A Whisper of Danger

by Catherine Palmer

  She brushed her hair back from her neck. It was all Rick could do to keep from touching her. His heart felt like a jackhammer in his chest. What was she telling him? What did she want?

  “So I was wondering if you could follow us,” she said. “Omar and me.”

  “Follow you?”

  “You said you’d protect me, Rick. And tomorrow night I’m going to need you. If Omar killed Dr. bin Yusuf, and if I can get him to disclose something that would prove it, we’ve got our murderer. But if he figures out what I’m doing, I’m afraid he might turn on me. If I knew you were close . . . I’d feel so much better. Safer.”

  The jackhammer stopped. His breath stopped. Everything stopped.

  “You want me to protect you from Omar?” he said.

  “Yes. There’s something about that man I don’t trust. He’s been wanting to talk to me. Trying to tell me something. He may have the idea he can intimidate me into leaving Uchungu House. If he got rid of me, he could have the house and all the art. He’d be rich. Wouldn’t that give him a motive for murder?”

  “You agreed to go on a date with a guy you think is a murderer?”

  “What is it with this date business? You and Splint— you’re just alike. I’m going out to dinner with Omar Hafidh to try to solve a crime.”

  “And to dance.”

  “Omar may think it’s a date, but I’m just interested in getting to the bottom of all this mess. I want life to feel normal again. I want to be able to relax and . . . and start over. You know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good.”

  She leaned her head on Rick’s shoulder, and he could feel her hair sift over his bare arm. Her words danced around inside his head. “I need you. . . . I’m scared. . . . You said you’d protect me, Rick. . . . If I knew you were close, I’d feel so much better . . . safer. . . . I want to be able to relax and start over.”

  Start over? With him? The jackhammer started up again.

  “So what do you think, Rick?” she murmured. “Will you help me?”

  He slipped his arm around her shoulders. She was looking up into his face, her eyes shining. He’d never seen anyone so beautiful in his life.

  “I’ll help you, Jessie,” he said.

  “I knew I could trust you.” She smiled. “There’s another thing, too. Rick, would you mind spending a few more nights on my living room couch? It’s not only Omar Hafidh who concerns me. Giles Knox is going to be prowling around the next three days. And Solomon Mazrui is still an enigma. It turns out he’s married to Miriamu.”

  He watched her lips move over the words.

  “I think you have a lot more strength than you know,” he said.

  “I’m growing in my faith. Learning to trust God’s strength.” She ran her fingertips up the length of his arm. “Rick, back at the beginning, you asked me to do something for you. You asked me to forgive you. I didn’t think I could.”

  She looked up at him again. Her mouth was so close. He forced himself to focus on her eyes.

  “I just wanted you to know,” she whispered, “I forgive you. I’ve been angry. Bitter. I want to let it go. I’m so sorry, Rick. Can you forgive me?”

  “Of course I forgive you.” Unable to hold back any longer, he bent and brushed his mouth across her lips. “I love you, Jessie.”

  She leaned closer. Her hands slipped around his neck. Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her again. Her response was warm, beckoning, sweet. She moved against him, holding him tightly.

  “Rick,” she murmured. “Oh, Rick . . . it’s been so long, I—”

  “Well, well, well.” Andrew’s voice sounded somewhere in the background. “I believe I’m witnessing my first miracle. Looks like I’d better take my samosas and go home. That God of yours certainly does keep his promises. Tutaonana, man.”

  Rick barely heard the putter of the motorcycle as it pulled out onto the main road.

  Jess didn’t know when she’d ever felt such a mixture of joy and anxiety. At five o’clock the following afternoon, the dive crew came in from the ocean. Arm in arm, Rick and Splint climbed the cliff-side staircase. Splint announced that he’d decided to call Rick “Dad.” Rick had given his blessing on the new title, and there they were—father and son. Jess could hardly contain her happiness.

  At six o’clock, Hunky Wallace and his crew left for Zanzibar town. Since learning that the sunken ship was a slaver and not a treasure galleon, the Scotsman had lost interest in the dive. He was planning to spend a few more days helping Rick bring up things for research purposes, and then he would head out in search of richer loot.

