She sat in the van and took a single fat cake out of the packet. It did not last long. She hesitated. It had not been a particularly large fat cake—a bit undersized, in fact—and that, surely, was justification for having another one. This second one, she told herself, is yesterday’s fat cake. She had not eaten one yesterday, when she might well have done so. This one, therefore, did not count, and a third would not count either, as there had been no fat cake on the day before yesterday. But the line would have to be drawn there. Firmly.

She finished the third fat cake and licked the last traces of sugar off her fingers. She felt pleasantly full: three small fat cakes was not excessive, but was enough to take the edge off your hunger and equip you for whatever lay ahead. Whatever lay ahead…She reached forward to place the key in the ignition, but then stopped herself. The concern she had felt in the latter part of her conversation with Rosie returned, and now it was accompanied by an even more disturbing thought. What if both she and Mma Makutsi were wrong? What if this case were about something else altogether?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DO NOT BE AFRAID TO PROFESS FORGIVENESS

“THESE ARE VERY SMALL CABBAGES,” said Mma Makutsi. “But when the rain comes they will grow so quickly, Mma Ramotswe. You’ll see.”

They were standing in the vegetable patch that Mma Makutsi and Phuti Radiphuti had carved out of the virgin bush that was their yard. Or rather, that had been created by the man who worked in their garden, a taciturn man in a battered hat, who now stood respectfully to one side while his employer showed her visitor his handiwork.

“Mr. Moepi is very good with cabbages,” said Mma Makutsi, nodding in the gardener’s direction. “What do they say of people who are good at growing things? That they have green fingers? Like leaves. Like grass. Green fingers.”

The gardener looked down at his shoes.

“He is very modest,” continued Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe glanced in Mr. Moepi’s direction. Mma Makutsi had a tendency to talk about people in their presence as if they were not there. “The garden is looking very good, Rra,” she said, smiling at him. “Even in these dry conditions you are getting somewhere with it.”

“Yes, he is,” said Mma Makutsi. “And he is going to grow a lot of beans this coming season—just like Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.”

The gardener shifted from foot to foot.

“Now we can go inside,” said Mma Makutsi. “We can leave Moepi to water the cabbages. We take water from the outlet pipe in the kitchen. It’s our washing-up water that we use. Moepi wastes nothing in this garden, do you, Rra?”

The gardener adjusted his hat.

“No, you see he doesn’t,” said Mma Makutsi.