The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party Part 7

There was silence. Then Mma Ramotswe spoke. "In broad daylight?"

Mma Makutsi examined her fingernails. "If ghosts exist, Mma-and I am not prepared to exclude that possibility-then why should they just appear at night? Where do they go during the day, might one ask?"

"I don't know," said Mma Ramotswe. "It would be interesting to find out."

Mma Makutsi agreed that it would. "In this case," she went on, "the ghost that I think I saw was the ghost that maybe you yourself saw only a few days ago-the ghost of your late van."

Mma Ramotswe gasped. "My van?"

"Yes, Mma. It was in the parking lot near the shops, on the Tlokweng Road side. I saw it reversing out of a parking place and I tried to stop it. But the driver did not hear me, and he just drove off."

Mma Ramotswe reflected on this. So the van really was running once more, in spite of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni's conviction that it would not. And the driver was a man-that was an additional piece of information; as was the fact that he shopped at the Riverwalk shops-another piece of potentially useful knowledge. "I do not think it is a ghost," she said. "It is my van. I had heard that it had been bought by a young man up north somewhere, near the Tuli Block. I thought it had been bought for parts, but he must have changed his mind." She paused; perhaps something about the van had stayed his hand and he had been unable to end its life. "Yes," she continued. "That's what must have happened."

Mma Makutsi nodded. This seemed quite reasonable to her. "Well, you must be happy that it is back on the road, Mma."

Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe, I am. But in a curious way, if the knowledge that the tiny white van had been restored was rea.s.suring, it was also saddening. Some other person-somebody who did not necessarily appreciate the white van-would be driving it while she, who loved it, was driving a new blue van of very little character. If only they were able to change places...She stopped herself. The thought had occurred to her on a whim, but now that she thought of it more seriously it seemed so obvious. The person who currently owned the white van would probably very much like to have a newer van. If she were to approach him and offer to exchange vans, he would no doubt leap at the chance.

The idea was a delicious one, and it brought a broad smile to her face.

"So you're happy, Mma Ramotswe," said Mma Makutsi. "You are smiling. That is very good."

Mma Ramotswe brought herself back to reality. It would be ridiculous to exchange a new van for an old one-far better to buy the tiny white van back. She now became aware that Mma Makutsi was speaking to her...

"I was thinking of something," she said quickly. "But we should really get back to work, Mma Makutsi, or we would spend our whole day talking and thinking about this and that."

"Yes, you're quite right," agreed Mma Makutsi. She knew, though, that talking and thinking about this and that was exactly what both she and Mma Ramotswe would love to do, but could not, as that brought in a great deal of happiness but no money, and a lack of money had a tendency to diminish happiness in the long run. It need not, of course, and she remembered that she had been happy enough when money had been tight. Now things were different, but she realised that she would have to remind herself of how life had been before. Those who had enough money, she thought, often forgot those who had none. Mma Ramotswe had once told her that, and she had remembered it. "Never forget, Mma," she had said, "that there are people who will be looking at you and wis.h.i.+ng to be in your shoes. Because they have no shoes, you see." It was a puzzling comment, and a rather odd one, but now that she called it back to mind she found that she knew exactly what Mma Ramotswe had meant.

BY THE TIME of the mid-morning tea-break, Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi had more or less completed the task of sending out the month's-end invoices. This was a pleasant task-the direct opposite of the business of paying bills, and now that the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency was reasonably well established, the invoices always added up to more than the bills to be paid. It had not always been so, especially in the early days of the agency, when there had been the merest trickle of clients and an even smaller number of invoices, given Mma Ramotswe's habit of taking on meritorious cases for no fee. She still did that, but there were plenty of cases that paid well enough to give them both a modest but adequate living. of the mid-morning tea-break, Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi had more or less completed the task of sending out the month's-end invoices. This was a pleasant task-the direct opposite of the business of paying bills, and now that the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency was reasonably well established, the invoices always added up to more than the bills to be paid. It had not always been so, especially in the early days of the agency, when there had been the merest trickle of clients and an even smaller number of invoices, given Mma Ramotswe's habit of taking on meritorious cases for no fee. She still did that, but there were plenty of cases that paid well enough to give them both a modest but adequate living.

"That's that then," said Mma Makutsi, as she stuck the last stamp on the final invoice. "Two thousand pula for knowing that your wife is a bad woman. I feel sorry for that man, Mma."

Mma Ramotswe glanced at the envelope. The Ditabonwe case. "Yes, that poor man does not deserve it. He should not have married that woman."

