A Whisper of Danger

by Catherine Palmer

  A sudden realization swept over Jessie. The child must have been— With a quick intake of breath, she leaned back in her chair, listening intently. If she was right . . .

  “After many years, the young man became a famous artist. The girl, who was now a woman, lived not far away with her husband. The child grew up in a loving home. He was told nothing of his birth. Then one day the artist became ill.”

  As Omar spoke, Jess couldn’t help but think of herself and Rick. Their union had been secretive and forbidden. Rick had abandoned her and her child, just like the man in the story . . . just like—

  “You’re talking about Dr. bin Yusuf,” she said quietly.

  Omar looked up at the moon. “Tell me something, Jessica Thornton. Did Ahmed bin Yusuf know you at the time you had the little boy, the child with no father?”

  “I was his art student in Dar es Salaam right after my son was born. Dr. bin Yusuf knew about Spencer. In fact . . . I remember he was intrigued that I had chosen to keep my baby. He said he admired me.”

  Omar nodded. “Now I understand the true reason he gave you Uchungu House. In you, he could see what he himself had failed to do.”

  “But who was the woman—?”

  “At the time of bin Yusuf ’s illness, the woman who had been his lover allowed her bitterness about their past to burn within her.”

  “Omar . . .” Jess felt breathless, on the verge of understanding something amazing and awful. “Omar, was that woman Nettie Cameron?”

  He focused on her. “No more questions, Jessica Thornton. Let us dance.”

  Before she could respond, he pushed back his chair, took her hands, and pulled her onto the dance floor. The throbbing African beat swirled around them—a mixture of drums, guitar, piano, and trumpet. Lost in a twirling, swaying sea of bright dresses, Jess could hardly keep up with Omar. He danced her around the floor, spun her back and forth, and nearly left her breathless.

  When the music changed into a slow languid rhythm, he took her hand and led her through the front door of the dining room onto the open sand. Fear instantly clutched Jess’s throat again. Omar was leading her away from the crowd, far from the security of the lights and music. She stopped walking.

  “Omar, let’s go back to our table,” she said, trying to sound casual. “You can tell me the rest of the story while we eat.”

  “I will tell you when we are alone.”

  “No. I . . . I want to finish my dinner.”

  “You fear me?” He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down at his feet half-buried in sand. “I know you are not at ease with me, Jessica Thornton. But this story I cannot tell in such a place.”

  “Why not, Omar?”

  He fell silent for a moment. “When I speak the words, I do not want you to see my face.”

  “Then tell me now. Here.”

  “All right.” He took a deep breath, and Jess could hear the shudder in his chest. “That woman went to the home of the child she had borne. By this time, he had grown up. He was a man. Against the wishes of the man’s second mother, she told the whole story of his birth. She insisted that the boy must go to his father and demand his inheritance. Money. A car. Land. And Uchungu House.”

  “Did he go to his father? Did he make such a demand?”

  “No.”

  “Why? Surely he was angry and bitter. Didn’t he want the rights that belonged to him?” Jess squared her shoulders, more certain than ever that she was right about the child’s identity. “I think he went to his father and made his demands. I think his father refused to acknowledge him. In his anger, I think the son struck the father—”

  “You are wrong.” Omar grabbed her shoulders. “I never went to Ahmed Abdullah bin Yusuf. I did not want him! Only once in my life had I seen that man. He had come to his sister’s house—to the home of my mother Fatima—and he had asked to paint my picture. I went to Uchungu House. He painted me. A small picture. And he said to me, ‘You have green eyes. Who is your mother? Who is your father?’ I told him, ‘Fatima Hafidh is my mother, and I do not have a father.’ And he said, ‘May God go with you.’ After that, I never saw him again.”

  “Do you think he knew you were his son, Omar?”

  “Maybe. But he did not claim me. Why should I have gone to the man when he was sick and ready to die? Why should I demand an inheritance I did not want? In my life I want only peace. Peace for my mother and myself.” He shook his head. “I did not go to him. I hated him. But she went. She went to him in my place!”

  “Who?”

  “She went to Uchungu House. Her bitterness ate her like stinging ants. She could not forgive him.”

