A Whisper of Danger

by Catherine Palmer

  “And what if you found out you really liked him after all? What if he’s a great guy? What if he’s like . . . like Rick McTaggart or something?”

  “Spencer, listen to me, honey.” She covered his hand with hers and forced herself to look into his violet eyes. “You know I love you very much. I always do what I believe is best for you. Right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Now, I need you to trust that the decisions I’ve made about things that happened a long time ago are the best ones.”

  “Yeah, and I need something, too. I need you to tell me the truth.”

  “Spencer Thornton,” she said, her voice stern, “I’ll do what I think is right for you, and that’s that.”

  “Even if it means lying to me?” He jumped up from his chair, big tears suddenly gathering in his eyes. “You mean you wouldn’t tell me if you found my father? Why not? Just because you think knowing the truth might hurt me somehow? Well, that stinks! Kima the Monkey told the truth even though it made Impala cry. And I bet Impala gets adjusted to it. I bet Impala even changes herself so that everything works out great.”

  He grabbed the manuscript Jess had been working from and tossed aside the first half. Papers scattered across the floor like a stack of spilled hay as Splint pulled the last pages to the front and read rapidly. Before Jess could protest, he was flapping the manuscript in her face. “I was right! Impala even thanks Kima for helping her by telling her the truth! You’re supposed to tell the truth! Kima did, and it helped Impala. She learned how to be nice. I could learn how to be a good son if I had a father. Every kid I know has a dad! It’s not fair to come all this way to Africa and not find him. I want him, even if you don’t!”

  Jess stood, clutching her charcoal pencil. “Spencer,” she said in a choked voice, “I am your mother, and I will make the right decisions for your life. Now I expect you to get control of yourself, young man. Nettie Cameron is coming here for tea any minute, and I’d prefer she didn’t have to hear you having a tantrum.”

  “You think I won’t find out the truth. You think you can hide it from me. But I’m smart! I’ll figure it out. Then I’ll have a dad, and he’ll be better than you because he won’t lie to me!”

  “Spencer Thornton, I want you to go downstairs this minute and see if Nettie’s here. And help Miriamu set the table.”

  “I’ll go live with my father, and then you won’t be able to boss me around anymore! He’ll let me do what I want. He won’t ground me from the beach for five days. He’ll understand me a lot better than you ever did. I’ll figure out who my dad is, and then you’ll be sorry you never told me the truth!”

  “Downstairs, Spencer!” she shouted back at her son. “Now!”

  Splint hurled her eraser to the floor. It bounced in drunken angles as the boy bolted out the door. Jess could hear his footsteps pounding down the circular staircase near her room.

  “Oh, Lord!” She sank into her chair and draped across her desk, cheek pressing the cool white sheet of her sketch pad and arms covering her head. “Lord, what have I done? What should I do?”

  She needed help! But where could she turn? She had no close friends. With an issue as important as this, she couldn’t trust even someone as kindly as Nettie Cameron. Rick would be the last person she should tell. And Hannah . . . Hannah would probably agree with Splint. A son should have a father.

  “Oh, God!” she murmured again. “Help me. Help me.”

  God was supposed to be a friend. Hannah had sung a favorite chorus over and over to the four little Thornton children. Jess recalled it now, the words lilting through her mind as clearly as they had so long ago at her ayah’s feet.

  What a friend we have in Jesus,

  All our sins and griefs to bear!

  What a privilege to carry

  Everything to God in prayer!

  Everything? Rick certainly gave a lot of weight to his newfound faith, Jess thought. The image of carrying everything to God—all her hopes for the future and her griefs from the past—was such a compelling picture it brought tears to her eyes. But hadn’t she prayed just this way once before? Not long after she had moved into Uchungu House, she had prayed in this very room. What had she asked for? It had been something about Rick.

  Make him go away. Don’t let me ever have to see him again.

  That certainly hadn’t happened. God hadn’t taken him away at all. In fact, she’d seen Rick McTaggart almost every day. Then Jess recalled the rest of her prayer. God, if you’re out there anywhere, if you care about me at all, please fix this. Please help me get through this. Heal the brokenness inside me so I don’t have to feel so awful anymore. I’m choking from it. I’m dying inside. Please just fix it!

