A Whisper of Danger (20 page)

“Are you interested in preserving the paintings?” she asked. “Or do you want to sell them?”

“Well, of course I—” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Of course I wish to preserve Dr. bin Yusuf ’s art for posterity. This is my ultimate priority. These works simply must be removed from the house.”

“And?”

“Additionally, it would be my honor and privilege to assist you in placing such fine work in the hands of collectors who would be able to care for it in the manner it deserves.”

“You want to sell the paintings,” Jess said.

“And the sculptures.” Giles Knox gave her a little smile. “For their safety.”

“For the money.”

“That, too.”

“And what is Mr. Hafidh’s interest in all this?”

Omar stared at her. “My mother owns some of her brother’s artworks. She does not wish to keep them. Knox will take the canvases for a price, but he tells me that if he can offer the whole collection to a buyer, my mother’s paintings will be worth more.”

“That is correct,” the gallery owner affirmed. “You see, Ms. Thornton, I have among my clientele a certain . . . collector. This gentleman lives in the United States. Los Angeles, California, to be exact. The man is a rather wealthy entrepreneur who has elected to invest in an impressive collection of African art. He is particularly fond of Dr. bin Yusuf ’s work, and in past years he has purchased nearly everything I was able to obtain.”

“And now that the artist is dead,” Jess said, “the art is worth a lot more, and the collector wants it all as an investment.”

“You are correct.”

“I don’t see how one man thinks he can pay the kind of price those paintings and sculptures should fetch. We’re talking about a lot of money, Mr. Knox.”

“That is also correct.” He smoothed a hand over his hair. “The gentleman is . . . shall we say . . . more than a little wealthy.”

“Who is he?”

“Confidential information. Let me simply say that this man has made his mark in the Hollywood entertainment industry. An award-winning comedic actor. A producer of films and television. Even a best-selling author of three books of humor. Oh, yes, Ms. Thornton, my client can afford the art. And as an African-American himself, he respects the work for its heritage and cultural value. You may rest assured that your benefactor’s masterpieces will receive the finest care, the ultimate in security, and the most ardent admiration.”

“Sounds like a marriage made in heaven,” Rick said. “What does Ms. Thornton get out of this deal?”

Giles Knox glanced at Rick. Then he leaned toward Jess and lowered his voice. “My dear madam, would you not prefer to discuss financial matters in private?”

Her head a whirlpool of questions, doubts, and concerns, Jess stared down at her half-eaten curry. If she sent Rick away, she would be at the mercy of these two predators. It was obvious their motive was money. What would they do to get their hands on it? Could they have killed Dr. bin Yusuf just to get at his paintings? Clearly Omar Hafidh had no love for his uncle. He wanted the money for himself and his mother. Would he hurt Jess if she refused to agree to his demands?

She felt she needed Rick’s presence for protection. She also knew he could act as a witness on her behalf if anything in the negotiations went awry. But did she really want Rick to be a part of the discussion? He was her enemy, wasn’t he? He had abandoned her. Betrayed her. Why did he suddenly feel like her only friend?

“Speak bluntly,” she told Knox finally. “Just tell me exactly what it is you have to say. Mr. McTaggart is—” She stopped and stared at Rick.
Mr. McTaggart is what? My friend? My confidant? My husband?

“Mr. McTaggart is my . . . he’s my . . .”

“I’m her protector,” Rick said. “Ten years ago I made that promise, and it’s still good. She’ll make her business decisions on her own, but I’m here to stand beside her and see that you treat her right. Give her the facts.”

“Very well.” Knox opened his briefcase. “Here is the procedure, Ms. Thornton. First, I need to take a complete inventory of all salable artwork stored at Uchungu House. Second, I need to speak with my client in the United States and negotiate a price. So I need your agreement to offer the art and then, when we arrive at a figure all can agree on, to accept the terms of sale.”

He pulled a sheaf of typed pages out of his case. “Now, Ms. Thornton,” he went on, “if you agree to permit me to function as agent in this matter, will you please sign this form? It is a simple legal document. A contract, if you will. It merely gives me exclusive rights to work with you during the negotiation for the sale of the art.”

Jess studied the papers he handed her. Signing them would mean turning over Dr. bin Yusuf ’s lifework to a stranger. A stranger she didn’t fully trust.

“I’ll take this contract with me, Mr. Knox,” she said finally. “I need some time to read it over, perhaps talk to a lawyer, think about the offer. I’ll get back with you in a few days.”

“My dear Ms. Thornton, I assure you, there is no one more qualified to assess the art than I. Dr. bin Yusuf entrusted his works to me for more than thirty years. I will arrange absolutely the best price. You will be more than happy.” Again, he leaned across the table. “If you place this matter in my hands, you will become a wealthy woman, Ms. Thornton. Very wealthy.”

His brown eyes shone like wet pebbles in a stream. Jess stared into them, vaguely aware of the sickly sweet smell of roses that seemed to be wafting from his hair. She didn’t like this man. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t want to work with him. He might even be a killer.

“What’s your commission?” she asked.

“Minuscule. A drop in the sea. Thirty-five percent.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Without me, Ms. Thornton, you have a moldy house filled with a lot of rotting canvases and mildewed sculpture. With me, you have a wealthy buyer, a contract, and piles of lovely green money. Thirty-five percent is more than fair, I assure you.”

“And if I say no to the whole deal?”

“You will regret it.” He dropped the lid of his briefcase and snapped the clasps. “Here is my card. I shall be staying at the Africa House Hotel on Kaunda Road for the next three days. Good day, Ms. Thornton. Mr. McTaggart.”

