Gold Trap

by Lilly Maytree

  Meg did peer into the gloomy recesses of those places, but only half-heartedly. For, try as she might to prove her integrity by helping him, she could not bring herself to believe that anyone who could not be roused by shaking less than two hours ago could possibly disappear so fast. The fact that she and Tom couldn’t find one person who had brushed up against the boisterous old gentleman, made her begin to suspect that he hadn’t even left the hotel. An opinion she tried in vain to express.

  Because by that time, they had less than twenty minutes to scramble for the departing flight to Accra, which he stubbornly insisted was still their best bet, no matter where his father happened to be at the moment. So, as Meg stood tapping an impatient foot next to the ticket counter where Tom was hurriedly handing over a traveler’s check to pay for it all, her eye caught sight of a ladies’ room. Without a word, she slid her passport at him that she was waiting to show for inspection and headed for it.

  “Megan…”

  “Two minutes! I’ll be back before you’re finished.”

  During which time she even managed to take that infernal hat off, run her brush under water, recapture those unruly curls, and anchor them securely back into the clip before rushing out, again. By then, he was pacing impatiently in front of the door that led to the gate. He held it open for her, and then the gate, and they hurried across the grass to where an attendant was waving at them from the top of the metal stairway rolled up next to the plane. They were the last to board.

  First class, again! Meg sank gratefully into the comfortable seat with an odd sense of dejà vu, and buckled herself in. Tom finished stowing their bags in the overhead bin and sat down beside her with a heavy sigh, as if he had just finished an exhausting race. The plane was only half full. There was the thump of the door being closed, the clatter of the stairs rolled back, and the cabin became stifling hot before the engine was finally turned on and the air conditioning began to work.

  It was not a stewardess this time, but a steward who passed quickly through the first class area collecting cups and glasses before disappearing into the forward galley to prepare for take-off as they began to taxi down the runway. Meg looked out the window, anxious to catch a glimpse of things she had only sensed were there in the dark last night. More grass beyond the runway, a faraway line of verdant trees, and a thin line of blue off to one side, confirming her belief that the coast was somewhere nearby. She reached into her bag beneath the forward seat and pulled out her camera…

  Only to be stopped short by Tom’s hand on it before she could even get it turned on. “Taking pictures of airports and runways is frowned upon in these countries. One of the first things they tell you when you’re on a tour. If you really are on a tour.”

  Now, it was Meg’s turn to sigh. “For your information, I happen to have missed my orientation dinner.”

  “And the reason you were sitting in first class instead of coach with the rest of your tour?”

  “Because your father had my…” She stopped because something told her she was quite at the limits of her credibility as it was, without adding the fact that the professor had paid for the upgrade on a whim.

  “Did you know him before Paris? One of his students, maybe?”

  “I should say not!”

  “Pretty expensive camera for a tourist. Know what all those buttons and switches are for?”

  “Of course I do.” She was glad Moviemaking for Beginners was at the bottom of her bag and not sticking out the top, or he might not have believed that, either. “Why is it so hard for you to accept the fact that there are some people in this world without ulterior motives? I didn’t even know your father was a film instructor until I read it on one of his business cards.”

  “After rifling through his wallet?”

  “He gave it to me by mistake. If you must know, he thought it was one of yours. I only noticed it wasn’t after he…”

  “I don’t have any business cards.”

  Gold Trap

  8

  Suspicions

  “He persisted in his opinion that my intentions and ambitions were suicidal…”

  Mary Kingsley

  This time, Meg found it necessary to use a good offense in her own defense. “I should think you would have several of them. Since I was under the impression you were one of those entrepreneurial business geniuses who can handle his own company and everyone else’s besides.” Which must have hit home somewhere because she caught a slight glimmer of uncertainty in those expressive eyes.

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “That and more. In fact, he gave me a message for you. I believe it was, ‘Tell that rascal I know what he’s up to, and he’ll never get away with it.’ Which only goes to show, Mr. Anderson, that you are not so far above suspicion, yourself.”

  A flash of appalling surprise was quickly replaced with irritation. “Now, what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you could very well have had a hand in orchestrating this whole thing. You and that”—Meg cocked her head as if she were thinking and murmured— “Let me see, what was the word…oh, yes…” She nailed him then, with an intense look of her own. “That nincompoop, Gilbert.”

  “Why would I even do such a thing? Tell me that.”

  “To take over the business, no doubt.” She said it so matter-of-factly it had a double impact on him.

  He looked away for a moment as if struggling to keep his composure, smoothed down his mustache and then muttered something that Meg couldn’t quite hear. “Is that what he told you?”

  “Now, you’re repeating yourself. A bit nervous, perhaps?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “Well, the fact is, he was certainly upset about something, and it concerned you. Talked about you incessantly. Rather as if something terrible had come between the two of you and he couldn’t quite believe it.”

  “Such as?”

  “How should I know? I was only the polite listener. But if you want my opinion?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “That was the very reason he felt so compelled to gulp down six or seven drinks in the space of a few hours.”

