Eventually, each man had to wear his kipande and was heavily fined if he didn’t have it. Natives were also required to have permits to walk anywhere outside of their villages. Most of this trauma fell on the agrarian tribes since they were seen as the more docile labor force. Beyond relocating the Maasai to a large reserve, the government gave up trying to mold them into anything other than what they were: a proud people with no use for anything but their cattle.
Jade wondered what would happen to Jelani. By her reckoning, he was nearly thirteen years old. Would he be allowed to stay on as the mundu-mugo’s student? Or would the officials decide the village didn’t need another healer? Perhaps she should pay a visit to the village sometime, after this job with the collecting crew was over.
“Do you like this job?” Jade asked.
Wachiru nodded. “It is good, but it will not last long. Then I will have to find another. My brothers work for Bwana Harding. Perhaps I will go there, but I hear he keeps strange creatures.”
Wachiru went back to distributing hay and water to the large number of penned antelope. Jade finished her picture, picked up her equipment and wandered up and down the rows of pens and cages until she found the male leopard.
He’d been moved into a wood-and-wire cage three feet wide by six feet long and four feet high. A metal pail half full of water sat in one corner, and Jade saw a box close by on which a man could stand to pour the water through the top slats to refill the bucket. The stained floor showed where buckets of water were hurled into the cage from the sides to wash out some of the wastes. She wondered how they fed the leopard. Then her gaze rested on several long, stout poles. The cat was probably forced to the back of the cage and held there with the poles while someone would quickly opened the cage and tossed in some meat.
As Jade approached, the cat crouched low and followed her every move with his hypnotic yellow eyes. The animal had definitely fed better in his captivity. Gone was the gaunt look about his ribs and middle. In its place were rippling muscles, tensing under the gorgeous spotted fur.
“Jambo, chui,” Jade said in greeting. “You look well.”
The cat launched himself against the front wires, slamming into them with enough force to bow the wooden braces. Jade jumped back, nearly dropping her camera. The animal hadn’t lost any of its hatred. Did he respond that way to all humans or did he remember her role in his capture? The leopard screamed, enraged by his inability to reach her, the shrieks echoing back from the warehouse walls till it sounded as though several cats were loose. Wachiru, hearing the noise, ran to see what was amiss. He held a pitchfork in front of him as a weapon.
“I thought he broke free,” said Wachiru in a hushed voice.
“Does he attack when you feed and water him?”
Wachiru shook his head. “He tried the first time, but now he knows that we bring him things he wants. We still use the long sticks, but he goes back willingly. He did not like when we put the cloth around the cubs, though.”
“He’s probably the father, but that is still very odd,” said Jade. “The male leopard doesn’t have anything to do with his young.”
Wachiru studied the leopard, which never took his eyes off Jade or ceased growling. “Simba Jike, you handled the cubs and the towel. I think this animal smelled you. It is you he hates. It is not safe for you to be around him.”
Jade couldn’t agree more, and together, they quietly backed away from the area. Jade mounted her motorcycle and returned to Parklands. But while her eyes and ears tried to keep alert for road hazards, all she saw was the hot, burning glare of yellow fire in the leopard’s face, and all she heard was the blind woman’s warning.
CHAPTER 7
The Maasai may have descended, at least in part, from the
Hamites of North Africa, where Roman legions held dominion in
ancient times. Certainly, they show a strong Roman influence
in their togas, their short swords, but most distinctly in their hairstyles,
which resemble Roman helmets.
—The Traveler
SAM DIDN’T WAIT to get back to the Thompsons’ before reading Jade’s journal. He found a quiet spot close to the generator flumes and pulled off the road. Once he shut down the engine, he raised his goggles and took out her notebook. For a moment, he glanced through some of her notes and pencil sketches, admiring her ability to capture the form and feel of the animals in so few lines. He found the section on the leopard-trapping expedition and hissed with a sudden intake of breath as he read of her ordeal in the pen.
Reckless little nincompoop. Ought to turn her over my knee.