  “Heal me,” she mouthed again. “Fix me.”

  All her efforts to keep the controls of her life in her own hands were crumbling. Her son wanted his father. If Rick knew the truth, he would want his son. Worst of all . . . Jess couldn’t keep squelching the desire she felt to unite them . . . to bring father and son together . . . to have them both as a real and vital part of her own life.

  “No!” she ground out, hammering the sketch pad with her fist.

  Hadn’t things been better when she’d been filled with anger? filled with resentment? filled with bitterness? Then she had known who she was, known who Rick was, known who Splinter was. Everyone had had a place, and she had been in control.

  But it had been a lie. Rick wasn’t the demon, the renegade, the ultimate betrayer. He was a man. A man who had made mistakes and regretted them. He had changed his life, and now he wanted her forgiveness. No, he hadn’t changed his life—God had! Rick McTaggart was a committed Christian man . . . kind, loving, generous, responsible . . . a man who deserved to be a father.

  And Splint? He wasn’t a content, self-sufficient little boy who needed only a mother, good food, and a decent night’s sleep. Splint was a complicated, intelligent man-child who understood concepts far beyond his years. He had the potential to contribute wonderful things to his world. Or to become as bitter and resentful as his mother had been. He needed the kind of love and strength that a man could provide. He needed the molding hands of a father.

  The person Jess had been the most wrong about was herself. She wasn’t the unconquerable fortress who needed no one. She was lonely. She was tired of grasping onto her anger and coddling her bitterness. Relief was possible. . . . She could let go. . . . She could give up the controls of her life. . . .

  “Father,” she whispered, “forgive me. Please come into my life the way you’re in Rick’s. I’m so tired of being the boss. Teach me how to forgive Rick. Help me know what to say to Splint. Even though my prayers have been angry and doubtful, you’ve heard them. You’ve been working in my life. Father . . . Jesus . . . I love you. Please heal me.”

  She lay across her desk for a long time, unable to move. Tears dampened the paper under her cheek and seeped into her hair. Her heart felt empty. Empty of hate and anger and frustration. And it felt full, too. For the first time in years, she felt full of something indescribable.

  Maybe it was peace.

  “Mom, Nettie’s here!” Splint shouted up the stairwell. “She’s out on the verandah.”

  Jess lifted her head and brushed at her cheek.

  “You better get down here, Mom. Miriamu’s bringing out the tea. I’m going to get the Scrabble board and whip both of you!”

  Jess gave a laugh that was half sob. Children were so resilient. “I’m coming, Splint,” she called.

  “Nettie brought you some flowers! Bird-of-paradise. You’re going to need one of those urns out of Dr. bin Yusuf ’s storeroom.”

  “Okay.” Jess smiled as she ran a brush through her hair and straightened her collar. Splint was in his room now, but he could yell loudly enough to be heard all over the house.

  “Want me to get an urn for you, Mom?”

  “That’d be great, honey.”

  For some reason she couldn’t explain, Jess felt almost serene a
s she descended the circular staircase. On the verandah, Nettie Cameron rose to greet her. She had pulled her white hair up into a chignon at the top of her head, leaving wispy tendrils curling around her neck. A blue cotton dress lit up her eyes.

  “Nettie, you’re looking beautiful this afternoon,” Jess said, taking both of the woman’s hands.

  “Nonsense, my dear. I was just thinking about the Captain this morning, and it inspired me to put up my hair. He always loved it this way.” She flushed as she sat down in one of the cushy verandah chairs. “He used to say it showed my neck to good advantage.”

  “He was right.”

  “You’re a darling. Here, I’ve brought you some bird-of-paradise stems from my garden. They’re perfect for Uchungu House.” She held out a bundle of long green stalks, each topped by a spiky, birdlike flower in brilliant shades of orange and deep violet.

  “Thank you, Nettie,” Jess said. “How thoughtful of you. They’ll look great in the sitting room.”

  “Or in the courtyard. Your friend, the late artist, used to keep batches of them out there. He said they were the only flower bold enough in size and color to do the house justice. They kept the perspective right, he always told me.”

