Mariner's Compass (17 page)

She nodded in understanding. “Lots of people seeking their roots these days. Sorry I can’t help. You might try Risa or Marc over at the caboose. They might’ve known him.”

I didn’t correct her when she assumed I was looking for a long lost father or relative. “Thanks, I’ll do that.”

Out on the porch, Rich and I finished our drinks and walked the short block over to the gift shop. As we did, I told him about the two other times I’d been out to Parkfield. “They have an old-fashioned ranch rodeo every year. I rode barrels in it once. Jack—he was my first husband—he rode bareback broncs and roped.”

“You were married before?” Rich asked. On our walk over, I told him about Jack, how we’d known each other since high school, were married at nineteen, and how I found myself widowed at thirty-four.

“I kind of figured you and your husband hadn’t been married long,” he said when we reached the caboose.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Rhythm,” he said.

“What?”

“You haven’t worked one out yet. I was married forty-one years. You say you were married fifteen so you know what I mean.” His dark eyes were kind and a little sad. “Rhythm,” he repeated.

I did know what he meant. And he was right. Gabe and I hadn’t established one yet. My face must have showed my dismay.

“Don’t worry, kid,” he said, patting my shoulder. “You two are still young. Now at my age . . .” He gazed out over the soft green fields behind the caboose.

We climbed the metal steps of the caboose and walked single file down the narrow passageway. At the end of the caboose sat a man in Western clothes, including a pale gray cowboy hat that was stained in the right places for a working cowboy. He was filling out some kind of order form.

“Afternoon, folks,” he said, nodding.

We nodded back.

“There’s more out in the freight car in back,” he said in a pleasant, wind-graveled voice. “Ropes used by Blaine Santos himself—PRCA Champion. He sponsors the rodeo out here, you know.”

“Thanks,” Rich said. “We’ll check it out.”

The man went back to his work, and we poked around through the Western memorabilia, magazines, bandannas, and knickknacks. I picked up a mug shaped like a barrel with a curvy cowgirl-shaped handle. Her mouth opened to a red, surprised “Oh.”

“How much is this?” I asked the cowboy/store owner.

He studied it for a moment, then said, “Six bucks, okay?”

“Sure.” As I handed him the money, I said, “By the way, the lady over at the cafe said you might know this man.” I showed him Mr. Chandler’s driver’s license.

He put down his pen and looked at the license, then back up at me. “Benni Harper?”

I nodded.

“I have something for you. Come on back.” He stood up, squeezed past us, and climbed down the train steps. We followed him back to the freight car.

“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll bring it to you.” He climbed up into the freight train and called back to me, “Sure you don’t want a Blaine Santos rope to add to that mug?”

“No, but thanks anyway.”

In a few seconds he came back down and handed me a square, cardboard, teapot-sized box. “How is old Jake anyway?” he asked.

I hesitated for a moment. “I’m sorry, M. . . . ?”

“Just Marc.”

“I’m sorry, Marc, but he passed away last Friday. He had a heart attack.”

He dropped his head and stared at his worn boots. His eyes were shiny when he looked back at me. “Hope he didn’t suffer. He used to come out here three, four times a year. We’d have lunch and talk about bumming around the country. We’ve both seen some road, that’s for sure. He was a good man.”

“His funeral was earlier today. I’m sorry—I would have told you, but he didn’t leave an address book or any list of his friends.”

He brushed my apology away with a sweep of his hand. “I’m not one for funerals. You his daughter? He never mentioned he had any family.”

“No,” I said, not wanting to explain my odd inheritance to yet another stranger. “Just a friend.” I hugged the box to my chest. “Do you mind telling me when he gave you this?”

“Not at all. ’Bout six months back. We had lunch like usual, then right before he left, he gave me this box. Said you’d be coming for it. Didn’t know when, but me and Risa have been here quite a while and probably will be here till the big one drops the caboose in a crevice, so I’ve just held on to it until you came.” He grinned at me. “Didn’t even peek either, though I’m dying to know what’s in there.”

After that comment, I couldn’t bear to just walk away, so I opened the sealed box and dug through the tissue paper, pulling out a breathtaking glazed pot in deep blue and greens with an unusual red undertone.