Sam scowled in a way that would have put Jade on the defensive. Then, suddenly feeling sheepish about reading more than he was supposed to, he flipped past the remainder of the notes and found her interrogation account. Heat radiated from his neck as his anger grew.
How dare that damned Finch suggest Jade is a murderess! His fist clenched as he longed to connect with Finch’s jaw. Then he realized what he was doing.
That’s what got you in trouble to begin with, buster. You’re his chief suspect.
Sam started at the beginning and reread everything, trying to absorb all the details, the fact that Stokes had drowned after someone slugged him in the jaw. The bruise on the side of the head was suggestive. It sounded as if Stokes had spun around, hit his head, and landed unconscious in some water, and the killer had left him there. The second time through he noted that Jade had defended him, a thought that made Sam smile.
What’s she going to think after she reads my account? Will she still believe I’m innocent? Or will she think I hit Stokes hard enough to make him fall and drown?
He needed to think, and the best place to do that was fifteen hundred feet in the air. Fuel was hard to come by, but he had two barrels at the hangar. And when that ran out? Well, he’d worry about that later. This needn’t be a long flight. He’d head west over those farms Jade’s crew had visited. He stopped long enough at the Thompsons’ house to borrow one of their men to help him take the plane out of the hangar and pull the propeller.
ONE OF THE first things Jade did each morning was to light the Dunburys’ new oil-burning range and start her breakfast of coffee, bacon, one egg scrambled, and pan-fried potatoes. This morning that ritual took a backseat to reading Sam’s journal. She’d read it twice last evening, but she still felt the need to review it one more time, one section in particular.
Finch knew how to get under my skin. First all those questions about Jade, insinuating that she was capable of killing someone, then twisting my words until it looked like I was defending her because she’s my lover (his words). I told him that he was no gentleman if he spread any more of his bullshine against Jade. Then his next question made it seem as though he was changing the subject completely. He asked me where I purchased my airplane fuel. I explained that the Jenny’s OX-5 engine runs on regular gasoline that I order by the drum from Stokes and Berryhill. Finch made one of those meaningless “Ah” sounds and asked which man I dealt with. I told him Stokes took the last order. I assumed he also delivered it but I wasn’t around when he did. I knew where Finch was going with this. The exchange went something like this: Finch: “I heard you had a bit of a row with Stokes over by the yards.” Me: “The charges were all wrong on the bill. We had words.” Finch: “You shook your fist at him.” Me: “With the billing. I waved it in his face.” Finch: “But that is not what I heard from an independent witness. This person said you hit him on the jaw.” Me: “It was an accident, and I barely grazed him. I didn’t kill him.” Finch: “Stokes was struck. You hit him. His wrist was cut with that maize knife. You knew all about the knife, and I’d bet we’ll find your prints on it, too. You’re familiar with the Thompsons’ equipment as well.”
Jade scanned the remainder of the account, which differed little from hers. Finch went on to ask Sam how long he’d known what a corn knife was. Sam repeated his previous statement, that he’d only seen them in his father’
s catalog when he had gone home in February. Then Finch asked Sam if he’d handled the one on display in the store. Sam didn’t record his answer.
Jade closed the journal and went out to the kitchen to cook her breakfast, starting coffee on one burner and a pan of bacon on another. Who is this independent witness? Did someone come forward on his own or was Finch interviewing regular customers? No wonder Sam looked so angry and upset when he had come out of Finch’s office.
She turned the bacon, then sliced two small potatoes into a bowl and salted them. Once the bacon was done, she put the strips on a plate and fried the potatoes in the drippings, adding a generous amount of pepper. Eggs or toast? Toast! She cut a thick slab of bread and propped it close to the flame.
If Finch thinks Sam is a suspect, he’s not going to look anywhere else. She thought about Finch’s points as she stirred the potatoes and turned the bread. Sam was seen arguing with Stokes and supposedly taking a punch at him. Stokes had a bruised jaw. Sam knew what a corn knife was, and the body was set out to look as if Stokes had taken his own life using one. The killer had even added animal blood when he found out that slicing the wrist of a dead man didn’t produce much blood. But Sam knew about those serum tests, which made it unlikely that he’d try to fool the police with animal blood. If she told that to Finch, maybe he’d look elsewhere.
