To the Land of Long Lost Friends: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (20) (18 page)

“Yes. He has offered me a job with his firm. But, as I said, I am not going to take it.”

Isaiah sat quite still. His voice was lowered. “And what exactly was that job?”

Queenie-Queenie started to say something but was silenced by a look from her father.

“He lends money,” said Charlie. “He wanted me to…” He hesitated. “He wanted me to help him recover payments. But I won’t do it. I am not going to go and wreck their cars. I am not going to do something like that.”

Isaiah closed his eyes. Charlie looked miserably towards Queenie-Queenie, who was staring at him with contained fury.

Isaiah opened his eyes. “Queenie, do you know about this?”

Queenie-Queenie sighed. “He has been trying to help Charlie.”

“Help put him in prison,” shouted Isaiah. “Yes, prison. Prison is what you get for that sort of thing. Same as last time. Same, same.” He paused. “He promised me he wouldn’t get involved in that sort of thing again. He promised.”

Queenie-Queenie sagged. “Maybe he didn’t mean it, Daddy. Maybe—”

“Maybe, maybe,” snapped Isaiah. “Everything is maybe this, maybe that.” He turned to Charlie. “I am very pleased that you said you would not do it. That shows me that you are your own man. That is very good. You have stood up to him.”

Charlie acknowledged the compliment with a nod of his head, and Isaiah seemed reassured. The anger in his voice abated.

“You do not need to worry about money,” he said. “We do not want any
bogadi
. If you are going to look after my daughter and make her happy, then that will be enough.”

Queenie-Queenie’s reaction was immediate. Rising from her seat, she rushed over to her father and threw her arms around him. “Now I’m happy, Daddy. I’m happy, happy, happy. And we don’t want a big wedding—next week, maybe. Just you and us and maybe the aunties.”

“You cannot get married without aunties,” said Isaiah.

“Of course not. But we do not need all those big parties and feasts and things. Just a reverend. That’s all.”

“It’s your life,” said Isaiah.

Charlie looked at him. “Thank you, Rra. Thank you.”

At his feet, Meat stirred. Charlie reached down to pat him on the head. He let out a yelp of pain and surprise. The dog had turned and nipped him. It was not a serious bite, but the skin was broken.

“He is a very bad dog, that one,” Isaiah observed, adding, “And you know something, Charlie? If a bad dog tells you he has become a good dog, don’t believe him.”

I
T WAS NOT UNTIL
the telephone call from Mma Potokwane that Saturday that Mma Ramotswe remembered the offer her friend had made. It had been mentioned on her last visit to the Orphan Farm, when, after Mma Ramotswe had mentioned her old friend Poppy, and her plight, Mma Potokwane had suggested that she should deal with the preacher who appeared to have taken advantage of his convert. Now, over the telephone, after a few words about other issues of the day, Mma Potokwane had suggested that the two of them pay a visit to the preacher’s Sunday meeting the following day.

“I have made some enquiries,” said Mma Potokwane. “I have found out that he has a meeting every Sunday near the dam. They have some sort of
braai
there at lunch time and they sing a lot. Apparently, it’s quite a show.”

Mma Ramotswe had agreed to go. She was keen to see Poppy, whom she had not seen for years, and there was a degree of fascination about charismatic preachers, of which the Reverend Flat Ponto seemed to be a prime example. She believed herself to be impervious to their appeal, but she knew that many people fell for them—as Poppy was said to have done. Mma Ramotswe was a regular churchgoer, attending the Anglican Cathedral opposite the hospital, but that was different. The clergy there were real clergy, who had studied for years and knew what they were talking about, rather than somebody who had just decided to become a preacher—just like that. Poor women, she thought: To divest yourself of your financial security to benefit a…well, what was he? She thought of the expression her father had used to describe those who hoodwinked others into supporting their dubious schemes: hot-air merchant. Yes, the Reverend Flat Ponto, with his strangely named Church of Christ, Mechanic, would undoubtedly be the worst sort of charlatan—one who preyed on vulnerable women and tricked them out of their money. Such people deserved to be stopped, and if Mma Potokwane could do that—using her justly celebrated ability to cut through nonsense of every sort—then Mma Ramotswe would be pleased to see that happen. And it might even take place, she thought, that Sunday, in the midst of whatever trickery the preacher had lined up for his gullible followers.

Mma Ramotswe arranged to collect Mma Potokwane in her white van on Sunday morning. She would arrive in time for her to give a report to Mma Tsepole on Daisy’s progress before they set off for the picnic grounds near the dam. Mma Potokwane had been pleased to hear that Daisy had settled in so well, and that the young woman who was looking after her had met with Mma Ramotswe’s approval. If all went according to plan, Daisy’s more permanent arrangements with her long-term foster parents would be in place in a couple of months. “In the meantime, Mma, I am sure she will be very happy with you.”

