Treasure of the Golden Cheetah (22 page)

Who was he fooling? He’d taken a hand lens to the other pictures, hoping to see that African man who’d murdered Wheeler lurking somewhere in the background. So far, nothing. According to Jade’s note cards, these pictures were taken two days before Wheeler was killed. He wished she’d taken pictures the morning of his death.

He found his growing anxiety hard to explain, even to himself. Call it intuition, or just horse sense, but he
knew
something was wrong. He likened it to that sense the livestock had just before a storm or a temblor. Sam had had the same feeling when someone had tried to bilk his father out of his life savings years ago. On the surface, everything seemed fine and dandy, a good business opportunity. But Sam had picked up on subtle nuances in the crook’s behavior. His dad just said that he must have a good nose for bull crap.

And I smell it now.
Only this time, it wasn’t money at risk. It was Jade’s life, and the thought drove him into a frenzy. She was hell and away from him now. The gnawing conviction of something terribly wrong nearly drove him to distraction. He hadn’t slept a wink last night.

Sam picked up one of the dry photographs, one with Wheeler and that actor who played the safari head.
What was his name again?
Sam consulted Jade’s notes.
McAvy.
Like many of Jade’s photos, it was a candid shot of the two men relaxing. At least, McAvy seemed relaxed, leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his broad chest. Wheeler, on the other hand, appeared to be studying someone else, someone off to his right. A trace of a wistful smile graced his lips. Sam peered more closely, again using the hand lens.

Sam wondered who else had seen that look. Whoever it was, they weren’t in the photo.

CHAPTER 14

—The Traveler

THE NEXT MORNING, JADE FOUND JELANI AT HIS USUAL SPOT NEAR the back of the house, assisting Muturi in preparing breakfast. Biscuit padded beside her and, seeing an unwashed pot that had held cooked meat before Muturi mixed it with the eggs, stuck his large head into the cast-iron kettle and licked the bottom, a contented raspy purr rumbling from his barrel chest.

“I need to talk with you, Jelani,” Jade said. “About what happened yesterday.”

“Muturi
mpishi
has already told me of the snake,” he said, “and how Biscuit protected the woman from opening the box.”

“Good. Then you know about this latest
shauri
. But that’s not what I came to talk about.” She waited to see if Jelani volunteered anything on his own. He didn’t, reaching to take a used plate from Mr. Wells. “Where did you go yesterday?”

“I went to . . . pray, Simba Jike,” he said. “Just as you did last Sunday at the mission.”

“You went to the mission?”

Jelani shook his head. “No. My ancestors do not live there. I went to a holy place in the forest. To a
mokoyo
tree.”

Jade didn’t need to ask any more. She knew just enough about the Kikuyu spirituality to know that sacrifices were made at these trees. Her suspicions about what had happened to the kid goat were correct. Chiding him would be tantamount to an insult.

“I trust your prayers were heard,” she said.

“Let us hope so,” said Jelani.

Jade noted the intensity in his voice just then.
What is he keeping from me?
“Is there something I or Bwana Nyati should know about?”

“The Chagga woman is dead,” he said.

“The one who made the curse? Rehema?” asked Jade. “She’s dead?”

Jelani opened his mouth to answer, then stopped when Lwiza came by, followed by Cynthia and McAvy.

“Someone died?” asked Cynthia, her voice tremulous. She surveyed the camp’s occupants. “Who?”

Her outcry was overheard by several others, and soon they were joined by still more. Repeated questions of “What happened?” and “Did someone get hurt?” swelled to a din.

“Quiet, all of you,” ordered Jade. “None of us is hurt.”

“But I distinctly heard you,” said Cynthia. “You said, and I quote you, ‘She’s dead?’ ”

By that time, Harry had joined the group. “What’s going on now?” he demanded. He glanced at Cynthia briefly. She dropped her gaze and stepped closer.

Jade looked at Jelani. “Suppose you tell all of us, Jelani.”

“I overheard the Chagga man, Zakayo, tell Muturi
mpishi
that the woman who made the curses in their village was gone,” said Jelani.

“Gone is not the same as dead,” said Jade. “Did Zakayo give you this news, Muturi?”

“It is so,” said the cook. “He told me that she walked back from this camp having sold many yams. Then she went to fetch the water and fell. Blood came from her nose and mouth, and her legs and arms were fat as a rock python when he has swallowed a pig. The woman she went to for help sent her away and she left the village. He came to tell me.”

“Then we still don’t know that she’s dead,” said Jade.

“Simba Jike,” said Jelani in a tone one used to teach a particularly slow child, “she was sent away because it was certain she would die. Better that she not die in the village.”

“Probably ran her out because they thought she had some disease,” said McAvy.

Jelani nodded. “So now her curse is a death curse.”

“Considering the girl she cursed already died before her, I’d say she went to a lot of trouble for nothing,” said Wells.

“I suppose,” added Bebe, “that it’s tragic, but I imagine those natives die all the time, don’t you think? Do you really think it was some horrid disease?”

“Oh, gawd,” said Pearl. “We’re probably all doomed then. She sold food to just about everyone, didn’t she?”

Harry rubbed his freshly shaved chin. “It doesn’t sound like any disease I know of. It sounds like snakebite.”

“Snakebite,” whispered Jade. “Then maybe she—”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Harry. “We may have to go back up to the village and ask around. See if anyone knows anything.”

“We could have Zakayo interview people for us,” Jade suggested. “Then report back. They’re more likely to talk to him than to us.”

“Good idea,” said Harry. “I’ll ask him when he comes in. What
are
the plans for today, does anyone know?”

Talmadge nodded. “Rex says he’s hired some Chagga to pretend to attack our camp.”

“So Zakayo should probably be with them,” said Jade.

“Right,” agreed Harry.