  “Did he?” Jess could easily imagine Dr. bin Yusuf saying such things. Yet she wondered at Nettie discussing flowers with a man rumored to be so unfriendly and isolated.

  “Oh, you know how Ahmed was—always going on about balance and design and proportion. I found it ever so tiresome. He made a painting of some bird-of-paradise blossoms once. Then sent it off to that nasty Giles Knox in Nairobi. He told me the canvas fetched a good price and that he would have something left over from his remodeling costs to stash away.”

  “Giles Knox the gallery owner? I met him in town the other day. Do you know him?”

  “Repulsive man. I wouldn’t put anything past that snake.” She looked around in concern. “Now where has my young rival gone off to? We’re the best of enemies, Spencer and I. Lay out the Scrabble board, and we’re at each other’s throats. Did he tell you he beat me soundly the last time he was at my house? Yes, he did. Gave me quite a drubbing.”

  Jess laughed. “Thank you for inviting him over, by the way. He loved it.”

  “Not half as much as I. He’s a delight, that boy. Reminds me of the Captain. Very sure of himself. Very intelligent. But never quite willing to let anyone come too close. The Captain grew up without a father, too, you know. I’m quite sure it affected him adversely. A boy ought to have a father if at all possible. But some fathers . . . some fathers are simply too cruel. Too self-absorbed. They won’t have anything to do with their children. It’s a terrible pity.”

  Jess studied the elderly woman, reading clearly the pain reflected in her pale blue eyes. Did Nettie Cameron understand Splint better than his own mother had? Maybe. She certainly seemed to empathize with the feelings Splint had expressed that afternoon in the studio.

  “My son is a pretty well-rounded young man,” Jess told her. “In fact, right now he’s hunting for his Scrabble board. He’s going to challenge both of us, I think. Would you like some tea, Nettie? Miriamu’s fixing it in the kitchen. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see what’s taking her so long.”

  “Don’t go, Jessica, my dear. I’m certain Miriamu will bring out the tea in good time. Lord knows the woman has a great deal to do, what with all those beaux vying for her time. It’s a wonder she manages to keep your house clean at all.”

  “Beaux?”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?” Nettie dug around in her crocheted handbag until she found a bottle of hot pink nail polish. She propped her bare foot on the tea table and proceeded to paint her toenails. “Gracious, that Miriamu is quite the busy little bee. Surely you’ve taken note of how attractive she is. Dark flirtatious eyes. Full lips. Sumptuous figure. She may maintain her coy mannerisms with you, but she’s quite the talk of this part of Zanzibar.”

  “Miriamu?” Jess couldn’t fit the image Nettie was painting with her shy, gentle housekeeper. “Are you sure?”

  Nettie pointed her nail-polish brush in the direction of the road. “You don’t think Solomon Mazrui loiters about because he actually enjoys gardening, do you? And your poor Renault motor hanging from the Red Hot Poker tree! What a pathetic sight. Surely you don’t believe Solomon has any knowledge about automobile repair, do you?”

  Jess sank back into her chair and stared down the road at the dangling car engine. Even now, Solomon was puttering away on it, screwdrivers and monkey wrenches scattered all over the ground. He had gone into the nearest village umpteen times for parts—usually accompanying Miriamu on her way to market.

  “I guess I really hadn’t given it much thought,” she said finally. “He seems to know what he’s doing.”

  Nettie was laughing as Miriamu came out onto the verandah with a tray of tea things. Disconcerted, Jess thanked the woman and began to pour the steaming liquid into cups. Miriamu always worked with her eyes averted and her head down. She was humble and conscientious. A flirt? Not likely. But she was beautiful. No one could deny that.

  “Miriamu, would you mind checking on Splint for me?” Jess asked her. “I think we stacked all the games on that table by his bed. Maybe Mama Hannah can find the Scrabble board for him.”

  “Hannah has gone down to the water, memsahib,” Miriamu said quietly. “At this time, she likes to pray.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot.” She glanced at her guest. “Mama Hannah takes a nap, and then she has her prayer time. She’s done that for years.”

  “Odd,” Nettie said. “Is she a Muslim? I thought they were at their prayers five times a day.”