When she met Mma Tsepole, Mma Ramotswe reassured her that Daisy was eating well, had put on a bit of weight, and seemed to be happy in her new surroundings. “I am sure she’s thinking of you, Mma,” she said.

Mma Tsepole had given Mma Ramotswe some cake to take back to Daisy. It was carefully wrapped in an old tea-towel, and labelled
For Daisy, from your Old House Mummy, who is thinking of you all the time.

Mma Ramotswe had looked at this—at the wording that seemed to be so odd, but that was somehow just right. “She will be very happy,” she said.

They arrived at the dam at the same time as a number of others. People had travelled out in their cars, although some came in a line of overcrowded minibuses belching diesel fumes. Once they had parked their cars or disembarked from the minibuses, people drifted over towards an area of cleared ground below an outcrop of granite rocks—a small
kopje
of the sort favoured by baboons and dassies, the scurrying rock rabbits that inhabited such terrain. Tables had been set out in this clearing, some under the shade of the one or two acacia trees that had been left standing, others out in the sun. Several fires had been built in the middle of small stone circles and over these there were placed iron grids for the barbecue, the
braai
. Emanating from these fires there was already that smell of roasting that was so characteristic of just about every social gathering in Botswana. Meat was what people expected, and what any attentive host would provide.

There was no sign yet of the Reverend Flat Ponto, although a small group of stewards, wearing white armbands, was gathered at the edge of the parking area, evidently awaiting the arrival of an official party.

“The reception committee,” said Mma Ramotswe, pointing this group out to Mma Potokwane.

Mma Potokwane snorted. “I know the smell of this sort of thing,” she muttered. “This is all showmanship, Mma. This is not real religion.”

Mma Ramotswe looked about her. How did one tell the difference between the two?, she wondered. She was inclined to agree with Mma Potokwane, in that she felt that there really was a difference between those preachers who had love in their heart and those who had money in the same place. Or power, perhaps, because there were certainly people who wanted only to hold people in thrall, to dominate them and tell them what to do, even if they were not all that interested in separating them from their hard-earned savings. From what she had heard, the Reverend Flat Ponto fell into the latter camp, but then she remembered what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had said about him—that he was a mechanic who had been caught up with the enthusiasm of a marching church and had only then founded his own church. That sounded as if it might have been a real seeing of the light—whatever the light might be—rather than part of a cynical plan to take advantage of others. She would see; Clovis Andersen stressed time and time again that one should have an open mind and should not jump to conclusions. It was all right for Mma Potokwane, as matron of an Orphan Farm, to make up her mind on the basis of—of what? Her sense of smell? But she did not have that professional interest in detachment and openness to alternative possibilities that you had if you were the proprietor of a well-known, if small, detective agency.

They drifted over towards one of the barbecue fires. A woman who was preparing meat for the grill greeted them warmly. “You are new, my sisters,” she said. “I have not seen you before.”

“We’ve heard of the reverend,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“We’ve heard good things,” added Mma Potokwane, catching Mma Ramotswe’s eye as she spoke.

The woman wiped her hands on a cloth. “I’m not surprised,” she said. “Good news travels fast.” She put down the cloth. “Would you like sausages? There is some steak, but that is for the Blessed Ones.”

Mma Potokwane raised an eyebrow. “The Blessed Ones, Mma?”

“Yes,” the woman replied, “they are the ones who have been particularly helpful to the reverend in his mission.” She paused. “They are all ladies.”

Mma Ramotswe and Mma Potokwane tried not to look at one another. They were both thinking the same thing, Mma Ramotswe imagined, and it would not do to reveal their suspicions if they wanted to hear more from this woman.

But Mma Ramotswe had an idea. Yes, of course. Poppy would be a Blessed One. If you gave somebody a Mercedes-Benz, that would undoubtedly justify promotion to the ranks of the blessed.

“For example,” she said, “Poppy. Do you know that lady, Mma? She is called Poppy and she comes from Francistown.”

The woman smiled. “Of course I know her, Mma. And yes, she is a Blessed One.” She reached for the cloth again and wiped her hands afresh. “She is here today, you know. She is over there, with those other two ladies.”

Mma Ramotswe looked around. The crowd had grown, and people were moving about, greeting each other, engaged in animated conversation. “Where?” she asked.

“Over there,” said the woman, pointing. “Under that tree. See? There are three ladies. They are all Blessed Ones.” She paused. “I should really take them some steak.”

Mma Ramotswe stared at the small group. She should have concealed her surprise—Clovis Andersen was clear about the need to do that—but she could not manage that. She gasped.