"Three boyfriends," said Mma Makutsi disapprovingly. "And all the time she was living in that expensive house and eating her husband's food."

"And where will the boyfriends be when they discover that she no longer has any money and has been thrown out of the house? Will they be at her side, Mma Makutsi?"

"They will not," said her a.s.sistant.

They were silent for a moment, both contemplating the foolishness of others-their bread and b.u.t.ter. Then Mma Ramotswe made a gesture of resignation. "People do not learn, Mma," she said. "But I suppose we must carry on hoping that they will. You never know." She paused, looking at the kettle. "And now, I think, it's time for tea. Would you mind switching on the kettle, Mma Makutsi?"

The tea was infusing in the pot when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni came in, closely followed by Fanwell. Mma Makutsi, who was lining up the mugs on the filing cabinet, turned and looked the two men up and down. "No Charlie," she said.

At the mention of his fellow apprentice, Fanwell looked down at the floor.

"No," said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. "There is no Charlie, is there, Fanwell?"

Fanwell muttered something that none of them could make out.

"Well, Fanwell?" Mma Makutsi pressed. "I did not quite hear what you said. No Charlie, is there?"

"He is not here," said Fanwell. "I am here, but he is not. I am not his boss. I cannot answer for him."

Mma Makutsi glanced at Mma Ramotswe before turning again to the young man. "You know where he is, though, don't you?"

"I do not," muttered Fanwell.

Mma Makutsi shook her head. "I think you do, Fanwell."

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, pouring tea into his mug, made a gentle intervention. "I don't think we can expect Fanwell to know Charlie's whereabouts," he said. "You would tell us if you knew, wouldn't you, Fanwell?"

Fanwell thought for a moment. "He asked me not to tell you," he said.

"Ha!" exclaimed Mma Makutsi. "So he told you. You see? I was right. You cannot lie to me, Fanwell. You can't fool a detective."

Fanwell looked to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni for help. Mma Ramotswe noticed this, and came to his rescue. "You mustn't worry, Fanwell," she said quietly. "Mma Makutsi is trying to be helpful, you see. We don't want to punish Charlie-we just want to make sure that he's all right."

"And make sure that he faces up to his responsibilities," interjected Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe made a calming gesture. "Mma Makutsi, please..."

"Justice," said Mma Makutsi. "That's what I believe in, Mma. Justice for wronged women, that's all."

Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet. "Fanwell, you come with me for a moment. Just come with me." She pointed to the door.

They went out through the garage, past the car on which the young man and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had been working.

"That poor car," remarked Mma Ramotswe. "It looks so sad with all its parts exposed like that. And yet you and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni will put it all together again and it will be as good as new. It's a great skill you have, Rra."

Fanwell smiled with pleasure. "Thank you, Mma. It is easy when you know how."

It is easy when you know how. Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe. It was easy when you knew how, and right at that moment she was thinking of how Mma Makutsi most certainly did Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe. It was easy when you knew how, and right at that moment she was thinking of how Mma Makutsi most certainly did not not know how, at least when it came to dealing with young men. know how, at least when it came to dealing with young men.

They went out from under the shade of the garage eaves, out into the warm morning sun; above them an empty sky, so high, so pale, and a bird, a speck of black, circling in a thermal current. Mma Ramotswe took Fanwell's arm and walked with him towards the acacia tree behind the garage. The young man, she noticed, was s.h.i.+vering, as if a cold breeze had suddenly blown up from somewhere; but the air was still.

"You're upset, Fanwell, aren't you? You're s.h.i.+vering."

He nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Why?" she asked. "Are you afraid of something?"

He did not answer immediately, but looked up into the sky. She followed his gaze. There was nothing; or nothing I can see, or nothing I can see, she thought. she thought.

"Charlie told me not to tell anybody," he said. "He has come to my place."

Mma Ramotswe nodded. That made sense.

"So he is staying at your place? With your grandmother and the children?"

"Eee, Mma." It was the way that people said yes, and it could be said through an exhalation of breath. It was an eloquent sound, capable of registering a range of emotions. The suggestion here was of regret, tinged with fear.

"It is not right that he should put you in this position," said Mma Ramotswe. "Charlie should not put his problems on your shoulders."

Fanwell turned to face her. "He said he would kill me."

Mma Ramotswe gasped. "Charlie said that?"

Fanwell inclined his head. "He said that if I told anybody where he was, he would kill me."