  “Mama Hannah’s a Christian. Her faith is very important to her. Miriamu, if you’ll just check on Splint, then you can take some time off until supper. I’ll clean up the tea things.”

  “Yes, memsahib.”

  As the African woman slipped back into the house, Jess recalled something Splinter had mentioned. He’d said Miriamu and Solomon would welcome time alone together. So they could smooch.

  “Are Solomon and Miriamu . . . together?” Jess asked Nettie. “I mean, do they have a relationship?”

  “Doesn’t he wish they did! I’ve heard from my cook that Solomon likes to think of her as his possession. A sort of hidden treasure. He’s very jealous. Very guarded. He won’t let anyone near her. If she so much as looks at another man . . . well . . .”

  Nettie took a sip of her tea and leaned across the arm of her chair toward Jess. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I have heard some talk,” she murmured, “that Solomon was jealous of Ahmed bin Yusuf ’s attentions to Miriamu. The artist, you know, could be quite the Don Juan. Apparently, Solomon got wind of something . . . a painting, I believe it was. Yes, I think Ahmed was using Miriamu as a model in one of his paintings, and Solomon didn’t care for that at all.”

  “I can’t imagine Miriamu posing for a painting.”

  “How little you know her.” Nettie leaned even closer. “Some say Solomon’s rage got the better of him.”

  “You mean they think he . . . that Dr. bin Yusuf was . . . that Solomon was jealous over Miriamu, so he . . .”

  “It may be just talk.” She wiggled her pink toes and let out a deep breath. “Oh, my. The tropics can be filled with such intrigue. Such dramatics! It’s quite exhausting. Would you be so good as to pass me a scone, my dear?”

  Jess picked up the plate of warm breads, but she could see that her hands were trembling. She had never really thought Solomon capable of killing anyone. He didn’t seem the type. But now she knew he’d had a motive. A motive for murder.

  “Mom, look what I found!” Splint said, stepping out onto the verandah. “It was in the storeroom.”

  Jess caught her breath as the boy lifted a small carved stone urn. Nettie Cameron turned to look, let out a squawk, and jumped up, knocking her teacup to the verandah floor. The china cup shattered into a hundred fragments.

  “Where did yo
u find that?” she cried.

  “In the little storeroom at the bottom of the circular stairs. Look what’s on it!”

  “Yes, yes, I can see. Put it down, young man. Put it down at once.”

  Splint held out the urn. “Take it, Mom. It’s got blood all over it.”

  TWELVE

  “Splinter, please put down the urn,” Jess said as calmly as she could. “Now go and wash your hands.”

  “But, Mom, it’s dried blood. And look, there are little tiny black hairs all stuck in the—”

  “Splinter!” Jess cut in. “Just go wash your hands. With soap and hot water!”

  “Okay, okay. Take it easy, Mom.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Jess muttered as her son scampered into the house. She knelt to pick up pieces of Nettie’s shattered teacup. “He found it. He found the murder weapon.”

  “You can’t be certain,” Nettie said. “Maybe it’s . . . maybe there’s some other explanation.”

  “What other explanation could there possibly be? I’m taking that thing to the police this afternoon.” She shuddered as she set the shards of china on the tea tray. “This is horrible. To think it was here in the house all the time. And Splint found it!”

  “How are you planning to take it into town? Your motor is hanging from the Red Hot Poker tree. Oh, he has got you in a tidy little corner, hasn’t he?”

  “Who? You mean Solomon? You think he disabled the Renault on purpose?”

  “It does isolate you, Jessica.”

  “But why would Solomon want to isolate me? If he killed Dr. bin Yusuf in a jealous rage over Miriamu, what would I have to do with it? I’m not a threat to him in any way . . . am I?”

  Nettie shook her head. “One never knows how a man thinks. Listen, my dear, why don’t you let me take that—that thing. I’ll drive it to the police station myself.”

  “I’d hate for you to have to be involved in this in any way.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought. You and your son have brought a joy into my life I haven’t known since the Captain passed away. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.” She tilted the urn to examine it. “This is dreadful. It’s simply macabre. Listen, before I take the urn to the police, we must wrap it carefully. We wouldn’t want to destroy any evidence that might link it to the killer. Then you must think what to do about Solomon Mazrui.”