“I’m not surprised,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am sure there will be fat cakes in heaven—if we ever get there.”

Again there was a brief smile, and then the question: “What do you want, Mma?”

The woman who had been behind the counter when Mma Ramotswe entered the bakery was still there. She was listening, although she was busily pretending to be concerned with sweeping some crumbs off the floor.

“I wonder if we could talk outside,” said Mma Ramotswe, her voice lowered.

The woman looked up sharply. “It is a private matter, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe said to her.

The woman returned wordlessly to her sweeping.

Rosie hesitated, but then she put her cloth down on the counter and walked round to join Mma Ramotswe on the other side. Together they made their way outside, where they stood, partly sheltered by a tattered awning on the side of the bakery, and where Mma Ramotswe began the conversation as tactfully as she could.

“I am very sorry, Mma, that there was a misunderstanding between you and Mma Makutsi—”

She got no further.

“Misunderstanding?” Rosie exploded. “Is that what they are calling big-time rudeness these days? Misunderstanding?”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I am so sorry, Mma. I can see that you were upset. All that I am asking is that you understand—”

“Understand a misunderstanding? Is that what I have to do? I go to your place because you asked me to—in the paper, you asked—and then I find that I am the number one suspect of a very strange lady with big glasses.”

“You were never suspected of anything,” said Mma Ramotswe in as conciliatory a tone as she could manage. “And I have said that I am sorry, Mma. I am truly sorry.”

“You are sorry, Mma? And what about the lady with the big glasses? Where is she? Has she come to say she’s sorry? She has not. She’s still sitting somewhere suspecting innocent people.”

Mma Ramotswe was silent for a moment. The way to defuse anger, she thought, was to allow it an outlet. Anger was like a volcano; you had to wait until it discharged before you could approach its crater.

After a while, Mma Ramotswe mentioned Susan. “She wants to see you, Mma. This has nothing to do with Mma Makutsi—it’s Mma Susan. She is the one you must think of here.”

Mma Rosie thought for a moment. “But this Mma Makutsi—what about her?”

Mma Ramotswe said that she did not think Mma Makutsi need be involved. “This will be a meeting between you and the Canadian lady, Mma. That’s all it will be.”

Rosie fiddled with the strings of her apron, nervously twisting them round a finger. “Then let her come to me.”

Mma Ramotswe felt a surge of relief. “Oh, I’m very pleased, Mma. That’s very good news. I shall go and speak to Mma Susan—”