“Beautiful,” Rich said.

“I’ll say,” Marc said.

Inside the pot was a folded piece of paper. I left it there. I wanted to read it alone. I turned the pot over and looked at the potter’s elaborate calligraphy initials on the bottom—A.N. Though I knew many ceramic artists in San Celina County, the style and initials didn’t strike a familiar chord.

“Well, thanks,” I said, holding out my hand.

“No problem,” Marc said, shaking it. “Sorry to hear about Jake. Risa will be, too. They really hit it off, both being from the South and all.”

“Texas?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Risa’s from Tennessee. I don’t know where Jake was from, but he sure wasn’t a Texan. We once had a big ole friendly argument about what true barbecue is. He said if it ain’t pork, it ain’t barbecue. And that ain’t no Texan, I’ll tell you that, ’cause I lived in Texas for ten years and I can spot one a mile away.” He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I don’t know who you are to him, but I feel like I have to tell someone this. When Risa was real sick and the gift shop wasn’t doing so well, he paid for her medicine. Went down to the pharmacy in Paso Robles and just put three hundred bucks on retainer there for us. We didn’t even know it until we went to go pay. This was a man I had just met like I did you two, by him coming into the gift shop. I’ve never had anyone do something so kind before. I’ll never forget that.” He touched his hat in farewell and walked back toward the caboose.

On the ride back, I glanced every so often at the package sitting between me and Rich, anxious to read the paper inside the pot. What did it say? Did the pot itself have any meaning?

I dropped Rich off at his house and, after giving some well-deserved attention and dinner to Scout, sat down on the sofa and opened the folded paper. In his precise, block printing was another carving lesson.

To begin the piece, start with the design. Your perspective is yours alone. Patterns, ideas, and inspirations are everywhere, sometimes in the most obvious places. See things with a child’s unspoiled vision. Don’t take anything on face value. Study your subject completely, then try to visualize your carving. Use all five senses to experience the object you want to carve. The more you learn about your subject, the more truthful your work. Remember, there are no rules, and in the end there are no shortcuts. Take your time. Don’t let your goal keep you from relishing the journey.

I read it two more times, knowing he was trying to tell me more than just how to make a good carving. But if there was any hidden clue in this ambiguous message, it was flying right over my head. With the note stuck in my purse to show Gabe over dinner, I headed out to the truck. Scout followed me and sat expectantly next to the passenger door.

“Scout, go back,” I said, pointing to the yard. He sat and stared at me, his face longing. “Back,” I repeated. He whined deep in his throat.

“I’m sorry, fella, I know I left you alone all day, but tomorrow will be better, I promise.” I stooped down and slipped an arm around his shoulders, giving his chest a vigorous scratching. “I’ll be home soon. Guard the house.” He walked dejectedly over to the front porch and flopped down, his eyes accusing. The guilt worked enough to make me feel terrible, but not terrible enough to change my mind.

During dinner, I told Gabe everything that had happened at the funeral and later at the James Dean Memorial and Parkfield. He read the note, studied the small pot, running his thumbs over the glossy lip, his face thoughtful but calm.

“What next?” he asked.

“Find the seller or possibly the maker of this pot. Maybe that’s who he wants me to talk to. I’m getting the drift of this game now. It’s sort of like a scavenger hunt. I’m going to drop it off at Barnum’s Craft Gallery, over in the old Springfield Dairy building. The manager has been involved with local potters for years, so maybe he’ll be able to identify this person with the initials A.N. I’m assuming that’s who Mr. Chandler wants me to see.”

He smiled and ate a bite of ravioli. “Good solid detective work.”

I smiled back, pointing a soft bread stick at him. “Did it hurt you to say that, Chief Ortiz?”

“Only a little.”

After dinner he drove me to Barnum’s, where, fortunately for me, Geoffrey Renault, the manager I’d mentioned, was working that night.

“Set it behind the counter,” he said after I explained my problem. “It doesn’t ring a bell right off, but I’ll take a closer look at it after things slow down a bit.” He ran twig-thin fingers through his red shoulder-length hair.

I glanced around the room crowded with customers. “Thanks, Geoffrey. I’ll come by after the city council meeting. You’re open until nine-thirty, right?”

