The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon (20 page)

She peered closer at the leaflet.

Mma Ramotswe read this text with horror. She looked for a signature, some sign of authorship, but there was none. All that was written at the bottom of the leaflet was:
This message is brought to you by one who cares.

She felt her heart racing with outrage.
One who cares
was clearly one and the same person who had been spreading the rumour about somebody’s face coming off in the salon. This had all the signs of an organised campaign, and a vituperative one at that.

Abandoning the shopping cart in a safe corner, Mma Ramotswe made her way as quickly as she could to the Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon. The door was open and she saw Mma Soleti inside with another woman. When Mma Ramotswe entered the salon, Mma Soleti turned round. Mma Ramotswe could tell immediately that she knew about the leaflet and its contents.

‘Mma,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘This is very bad.’

‘Yes,’ said Mma Soleti. ‘It is the end, Mma. The end.’

The woman who was with her, an older woman, reached out and took Mma Soleti’s hand. ‘No, Mma. You must not give up.’

Mma Soleti introduced her companion. ‘This is my cousin,’ she said. ‘She found one of those leaflets on the windscreen of her car. She had parked it in the car park and when she came back she found the leaflet there.’

‘This person is a criminal,’ said the cousin. ‘There is only one word for it: criminal.’ She paused. ‘You must find her.’

Mma Ramotswe assured her that she would do her best. ‘But it is difficult, Mma. Anonymous letters and anonymous leaflets are often very hard to deal with. They are written by cowards who hide away under rocks. It is not easy to find them.’

‘I am finished now,’ said Mma Soleti. ‘Nobody is coming to my salon. How will I pay the rent? This place is expensive.’

The cousin looked expectantly at Mma Ramotswe. ‘You must find these wicked people, Mma. Please.’

Mma Ramotswe inclined her head slightly – a tiny gesture, but one that signified that she accepted responsibility. If there was any point to being a private detective, then surely it was to sort out cases of this sort, to protect people from bullying and malice, to put a stop to the coursing of poison through the veins of the community. She would do it.

I
tumelang Clovis Radiphuti behaved impeccably on his first morning in the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.

‘He is not a colicky baby,’ said Mma Makutsi as she settled him in his portable crib. ‘He is happy lying there and thinking. He will not disturb us, Mma.’

Mma Ramotswe smiled. ‘I am not sure if they think very much at that age, Mma. Later, maybe, but not when they are very young.’

Mma Makutsi disagreed. ‘No, Mma. Itumelang is always thinking. I can see it in his eyes. He does this with his eyes. This sort of thing. See? Thinking, thinking.’

Mma Makutsi demonstrated, opening her eyes wide as if in astonishment.

Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. ‘I think that he is probably trying to focus,’ she ventured. ‘Tiny babies don’t see far —’

Her suggestion was cut short by Mma Makutsi. ‘He is definitely thinking, Mma,’ she said severely. ‘There is no doubt in my mind about that.’

Mma Ramotswe knew better than to argue with Mma Makutsi when her assistant was sure of something, as she manifestly was now. ‘Well, there you are,’ she said. ‘It is much better for a baby to be thinking than crying.’ She did not want any arguments on this most auspicious of days: the day of Mma Makutsi’s return to work.

‘What has been happening just lately?’ asked Mma Makutsi, settling herself down at her desk.

Mma Ramotswe had made a list of matters on which she needed to brief her assistant. There were a number of enquiries from potential new clients. Mma Makutsi usually wrote those replies, as she had a persuasive turn of phrase that often translated a tentative approach into a firm contract. There were also bills to be paid – another task that Mma Makutsi always coordinated and Mma Ramotswe had let slip a little in her absence.

But whatever background tasks awaited her, the two issues that most interested Mma Makutsi were the Soleti and Molapo affairs. These were both investigations with an intense human-interest dimension, and that aspect always intrigued Mma Makutsi.

As Mma Ramotswe told her about the leaflet, Mma Makutsi’s expression clouded over. ‘Where is the leaflet in question?’ she asked.

Mma Ramotswe reached into her bag and withdrew the copy she had picked up at Riverwalk the day before. Mma Makutsi unfolded it and read the message in silence. After she had finished, she put it down on her desk and stared at it.

‘There is no clue as to who wrote it,’ said Mma Ramotswe from behind her own desk. ‘That bit at the bottom of the page about a concerned person is nonsense, don’t you think?’

Mma Makutsi did not reply. She was still staring intently at the page.

‘And there is nothing else,’ said Mma Ramotswe after a while. ‘I cannot see that we have anything else to go on.’

Mma Makutsi now looked up. ‘This is not printed, Mma,’ she said, holding up the piece of paper as one might a soiled rag. ‘This is photocopied.’

Mma Ramotswe nodded. ‘It is very easy to photocopy these things.’

‘If you have a machine,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘And many people do not have one.’

‘No…’

‘So,’ Mma Makutsi went on, ‘if you do not have a machine, you go to one of those places where they photocopy things cheaply. Such as…’

‘Clear Image Copies,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi adjusted her glasses. ‘Do you have that leaflet that woman at Clear Image gave us, Mma? Daisy Something-or-other.’