  Hoping to keep Splint out of any unexpected problems that might crop up with her plan, Jess had arranged for him to spend the evening playing Scrabble at Nettie Cameron’s house. Hannah would fetch him at bedtime and walk him back to Uchungu House. Splint grumbled as the old woman tugged a lightweight jacket over his shoulders.

  “I don’t want Nettie Cameron to be my sitter tonight,” he said, taking Hannah’s hand as they started down the road. “I like you better. She won’t stomp mango seeds with me. She doesn’t even know how to weave birds out of palm leaves. Why can’t I just stay here tonight, Mama Hannah?”

  Worn brown hands reached out and cupped the small white face. “Are you ready?” Brown eyes searched violet ones as her lips formed a knowing smile. “Let us go to heaven. Mungu ni pendo; apenda watu. Mungu ni pendo; anipenda . . .”

  Splint sang along, but he glanced back at his mother as he walked away. Jess waved, lifting up a prayer of thanksgiving. Hannah had brought so much healing, so much peace into her family.

  At six forty-five, Rick drove off on his motorcycle, headed for the road toward the Bahari Hotel, where Omar and Jess had agreed to dine. With him he carried a big straw hat and a newspaper to hide behind. He told Jess he was doubtful he could remain inconspicuous.

  “Just stay close to me,” she whispered as she kissed him good-bye.

  At seven o’clock, Omar Hafidh arrived at Uchungu House. He was wearing a white shirt, a dark tie and trousers, and a jacket. Tall, well built, and flashing those intriguing green eyes, he nearly filled the arched doorway. “You are ready to go,” he said. Glancing behind her, his brows narrowed. “Where is the boy?”

  “He’s spending the evening with Antoinette Cameron. Do you know Nettie?”

  “I know her.” He followed her out to the car. “Antoinette Cameron is my mother.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “How can Antoinette Cameron be your mother?” Jess asked, trying to force herself to relax. She had knots as big as fists in her shoulders. “Nettie told me she never had any children.”

  Omar Hafidh said nothing as he steered past the dangling Renault engine on the Red Hot Poker tree. Alone with the man in his car, Jess felt a lot more frightened than she had anticipated. She wedged herself as close to the door as she could, as though that could give her some measure of security. Occasionally, she glanced at the road behind, but she could see nothing in the blackness of the Zanzibar night. Was Rick following as he’d promised? Would Omar really take her to the hotel he had proposed the night before? The Bahari Hotel. She’d never heard of it. Maybe there was no such place.

  “When I visited you in Zanzibar town,” Jess tried again, “you told me Fatima Hafidh was your mother. You know— the woman at your house . . . the woman in the black bui-bui?”

  “Yes, Fatima Hafidh is my mother.”

  Now that made a lot of sense. Clearly Omar Hafidh was leading her through a verbal maze. Cat and mouse.

  Was he driving the car into a maze as well? Jess leaned her cheek against the window. The occasional dim street lamp gave her hope they were headed in the right direction. Still, she had been to this part of the island only once or twice. She was disoriented. Lost.

  Had Omar managed to lose Rick, too? Could she even trust Rick to stick close to her? Maybe she had been foolish to rely on Rick. Look what had happened when she had placed her faith in him ten years
before.

  Where was Hannah now that Jess needed her strength? If Hannah were in the car, she would come up with a comforting verse. A scriptural promise. A psalm. All Jess could think of was “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . . shadow of death. . . .”

  “I have a good mother,” Omar said into the darkness. “Fatima Hafidh. Also Antoinette Cameron is my mother.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Jess remarked. “You have two mothers. Do you have two fathers?”

  “I have no father.”

  “Oooo—okay.”

  Two mothers and no father. Well, that made things clear—as clear as mud. Omar turned the car down a steep gravel road. Jess held her breath. A small, poorly lit sign emerged over the top of the palm trees. Bahari Hotel.

  Thank you, Lord.

