Prudence Couldn't Swim by James Kilgore

her feel better. I lifted it carefully off the serving dish but a few crumbs fell onto the table, prompting Mandisa to jump up and get a cloth from the counter to wipe them away. There was no place for crumbs in her world. I was meticulous like that in prison, mopped my cell floor every day, swept in the morning, afternoon, and night. On the streets I didn’t worry about such things. I had Luisa. We didn’t have Luisas in prison, none that interested me anyway.
    I sprinkled a little sugar on the tart.
    â€œSuit yourself,” she said. “I know how you Americans love your sugar.”
    â€œDid Prudence have any enemies?” I asked.
    Mandisa didn’t flinch or answer. She went back to the sink, got a dishrag and wiped away a few phantom crumbs from the table.
    â€œWhy do you ask?” she said.
    â€œI don’t know. I just don’t think Prudence jumped into that pool by herself.”
    â€œWhat do the police think?” she asked. “You said there was no autopsy.”
    â€œFilled in a few forms and left. It didn’t hint of foul play to them.”
    â€œDidn’t you tell them you suspected something?”
    â€œNot really. I was still in a state of shock.”
    I didn’t actually feel like going into it all. I sure wasn’t going to mention the part with me on my belly for two hours. Besides, how could I explain to someone that even if a friend was murdered, my duty was to keep quiet, to “hold my mud,” as we say?
    â€œTo be honest,” I said, “I don’t trust police. I don’t like having them in my life. Whatever they do, they can’t bring Prudence back.”
    â€œI can appreciate that,” she said. “Police are never on the side of black women. Not here. Not in South Africa.”
    â€œI don’t know about all that,” I said. “I just don’t trust them. I’m not trying to make a racial thing out of it. Cops are just haters.”
    â€œSo are you a jealous husband seeking revenge?” she asked.
    â€œNo. Why would I be jealous over someone who was moving out, who wasn’t really my wife?”
    â€œYou tell me,” she said. She looked straight into my eyes. I tried not to blink. There was more than a little bit of jealous husband in me, but when you’re state-raised you learn how to hide these things. Survival depends on it.
    â€œSomeone violated my space, my territory,” I said reverting to my prison voice. I hadn’t talked like that in a long time. You don’t need threatening undertones in Carltonville.
    â€œI want to know who it was,” I added. “I think you can help.”
    â€œI’m not so sure,” she said. “Let me think about it.”
    The apple tart was much better with the sugar on it. I went for a third piece. Mandisa looked pleased.
    â€œI found this in one of her pockets,” said Mandisa. She handed me a business card. Johnny’s Camera Shop.
    â€œI’ll phone them,” I said, taking my cell out of my pocket.
    â€œWhat are you going to say?”
    â€œI’ll figure something out,” I said. “I’m a con man. We have an answer to everything.”
    â€œWait,” she said, “it’s better to plan.” English might have been her fifth language but she was no fool. I cut the phone.
    â€œI know the place,” I said. “It’s on College Avenue. Small shop. Upmarket. For the university crowd. If Prudence had any dealings with them, they’d remember her. No one else who looked or sounded like her would go there.”
    â€œStick to the truth,” she said. “You’re a bereaved husband. That means something. Maybe you think she left some items to be printed there, films of your last night together.”
    I liked the way she pronounced “film,” as in “fill ‘em up.”
    â€œYou said I should tell the truth,” I reminded her.
    â€œIt’s close