Mma Ramotswe snorted. "What nonsense! He didn't mean that, Fanwell. You know how Charlie is always talking nonsense. Big words that mean nothing-nothing at all."

Fanwell was not convinced. "He meant it, Mma. He put his fist in my face like this-shaking it about-and then he said that if I told anybody he would come at night when I was sleeping and pinch my nose so that I had no air. He showed me how he would do it."

"Pinch your nose!" exploded Mma Ramotswe. "That is complete, one hundred per cent nonsense, Fanwell. You cannot stop a person breathing like that. If you pinch somebody's nose, then they simply open their mouth and breathe that way. Charlie was joking-he must have been."

Fanwell listened to her, but still looked miserable. "Please do not come to fetch him," he said. "I do not want that. Even if he does not kill me, he will do something bad to me."

Mma Ramotswe reached out to touch him lightly on the forearm. "Very well," she said. "I will not come and look for him."

"And you won't tell Mma Makutsi?"

She a.s.sured him that she would not. "But you will have to do something for me," she said. "You must tell him that I have offered to help him. You must give him that message from me. You must tell him that he should come to my house-at night if he likes. He should come to see me and I can tell him how I shall be able to help him."

She waited for the young man to respond, and eventually he did. He would pa.s.s this message on to Charlie, he said, and he would try to persuade him.

They walked back to the garage, where Mma Ramotswe left him while she went back into the office.

"Where is he, then?" asked Mma Makutsi. "Did you get it out of him?"

Mma Ramotswe put a finger to her lips. "Subject closed, Mma," she said. "Closed until further notice."

She looked over her shoulder through the open door into the garage. Fanwell was standing next to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, looking down at the engine on which they were working. He seemed so slight beside the well-set figure of the older mechanic-not much more than a boy really, with all the vulnerability that boys have. The sight tugged at her heart and she turned away again. She knew that Fanwell supported his grandmother and several of his younger brothers and sisters on his tiny salary as an apprentice. Yet he never so much as mentioned this fact, nor complained about it. This made her think: those who have a great deal to complain about are so often silent in their suffering, while those who have little to be dissatisfied with are frequently highly vocal about it.

CHAPTER NINE.

WITH REFERENCE TO THAT PREVIOUS KISS.

MMA RAMOTSWE liked to leave the concerns of the office where they belonged-in the office. But that evening, as she drove home from work, following the tree-lined route that she liked to take through the older area of town known simply as the Village, she found herself thinking of the Moeti case. She had done nothing about it that day-there had been other things to claim her attention-but now she found herself considering possibilities. As often happened, the words of Clovis Andersen came to mind. His general advice, applicable to almost all cases, was to talk to as many people as possible, or rather to get them to talk to you. liked to leave the concerns of the office where they belonged-in the office. But that evening, as she drove home from work, following the tree-lined route that she liked to take through the older area of town known simply as the Village, she found herself thinking of the Moeti case. She had done nothing about it that day-there had been other things to claim her attention-but now she found herself considering possibilities. As often happened, the words of Clovis Andersen came to mind. His general advice, applicable to almost all cases, was to talk to as many people as possible, or rather to get them to talk to you. The more you listen, the more you learn, The more you listen, the more you learn, he wrote in he wrote in The Principles of Private Detection, The Principles of Private Detection, and Mma Ramotswe had been particularly struck by the wisdom of these words, even on one occasion drawing them to the attention of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He had frowned, inclined his head, and said, "Well, Mma, I think that is certainly true. You cannot learn anything if you close your ears. I think that is undoubtedly true." and Mma Ramotswe had been particularly struck by the wisdom of these words, even on one occasion drawing them to the attention of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He had frowned, inclined his head, and said, "Well, Mma, I think that is certainly true. You cannot learn anything if you close your ears. I think that is undoubtedly true."

She had gone so far as to work these words into a small needlework sampler that she had embarked upon, the words forming the centre part of the piece, with detailed pictures of Kalahari flowers around the edge, all executed in colourful thread. She had been pleased with the result, and had donated it to the sale of work in aid of the Anglican Hospice. It had sold well, she was told, to the wife of a hotel manager, a woman widely known to be something of a gossip. The humour of this had not escaped the ladies running the sale of work, who had all agreed that the woman in question was contemplating the listening being done by others rather than by herself.