  “The Bahari Hotel has African food and dancing,” Omar said as he pulled the car to a stop in front of a large whitewashed building with a thatched roof. “Sometimes the tourists like our ways. Sometimes not.”

  “I’m sure the hotel is charming.” Jess opened the car door and stepped out before Omar could make it around to her side. She scanned the parking lot, but she saw no sign of Rick’s motorcycle.

  Alone. Rick had left her alone. Why had she trusted him?

  “We will eat fish,” Omar said. “You like fish?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I am a fisherman.”

  “Really? I notice you have a nice car. Do you have a boat?”

  “This is not my car. I borrowed it.” He took her elbow and led her toward the hotel lobby. “To have a car in Zanzibar is to have great wealth. I have a bicycle. Also a small boat.”

  The Bahari Hotel was definitely not one of the high-class tourist lodges that catered to wealthy European vacationers. In fact, it must have had no more than ten rooms. Huts, actually. Half-hidden in vines and brush, the little bungalows were scattered outward from the main building.

  Jess tried to assess her situation as she walked through the cement-floored lobby. Africans were gathering in the open-air dining room. For a Tuesday night, the place was packed. Jess was the only white person in sight. That would be all right if not for Rick. There was no chance he could be inconspicuous in a place like this. Had Omar planned it that way?

  It hardly mattered. Rick was nowhere to be found.

  “Sit down,” Omar said, pulling back her chair. “I will bring drinks.”

  “Fanta for me, thanks.” Jess watched the man stride through the crowd toward the open bar. Hands on the glass-topped table, she half rose and scanned the bougainvillea bushes for any sign of a straw hat, a newspaper, a white face. Nothing.

  Oh, Rick. She missed him so much. At the same time, fear curled through her. Had she fallen into the same trap that had snared her ten years before? Had she let herself love a man who was destined to abandon her when she needed him most?

  How easily they had slipped back into the warmth of their love. The evening before had been bliss. Sitting on the rock under the stars . . . listening to the waves break on the cliffs below . . . holding each other tightly . . .

  “Your Fanta,” Omar said, plunking down a glass. “I have ordered our dinner. Grilled eel.”

  “Eel?”

  “You will like it. Very tasty.”

  Swallowing hard, Jess shook out her napkin and laid it in her lap. By now the noisy crowd had filled almost every table. Waiters scrambled back and forth taking orders and pouring drinks. Omar sat down and crossed his arms over his chest. His green eyes studied Jess for a moment.

  “This is an African place,” he said, defiance giving his voice an edge. “You like it? Or do you only like the places of white people?”

  “I like this. I grew up in Africa, you know. Kenya mostly. My father taught at the university in Nairobi.”

  Omar nodded. “Then you understand me.”

  “Actually, there are a lot of things about you that confuse me, Omar.” She took a deep breath, determined to probe his past. “For example, how did you meet Giles Knox?”

  “He was searching the island for the art of Ahmed Abdullah bin Yusuf. Nothing is secret in Zanzibar. He found me.”

  “So you and your mother . . . Fatima . . . have several of his paintings. But I noticed you don’t own the portrait Dr. bin Yusuf painted of you when you were a little boy.”

  Omar sat up straight. “You have seen that picture? Where is it?”

  “It’s at Uchungu House. Dr. bin Yusuf kept it in the second living room, the more secluded room to the east.”

  “How did you know that was a picture of me? He painted it when I was very young.”

  “Your eyes.”

  The man looked away, and for the first time Jess saw pain written in his bearing. His big shoulders sagged, and he nodded sadly. “Yes,” he said in a low voice. “I have green eyes. You think I am strange.”

  “I don’t think you’re strange. I think you’re . . . a mystery.” She turned her glass on the table, her fear of him giving way a little. “I like your eyes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. They’re very nice. Interesting.” She cleared her throat, uncomfortable at allowing the conversation to turn personal. “Omar, why do you say Nettie is your mother? She told me she was married to Captain Cameron.”

  “That man was not my father.”

  “You had no father.”

