The Edge of Dawn by Beverly Jenkins Page B

the silent St. Martin. “What about you, Cyclops? You hungry?”
    Saint gave up. He smiled. “Yes, sir.”
    Willie smiled back. “Then come and get it.”
    The grilled chops had been brushed with a sweet dark barbecue sauce that got all over Narice’s hands and lips. It had been a long time since she’d tasted ’que this good, and just being around Wild Willie, as her daddy called him, lifted her spirit.
    While they ate the chops, cole slaw and baked beans, they talked about Simon’s death.
    Willie said to Narice softly, “Sorry I didn’t come to the funeral.”
    â€œThat’s okay. I understood your reasons.”
    â€œHate to have the last memory of someone I love be of them lying there all stiff and still—funeral home paint all over their face.” He shuddered. “Hate funerals.” He went silent for a moment, then turned her way and asked, “Was it a good turnout?”
    â€œYes.”
    He nodded. “Good. Knew it would be. Everybody loved him.”
    In light of all that had happened, Narice thought he needed to know the truth about the death of his best friend. “Not everyone, Uncle Willie. The police said it wasn’t just a fire. It was arson.”
    Willie stared. Visibly shaken he set down the jar holding his green Kool-Aid. His dark eyes radiated anger and emotion. “Arson? You didn’t tell me the fire was set.”
    â€œI know, but it was bad enough that I knew.”
    Willie stared at Narice, then at the silent watching Saint. “Lord, have mercy. Glad you didn’t tell me. I’d be in Detroit right now, busting heads. Nobody deserves to die like that. Nobody.” His gray mustached lips tightened. “Damn,” he whispered. Tears ran down his face again. He wiped them away and asked, “So what are the cops up there doing? Are they looking for the arsonist?”
    â€œYes, buy they weren’t sure how long it might take. They said they’d get in touch when they had something.” She then asked, “Do you know anything about the Eye of Sheba?”
    His head turned sharply. “Why?”
    His abrupt and wary answer made Narice pause and observe him for a moment. She picked her words carefully, “Because it might be the reason daddy died.”
    Willie looked at Narice, then at Saint before sighing heavily. “I told him bringing that thing back to the States was a bad idea. I told him.”
    Saint asked, “What do you mean?”
    â€œHe wanted to help the king, but I thought smuggling it out of the country and then hiding it would be more trouble than the damn thing was worth.”
    â€œDo you know where he hid it?”
    Willie shook his head, saying, “No, but he did hide it. That much I know. Somebody after it?”
    Narice nodded. “And after me because they think I know where it is.”
    â€œThe king’s family?”
    â€œYes, but she’s with the good guys, I hope.”
    Willie turned on Saint. “You look like military. You in on this, too?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWhose side?”
    Saint nodded towards Narice. “Hers.”
    Willie seemed to relax. “Good. I got something I want to show you.”
    While he was gone, Narice looked over at Saint. His statement that he was on her side had done funny things to her insides. She’d always gone through life under her own steam; she’d never wanted a man to declare himself on her side. Brandon, her ex, could certainly attest to that.
    Uncle Willie returned carrying a large box. Saint hurried over to help relieve the elderly man of the heavy burden, but Willie glared. “Back off, Cyclops. I’m all right.”
    Saint stepped back.
    Willie placed the box on an empty kitchen chair and Willie said, “Six weeks ago, Simon drove down here so we could go to Atlantic City. He had this box in the car.Told me if anything happened to him, I was to give the box to