Mariner's Compass (11 page)

“This gets stranger every time I talk to you,” he said, resting his elbows on the kitchen table, his dark eyes interested. “It would make a great plot on
One Life to Live
though. What does your husband think?”

“He doesn’t like it, naturally,” I said much too quickly, irritated at myself for telling him about the scrapbook before Gabe. And for spilling my guts so easily to a virtual stranger, albeit a charming one, just like Gabe said I would.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Try to figure out why he left his estate to me. It doesn’t make sense, because I’ve found out he had relationships with other people. Close ones. As a matter of fact, I met the woman you told me about.”

“The redhead I saw going in and out of his house.”

“Tess Briggstone is her name. She owns a gift shop down on the Embarcadero. She has two sons.”

His dark face was thoughtful. “I’ve seen them around. To be honest, they look like a couple of losers to me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Just the fact that two men that age shouldn’t still be living with their mother. They sit around on weekends drinking beer and playing music loud enough to broil steaks. They screech up and down the alley at three in the morning in trucks that need mufflers more than I need new knees.”

I nodded, taking in the information, though I wasn’t sure if it would be of any use to me.

“Maybe I’m just an old fuddy-duddy, as I’m often accused of by my daughters, but a couple of men pushing thirty ought to be living on their own, raising their own families.” He stood up and started clearing the table. “Sometimes I sound so much like my own father, it scares me.
Pollo ruidoso
, my daughters call me. Noisy chicken.”

I carried my plate over to the sink and started running the hot water.

“Leave those,” Rich said. “I’ll do them later.”

“Okay. Thanks for lunch. Your awards were absolutely deserved. Well, I’d better go pick up my film. See you later.”

“You bet.”

My film was ready, and I eagerly sat on the brick planter out front, flipping through the twelve photos. They were typical tourist shots of Morro Rock, the bay, and the marina down by the PG & E plant. Only one was different.

It was the James Dean monument at the intersection of Highways 41 and 46 near the town of Cholame—a name from the Salinan or Yokut Indians meaning either “the enchanted valley” or “beautiful one” depending on which county historian you believed. I’d been to the spot many times with my friends as a teenager, attracted by what we thought was the romantic way James Dean had died. Now, the thought of his young body mangled in a fiery automobile accident only made me sick at heart for the ridiculous and never changing stupidity of youth.

I gazed closer at the photo. There was a card propped next to the Tree of Heaven that canopied the monument. Printed on it was the number 226. What in the heck was that supposed to mean?

“Very funny, Mr. Chandler,” I said, stuffing the photos back in the envelope. What next? Go out to the monument? What if it was a wild goose chase? The thought of driving out there for nothing irritated me.

“Let’s go see Emory,” I said to Scout. “No one has a more devious mind than him, so maybe he can make heads or tails out of this. Besides, we’d better drop by and see the chief and let him know we made it through one more night.”

“SWEETCAKES, THIS IS gettin’ more peculiar by the minute,” Emory said, settling comfortably in his leather office chair. You’d think by the look of his office he’d been there five years instead of five months. Anyone else who had breezed into town and snatched a prime reporting job the way he had would be hated by everyone from the janitor to the city desk editor. But I’d learned never to underestimate the power of a genteel, Tupelo-honey-tongued, upper-class Southern gentleman. The women mooned about his office like lovesick poodles, and even the men found Emory amusing with his self-effacing humor and his never empty mini-refrigerator filled with imported beers, soda, and handmade, chocolate-covered bourbon candies Fed-Exed from Louisville.

“You’re telling me,” I agreed, helping myself to his crystal candy dish of Godiva chocolates. “What’s this?” I held up a dark chocolate candy heart. He knew all of Godiva’s selections by sight. Behind him hung an expensively framed calligraphy of his favorite saying—“American by birth, Southern by the Grace of God.”

“Hazelnut praline center in a dark chocolate shell. Have you told the chief about this scrapbook yet?”

“No, and I wasn’t going to because I knew he’d just worry, but now I feel obligated.”

“Why’s that?”

Settling down in one of his visitor chairs, I told him about spilling my guts to Rich and feeling somewhat guilty about it.