  “Who, Omar? Who went to Uchungu House and confronted Dr. bin Yusuf?”

  “My mother.”

  “Fatima Hafidh?”

  “Fatima Hafidh is a cripple. You saw her sitting on the floor. She cannot walk.” He shook his head. “No, Fatima Hafidh is not the one. It was the other. That angry, bitter, unforgiving woman.”

  “Nettie Cameron.” A wash of ice poured through Jess’s veins. “Nettie went to Dr. bin Yusuf. She demanded compensation because he had abandoned her. She wanted revenge. She told him to give her the house. The paintings. The sculptures. And when he wouldn’t . . .”

  “I do not know what happened that evening. I know only one thing. Antoinette Cameron said she once had loved Ahmed bin Yusuf beyond all reason. And now she hated him with equal passion. She told me she had given everything for him—her heart, her body, her only child. She said she had been given nothing in return. It was time for him to pay. In great anger, Antoinette Cameron drove away from my home. The next morning, we heard that Dr. bin Yusuf had fallen down the stairs and died. Soon the secret came to be whispered . . . someone had hit him in the head. Someone killed him.”

  “Nettie.” Jess stared into Omar’s green eyes. “Nettie did it. She couldn’t stand being rejected again.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Yes! Omar, my son found the murder weapon. It was a stone urn. When he brought it out onto the verandah, Nettie said she would take the urn to the police herself. Now she has an alibi for the fact that her fingerprints will be on it. She tried to turn the blame on Solomon. But it was Nettie all along.” Jess covered her hand with her mouth. “She killed Dr. bin Yusuf—and I’ve left her alone with Splinter!”

  She grabbed Omar’s arm. Her breath wouldn’t come. Nettie would be looking for some way to make Jess leave. It was clear she had no legal claim to the house, but if she was deluded enough to kill Dr. bin Yusuf, would that truth have any effect? Probably not. And what better way to get rid of Jess than to use Splint? If he met with an accidental death, Jess would want nothing more than to escape the memories. To Nettie’s way of thinking, Uchungu House would be free again. Oh, God!

  “Take me home, Omar!” She began to cry. “You’ve got to take me to Uchungu House right now. She’ll kill my son!”

  “Calm yourself—”

  “No! No! You’ve got to help me!”

  “Jessie?”

  She swung around to see Rick walking toward them.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is Omar hurting you?”

  “Rick!” She ran to him and grabbed his sleeves in her fists. “Oh, thank God! You’ve got to do something. Nettie did it! She killed Dr. bin Yusuf, and Splint is alone with her!”

  Nettie Cameron was a pretty cool old lady after all, Splint decided as he followed her flashlight beam down the narrow rutted trail. They had played Scrabble for a while, but she could tell he wasn’t into the game. Then they got to talking about the sunken slave ship in the bay. At that point, Nettie had come up with her idea. A visit to a hole where slaves had once been kept before they were shipped off to Arabia or the Caribbean.

  “Is the slave pit we’re going to visit covered with a stone like the one Rick told me about?” he asked.

  “Like the pit at Mangapwani? I believe this one is covered.” She swung his hand as they walked. “But you can get the genera
l idea of how it used to be anyway. Dreadful place, but fascinating all the same. Ah, here we go. Follow me down this little path.”

  They turned onto a narrow trail in the tall grass. Splint could feel the evening dew dampening his bare legs, but he didn’t care. To have the chance to see a real slave pit was worth anything. Rick . . . his dad . . . would think it was wonderful. Maybe they could visit it together. Just the two of them.

  “Look just there!” Nettie said, giving Splint a little nudge from behind. “Do you see that ragged lip of coral?”

  He left her side and moved ahead. “There’s no covering, Nettie! It’s an open pit.”

  “Is it really? My goodness, I was certain this one was covered. Do be careful, my dear.”

  His heart racing, Splint knelt at the edge of the deep black hole. To think that slaves had been lowered into such a place and kept for days. How cruel people could be.

  “Do you suppose iron rings are embedded into the walls down there?” he asked. “Rick told me they kept the slaves chained up all the time so they couldn’t escape.”

