A Whisper of Danger (5 page)

He swept the beam of light across a collection of square chairs built of soft wood and woven palm leaves. The room would have been plain, almost shabby, but for the large rectangular painting that hung beside an arched opening opposite the front door. Jess crossed to it and stood enraptured.

The seascape writhed with roiling pearl gray clouds and tossing ocean waves in shades of indigo, violet, and turquoise. On a high cliff at the edge of the frame, wind bowed a palm tree toward the ground, blasting green fronds like an umbrella blown inside out. Alone in the tumultuous sky, a single bird struggled to stay aloft, its black feathers ruffled and its neck stretched forward in determination.

Immediately she recognized the signature characteristics of her mentor’s work. Thick layers of oil paint formed a rough, sculpture-like texture on the canvas. Brilliant jewel tones and the mottled effect of dappled paint had led critics to call Ahmed Abdullah bin Yusuf the African van Gogh. The painting was spectacular, surely one of his best. Jess knew it would be worth a small fortune.

“What is this doing
here
?” she exclaimed. “This painting needs to be in a gallery. It could be stolen or damaged.”

“This painting has lived in the sitting room of Uchungu House many years,” Solomon said. “This painting likes to live here.”

“Splinter, don’t you dare touch it. Not even a finger. And no ball playing in the house.”

“Calm down, Mom. No need to go ballistic over some picture.”

“This is not just any painting. This is a masterpiece. I can’t believe it’s here.”

Solomon led his guests into the adjoining side room— another sitting room with more inexpensive furniture, a cotton throw rug, and two small but striking portraits that had been painted by Dr. bin Yusuf.

The first canvas depicted a light-skinned Arab boy with strange green eyes. He wore a white caftan and carried a round white shell. Half of a woman’s face filled the other painting. Dr. bin Yusuf had chosen to reveal only one dark brown eye, one arching eyebrow, the side of the woman’s nose, and a small part of her down-turned lip. Her skin, the color of rich coffee laced with cream, was flawless and glowing. She was beautiful, but Jess could not mistake the spark of anger in her eye.

“What are these paintings doing here?” she whispered. “I just don’t believe it.”

“Then you will not believe many things about this house.” Solomon said. “In every room, this house wears the paintings of Ahmed Abdullah bin Yusuf. Uchungu House also holds his many carvings and sculptures.”

Solomon had not exaggerated. He led the little group through countless archways into room after room of eighteen-foot walls hung with magnificent landscapes and portraits. Beyond the two sitting rooms was a small area with a traditional stone seat Solomon called a
daka
. To its left stood a bar area stocked with rows of old wines. To the right rose a winding stone staircase that led to the upper floor.

Deep in the middle of the house, a large airy courtyard opened to the sky and let in fresh breezes and rainwater to nourish the collection of exotic plants growing in clay pots set around the perimeter. A covered hall surrounding the courtyard sheltered a dining table and a set of carved chairs. A bathroom with its own elaborate arched doorway lay at one end of the hall, a storage room at the other. On the left side of the courtyard stood a long narrow kitchen with an ancient stove and a deep stone sink. It appeared to have a working faucet and running water.

“Library,” Solomon stated, gesturing at a door across the courtyard from the kitchen. “Locked.”

“May I have the key, please?” Jess held out her hand.

His face hardened. “Tomorrow you will see the library.”

“I asked you for the key tonight.”

He dropped it into her palm and turned on his heel. Jess felt her son’s hand tighten on her own.

“Mom, what’s that?” he whispered.

On the narrow staircase in the hallway at the far end of the courtyard, a faint moving light shone on the white wall. It began to slide down the stairwell, step by step, followed by a dark sinuous shape.

“Mom!” Splint squeaked.

“Ni,
Miriamu,
tu.”
Solomon strode toward the figure. His flashlight beam found dark bare feet, the hem of a colorful black-and-purple gown, two slender arms, a long neck, and finally a beautiful African face.

“Solomon,
sitaki tochi
,” the woman said, pushing the harsh light aside and lifting the kerosene lantern she carried.
“Ni wageni?”

“We’re not guests.” Jess stepped forward and held out her hand. “I’m Jessica Thornton, the new owner of Uchungu House. This is my son, Spencer, and our friend, Hannah Wambua. And you are Miriamu?”

“Ndiyo, memsahib.”
Heavy black lashes dropped over her liquid eyes, and she gave the hint of a curtsy. “I am your cook. I clean Uchungu House for you.”

Jess let out a breath of frustration at yet another situation she didn’t know how to resolve. “We’ll talk about you and Solomon in the morning. Right now, I want to get Splinter to bed. We both have jet lag.”

“Memsahib alifanya
barf
ndani ya Zanzibar,”
Solomon informed the exotic woman.

“Barf?”

“Kutapika!”
Splinter burst out. Miriamu’s face broke into a smile, and she covered a giggle with her hand.

“Pole sana, memsahib,”
she apologized. “You are ill?”

Jessica fought her growing frustration. “I’m tired. Solomon, please show us the upstairs rooms. I hope there are beds.”

“
Ndiyo, memsahib.
Very good beds.”

The upper story of Uchungu House was a warren of small, narrow rooms with high ceilings and lots of large windows. Ascending by the back staircase, Solomon led the newcomers to the balcony rail that overlooked the courtyard. At the very back of the house were two identical rooms, one of which Splinter claimed. Jess wanted the other, but Miriamu told her such an arrangement was impossible. As the
memsahib
of the house, she must sleep in the big room at the front. When Jess began to protest, Hannah elected to take the room beside Splint.

