Mariner's Compass (27 page)

He nodded over at a metal cabinet. “Saddle soap’s cheap. Elbow grease a little higher.”

“I’ll do it soon. Want to meet tomorrow at the cemetery at six?”

“Sure.” He dug through the drawer and pulled out another bit, studying it with exaggerated interest.

“Can I ask you something?”

He nodded without looking up.

“Do you know anyone named Gwen Swanson?” I watched his face for any reaction.

He furrowed his silvery brow, then shook his head slowly. “Don’t believe I do. Why?”

I hesitated a moment. “It’s just . . . well, her name was on that baby quilt Mama’s friends back in Little Rock made her, and I was just wondering.”

“Didn’t really know your mama’s old friends from Little Rock that good. We lived on the farm outside of Sugartree, and she’d see them when she went to visit Emory’s mama, Ervalean. We went to Sugartree Baptist after we was married until we came out west.” His pale blue eyes studied me intently. “There’s lots of names on that quilt. What’s so particular about this Gwen?”

I shrugged and looked down at the ground. “It just caught my eye. I ... had a teacher named Mrs. Swanson in college.” The lie stuck in my throat a moment before going down.

He nodded, his face unbelieving.

“So even when you were dating you never went to church with her? She never introduced you to any of her friends?”

“I went to church with her a few times. Maybe I met this person you’re asking about, but if I did, she didn’t stick in my memory.”

“What about when you got married? Didn’t any of them come to the ceremony?” It occurred to me at that moment that I had no idea where my parents got married or even what day their anniversary was. I felt a deep sadness knowing the date had gone by every year without me even knowing it.

“We got married at the church on a Sunday afternoon with just Ervalean and Boone there. Ervalean played the organ, then stood up for your mama.”

“That’s it? You didn’t even have a reception? What did you do?”

“Your mama didn’t want a big fuss. The four of us ate in a nice restaurant in the city, then we called Dove and told her. Your mama’s only family was Ervalean, and she already knew. Me and your mama stayed in a hotel in Little Rock for two days, then fetched her things from Ervalean’s house and went home to the farm. We lived with Dove until we came out west when you was three.”

“What day was your anniversary?” I asked.

His face closed up, and he asked sharply, “Benni, why are you asking all these questions?”

Surprised at his tone, I said, “I just wanted to know what day your anniversary was. What’s wrong with that?”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “Nothing, squirt. You know I just ...”

A twinge of guilt hit me. I knew talking about my mother had never been easy for Daddy, and because of that I’d never asked him why, when she had died so young, he had never remarried. Wasn’t he lonely? Did he ever do anything for female companionship? My brain nervously skirted around the idea of sex. Like most people, the idea of a parent enjoying anything of that nature was something I never wanted to dwell on.

He gave me an odd look, then said, “August second.”

“Thanks, Daddy,” I said softly, hugging him quickly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He patted me on the back and murmured, “Reckon so.”

I went back inside the house, which smelled strangely bland and empty. A scraped-clean casserole dish sat in the sink along with four dirty coffee cups. Without Dove’s presence, the house had become just a place for Daddy to eat meals and sleep. What would he do when Dove was no longer here? The thought of our lives without Dove pierced me like a sharp knife.

Before going back to Morro Bay, I called Emory again. “Do you know any friends of your mom’s who might have known my mom?”

“Not offhand, but I could call back home and sniff around. Anyone in particular you huntin’?”

“Actually there is. A Gwen Swanson.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Yes, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

There was a moment of silence. “You know I’ll do anything for you, Benni, but it would be a lot easier if I knew what I was lookin’ for.”

“I’d like to talk to her or anyone who knew her or my mother.”

He sighed. “I’ll do my best. I’ll see you at Elvia’s tomorrow at one o’clock. I should have something by then.”

“Thanks, Emory. You’re the best.”

“Back at you.”

On the drive back to Morro Bay, I thought about my dad’s reaction. Maybe it was my already suspicious frame of mind, but it felt like my father was hiding something. But what? What could he possibly have to hide?