‘Daisy Manchwe.’

Mma Ramotswe rifled through the papers on her desk and extracted Mma Manchwe’s price sheet. Rising from her desk, she passed it to Mma Makutsi. She could see where this was going, and it excited her. The first step from having nothing to having something, even if not much, was always thrilling.

Mma Makutsi laid the two pieces of paper out beside one another. Then, reaching into her desk drawer, she fished out a large magnifying glass. Mma Ramotswe remembered when she had bought this, on the recommendation of Clovis Andersen in a chapter entitled: ‘What the investigator must always have by his side’. This glass, though, had never had occasion to be used – before this occasion.

Mma Makutsi bent forward to get a closer view. Then, lifting her head very slowly, she addressed Mma Ramotswe. Her tone was perfectly even. ‘They were copied on the same machine, Mma.’

Mma Ramotswe crossed to her desk and peered over her shoulder.

‘You see, Mma,’ explained Mma Makutsi. ‘Down the side of this leaflet there is that wavy black mark. And down the side of this one here – exactly the same wavy black line. I believe these things are caused by some impurity on the ink cartridge, or on the mirror inside the machine, or something like that.’

Mma Ramotswe saw what she meant. ‘That is amazing, Mma,’ she said. ‘That is detective work of the highest order.’

Mma Makutsi gave a modest shrug. ‘It is knowing what to look for,’ she said. ‘That is all. I’m sure you would have seen the same thing when you started to look for it.’

‘
If
I started to look for it,’ Mma Ramotswe corrected. ‘I’m not sure that I would have thought of that, Mma.’

‘You would,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘You have always thought of these things, Mma. So I am sure you would have thought of doing this.’

Mma Ramotswe returned to her desk. ‘What now, Mma?’

‘We go to see our friend, Daisy Manchwe, and we present her with the evidence. That is what we must do, Mma Ramotswe.’

‘And then?’

‘That is for you to decide, Mma,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘Remember: I am only an associate detective.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘If I were a
principal
detective, then no doubt I would be able to suggest what we should do. But…’ The smile changed to a look of slight reproach. ‘But I am not that, of course.’

And what about us, boss?
 

They both gave a start. Mma Ramotswe imagined that she had heard something, a high-pitched, thin voice, rather what one would imagine a bird would sound like if a bird were to talk. But she was not sure. And nor was Mma Makutsi, although she looked down furtively and shifted her feet.

They decided not to go immediately, but to make the trip after lunch. This would enable Mma Makutsi to accompany Mma Ramotswe, having first taken the baby back to the house to be looked after by the nurse. It would also enable Mma Makutsi to attend to the filing that she felt had been badly overlooked. As papers were unearthed, quickly read to assess their content and then placed in carefully separated pending files, Mma Makutsi uttered the occasional
tut, tut!
accompanied by a shake of the head that was at the same time both approving and disapproving.

By the time they were ready to have morning tea – the second (official) cup of morning tea – the office was looking distinctly more organised. It was not that Mma Ramotswe was untidy – she was not – it was just that Mma Makutsi’s standards were so high. She had a habit of expressing these standards in terms of an aphorism:
An unfiled piece of paper is a lost piece of paper
, or
Dust settles thickest on unfinished work
, or
Never leave your desk at night with a sheet of paper on it: sheets are for beds, not for desks.

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni came in for tea first. He noticed the difference and smiled. He knew that Mma Ramotswe had been missing Mma Makutsi, and he was pleased to see them together again. Somehow, he thought, the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency without Mma Makutsi was like… He searched his mind for a suitable comparison, and came up with
like a car with only one gear
. It was a mechanical analogy, but so were all of his analogies and they served him well.

Mma Makutsi was back in charge of tea. Within a few minutes she had prepared a steaming mug for Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, of precisely the right strength (halfway between weak and strong, but slightly tilted towards the strong), and with precisely the right amount of sugar (one and two-thirds spoonfuls, stirred, but not too much). For Mma Ramotswe she made the usual redbush tea, which, again, she made according to a method that she knew would please the other woman. This involved leaving the tea to infuse until the aroma of the tea reached the nose when it was placed a hand’s-breadth-and-a-half above the open teapot.

When Charlie and Fanwell came in, they were both surprised to see Mma Makutsi.

‘So!’ exclaimed Charlie. ‘So you’re back, Mma! Nice holiday then?’

Mma Makutsi flashed him a warning glance. ‘I’d like to see you in a maternity ward,’ she said. ‘If that’s your idea of a holiday…’

‘I’m sure it isn’t,’ said Mma Ramotswe pleasantly. ‘And have you met Itumelang Clovis Radiphuti, Charlie?’

Charlie made a face. He had not yet seen the crib behind Mma Makutsi’s desk. ‘Itumelang What’s-his-face?’ he asked.

‘He is Mma Makutsi’s baby – and he is in that crib.’

Charlie took a step to the side and craned his neck. He gave a start. ‘Your baby, Mma Makutsi?’

‘Yes, you can look at him,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘But don’t touch him. I don’t want him covered in greasy fingerprints. And I don’t want him to pick up any of your language, Charlie – so watch your tongue.’