“Udongo upatize uli maji,”
she murmured.

Take advantage of the clay while it is wet,
Jess mentally translated the Swahili saying. True, she and her son had always lived in cramped quarters. Jess had to admit that she would enjoy privacy for a change. And Splinter deserved room to grow and mature without a mother always breathing down his neck.

“This boy is very brave,” Hannah said, surveying Splinter as he poked around in the corners of his chosen room. “And as you know yourself, I am a light sleeper.”

In reluctant agreement, Jess moved on while Solomon pointed out a long office, two bathrooms, and a storage room. Dr. bin Yusuf ’s paintings hung on almost every wall, and his sinuous carvings of wood or stone guarded doorways and nestled in corners. Contemplating the responsibility of guardianship for the valuable art, Jess followed the African guide toward the front of the house. They passed through a large open hall that led to the curving staircase and then slipped through a curtained arch.

“Your bedroom,” Miriamu said.
“Ni maridadi kabisa.”

It certainly was
maridadi
. One of those Swahili words that had no direct translation,
maridadi
was a perfect description of this room. The word meant beautiful, fancy, decorative, and exquisite all rolled into one. No higher compliment could be paid.

Jess walked across the thick Persian rugs that carpeted the floor and stared in wonder at the room’s treasures—a huge Zanzibar chest carved in wood and studded with brass; a large fern filling a bright copper urn; chairs of ebony, mahogany, and teak; a table inlaid with silver and glass; an enormous canopied bed hung with mosquito netting; and paintings everywhere. Everywhere.

“Why?” she whispered. “Why did he leave all this to
me
?”

She had asked the question of herself in London and had found no good answer. She had asked Mr. Patel in Zanzibar. The attorney had shrugged. He didn’t know. She looked at the two Africans standing before her. Miriamu’s dark eyelashes fluttered down. Solomon squared his shoulders.

“Ahmed Abdullah bin Yusuf did not have friends,” the African man said. “He did not have family. Perhaps you were important to him.”

“I was his student, that’s all. I loved his art, and I respected him as a teacher and as a man. But that was a long time ago. I took classes from him for only a couple of years.” She looked around the room. “He left all this to me? I just don’t get it.”

“But you
did
get it,
memsahib
. And now you will live forever in Uchungu House.”

He gave her a dark look before leaving the room with Miriamu at his heels. Jess pressed her hands against her stomach as she gazed through the archways onto the balcony that faced the sea. Like a Möbius strip that had no beginning and no end, Solomon’s words swirled around inside her head.

“And now you will live forever in the House of Bitterness.”

Unable to sleep in spite of her exhaustion, Jess lay in the big bed and stared up at the ceiling through the filmy mosquito net. In London, she had imagined Dr. bin Yusuf ’s house as a quaint stone cottage by the sea. A haven for Splinter. A cocoon for her. Hannah would come, and Africa would wrap its benevolent healing arms around them all. Everything would be perfect.

Instead, she was burdened with a palatial stone mansion of great architectural significance, a household staff, and a gallery of valuable art. Would Splinter even be safe here? What if he tumbled off the cliff or fell down a well or got bitten by some strange tropical bug? Could she actually paint out here in the jungle? Could she afford to pay Solomon and Miriamu? How could she protect the paintings and sculptures?

Jess flopped onto her stomach and buried her face in the feather pillow. No, it wasn’t any of that. She could handle Splint and the rest of the situation. Somehow or other, she would manage. She always had.

It was
him
. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t get him out of her brain.

In Zanzibar town, the men had walked around the corner, the whole group of them. An African or two. Someone in a turban. A heavy white man with a bald head the color of a baked crab. And then those blue eyes. Rick McTaggart’s blue eyes. No one else had eyes like that—deep-set, penetrating eyes that never wavered, eyes that always stared direct and straightforward, eyes that could pin a person to a wall or buckle her knees or make her weep.

But had she seen Rick’s face? She couldn’t remember. She had glimpsed a flash of tan skin, broad shoulders, brown hair. It could have been anyone, couldn’t it?

Not with those eyes. The instant she saw them, everything had swept over her. Their meeting on a beach, their brief passionate romance, their wedding, the little house where . . .

She sat up and clapped a hand over her mouth.
Make it go away. Make the memories leave me alone.
Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes. She blotted them with the sheet.

It’s okay, Jessie. It’s okay.

The words Rick had whispered in her ear that afternoon in Zanzibar held the same deep tones she remembered so well.
It’s okay, Jessie.
He had called her by his special name.
Jessie.
So it was him. It was Rick McTaggart, and she couldn’t escape.

Worse, even worse, he had picked her up and cradled her against his chest. She had felt the hard roundness of his biceps beneath her hand. She had rested her cheek on his shirt—warm khaki cotton, brown buttons, a pocket with a pen, a small spiral-bound notebook, a pair of sunglasses. And she had smelled him. Rick.

No one else smelled like Rick McTaggart—like salty sea air, sunshine, tanned male skin, and freedom. No one else walked like him, with that confident stride, shoulders thrown back, purpose in every step.

No one else called her Jessie.

She flopped back on the bed and pulled the sheet over her head.
Make him go away. Don’t let me ever have to see him again.
The cry from her heart was meant to be a prayer, but she hadn’t talked to God in so many years she wasn’t sure she remembered how. And she wasn’t sure he would want to listen. After all, ten years ago she had been so angry with him . . . raging and crying and begging . . . and finally turning her back on him.