“As well you should,” Emory said. ”You don’t know this man from Adam’s house cat. His noble profession notwithstanding, you’d best keep any further confessions and discoveries to those you know and love.”

“You mean you.” I popped the candy into my mouth, letting the rich sweetness dissolve in my mouth. Hazelnut praline, just like he said.

“When are you going to let me start writing the article?” he asked.

“When my two weeks are up.”

“What?” He grabbed the candy dish as I was reaching for another.

“Hey!”

“You shall not enjoy a smidgen more of my bounty until I get something in return.”

I sat back in my chair and propped my boots on his desk. “Emory, I’m here to invite you to the funeral service tomorrow, and I’m going to tell you what’s happening every step of the way. I just don’t want you writing the article until it’s all done. No one’s going to scoop you because no one else knows about it. Besides, do you really think I’d talk to another reporter?”

“There are other people involved,” he said, his voice petulant. “They could tell someone.”

“Quit pouting, Emory. It’s so wussy. If we wait until it’s over and I find out why Mr. Chandler left all his worldly goods to me, you’ll be able to write it with more authority. It’s always easier to write a story when you know the ending, don’t you think?” I leaned over and took a piece of paper from his desk and started making a paper airplane.

“Sometimes,” he conceded. He leaned back in his chair and pointed an aristocratic finger at me. “Keep me informed every step of the way. Promise me.”

I laughed and pointed my airplane at him. “You are beginning to sound a mite like a certain police chief I know, dear cousin.” I stood up and sailed the airplane across the desk, hitting him in the chest. “Gotta go, Joe, it’s three o’clock. I want to stop by and French-kiss my husband so he won’t forget me, then get back to Morro Bay before the quilt shop closes.” I picked up a nut-covered Godiva chocolate and held it up.

“Pecan caramel truffle. Going to do some quilting during your lonely nights?”

I bit into the candy and inspected the contents. Right again. Dang, he was good. “No, I know the lady who owns the store, and she’s lived in Morro Bay quite a while. I’m going to see if she knows anything about Jacob Chandler. And by the way, the reason I actually stopped by was to ask you to do some checking for me.”

“I thought Gabe had an investigator working on the case.”

“He gave me the lowdown on Mr. Chandler, what there is of it, and I’m going to try to call Jacob Chandler’s sister today, but I want to see if your sources can dig up anything else. And I want you to check on the other people on this list—see what you can come up with.” I handed him a piece of paper listing Tess, Cole, and Duane Briggstone of Morro Bay and Richard Trujillo of Phoenix. “There may be more after the funeral because I’m going to try to get names. Do you think having a guest book at the graveside services is too obvious?”

“A bit, sweetcakes. But I’ll come, nose around a bit, and get names.”

I went around the desk and gave him a quick hug. “I was hoping you’d say that. Besides, I need you there for moral support. I don’t know who else besides this Tess woman feels like they have a claim to his estate, and I need someone to help me absorb all the bad vibes.”

“I’ll be happy to be your bodyguard, provided I’m allowed to ask questions.”

“Emory, that’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

GABE’S CORVETTE, THE same pale blue as the afternoon sky, was in its parking space at the police station, so I pulled into the visitor’s parking lot. In the reception area, Rod, the desk clerk and an avid animal lover, buzzed me in and, as I expected, commenced to making a big fuss over Scout.

“The chief said you’d inherited a dog. He’s adorable!” Rod exclaimed, crouching down to stroke Scout’s head.

“Yeah, he’s a charmer, all right. Gabe’s in, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rod said.

“C’mon, Scout,” I said and walked through the maze of desks and hallways, greeting people and stopping every so often so someone could pet Scout. Walking down the hallway toward Gabe’s office, I said, “You know, Scooby-doo, I’m getting jealous here. Try and reel in that charm a little.”

He looked up at me with patient eyes, as if to say, this is my burden, live with it. I left him with the dispatchers, telling them I’d be back in a few minutes.

Gabe’s secretary, Maggie, wasn’t at her desk, but his door was open, so I breezed right in. He was sitting at his desk looking very authoritarian in his gray Brooks Brothers suit and khaki-and-gray-print tie.

“Hey,” I said. “I waited all night for my dancing pool boy, and he never showed up. What gives?”