Charlie crept forward, followed by Fanwell. ‘Ow!’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Look at him!’

Fanwell smiled at Mma Makutsi. ‘It is a very fine baby, Mma. Well done!’

Mma Makutsi acknowledged the compliment. ‘Thank you, Fanwell,’ she said, and glanced at Charlie.

‘Oh yes, Mma,’ whispered Charlie. ‘This is a wonderful baby. Look at his head.’

‘What’s wrong with his head?’ snapped Mma Makutsi.

‘But there is nothing wrong with his head, Mma,’ replied Charlie. ‘It’s perfect. And look at his nose. It’s like a tiny… a tiny spark plug!’

Mma Makutsi hesitated, but decided that this was a compliment. ‘Thank you, Charlie.’

Charlie got closer. ‘Oh, he is so handsome, Mma Makutsi. He’s a very nice baby.’

Now pride crept into Mma Makutsi’s voice. ‘Yes, Charlie, he is.’

‘Not ninety-seven per cent, Mma – one hundred per cent!’

‘That’s very kind, Charlie. Phuti thinks so too. He said exactly that, for some reason.’

Charlie, who had been peering closely at the sleeping baby, now turned to Mma Makutsi. ‘I think he’s waking up, Mma,’ he whispered. ‘His little eyes are opening. See. Just like that. Tiny eyes.’

‘He’s due to wake up,’ said Mma Makutsi.

Charlie looked at her pleadingly. ‘Do you think, Mma… Do you think…’

‘Think what, Charlie?’

He looked at his hands. ‘Do you think that if I washed my hands – washed them properly – I could hold him? Not for long. Just a little bit.’

Mma Ramotswe thought that she had witnessed something important. ‘I think you should let him, Mma,’ she said to Mma Makutsi. ‘And Fanwell too.’

Fanwell shook his head, and made a self-deprecatory gesture with his hands. ‘Oh, not me, Mma. I’m always worried about dropping babies if somebody passes one to me. Not me.’

‘I’m not,’ said Charlie quickly. ‘I won’t drop him.’

Mma Makutsi thought for a moment before she said, ‘Go and wash your hands, Charlie. Not a couple of seconds under the tap – wash them properly. Then you can pick him up.’

Charlie gave a low whoop of delight and left the room.

‘I think he likes him,’ said Fanwell.

A few minutes later, Charlie returned. ‘See,’ he said, showing his hands to Mma Makutsi. ‘Totally clean.’

She nodded and rose from her chair. Itumelang was now quite awake, but silent, staring with interest at the ceiling. Very gently, Mma Makutsi picked him up. ‘You hold him like this,’ she said as she handed him to Charlie.

‘Oh look, Mma,’ said Charlie. ‘Look at him!’

They all watched as the young man walked up and down the office, cooing to the baby in his arms. Mma Ramotswe caught Mr J. L. B. Matekoni’s eye and she could tell that he was as surprised as any of them.

‘I want to get married,’ said Charlie when he handed Itumelang back to his mother. ‘Then maybe I can have a baby as fine as yours, Mma.’

‘Maybe,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘But you’ll have to find a nice girl first, Charlie. And that means a girl with the right sort of figure to have nice babies. Not one of your fashionable girls. Not one of those girls I’ve seen you with – they’re not interested in babies, you know.’

Charlie was quick to agree. ‘That is true, Mma. Those girls are… they’re useless for these things.’

Mma Ramotswe laughed. ‘Think very carefully about fatherhood, Charlie,’ she said. ‘You have to be sure that you are ready.’

‘Oh, I’m ready, Mma,’ said Charlie. ‘When I see a baby like that, I know I’m ready.’

Mma Ramotswe was both amused and puzzled. She was amused by the young man’s evident pleasure in holding the baby, and puzzled by the apparent change in his attitude. Not all that long ago, when he was suspected – wrongly, as it turned out – of being the father of a girlfriend’s twins, he had been horrified by the thought of being a father. Now, it seemed, the idea had become appealing. We change, she thought. A year or so can make a very big difference, especially if you are a young man.

Mma Makutsi looked at her watch. ‘That’s enough now,’ she said. ‘Itumelang needs his feed, and then Mma Ramotswe and I have some important work to do.’ She clapped her hands peremptorily. ‘Tea break over.’

Mma Ramotswe lowered her eyes. It had always been for her to say when the tea break started and when it ended; now it seemed that Mma Makutsi had taken that role upon herself. For a moment – the briefest of moments – she felt resentment, but it did not last, for of all the emotions and attitudes of which she was composed, resentment or envy surely had the smallest place. So rather than dwell on Mma Makutsi’s assumptions, she reminded herself of her good fortune in having her assistant back. And with that, she felt that most exquisite, and regrettably rare, of pleasures – that of welcoming back one who has left your life. We cannot do that with late people, Mma Ramotswe thought, much as we would love to be able to do so, but we can do it with the living.

Mma Ramotswe spoke suddenly. The mechanics had left the room, and it was just Mma Makutsi, Itumelang and herself. She said, ‘Mma Makutsi, thank you. Thank you for coming back.’