The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

thought. She was wary.
    ‘You were very kind, Mma. Thank you.’
    Mma Soleti had her back turned to her as she was replacing the jars on the shelf. ‘Mma Ramotswe,’ she said, ‘there is something that is worrying me.’
    Mma Ramotswe realised that her instinct had been right: this free beauty treatment came at the cost of a favour. Well, that was how the world worked, and she knew that she should not be surprised. Life was a matter of exchanges; you did things for people and they did things for you. And it had to be that way because you started life with the assistance of the one who brought you into the world – the midwife – and you ended it with the assistance of those who laid you in the ground. Between those two extremes, you often needed the help of others; you needed their company, you needed their love, and they, in turn, needed those things from you.
    She did not show her feelings. She was there to help, after all – that was what being a private detective was about, even if whatever problem Mma Soleti had looked as if it would not involve any remuneration. It would not be the first
pro bono
case she had undertaken; there had been many of those and there would no doubt be many more. One client had even suggested that
she
– Mma Ramotswe – should pay
her
to investigate her case. That was unusual by any standards, but the fact that it had occurred went to show that one should not be surprised by anything that people suggested – or did, for that matter.
    ‘Tell me what is worrying you, Mma,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Sometimes, you know, the things that worry us are not so bad when you tell another person about them.’
    Mma Soleti turned to face her. She looked at the shop’s glass front door. ‘Can we speak in the office at the back, Mma?’
    Before Mma Ramotswe had the chance to reply, Mma Soleti took her by the arm and started to lead her into a room at the back of the salon. This was furnished with a desk, some chairs and a telephone. An unopened cardboard packing case labelled
Beauty Products: Urgent
stood on the floor near the desk. Mma Ramotswe could not conceal a smile. She wondered how anybody could consider beauty products to be urgent. Medicines yes, but not aloe extract and lemon juice. Of course, everybody considered their own orders of supplies urgent. Mma Makutsi often became concerned if her stationery orders took longer than a week to arrive. ‘How do they think we are going to be able to write to people, Mma?’ she complained. ‘Perhaps on scraps of old newspaper? Perhaps on the back of envelopes?’
    Mma Soleti invited her to sit on one of the chairs and then settled herself on the other one. ‘I have received a parcel,’ she said. ‘Through the post.’
    Mma Ramotswe looked down at the case of beauty products.
    Mma Soleti shook her head. ‘Not that, Mma. This was a very small parcel – about the size of a packet of cigarettes.’
    Mma Ramotswe waited for her to continue. Mma Soleti had lowered her voice, although there was nobody who could possibly hear them. People did that, Mma Ramotswe had observed – and it was usually a sign that they were frightened.
    ‘I opened it,’ went on Mma Soleti.
    Mma Ramotswe nodded her encouragement. ‘And, Mma?’
    ‘I wish I hadn’t.’
    Mma Ramotswe reached out to soothe her. Mma Soleti was shivering. This was unfeigned fear.
    ‘It is very difficult not to open a parcel, Mma Soleti.’
    ‘I know that. But in this case I wish that something had happened to this parcel before it arrived at my house.’
    ‘May I ask why, Mma?’
    ‘Because it contained something very bad, Mma.’
    Mma Ramotswe was silent. She had an idea what Mma Soleti was going to say.
    ‘It was a feather,’ whispered Mma Soleti.
    Mma Ramotswe had not been expecting this. She had expected a bone, or a powder of some sort. Those were the usual devices of witchcraft, and no matter how logical or modern one was in one’s outlook, such things were capable of bringing