  “Rings. Hmm . . . I don’t know.” Nettie crouched beside him. “Is that a ledge? Partway down. Yes, I can just pick it out with the light. Do you see it? I wonder if there’s a ladder. Surely they kept one in the pit.”

  “It’s really deep.”

  “Yes, it is. Fascinating, isn’t it?” Her smile was barely visible in the moonlight. “I wonder if there are remnants of the slave trade in the cave at the bottom. Bits of fabric, perhaps. Or beads. I suppose if one could find a ladder, the search would be quite easy.”

  “My dad would just love this.”

  “And think how pleased he would be if you brought him back a real artifact. He could put it on one of those shelves in his apartment that you told me about. It would have a tag and a description saying you’d found it. Spencer Thornton.”

  Splint grinned. It was pretty neat the way Nettie looked at things. She understood him a lot better than he’d thought. “I’ll bring my dad here tomorrow,” he said. “He might even want to put this place on a map in the museum.”

  “Why not take him a little treasure tonight? Just to whet his appetite. If you climbed down onto that ledge, you could check to see if there’s a ladder.”

  Splint swallowed. “It’s pretty dark.”

  “Don’t forget we have the flashlight, silly!”

  “Oh yeah.” He could feel his hands grow damp with sweat. His mom would kill him if he pulled a stunt like this. On the other hand, it would show Rick how glad Splint was to have him for a father. Rick would understand that even though they had spent a lot of years apart, his son was just like him. A scientist. An explorer. A bold adventurer.

  “What do you think?” Nettie asked, excitement tinging her voice.

  “It’s deep.”

  “I’ll hold your arm.”

  Splint took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  “That’s my boy!”

  Nettie held out her hand, and he took it. While she held the flashlight, he gingerly lowered one leg down into the slave hole. His toes didn’t quite touch the ledge. He scooted closer to the edge.

  “You’re going to have to hold on tight,” he said.

  He glanced down into the darkness below him. Then he looked up at Nettie’s face.

  She smiled. “Don’t worry, Splinter,” she said. “You can trust me.”

  “Nettie Cameron?” Rick looked at Omar. “Are you sure?”

  “I believe there is cause for concern,” the tall man said. “Where is the boy now?”

  Jess glanced at her watch. “He should be back home in bed by now. Mama Hannah was supposed to pick him up at eight thirty.”

  “I will take Jessica to Uchungu House in my car,” Omar spoke up.

  “My motorcycle will be faster. Omar, look, will you go to the police station in town? Will you tell them what we think happened?”

  “I will do it.”

  Omar turned on his heel and headed off through the crowd. Rick and Jess dashed to the motorcycle. Jess wrapped her arms around Rick’s waist as he gunned the engine and spun out onto the road.

  Trying to see through her tears, she clung to his back. Dear God! If Nettie hurt Splint . . . if anything happened to her son . . . Please, Father, protect him. Watch over him. Don’t let her hurt him. . . .

  But Nettie could do anything! Splint trusted her implicitly. He was completely vulnerable to her. She could push him down the stairs. Shove him off a cliff. Feed him something poisoned. Take him somewhere and lose him.

  “Hang on, Jessie,” Rick called over his shoulder. “We’re almost there.”

  “I’m so scared for Splint!”

  “Are you absolutely sure Omar didn’t have anything to do with the murder? Are you positive Nettie was the killer?”

  “She and Dr. bin Yusuf had an affair when they were young. Omar is their son. Dr. bin Yusuf abandoned her, and she never forgave him.”

  As Jess spoke the words, she recognized her own story in the tale. Bitterness demanded such a price. Unforgiveness became a demanding, vengeful master. Destruction could be the only result.

  Oh, Splint! Please be all right!

  The motorcycle shot down the road toward Uchungu House. The looming building was dark. Every window utterly black. Jess searched her heart for hope. Maybe Splint and Hannah were in the courtyard having a snack. Maybe they’d lit a little lamp . . . a candle. Maybe they were eating cookies and sipping milk. Maybe everything was all right.

  As the motorcycle slowed to a stop, Jess jumped down and ran up the steps onto the verandah. The carved front door stood ajar.