“What is it, Mma?” whispered Mma Potokwane.

The woman had turned her attention to the grill, and Mma Ramotswe was able to speak freely.

“I know two of those ladies,” she said to Mma Potokwane. “That one on the left is Poppy—the woman I told you about. The old friend I have not seen for many years. That is her.”

Mma Potokwane shaded her eyes to get a better view. “And the others?”

“That one standing in the middle is a woman called Mma Boko. She lives in those flats near the university. I spoke to her recently about…well, it was another matter entirely.”

“Would you like to go over to speak to them?” asked Mma Potokwane. “I assume that we’re allowed to speak to Blessed Ones, even if they are very blessed.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled at the remark, and was about to answer it with a wry observation of her own, when she was distracted by singing at the edge of the clearing. Somebody had arrived, and people were drifting over towards the new arrivals. It was the Reverend Flat Ponto and a small group of people accompanying him. Mma Ramotswe stared. She turned to Mma Potokwane and pointed.

“What?” asked Mma Potokwane.

Mma Ramotswe opened her mouth to speak, but then shook her head in disbelief.

“What is it, Mma?” Mma Potokwane pressed.

Mma Ramotswe recovered. “That woman there,” she said, “is Nametso—she is the one I told you about, Mma, the one who is being unkind to her mother.” An old friend who was late, she thought, and who then wasn’t. But it would be too difficult to explain that to Mma Potokwane right at that moment, as too much was happening. And more than that—she was thinking, and the thoughts that came to her were so significant that she felt she simply had to sit down, rest her head in her hands, and work the whole thing out.

She closed her eyes. The key to everything was a Mercedes-Benz. Follow the Mercedes-Benz—well, not actually follow it—but work out what role it played. And the role, surely, was central. A Mercedes-Benz, especially a silver one, was not a retiring, obscure sort of car—it would be at the heart of whatever was happening.

And now she knew just what that was. It was only a surmise, of course, but the truth had suddenly come to her, and she needed to speak to Poppy without further delay.

“Mma Potokwane,” she said. “I need to talk privately to somebody. Can I leave you here for a moment?”

Mma Potokwane replied that she was perfectly happy to be left to her own devices. She suggested, though, that they should meet after a while and help themselves to sausages. Mma Ramotswe agreed that it would be wise to stake a claim to sausages before they all disappeared and that she would need only half an hour or so for some conversations that she needed to have.

POPPY EMBRACED HER WARMLY
, hugging her and laughing with pleasure. Standing beside her, Mma Boko smiled and nodded in recognition towards Mma Ramotswe.

“This is my old, old friend,” said Poppy to Mma Boko. “We have not seen each other for many years.”

“We were girls back then,” said Mma Ramotswe, extricating herself from Poppy’s enthusiastic hug. “It is a long time ago.”

“We’ve met,” said Mma Boko, offering Mma Ramotswe her hand. “Not long ago.”

Mma Ramotswe took Poppy’s arm. “Could we talk, Mma?”

“You go ahead,” said Mma Boko. “I must go and help some of the sisters.”

Mma Ramotswe led Poppy into the shade. “It is good to see you, Mma,” she said.

“Yes,” said Poppy. “I had heard news of you from time to time, but not very much. You lose touch, don’t you? The years pass and you suddenly realise that you haven’t seen people, and then you…” She shrugged. “I suppose you just lose touch. There are too many things to do and you don’t find the time to write a letter. You know how it is.”

“Oh, I do,” agreed Mma Ramotswe. “But you know who I saw not all that long ago? You remember Calviniah?”

“Of course I do. Is she well, Mma?”

“She is very well,” said Mma Ramotswe. She hesitated. She could continue this conversation along these lines, following the well-worn tracks of the old friends’ catch-up—the endless questions about who was where and doing what, who had married whom, and so on, but that was not what she needed to do. She needed to ask Poppy a simple question about a Mercedes-Benz.

“I heard something, Mma,” she began. “I heard that you had become a very keen member of the Church of…”

“The Church of Christ, Mechanic,” Poppy prompted. “Yes, Mma. I am a sort of elder now. They call us the Blessed Ones—not that I would boast about such a thing.”

“Of course not,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But it must be a great honour to be blessed.”

Poppy nodded. “Yes, Mma, I think it is.”

“And I heard too,” Mma Ramotswe continued, “that you have been very good to the reverend. I heard that you gave him a Mercedes-Benz.”

Poppy seemed surprised that Mma Ramotswe should know this, but confirmed the fact. “Yes, Mma. I gave him a car to help him in his work.” Then she added, “But the reverend has asked me not to talk about it. He doesn’t want people discussing it. He is very modest, you see.”