you here to arrest me?”

“Me? No, I saw it on the ground, thought you might need it back.” Koku reached over and fastened the clasp for her.

“Thank you.” She spun her bracelet on her wrist. “Miserable heat! Vincent was late. By the time I climbed in his four-by-four, I was dripping with sweat. It must have slid over my hand... You won’t say anything to my father?”

“You were certain he would give you a lift?”

She laughed. “A man who dips his finger in honey will do so again.”

Koku grimaced. “Tell me, how did you know he would be carrying so much cash? Or did you get lucky?”

Anifa scanned the room, shifted her chair closer. “His wife told me. He was on his way to pay the first installment to a builder. His latest girlfriend demanded a house, and I’ve heard he’s lovesick. But that money was for his son’s education. Did you know he’s at Feza Boys in Dar es Salaam? A good school, but very expensive. Over six million a year. Can you imagine? If he’d spent that money—and much more—on his girlfriend, his wife worried they couldn’t continue to afford the tuition.”

“And of course Vincent can’t admit to his girlfriend that he picked you up and lost the money.”

“I’ve heard she’s a jealous one.”

“Ha! He’ll have to lie, say something happened to the money. A bad business deal maybe.”

Anifa shrugged. “She won’t believe him.”

“I wouldn’t. She’ll think he never intended to build a house.” Koku chuckled. “Brilliant. I predict Motete Vincent is about to have girlfriend troubles.”

“Shame.” Anifa took a long sip of her drink.

“And how much did you charge the wife for your good deed?”

“I’m not greedy, if that’s what you think. Only a hundred thousand. Cheap, when you weigh the risk.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

Anifa became serious. “Please, you won’t tell my father? It would kill him.”

“He won’t hear it from my lips.” Koku pulled out her bank statement, used it to fan herself. “But I have a husband problem, and I think you can help.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Meg Opperman’s previous life—as an anthropologist and researcher—informs both her short stories and her snarky sense of humor. She’s been published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Weird Tales, and various mystery anthologies. Her story “Twilight Ladies” won the 2015 Best Short Story Derringer. Her alter ego writes l***q fantasy romance. You can find Meg’s latest news at www.megopperman.com.

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