He stood, offered his dead-fish handshake, and walked across the courtyard. Omar Hafidh studied Jess for a moment.

“I will visit you at Uchungu House soon,” he said. “We will discuss this matter.”

Before she could respond, he followed the gallery owner out into the street.

Jess let out a breath. “Oh, Rick. I don’t know what to do. I don’t need to keep the paintings and sculptures, but at the same time, I don’t want to dishonor Dr. bin Yusuf. And that Giles Knox. He gives me the creeps. Why should I sell the paintings through him? He seems slippery. The way he handed me that contract—like I would sign the thing without even reading it. And Omar Hafidh. Did you get a look at that guy’s eyes?”

She frowned. Rick was smiling, his mouth soft and his blue eyes filled with a warm glow.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Nothing’s funny. I’m just glad you’re talking to me like I’m Rick McTaggart instead of Attila the Hun. I also like the way you sent Knox packing. He’ll think twice before he tries to pull anything over on you again.”

“Yeah, I really intimidated Omar, too. He’s so scared that he’s coming out to the house to visit me. He wants to
discuss this matter
.” She imitated the man’s thickly accented English.

“What my uncle wanted no longer matters. Ahmed Abdullah bin Yusuf is dead.”

“You said you thought Omar was a murderer. What was that all about, Jessie?”

She looked away. If she told Rick her fears . . . if she continued to include him in the discussion . . . if she treated him like a decent human being instead of a traitor . . . if she began to forgive him . . .

“It’s nothing, really,” she said, drawing into herself. “Just a feeling. I met Omar a few days ago when I went to talk to his mother about something concerning the house. The guy gives me the heebie-jeebies, that’s all.”

“You don’t think Omar had anything to do with Dr. bin Yusuf ’s death, do you? I thought the old guy fell down a staircase.”

Jess took a bite of her curry. It was cold. “Let’s just drop it, Rick. I need to find a taxi and get back to the house. Splinter and Mama Hannah went to Nettie Cameron’s house this morning, and I want to make sure they got home okay. In fact, I’m beginning to think I’d better keep Splint closer to the house until all this settles down.”

She started to get up, but Rick put a hand on her arm. “You’re worried, Jessie. I can see it in your eyes. You don’t have to tell me what’s bothering you. But I want you to know I meant what I said earlier. Ten years ago I promised to protect you. Until now, I’ve failed at the job. I’m willing to watch over you, Jessie. Whatever you need, just ask.”

Jess hugged her purse into her lap as unbidden tears stung her eyes. How many times had she longed to hear those words? How many years had she ached over Rick’s broken promises? And now it was too late. Too late.

“It’s okay, Rick,” she managed. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

“Will you let me say a prayer about all this?”

“Pray? You mean right now? Here?” She stared at him, again startled by such unexpected words from a man she had thought she knew so well. “I . . . I guess it would be all right. I don’t care what you do.”

“If you don’t care what I do, then let me take you home. There’s no point in paying for a taxi when I can have you there in a few minutes.”

“No, Rick, really, I don’t think so. I’m fine.”

“I know you’re fine.” Before she could leave, he laid both of his hands over one of hers. Then he bowed his head. “Father, I give Jessie and her many concerns into your care, just like I have all these years. Comfort her. Bring her peace. Lead her through the valleys. Teach her your paths. And please protect Splinter. Amen.”

Jess hadn’t managed to shut her eyes. Instead, she had stared at the man’s bent head, his thick brown hair, the slope of his deeply tanned nose. Then she had glanced around to see who was watching. Fortunately, nobody was. And then she had heard Rick’s words. A prayer for comfort and peace. A request to lead, teach, protect. A blessing.

“Come on,” he said, pulling Jess to her feet. “I’ll have you home in twenty minutes. Fifteen, if we want to be daring.”

He gave her a wink and started across the courtyard. As she followed him, Jess decided Rick McTaggart was the strangest man she had ever met. Strange, contradictory, and so considerate. She was beginning to think she might even like him just a little bit.

Rick decided he hadn’t been so happy in years. More than happy. Joyous. A deep-down, abiding, all-consuming joy filled him so full he thought he might burst. As he drove his motorcycle down the road toward Uchungu House, he had to work to keep from laughing out loud. Or even worse—singing. He couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. But at this moment, he reckoned he might sound like Enrico Caruso.

The reason? Jessie sat right behind him, her hands warm at his waist and her skirt fluttering around her knees. His Jessie. Ever since this morning when he’d picked her up on the road to Zanzibar, she had seemed just that again—his Jessie. She had smiled at him, asked his advice, eaten with him, even held his hand.

Lord, she held my hand!

It was impossible to contain the prayer of thanksgiving that lifted Rick’s heart. Against all reason, Jessie Thornton was allowing him into her life again. Maybe she didn’t trust him very far, but at least she wasn’t pushing him away. In fact, she seemed to almost enjoy his company.

After lunch, they had walked down the street, picked up a couple of school uniforms for Splinter, and even stopped in at the telephone company. Jessie permitted Rick to speak to the manager on her behalf—and now it looked like she might have phone service by the end of the month. The smile she had given him at the news could have lit up Uchungu House for a year.

Lord, thank you,
Rick prayed as he negotiated the dirt road that led to the driveway.
Thank you for softening Jessie’s heart. Teach me how to win her back. And please, Father, please don’t let anything come between us again. Don’t let anything drive us apart.

“There’s Mama Hannah!” Jessie’s long arm reached over his shoulder as she pointed at the small dark figure on the verandah of Uchungu House. “She’s been so good to us. I wonder where Splint is.”