  “My father has a great capacity for drinking, miss, whether he is extremely up, extremely down, or anything in between. You can hardly use it as an indication of being upset.”

  “Nevertheless. He was practically beside himself when he asked me to call you.”

  “Why didn’t he call me himself?”

  “Because he was, by the time, we…” Now, Meg’s brief confidence began to falter. As much as she wanted to put this arrogant man in his place (how anyone could say “miss” so disdainfully, she had no idea), she couldn’t in good conscience betray that heartfelt request of his father not to flaunt any such weakness to Tom. Whether that weakness was the state he was in at the time, or the fact that he had somehow allowed things to get out of control between them, she did not know. She only knew that no matter how “rascally” the old man was known to be, she should not be talking about those things to others. No matter who they were. And not even if they knew about them quite well enough already. Rule number seven: “I will not only try to believe the best of people, I will express it.”

  “Just what I thought,” said Tom, as if her very silence was an admission of guilt.

  Still, Meg was not one to back down easily, and even though she couldn’t bring herself to betray the professor’s confidence, it infuriated her that this son of his so obviously accused her of being responsible for everything that had happened. Infuriated and disappointed at the same time. Was there nothing about her that showed any trustworthiness? Didn’t she at least look like she had a little integrity? She had never purposely gone against the law in her entire life, and here she was being suspected of aiding a kidnapping. Of all things!

  She wouldn’t have it.

  “Give me”—suddenly it seemed incredibly important that he believe her—”one good reason why I should take the slightest interest in that”—she almost said ill
-mannered, but her conscience pricked her again so she left that part out—”that father of yours, much less risk my entire life and future on such a wild scheme as you think happened here.”

  “How about several million dollars in the Bank of California.”

  Now it was Meg’s turn to give a frustrated sigh and turn toward the window for a few moments to reign in her nerves before answering. “And just how on earth would I get any of it? In front of a plane load of witnesses, yet! Bop him on the head when no one was looking, man-handle him off to a hotel, and threaten him at gunpoint all by myself?”

  “You weren’t by yourself. I distinctly heard Pop scuffle and threaten to have it out with several others while you were leaving that message on my phone.”

  Meg gasped at this new accusation and he gave a gentle but insistent tap of his finger against her forehead for emphasis. “Recorded.”

  “But that wasn’t…”

  “Hard evidence in any court of law. Why do you think I raced down here so fast?”

  “Just how did you race down here so fast, Mr. Anderson? According to your own message, you were on a plane yourself. Headed for Accra. So, why aren’t you there, already? Tell me that!”

  “I switched planes at the layover in Casablanca, that’s how. Because you scared the daylights out of me with that message. If I hadn’t heard from Gilbert so soon, we would probably be down at the police station hashing things out there instead of here. But we don’t seem to be getting anywhere with all this, so let’s quit arguing about it. We’ll let Pop settle the whole mess, himself, when we catch up with him.”

  “As I’m sure he will,” insisted Meg.

  “Meanwhile, will you quit with the Mr. Anderson thing? The name’s Tom.”

  “That sort of familiarity is reserved for friends,” she objected.

  He gave another frustrated sigh, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

  “Then what, in heaven’s name, did you bring me for?”

  “I must have been out of my mind.”

  “Oh!” Meg snatched up one of the pillows from between their seats, turned toward the window, and tried to find a comfortable position to rest. She was exhausted. Tom Anderson exhausted her.

  Even though he had some of the same appealing little courtesies as his father (like opening doors and carrying her bags), he also had the same abrasive way of telling people what to do, and she did not like it. Not one bit. Meg usually wasn’t one to hold a grudge (what was the point when a person could either talk things out or walk away) only now she seemed to be having trouble in both places. Where exactly could she go at thirty thousand feet? Still, when it finally came time for their meal, the nap seemed to have been at least a little refreshing. That is, until Tom took the liberty of ordering her beefsteak and potatoes when she would have preferred the fresh fruit and crisp salad.

  “Should always stick to the cooked food in these places,” he reminded her, “unless the fruit is the kind you can peel yourself.”

  Meg knew that. Hadn’t she read all those tourist precautions in the government brochures a dozen times over? She just wasn’t thinking about the airlines being considered any part of a “third world.” However, he redeemed himself a bit when he asked what she preferred to drink, and then ordered only coffee for himself. At least he didn’t resemble his father in that department.

  “Where do you come from, Meg?” It seemed the nap and the meal was having somewhat of a positive effect on him, as well.

  “Lately or by origin?” Anything was better than more arguing, so she tried her best to be gracious.

  “Let’s start with origins.”

  “I come from three generations of fisher-folk. But don’t ask me about fish, I was raised on a tug boat that ran contracts between Seattle and Skagway.”

  “Born in the gold rush, eh? You sure carry your age well.”

