Free Mexican Kimono by Billie Jones

community, a rock for others, saint-like even.’
    ‘Oh, Sam. I was only joking! Sheesh, now you’re starting to scare me. I don’t think I’d go so far as to wonder who could possibly hate you. I can think of at least ten to fifteen people that …’
    ‘That what? Want to help me?’
    ‘Well, not exactly. There was that scandal with Truss-me …’
    ‘I don’t know anything about that video.’
    ‘And Moan-a Lisa.’
    ‘Her bum did look big.’
    ‘And Betty Boo-b and …’
    ‘They were clearly fake.’
    ‘And that’s just some of the staff from Toff’s, and then there’s …’
    ‘I can’t believe this! Somebody actually hates me? I mean, it just seems impossible.’ I stood up and started pacing – that always seemed to help in movies. My bedroom was so small I ended up doing laps next to the bed.
    ‘Sam, stop. You’re making me dizzy. You need to focus.’
    ‘You’re right, you’re right.’ It was no use, I can’t think in an emergency. All I kept picturing was my hair, knotty and teased, with visible regrowth showing. My skin not getting the correct nourishment from the moisturisers and expensive serums I used morning noon and might. Imagine walking out of the apartment with no mascara on. I mean, it was hideous.
    ‘You need to get rid of it. Like, now.’
    ‘No, no. In the movies you need to work out who dunnit first, right?’
    ‘I guess, but you’re no detective, Sam.’
    ‘Yes, that’s true. Plus, being the victim here, I’m too close to see what’s right in front of me. I’ll have to hire someone.’ I let out a wail and put my head in my hands. Kylie walked over and rubbed my back.
    I was about to ask for a glass of wine to calm my nerves when she said, ‘Until then, I think I’m going to stay at my mum’s house for a while.’
    ‘But why?’ I said, sobbing. ‘I might need you, and you’re not cursed!’
    ‘I’m not sleeping a few metres away while you’ve still got that thing here,’ and she pointed to the kimono, its colours dazzling more brightly under the light.
    ‘What if I put it in the cupboard?’
    ‘No way.’
    ‘OK, let’s think rationally. I’ll call a detective. She can sleep here and bear witness to all that happens while keeping me safe.’
    ‘I guess …’
    My initial fear was starting to ebb. I mean, realistically, this wasn’t a movie. It was only hearsay that I was going to be possessed by some evil, unhappy dead person. Hearsay from Kylie and we all know how dramatic she can be. For safety’s sake, I planned to relocate the kimono to her apartment, once she was safely ensconced at her mum’s house.
    ‘Sam, I really think you should go and stay at your mum’s house, too. She can probably help you solve this much quicker than any detective. While you’re at it, she can work on a range of issues, like your binge drinking, your—’
    ‘Enough! Go polish your silverware or something.’ Kylie had a real thing about her cutlery being clean.
    ‘I hope you learn from all this, Sam.’ And, with that, she stomped out of my apartment.
    I gazed up at the kimono. Its colours shone like jewels and I felt wretched even thinking about destroying it. I moved it to the cupboard in my bedroom. Dusting my hands off, I poured another glass of wine and set to work, thinking.
    The only detective I knew was Mme Precious Ramotswe. I’d seen her in action on those documentaries, and I thought she was very prompt in solving her cases. It helped she was a woman, with that unique intuition we all have. I’d also read all the books Alexander McCall Smith had written about her, so I figured the fastest way to get in contact with her was through him.
    Buoyed up by my quick thinking, I booted up my laptop and drafted him an email. You could never really trust those writer types, they were prone to airy-fairy whimsical-ness, but at this stage I really had no other choice.
    Dear Alexander,
    I’ve read all your books about Mme Precious Ramotswe, and I figure, since