Back at Mr. Chandler’s house, I wandered around the living room trying to decide what to do next. The trail seemed to have grown cold after the trip to Bakersfield. I took all his wood carving lessons out to the patio and sat in one of the padded redwood chairs. The sun was bright and warm, and Morro Rock glistened. Saturday was a busy day on the Embarcadero, the day tourists flocked from Bakersfield, Fresno, and points north and south, to enjoy the natural ocean breezes and manufactured nautical ambiance.

While sipping a Coke and occasionally scratching Scout’s stomach with my foot, I reread the lesson/clues left by Mr. Chandler. I kept coming back to the sentence
The stone is important.
I turned the two flat, white stones over and over. Then it dawned on me what I still hadn’t done, talked to anyone in the Wood-carvers’ Guild. I drove over to the folk art museum and made my obligatory appearance. While I was there, I looked up the number for the San Celina Wood-carvers’ Guild. My contact had been a Mr. Ron Staples, president of the guild. Fortunately he was home. Unfortunately he vaguely remembered meeting a Jacob Chandler, but that was it.

“You say you’re looking for him? Have you tried the north county guild? Most of our members are from south county.”

I didn’t want to go into detail, so I asked, “Do you have the number for the president of the north county guild?”

After thanking him and saying good-bye, I dialed the number he’d given me. A man answered, “Wood-carvers’ Museum. Can I help you?”

“Is ...” I checked my scribbles, “Don Ferron there?”

“He moved to Salt Lake City last month. Can I help you?”

“Who is the guild president now?”

“We’re coasting right now. Lucinda Mackey is the vice president, so I guess she’s in charge.”

I thought for a moment. Should I call this Don Ferron in Salt Lake City? Would Jacob Chandler have made a contingency plan in case one of the people he’d given instructions to moved . . . or died?

“Ma’am, is there something I can help you with?” the man asked.

To get the person’s phone number in Salt Lake City, I figured I’d have to at least identify myself and give some explanation. “Well, my name is Benni Harper . . .”

“Oh, Ms. Harper!” he exclaimed. “I have a package for you. Don said you’d probably be calling.”

My stomach tightened again. It was getting more than a little eerie how thorough this man had been. “How late are you open?”

“Until five o’clock.”

It was three o’clock now, so if I broke a law or two, I could make it. I dropped by the house in Morro Bay briefly to pet Scout and promise him a meaty bone if he’d forgive me for leaving him to guard the place one more time.

“I know you want to go,” I said as he whined plaintively behind the gate, “but I really feel better with you protecting the place. Besides, with the speed I’ll have to drive, I don’t want to risk both our lives. Now remember, Duane and Cole are bad guys. Bite them if they come into the yard.”

The Wood-carvers’ Museum was about twenty miles up Pacific Coast Highway past the towns of Cambria, Cayucos, and Harmony. I glanced at the turnoff for Harmony as I passed and wondered briefly if Azanna Nybak was mourning Jacob right now.

The museum was located among a strip of highway shops that served passing tourists and the nearby residents of the small town of San Simeon, which crouched below the monolithic Hearst Castle, the only true tourist trap between the artsy shops of Cambria and Big Sur. Tucked among a candy store, a kite shop, and general store selling drinks, beef jerky, and postcards, the museum appeared to be just another gift shop with an emphasis on wood items. But if you looked closer at the wooden items for sale you could tell these weren’t some Made in China knickknacks, but one-of-a-kind, hand-carved bowls and animals and even, incredibly, wooden matchsticks carved in the shapes of scissors, forks, and knives.

Since no one seemed to be around, I wandered through the free museum in the back of the store, looking at exhibits by California wood-carvers. They included a mantle, chest, and picture frame carved by Arthur Julius Kofod, who worked on Hearst Castle, and another master carver, the late Rudolph Vargas, who lived in the San Gabriel Valley. Back in the gift shop area, I was studying the detailed sheep and cattle in a rosewood nativity scene when a square, solid-looking young man came out from a door behind the counter.

“Oh, hello,” he said, his hand flying up to stroke his dark goatee. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

I walked over to him. “Hello, Mr. . . .” I glanced at his name tag, then couldn’t help smiling. “Burl?”

He gave an ironic laugh. “My father had a very wry sense of humor, and yes, I’ve heard every wood joke there is. I hated my name when I was a kid, but now I can appreciate its uniqueness. And since I carve now, too, it’s a great conversation starter.”