Mma Ramotswe was certainly prepared to listen to anybody who had any light to shed on the unfortunate fate of Mr. Moeti's cattle, but she realised that it was going to be difficult to find that person or persons. It would be different if the case were in some suburb of Gaborone, or even in a village; one could always find somebody in the street with views to express-one of the neighbours usually. But this was in the country, where one's only company as often as not were the birds, or the small creatures that scurried through the bush. There was that boy, she recalled, and the woman who worked in the house. Mpho seemed to know something, but he was clearly frightened of Mr. Moeti-for whatever reason-and she doubted whether she would get anything out of him. Unless, of course, she were able to speak to the boy in private, if she could somehow get him on his own somewhere. Boys could be good informants, as she had discovered on a number of earlier occasions; boys saw things, and remembered them.

As she paused at a crossroads to allow a couple of trucks to lumber past, she considered the chances of a private conversation with Mpho. The boy was the son of the woman who worked in the house, the one she had met, so he presumably lived with his mother in the staff quarters behind the house. She was not sure how old he was, even if she was certain that he was under the age of legal employment; but that made no difference. There were plenty of children who worked on farms, unofficially, and there were even some who worked in towns. Bobas.h.i.+ Bobas.h.i.+ were children whose parents were dead, or who had run away from home and who survived by their wits. They tended to be found in the towns rather than in the country; she had even come across one who lived in a storm-water drain, a sc.r.a.p of a child with a face that had seemed so prematurely worldly-wise. She had tried to bring the child to the attention of Mma Potokwane, but when she had driven the matron to the place where she had spotted him, he was nowhere to be seen. "They move about," said Mma Potokwane, sadly. "One day they live in a drain, the next day they are up a tree. There is no telling with that sort of child." were children whose parents were dead, or who had run away from home and who survived by their wits. They tended to be found in the towns rather than in the country; she had even come across one who lived in a storm-water drain, a sc.r.a.p of a child with a face that had seemed so prematurely worldly-wise. She had tried to bring the child to the attention of Mma Potokwane, but when she had driven the matron to the place where she had spotted him, he was nowhere to be seen. "They move about," said Mma Potokwane, sadly. "One day they live in a drain, the next day they are up a tree. There is no telling with that sort of child."

This boy was certainly not like that; he had a mother, and might even be in school. It was certainly not uncommon for children to attend school in the mornings and then work in the afternoons, especially now that the Government had made primary education compulsory. She wondered whether she would be able to speak to the mother. Botsalo Moeti had implied their relations.h.i.+p was a close one, but that meant very little. He would be using her, as likely as not, and she would no doubt be in awe of him-there were many such arrangements between strong men and vulnerable, desperate women. So, she thought, this woman, from her position of weakness, would not be what Clovis Andersen would call an "independent witness." If somebody works under somebody, If somebody works under somebody, the great authority wrote, the great authority wrote, then do not expect that person to tell the truth about the person above him. He may either lie to protect his superior, lie because he is afraid of him, or lie in order to get revenge for some insult or slight. then do not expect that person to tell the truth about the person above him. He may either lie to protect his superior, lie because he is afraid of him, or lie in order to get revenge for some insult or slight.

Mma Ramotswe decided that even if there would be no point in talking to the woman in the kitchen, it was still worth trying to seek out the boy; he knew something-she was sure of it. If he was in school, then perhaps she could speak to him there. That would involve finding the most likely village school for him to attend and then speaking to the teacher there. She would require some sort of pretext for this. Could she offer to give a talk to the school? "The Life of a Private Detective" by Mma Precious Ramotswe. They would be surprised, she thought, and might insist on her obtaining permission from the Ministry of Education or the local council or something like that. No, that would not work; it would be far better to use the tactic that she had employed on so many previous occasions when she needed something, and that was to ask for it directly. It was a rather obvious thing to do, but in her experience it was usually very effective. If you want to know the answer to something, then go and ask somebody. It was a simple but effective adage-one that perhaps should be embroidered on a sampler and sold at fundraising sales. Well, she would try it in this case, and see what happened. And if she drew a blank, then there was still another lead to follow: the key ring that had been found near the scene of the crime.

She had no idea what to make of that, but she was now getting closer to home, and she decided to concentrate on her driving and on the thought of the meal that she would shortly be preparing. There was a large chunk of fine Botswana beef waiting in the fridge, and as she turned into Zebra Drive she imagined that she could even smell it. It would gladden the heart of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who loved beef, and it would be good for the children too, who loved all sorts of food, without any exception that she had yet discovered. She was of that school of thought too. Beef, pumpkin, potatoes, stringy green beans, melon-all of these things were loved by Mma Ramotswe; as were cakes, biscuits, doughnuts, and red bush tea. Life was very full.