Bebe hugged her stomach. “Excuse me. All this talk of blood makes me ill. I’m going to get some bicarbonate.” She ran off to the house.

Cynthia clutched Harry’s arm and looked up into his face with large, pleading eyes. “Are we in danger, Harry? You’ll protect us, won’t you?”

He puffed out his chest and patted her hand. “Don’t fret your pretty head, Cynthia. We’re simply following up on how that snake got into the box. If that Chagga woman wanted to make certain that her curse on Jade took, she was probably crazy enough to plant the snake there. We want to make sure. But the woman’s dead now, so she can’t hurt anyone else.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” said Cynthia. “It’s good to know that
you’re
here to protect us.” She stood on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on Harry’s cheek.

“Now that I think on it,” said Harry, his voice low and husky, “there were more questions I wanted to ask you. Is there someplace we can talk? Privately?”

“Perhaps after breakfast,” Cynthia said as Bebe returned.

Jade rolled her eyes. Harry might do well enough with the women, but somehow, she wasn’t sure how his interrogation skills would work if he ever talked with the men.

 

 

SAM SAT IN Dr. Mathews’ waiting room until the patient, a man with gout in his big toe, hobbled out the door. He was surprised to find that the doctor kept Saturday hours.

“Actually, I don’t,” said the doctor as he offered Sam a chair in his study. “I rarely keep any regular hours, as I travel a great deal. Missions, and some of the King’s Rifles’ encampments, you know. I started coming in on Saturday mornings just to have a chance to read or look over my cases in peace and quiet. But someone always manages to find me.”

“And I’m as guilty as the last man, aren’t I,” said Sam. “My apologies.”

“Oh, no,” said Mathews, “I didn’t mean you, Mr. Featherstone. Good heavens, how very rude of me. No,
you
had the decency to ring me up and make an appointment. I thought this would be a better time for all concerned. Fewer interruptions, don’t you see.”

“And I appreciate it,” said Sam. “I won’t take up any more of your time than necessary.”

“I take it this is still about that knifing at the Muthaiga?”

Sam nodded. “I’d hoped that you’d heard something back from your friend in Mombassa. The one who was examining the drug-laced drink.”

“Indeed. I heard from him yesterday. One of the papers I intended to study today. Most curious case, but I’m afraid I haven’t much more to tell you than we already know. My colleague verified that the seeds found in the drink were a variety of datura. Common enough plant. I believe it even grows in your country. Jimsonweed, I think it’s called?”

“That’s right. Devil’s Trumpet is another name for it. Terrible when the livestock get into it. If it doesn’t kill them, it gets into the milk and poisons the calves.”

“I would imagine the effect would be similar to that on humans: irrational behavior, temporary blindness, an inability to carry out basic bodily waste functions.”

Sam sat up straighter. “We used to know a rhyme for that back home. How did it go? Can’t see, can’t spit, can’t pee, can’t . . .” He stopped. “I imagine you can work out the rest.”

The doctor laughed. “Indeed. But the effect, of course, depends on the dosage. In this instance, some of the seeds were actually crushed and steeped in the alcohol. That made it more potent, and the alcohol, naturally, enhanced the overall influence.”

“So this man probably didn’t go out to the Muthaiga already intoxicated?” asked Sam.

“I should think it highly unlikely. No. I imagine our crazed friend arrived at the Muthaiga, then partook of the drink and became hallucinogenic and crazed.”

Sam studied the doctor’s face for a moment, searching for some insight as to what the man made of all this. “I don’t know about you, Doctor, but that just sounds like a load of—”

“Indeed.” Mathews clasped his hands on his desk and leaned forward. “Mr. Featherstone, I am inclined to agree with you. It is just all too bizarre.”

“Was there anything unusual about the alcohol?”

Mathews shrugged. “Not that my friend could detect. Seemed to be the basic native-brewed beer,
tembo
, they term it. Like the elephant. But he did say that the practice of putting datura seeds in alcohol is not practiced by our local tribes. However, it is sometimes done in the northern countries.”

“So our murderer came from up north?”

“You’ll have to ask the inspector about that. One of his men took a photograph of the corpse and sent copies by train down to Mombassa and north to the outlying towns. Hoped someone might recognize the man.” He reached into his top desk drawer. “Left one with me. Might assist you in finding answers.”

Sam stood, took the photograph, and extended his hand to the doctor. “Thank you very much, Dr. Mathews. You’ve been very helpful. I guess I should call on the inspector next.”

Mathews shook Sam’s hand. “My pleasure, Mr. Featherstone. As a student of native pharmacology, I’m quite intrigued by this case myself. Er, you might just keep my giving you that picture a secret. The inspector does not always—how shall I put this?—tolerate amateur investigators questioning him.”

Sam scowled. “He should have thought of that last July before involving Miss del Cameron and myself in one of his cases. He owes me for that.”

“A most interesting young lady, that Miss del Cameron,” said the doctor.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

 

 

WHATEVER JULIAN HAD planned for the morning, most of it was wasted. Even Harry’s plans were foiled. First Cynthia reported feeling nauseous soon after breakfast and spent much of the morning retching by the stream. Lwiza attended her, bringing her damp cloths to wipe her face. Jelani offered his services as a healer, pointing out several natural remedies for stomach discomfort readily at hand, but Cynthia would have none of it. Finally, Lwiza got her to take honey in warm water.

Pearl announced that she would be in her tent if anyone needed her. Jade saw Harry head in that direction a few minutes later. More interrogations? Jade wondered. Unable to film his dramatic attack scene, Julian did the next best thing. He made his men rehearse it.

“Cynthia already knows her part. She’ll be sitting by her tent, cleaning her weapon. Wells, McAvy, Hall,” Mr. Julian called. “I want you all sitting outside of McAvy’s tent.”