“No doubt. My name is Benni Harper, and I just called—”

“Wow, that was fast.” He held up a finger. “Just a minute.”

In a few seconds, Burl came back carrying two packages. One was a sealed manila envelope, the other was wrapped in white tissue paper. The second package was oval and about eight to ten inches long.

“So, how’s old Jake doing?” Burl asked.

I paused a moment before telling him the bad news. His dark eyes blinked rapidly for a moment. “I liked Jake. He never talked down to me when I was a kid. I learned a lot about wood carving watching him.” The young man took a deep breath. “He was a pallbearer at my dad’s funeral last year.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He looked down at the tissue-wrapped package with a question in his eyes.

Without a word, I unwrapped it, knowing from its weight and feel that it was something Jacob Chandler had carved. A murmur of appreciation came from Burl when I pulled back the last piece of tissue. Wet heat burned at the back of my eyes.

It was a bas-relief portrait in pale oak of my mother. He’d somehow captured in the hard, unforgiving wood her delicate, heart-shaped face; her strong chin; the slight downward slant of her eyes, eyes that stared back at me in the mirror every morning. Her lips turned upward in the shy, half smile she wore in so many of her photographs.

“My dad used to beg Jake to enter his work in competitions,” Burl said, touching a finger to my mother’s smooth cheek. “But he never would. Said he carved for himself, not to compete with other people.”

I quickly wrapped the wood portrait back up and clutched it and the unopened manila envelope to my chest. “Thank you, Burl. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about his service. He didn’t leave me a list of people to call. He’s buried in the Paso Robles Cemetery.”

Burl nodded, his hand stroking his goatee. “That’s okay. I’ll let the other people in the guild know.”

“Okay, thanks.” Then I remembered the stones. I pulled them out of my purse and set them on the counter before him. “Do you know what these are?”

He picked them up. “Sure, they’re sharpening stones. Good ones.”

“Anything in particular you can tell me about them?”

He set them back down on the counter. “Not much. They’re just a couple of good Arkansas natural oilstones. Some carvers think they’re the best there is.”

“Arkansas? That’s the name of the stone?”

He nodded. “Yeah, there’s a black Arkansas, too, that’s not translucent like these.”

The stone is important.
Was this what he meant? It was important because it was another link to Arkansas and my mother?

I thanked Burl and started toward the door. Just as I opened it, he called to me. “Hey, I never asked. Were you related to him or something?”

Without turning around and without stopping, I answered over my shoulder. “I honestly don’t know.”

In the truck I tore open the manila envelope and found another wood carving lesson and five white letter-size envelopes addressed to Jacob Chandler. Every one was addressed to General Delivery and postmarked a different town: Flagstaff, Arizona; Eugene, Oregon; Spokane, Washington; Bakersfield, California; San Bernardino, California.

All of them were in my mother’s handwriting.

My hands shook as I arranged them by postmarked dates. The first one was dated June 2, 1961. The last one was a little over two months before my mother died—April 13, 1964.

The cab of the truck suddenly felt stifling. I rolled down the window halfway and pulled the two sheets of thin blue stationery out of the first letter.

Dear Jacob
, the letter started.

I refolded the letter and shoved it back in the envelope. I couldn’t read my mother’s letters in the parking lot of a strip mall. Instead, I read the wood carving lesson.

No matter how carefully you work, sometimes you cut too deeply or break off a piece. Don’t lose hope. Stop and think before going on. You may be able to use the mistake to your benefit. Sometimes the mistake can be repaired with wood putty or epoxy resin filler. Cutting too deeply is harder to correct. Often the only solution is to carve around the mistake and attempt to blend it into your design. Sometimes there is no solution, and the wood must be tossed away. Don’t be afraid to experiment. Don’t copy what others create, but listen to your heart and carve its voice. Details make the carving come alive. One detail may be the secret to the whole piece. Search for that detail.

One detail? What was he talking about? I read it over again slowly, trying to make sense of the directions. There was no doubt that what he was having me search for was somehow hidden in these messages. Was it his true identity? His connection to my mother? Something else?