Flames coming from the toast interrupted her meditations. Jade grabbed the burning bread and smacked the fire out with the palm of her hand. It was still edible, by and large, and the parts that weren’t? Well, that was what preserves were for. She removed the skillet of potatoes and turned the knob to shut off the oil. Jade smeared a large dollop of Maddy’s mango pawpaw preserves on her burned toast and bit in, chasing the mouthful with a gulp of coffee.
Did Sam handle that corn knife? And what if he did? Surely a lot of other people touched it. Finch can’t make much of that, can he? She hoped by now the inspector had found another print and matched it to a known criminal. That would be the end of it. She finished her breakfast, pumped water into the sink, and washed her dishes, then set them in a rack to dry. After locking up, she motorcycled out to the racetrack’s grounds, where the fair was being held.
The track facilities needed work, probably one of the reasons the town fathers had decided to hold a fair to begin with. If a few people were inconvenienced because the grounds were dilapidated, or because the fence work was rotten in a few spots, they would rally to improve the area. Not in time for the upcoming races, but hopefully before the New Year’s race week.
At present, no one seemed to notice or mind any inconvenience. Hundreds of people from as far away as Voi, 230 miles to the south, had turned out to enter their produce, and an equally large group of Nairobiites had closed their shops and homes and come to see the exhibits. Stores catering to the needs of the farmer-settlers had set up closet-sized booths and hawked the latest tools, seeds, saddles, tack, and outdoor wear. Hastily built of spare lumber and corrugated tin with a sawdust floor, they reminded Jade of the small shops in the Moroccan souks.
While none of the fancy-goods stores dared risk displaying the latest French gowns or hats, some of the store owners had recognized that a large number of city dwellers would be in attendance, people with money who might want to buy the latest home or kitchen gadget or perhaps decide on a new pocketbook. Close by were purveyors of automobiles and motorcycles, most only with large pictures of the vehicles, although the newest Hupmobile was displayed next to a food stand that sold pork sausages on a hard roll.
By far, the proudest displays were those entered by the farmers. Restricting the entries to vegetable matter made the fair decidedly smaller than any held at Nakuru, but much sweeter smelling. Jade had never seen so many varieties of roses in one small space, each one competing with the others in size and color. The brilliant tea roses with their tightly held petals stood as the epitome of grace and elegance next to the older variety cabbage roses, but the latter won in fragrances from sweet to spicy.
Jade had looked for Sam that morning, but after waiting for forty-five minutes, she went off on her own, disappointed, searching for Madeline. She saw her waiting anxiously nearby as two prim-looking women in broad, flowered, and feathered hats examined each entry for mildew or rust. Madeline was very properly dressed in a pale blue cotton dress and sturdy yet feminine walking shoes. She wore gloves like most of the ladies there, and a broad straw hat with a blue ribbon. Her graying brown hair, which Jade had cut short a year ago, was now pulled back in a low roll and held in place with a shell comb.
“Maddy,” said Jade as she waved to her friend, “have they judged yours yet?”
“No. They’re just finishing the tea roses. I entered two dark purple cabbage roses.” She pointed to the end of the table.
“They’re beautiful,” said Jade. “You can’t lose.”
Maddy chewed on a glove finger as the two judges conferred over their notes with much bobbing of heads and ribbon flowers. The sight reminded Jade of some gaudy birds’ elaborate courtship ritual. Finally the judges reached an agreement and placed a broad blue ribbon in front of a velvety red tea rose. Muted applause rose from the gloved spectators, followed immediately by the buzzing hum of whispered conversations.
Maddy gripped Jade’s arm as the judges began on the cabbage roses.
“Where’s Neville?” asked Jade.
“Either with the potatoes, the onions, or the coffee.”