He looked up and smiled. “Hmmm, I’m sure I gave him the right address. That was 663 Seagull, right?”

“It’s 993 Pelican, and you know it. Oh, well, guess I’m stuck with the old fart again.” I went around the desk and gave him a quick kiss. “I kinda like them already trained anyway. How’s your day going?”

“Same old stuff. How was your second night? I tried to call this morning, but you weren’t there.”

Leaning against the edge of his desk, I gave him a quick rundown on what Eve had told me and showed him the photograph taken at the James Dean memorial. He sat back in his chair and studied the photo.

“I suppose you feel compelled to go out there,” he said.

“It’s the next logical step, wouldn’t you agree?”

An unintelligible but definitely deprecating sound rumbled from his throat.

Then I told him about meeting Tess and her sons, about setting up the funeral for tomorrow.

“I’m glad Emory’s going to be there,” he said. “Otherwise, I’d come with you.”

“Bad idea. A lot of people know who you are, and you know how people clam right up when the police are around. That’s exactly what I
don’t
want them to do. The secret of who he is and why he singled me out might be located in the memories of his friends.”

He kicked the toe of my boot with one of his black dress shoes. “You are a real pain in the posterior, Ms. Harper. Anybody ever tell you that?”

“Only a certain unnamed law enforcement official who has no confidence in my ability to take care of myself, but whom I’ll keep anyway ’cause he’s pretty good in the sack for an old guy.”

“I trust you. It’s just the rest of the world I don’t trust.”

Finally I reluctantly and with not a little guilt told him about the scrapbook. The longer I explained, the more his jaw tightened.

“I know, I know,” I said, heading off his words. “It is creepy beyond imagination. But don’t forget, Gabe, he’s dead. He can’t hurt me now.”

“By the way,” he said, ignoring my comment, “I checked out your fireman this morning.”

I made a face at him but was glad he hadn’t made too big an issue over the scrapbook. “He’s not my fireman. What did you find out?”

“He’s what he says he is and, according to my sources, a nice guy. He retired an assistant chief, was very respected by his colleagues, and was even quite active in community affairs before his wife died.”

“I told you he was okay. My instincts about people are impeccable,” I said in a teasing voice.

He ignored my joking. “At any rate, he is still a stranger. All I’m asking is that you don’t go off half-cocked the way you normally do.”

I stood up, irritated now. “I think I’ll leave before I say something I’ll regret. And for the record, that last remark was a ten on the jerk scale.”

His phone picked that inopportune time to ring. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said, reaching for it.

“No, we won’t, because there isn’t anything to talk about.”

The phone rang again. “I’m not happy about this situation.”

“You’ve made that perfectly clear.”

The phone shrilled a third time. He inhaled a deep breath, held up a hand at me to wait, and answered it. “Gabe Ortiz,” he said into the phone. I started to walk out.

“Let me call you right back,” he quickly told his caller. “Benni, I’m just trying to—”

I interrupted what was certain to be another lecture. “What choice do I have? To fulfill the conditions of the will, I have to stay there. There’s nothing I can do about that. I don’t understand why we’re going through all this again. You’ve checked out the house. You’ve checked out Mr. Trujillo. Everything’s fine, right?”

“On the surface.”

“Apart from tearing the house down and injecting my poor, innocent neighbor with truth serum, I’d say you’ve done all you can do to protect me, so any responsibility you have is covered, okay? Just let it go.”

His face was troubled. “I wish it were that easy.”

“Gabe, for once just let me do something without fighting you the whole distance.”

“I’ll try. That’s the best I can offer you.”

“Good enough. Are you free for dinner tonight?”

“Unfortunately, no. I have a dinner date with Sam and some tickets to go see a jazz guitarist in Ojai. We planned it weeks ago, but I can cancel ...”

“Not on your life. You and Sam need to spend as much time together as you can. Call me when you get in.”

“Might be after one a.m.”

“Forget that then. Call me tomorrow. Or I’ll call you.”

He came around the desk and pulled me into a hug. “I’ll miss you. Now get out of here before I’m tempted to lock you up.”

“I’m gone,” I said, relieved that he seemed to be taking the situation with a bit more resignation and almost a little humor.