  “Spencer?” she called. She stopped in the living room. The picture over the sofa was gone. Panic clutched at her throat. “Mama Hannah! Splint!”

  “Are they here?” Behind her, Rick was breathing hard. “How about the little room next door?”

  He took her hand, and they sprinted across the room. The pictures there were gone, too. No green-eyed little Omar. No Miriamu.

  “Splinter!” Rick shouted. “Hannah? Where are you and Splint?”

  Rick ran just paces ahead of Jess through the honeycomb of rooms. Dark. Empty. Nothing. They dashed out into the courtyard. The Scrabble game lay spread out on the dining table. The two chairs were vacant.

  “I’ll check Splint’s bedroom,” Rick said. “You search the storage rooms and the kitchen.”

  Sobbing, Jess ran from room to room in the house’s lower level. All were empty. Silent. She could hear Rick calling his son as he searched the upper floor of the house. His voice took on a note of desperation.

  “Splint! Splinter, this is your dad. Where are you, buddy?”

  In moments Rick was racing down the front staircase. “Any sign of either of them?” Jess asked.

  “Nothing. I’ll check the beach.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Trace our path back down the driveway toward the road. Search the lawn on both sides. If Omar’s as good as his word, the police should be on their way by now. The minute you spot the police car, tell them what’s going on. If you can’t find me right away, go with them to Nettie’s house. I’ll catch up on my bike.”

  “Rick, what if she hurt Splint? What if he’s lying wounded somewhere . . . bleeding . . . ?”

  “We’ll take care of him.” He held her close for a moment. “I love you, Jessie. We’ll find our son.”

  Tearing apart, they ran in opposite directions. Jess could hear Rick calling as he started down the long cliff-side staircase. She closed her eyes, shuddering. One push. One shove, and Splinter would tumble over the rail. Fall to the cliffs below.

  Blinded with tears, Jess hurried down the driveway. “Splint! Splint, it’s Mom. Where are you, sweetheart? Mama Hannah, please answer me!”

  She searched around the pots Solomon had organized in long neat rows. She combed through a stand of palm trees. She lifted back a tangle of vines. She looked up i
nto the Red Hot Poker tree.

  The Renault engine was gone. The Renault itself was gone.

  “Rick!” she screamed. Grabbing her skirts, she hurtled back down the road. She stopped at the rail and hung her head over. “Rick! The engine is gone. The car—it’s not there!”

  In moments, he was racing back up the stairs. “The Renault?”

  “It’s gone. The whole thing. When Omar and I left this evening, the engine was still hanging from the branch. Now it’s vanished.”

  “Solomon must have driven it away.”

  “How can you be sure? Maybe whoever stole the paintings stole it, too.”

  “Too heavy to steal. The engine’s got to be back in the car. That means Solomon’s been here tinkering most of the evening. Maybe he knows where Splint is. Maybe he’s seen Hannah. Any idea where Solomon lives?”

  “In the village down the road.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “What about searching Nettie’s house?”

  “Omar and the police will be there any time. Maybe Splint and Mama Hannah are there. Let’s find Solomon first.”

  In moments they were back on the motorcycle, flying down the road with moonlight sparking off the gravel that shot out from under the tires. “In the village, nothing is a secret,” Miriamu had told Jess. Maybe someone there would know. Maybe someone had seen Splint.

  “Stop here!” she called when the motorcycle approached the small grocery store. “I know these people.”

  Rick stopped the bike, climbed off, and hammered on the door. A man’s dark head peered around the corner of the corrugated tin building. He gave Jess a broad smile of recognition.

  “Jambo, madam. You would like me to take you to Zanzibar town on my bicycle?” he asked. “I have no goats tonight.”

  “Akim!” Jess exclaimed. “Akim, do you know where I can find Solomon Mazrui’s house?”

  “Ndiyo, memsahib.” He emerged from behind the building. “You would like me to show you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Come, come. We shall walk. It is not far.”

  Rick slipped his arm around Jess as they followed Akim down the single narrow road. The African strolled along, waving at friends and pointing out the homes of his many family members. He was telling them all about his most recent trip to the Zanzibar market when Jess interrupted.