“Righto, sweetie. You tell Dove and the rest of the ladies to kick some council butt. I’m rooting for them.” He gave Gabe a mischievous smile. “Quite the radical family you’ve married into, Chief Ortiz.”

“Tell me about it,” Gabe said.

When we arrived, the council chambers were almost full. I spotted Dove in the front row with at least fifty senior citizens. She caught my eye and waved at me and Gabe, then held a raised fist over her head.

We took seats in the second to last row. “I am not optimistic about the next two hours,” I said.

“I’m sure they’ll come to a mutual agreement,” Gabe said, patting my knee.

He was wrong.

During the next two hours, person after person stood up and testified in favor of keeping the museum where it was. But there were also almost as many saying that the city needed the money and the Historical Museum was nothing but a useless drain on the city’s budget. Some man called it a play area for bored, rich old ladies with no lives. Edna and Big John Rutledge had to physically hold Dove back on that one.

After hearing all the testimony, the council voted. The count was three to three. The deciding vote was Mayor Davenport’s.

With a serious, pseudo-concerned expression on his tanning-parlor brown face, he voted to sell the museum.

A roar went up from Dove’s group in the front row. From somewhere a tomato flew across the room and landed with a juicy smack on the table in front of the mayor.

While he stood up sputtering, trying to gain control, Gabe swiftly moved into the crowd, followed by five or six patrol officers who seemed to appear from nowhere. In minutes, the agitated seniors had been gently herded outside.

I caught up with Dove on the courthouse lawn. “Are you all right? Did you throw that tomato?”

Dove shook her head in disgust at an elderly man in a French beret arguing with a patrol officer, trying to convince her to handcuff him. Gabe stood behind the officer, trying to suppress a grin. “I warned Elmo no vegetables, but he got overly excited. Said it was one of them flashbacks from the sixties. He was a teacher up there at Berkeley. You know how they loved tossin’ good food at folks back then. Crazy old coot. I think he just took too much heart medicine.”

“I’m sorry you lost,” I said, putting an arm around her shoulder. “What are you going to do now?”

She smiled. A smile that made me very, very nervous. “Don’t you worry about us. We’ve been through worse, this group. We have a backup plan. We’re all meeting at the museum in ten minutes.”

“Do you want me and Gabe to come?”

She patted my hand. “No, you go spend some time with your husband. This business about you living apart isn’t good.”

“We’re doing fine. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“Count on it, honeybun.”

After the crowd was dispersed and Mayor Davenport managed to sneak out the back door of the council chambers without having to face his irate former supporters, Gabe and I walked back to my truck parked five blocks up a dark side street.

“What happens now?” I asked when we reached my truck.

“The historical society will probably have to put all the displays in storage somewhere until they can find another facility.”

“It’s not fair.”

“No,” he said, pulling me to him, “it’s not. It’s politics and it stinks, but the city council and the mayor were elected by the people of this town to make this kind of decision. Dove and her friends fought hard, but in this case, they lost and they’re going to have to accept it.”

I laid my head against his chest. “I really want to do something to help them, but for the life of me I can’t think of what.”

He took my face in his hands. They were warm and sure and made me want to stand on this dark street forever just to feel his thumbs stroke my cheeks. “
Querida
, as bad as I feel for their plight, right now all I want to do is kiss you and imagine what I would do to you if you were coming home with me.”

I had to admit his plan had definite appeal. “Maybe I’ll drop by the house for a few minutes before going back to Morro Bay. What did you have in mind?”

He tangled his fingers in my hair and pulled my head back, kissing me hard. The salty-sweet taste of his tongue and the solid feel of his hips pressing me against the truck’s passenger door was familiar, but it took my breath away nevertheless.

Then I remembered Geoffrey and the pot. Abruptly I pulled back from him. “What time is it?”

With a slightly annoyed look on his face, he checked his watch. “Nine-thirty-five.”

“Shoot, I have to try and catch Geoffrey. I need to find out who this potter is.”

“Couldn’t you do it tomorrow?”

“I suppose,” I said, feeling chagrin at interrupting the romantic moment. “But it would bug me all night. Look, I could come by afterwards.”