  He nodded again, unable to look at her. A waiter brought two steaming platters. The eel flesh had been filleted and grilled in garlic and butter. Actually, the dish smelled so good Jess thought she might almost be able to eat it.

  “You speak in riddles, Omar,” she said. “There’s something else that puzzles me. Why did you ask me to have dinner with you?”

  “To talk.” He took a sip of his drink. “I wanted to understand why Ahmed Abdullah bin Yusuf liked you—why he chose to give Uchungu House to you. Now I begin to understand. You are not the same as other white women. You walked into my home, and you did not seem afraid of us. You spoke to my mother as though she deserved your respect. You looked into my eyes, and you did not shut me away.”

  “Why would I shut you away, Omar? Have you done something that should make me fear you?”

  “People fear me because I am different.” He stared at her. “You see this skin? this hair? these eyes?”

  “It doesn’t matter to me how you look. What matters is your heart.”

  “To many people it matters how I look. Because I am different, they hate me.”

  “Then they’re foolish.”

  “That is why I like you, Jessica Thornton.” He took a bite of his eel. “You also are different.”

  In spite of herself, Jess began to relax a little. If Omar Hafidh had killed Dr. bin Yusuf, he would need to reveal a better reason than the ones she’d come up with so far. He seemed disinterested in the art, in Uchungu House, and in Giles Knox. He appeared relatively content with his lot as a fisherman. In fact, if Jess hadn’t convinced herself that he was a killer, she thought she might actually be able to like Omar Hafidh.

  She stabbed a chunk of eel with her fork. Sucking in a deep breath, she put it in her mouth and chewed. Not bad.

  Omar was watching her, a grin forming on his face. “You like?”

  “I do,” she said. “Not too long ago an eel nearly had me for dinner.”

  He laughed out loud, a deep warm sound. “Never fear something unless you are a threat to it. That is the rule of Africa.”

  “I’m learning,” she said. “Omar, what do you find threatening? Africans who call you different? White people who reject you? The fear of poverty?”

  “Not poverty. I do not care so much for money. I have my home. My boat. My work. Of course, I would not turn away from wealth. You already know I would like to give the money from Ahmed bin Yusuf ’s paintings to my mother.”

  “Which mother . . . Fatima? Or Nettie?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, Jessica Thornton,” Omar said. “Eat your dinner. I am goin
g to tell you a story about Uchungu House. Because you live there, you will wish to know this tale.”

  “Is this why you asked me to dinner?”

  “No. And yes. Listen, please. Many years ago, there lived a man whose name has been forgotten. He had a very wealthy trade, and he built himself a beautiful white house filled with rooms. In the coral caves below his house, he kept African slaves for export to Arabia, England, and America. The slaves called that place uchungu. Bitterness. To be sent to Uchungu House was the worst of fates. A sentence to living death. A sentence to hell.”

  “The shipwreck Hunky Wallace found in the bay,” Jess said. “Did you know it was a slaver?”

  “No. But it does not surprise me. Hundreds of slave ships came and went around Zanzibar Island. Near Uchungu House, slaves were taken out of the coral caves and ferried to the reef in small boats. At low tide, they were loaded onto huge ships. The tales say that one stormy night a slave ship was driven over the reef. Its holds were full. Hundreds died.”

  “Omar . . . that must be the ship we found. How terrible.”

  “Terrible, yes, but also wonderful. The slaves gave their lives for a good cause. With the destruction of that ship, the owner of Uchungu House was ruined. Already British blockades had cut into his business. The man left his house and was never heard from again. Years passed, and Uchungu House fell into disrepair. Then another family moved in. Squatters. An African family with many children and no wealth. One of those children did a terrible thing.”

  “What was it?”

  “When he was still a young man, he fell in love with a girl who lived nearby. By him, she conceived a child. Though she loved him, she knew her parents would never approve of their union. The young man himself refused to marry her. You see, he had many selfish plans for his own life. In fact, he grew tired of the girl. He abandoned her. So she gave the baby away to a friend—the childless sister of her lover—and married another.”