“And Sam?” Jade also wanted to ask Maddy where her notes were so she could read them, but she knew that her friend’s mind was centered on the judges.
“Sam’s around somewhere. He brought his camera. I think he’s taking footage of Neville and the coffee competition.” She clutched Jade’s arm. “Oh, look. They’re examining mine now.”
Jade allowed Madeline to squeeze her arm and concentrated on watching the crowds rather than on the painful constriction. St. Peter’s mother, but Maddy’s strong! But then, what else would she expect of a hardworking farmwife? It made Jade wonder if Stokes’ killer was a woman and not a man. Maybe his wife hadn’t run away after all, at least not very far. Had she come back for her child? Had there been a struggle in which Stokes hit his head and fell into a tub of water? Mrs. Stokes was a small woman and not a farmer. Still, fear or fury could lend a lot of strength.
The scenario didn’t feel right to Jade, mainly because of what had happened afterward. While she admitted that a mother might resort to murder to get her child back, she couldn’t conceive of a woman of Alice Stokes’ small stature hoisting her husband into the coffee dryer or staging a suicide. Maybe she had help. But then why leave the child behind?
Whoever it was knew about the corn knife Stokes was demonstrating. Who grows maize around here? A name immediately flashed into her head: Alwyn Chalmers. But just as quickly, she rejected the idea. Anyone coming into the store could have seen the gadget. It didn’t even have to be one of the farmers. The most likely candidate was his own partner, Winston Berryhill. Just how angry had he become when he found out that Stokes was cooking the books?
And how, Jade wondered, could she divert Inspector Finch’s attention away from Sam and onto Mr. Berryhill? Surely the embezzlement had been reported to him. As she speculated on what information she needed to convince Finch, she felt her arm being jostled.
“They’re making their decision,” whispered Madeline.
Once again, the ritualized bobbing of plumed hats began. Beside Jade, Maddy jiggled ever so slightly in tightly controlled anticipation. Then one of the ladies draped a blue ribbon around Madeline’s roses, and Maddy squealed with delight. Jade cheered her on with a “Hooray, Maddy!” while the audience looked on with mixed reactions and patted their gloved hands together. A few women frowned at the overt emotional display, most smiled politely and wished it had been their roses, and several nodded to one another as if to say, “What else would you expect from a country bumpkin and an American?”
“Oh, wait till I show Neville,” Maddy said
as she stroked the precious ribbon.
Sam walked toward them from the edge of the crowd. “Well done, Madeline,” he said. His linen shirt was open at the throat and his sleeves were rolled up. He had his tripod and camera slung over one shoulder and gripped a leash with his other hand.
Jade felt something butt her legs and looked down. Biscuit had greeted her in his own cheetah fashion. “Sam! I missed you this morning. I was afraid you didn’t come. And you brought Biscuit. Thank you. I’ve missed him at the house.”
“He had a good run alongside my motorcycle.” Sam pulled out a pocket handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. “Sorry I was late this morning.” He tried to stifle a grimace.
“Are you all right?” asked Jade.
Sam nodded. “I’m fine. Just a headache. I flew over those farms yesterday. The ones you’d been working at. Saw some interesting things.” He lowered his tripod to the ground and leaned on it. “Well done, Madeline. That made a great sequence for the motion picture.”
“What?” Maddy exclaimed. “You were filming me?” She immediately patted at the stray hairs that refused to stay back in the roll. “I must have looked a sight.”
“You looked lovely,” Sam said. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought about asking you but I didn’t want you to be self-conscious. You were certainly more fun than the group with the potatoes. Most expressionless lot I’ve ever seen.”
“Did we win?” asked Madeline.
“Not on the potatoes,” said Sam. Madeline’s shoulders drooped. “But your bag of coffee beans took first.” Maddy’s eyes opened wide and she bounced again. Sam laughed along with her. “I got Neville’s reaction on film as well. He was a bit more restrained, but he had a great grin as the men around him all clapped him on the back. I left after that and he went on to the onions.”
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