  “Very funny.” Meg took her first bite and had the odd sensation that what she was eating was not really beef. “And what about you? How come you’re not one of those self-centered Hollywood types if your father has a lifelong professorship at the film institute?”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  “Because you’re missing a button off the pocket of that shirt.” She shook her head. “Wouldn’t do for those types.”

  “Hmm. Well, he only got that lifelong thing within the last five years. After he developed an ulcer and backed off some on the company workload. Doesn’t do as much traveling overseas these days.”

  Meg noticed that he ate like the Europeans, without switching his fork from one hand to the other. “Is that why you don’t go home very often?” she asked. “Because you have to do so much of his traveling for him?”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “You’re repeating yourself, again.”

  “Rather uncommon to air all the family skeletons on vacation.”

  “According to your father, such topics are more than acceptable on vacations.” She pulled her reading glasses down, peered through them at her plate for a moment, and then returned them to the top of her head. Then she tentatively tried a bite of the potatoes…delicious. Browned, golden in some sort of sauce that was buttery, sweet, and salty all at the same time.

  She looked back at Tom, then, only to catch him watching her with a look of…what was that look?

  He turned back to his meal. “Then you won’t mind if I continue to catch up.”

  “I certainly have nothing to hide.” But the truth was, he was beginning to make her feel defensive, again.

  “Where from lately?”

  “Teaching at a private prep school in a small town just outside of Seattle. History and theater, if you insist on knowing the subjects. And…” She took a sip of her tonic water and then wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure I like this so much without ice in it. Do you think it’s really necessary to avoid local ice as well as water?”

  “Probably not in airports and the better hotels, but why take the risk? Last thing I need is a sick woman on my hands. I’ve got enough to carry as it is.” He looked over at her and winked then, another blueprint of the family (Meg had seen that wink before).

  “Oh, honestly!”

  “You were saying?”

  “I don’t remember what I was saying.”

  “Something about teaching history and theater. You’re not going to get grouchy, again, are you?”

  “Grouchy…”

  “Let’s at least keep up appearances through dinner, shall we? I haven’t quite figured you out, yet.”

  “Nor I you, Mr. Anderson.” Meg left off the potatoes to try the carrots…not carrots, at all…chopped sweet potatoes, of all things. But lovely.

  “It’s Tom. And would you mind telling me what you’re thinking, running around West Africa all by yourself? It’s a dangerous place for a woman alone.”

  “I am not by myself. I’m with thirty other people. At least, I should be, by now. More are supposed to be trickling in today and tomorrow. But I will be by myself on the long way back from here. I’m not looking forward to that. My French is deplorable.”

  “They speak English in Ghana.”

  “But my tour is…” She glanced up at him with a mild surprise and caught him staring at her again. Almost as if he knew her, or at least seen her before. But she was not about to let herself get caught up in those thoughts, anymore. “After Podor, we were supposed to take the train from St. Louis to Dakar. I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember that this morning. But it just came back to me all of a sudden. Must be finally settling down and eating something substantial.”

  “Short of money?”

  “No. Just on a tight budget. My money has to stretch for three months.”

  “What are you on, a walking tour? I wondered why you were traveling so light.”

  “Not exactly. I’m only going to be ten days in Africa. But I’ve rented a little place on the coast in Scotland where, after that, I’ll be
able to work without…” She looked over at him, again, wondered what on earth had made her blurt that out, and then gave a pretense of dabbing her mouth with a napkin as she tried to think how best to change the subject.

  “Now, I get it.”

  “What?”

  “Why you got yourself mixed up in all this. The fact is, miss, you are…”

  At that moment, the steward came up with a bright smile and reached for their trays. “Did you enjoy the biffsteak, sah?”

  “Wasn’t sure it was beef,” Tom replied, “but it was cooked good enough.”

  “And the wife?” He cast inquisitive brown eyes at Meg.

  “He is…not…my husband.” She handed hers over, having eaten only the vegetables.

  “Ahh…yes, I see!” He smiled indulgently at Tom and left with the trays.

  “Oh, honestly! Now, he thinks…”

  “Which is just the point I was about to make. You’re way too easy to get information out of, Megan. Places you’re headed…flaw like that could be suicidal.”

  Gold Trap

  9

  A Dangerous Journey

  “But most newcomers do not get a shock of this order…” Mary Kingsley

  Meg peered at herself in the mirror of the tiny bathroom cubicle, refastened her hair-clip, and had a distinct flash of Vidalia Harbin doing the same thing. She decided to wear it down, instead. It would mean she would have to bother with brushing curls back from her face whenever she needed her glasses, but today it felt preferable to rituals. This was not how she thought reaching for her destiny would be. Where was “… the Lord going before you to make the crooked places straight and guarding your rear from behind?”

  No, that wasn’t exactly the right quote but it was the same idea. The point was, that promise didn’t seem to be working for her. Not one bit. Because whatever she had gotten herself into was only getting worse. Yesterday’s dread at the thought of having to spend two weeks in the same rooms with Vidalia now seemed like it would be a welcome reprieve compared to this bizarre situation. At least, she knew where she stood with Vidalia.