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MMA MAKUTSI also prepared a meal that evening, although she was cooking for two rather than four. Phuti had told her he would be late, as he had a meeting with a furniture supplier and would not be able to get away until almost seven o'clock. That meant that they would not sit down to eat for at least half an hour after their normal dinner-time. "Not that I mind waiting," he said over the telephone. "I'd wait for ten hours or more for your cooking, Grace. I'd wait all day." also prepared a meal that evening, although she was cooking for two rather than four. Phuti had told her he would be late, as he had a meeting with a furniture supplier and would not be able to get away until almost seven o'clock. That meant that they would not sit down to eat for at least half an hour after their normal dinner-time. "Not that I mind waiting," he said over the telephone. "I'd wait for ten hours or more for your cooking, Grace. I'd wait all day."

It was a typical gallant remark by a man whose good manners stood out, even in a country noted for its politeness.

Mma Makutsi laughed. "I will not keep you waiting longer than is absolutely necessary," she said. "We shall sit down at the table the moment you come in the door."

"Yes," he said. "And then we can discuss the wedding. There are some details I must ask you about."

She hesitated. What details did he have in mind? She thought of her shoes-or, rather, the remnants of her shoes. If he asked her about those, then she would have to confess that they were already destroyed, and he might wonder why she had not spoken to him about that the previous day.

"I'd like that," she said blandly. "We have so much to plan."

Now, with the meal almost ready and the hands of the clock inching round to seven-fifteen, she took a deep breath and told herself not to worry. Phuti was a kind man, and he would understand if she told him about the shoe incident. She would tell him straightaway, she decided-the moment he came in through the door.

Shortly before seven-thirty she saw the beam of his car's headlights swing past her paw-paw tree and come to rest on her front window. The lights threw the pattern of the bars on the window against her kitchen wall, and then she heard a car door slam. The car moved off. That would be his driver going away.

She was ready for him at the door. He smiled as she asked him in. "I am very hungry now," he said.

He sat down, his injured leg sticking out at an angle that she was only now getting used to. The prosthetic ankle and foot were concealed by a sock and a shoe, but every so often the unnatural angle they adopted reminded one that they were there. He was confident that they would work well, he had said; the prosthetic appliance people had done a remarkable job. "Of course I'm lucky," he pointed out. "There are people who cannot afford a leg. They cannot work. They lose their jobs. All for a leg." He paused, then added, "That is, in places like Malawi. Not here. We are lucky."

She had said, "Yes, we are lucky." And she had meant it. Mma Makutsi's memory of poverty was a recent one, and there were members of her family who, if they were to lose a leg, would never be able to afford an artificial one, were it not for the hospitals that the country's diamonds paid for.

She invited Phuti to the table and began to serve their dinner.

"This wedding of ours," he said. "It is getting closer and closer. We must make more plans."

Mma Makutsi nodded. "I have made a list. There is one column of things for you to do and one of things for me to do."

Phuti expressed satisfaction over this approach. "But before we go into that," he said, "you must tell me what you are wearing. What about those shoes? Have you bought them yet?"

Mma Makutsi looked down at her plate. It was a direct and unambiguous question-exactly what she had most feared. Had he simply made a general enquiry about her outfit, she could have talked at length and in great detail about her dress, or about the outfit she had planned for her bridesmaid. But this was a question that would be rather difficult to avoid.

"Those shoes?" she said faintly. "It's very important to get the right shoes. You know, I was looking at a picture of a bride the other day in Drum. Drum. And do you know, she was wearing a pink dress and bright yellow shoes. Bright yellow shoes, Phuti! She looked ridiculous. I laughed and laughed, and so did Mma Ramotswe." And do you know, she was wearing a pink dress and bright yellow shoes. Bright yellow shoes, Phuti! She looked ridiculous. I laughed and laughed, and so did Mma Ramotswe."

Phuti Radiphuti smiled. "Yes, very silly. She should have worn pink shoes to go with her pink dress, or maybe a yellow dress to go with her yellow shoes." He took a forkful of food and then continued, his mouth half full, "But did you buy those shoes?"

Mma Makutsi looked vaguely into the middle distance. "Shoes? Oh, those shoes. They are very nice...You know, I've been wondering about your suit. Should we have it dry-cleaned now and put away in one of those plastic bags, or should we-"

"It has been dry-cleaned already," said Phuti. "It is in a bag and the bag is in a cupboard. It is very safe. But what about the shoes? Did you buy them?"