Mariner's Compass (33 page)

“Wait outside, please,” Gloria said, pushing around me. I stood outside the room and listened to her comfort her aunt, finally getting her calmed down. While I waited, it suddenly occurred to me that “Weezie” was a nickname for Louise. My mother’s middle name.

Gloria’s face was grim when she came back out in the hallway. “I think that’s about all she can take today,” she said. “She’s very confused these days.”

“I’m sorry for upsetting her. That wasn’t my intention.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “She just isn’t with us anymore. I wish you could have met her when she was herself. She had a great sense of humor and knew everything there was to know about baseball. She worshiped the Kansas City Royals. You would have liked her. Sure makes you really think about putting that request for a potassium chloride cocktail in your will.”

“What?”

She laughed nervously. “I’m sorry, old and very bad habit. I meant for myself, of course. I’d never kill anyone. I was a geriatrics nurse for fifteen years before I found true happiness in furniture. It was a joke among us nurses that we’d rather have a quick potassium chloride cocktail with an IV push than spend years as a living vegetable. I even knew of a couple of nurses who had verbal pacts with each other to administer it to the other if they ever got like Aunt Gwen. After a rough day we used to offer to pour each other a PC with a twist. There were a few doctors we would have liked to serve it to, believe me.”

I gave a small laugh. Nurse humor reminded me a lot of cop humor. When you worked every day with the realities of death, grotesque jokes were like letting air out of an overblown balloon. “Is any doctor really worth going to prison for?”

“That’s the beauty of the drug. Mimics a heart attack. No one would ever guess. It’s the doctor’s choice for suicide, you know. Don’t you watch television? I thought everyone knew about potassium chloride.”

I shook my head. “Guess I missed that little piece of trivia.”

We walked back toward the elevators. “Is Mrs. Felix your aunt on your mother’s or your father’s side?” I asked, not wanting to end our conversation, hoping for any small bit of information.

“Actually, she’s my father’s cousin. We’ve just always called her Aunt Gwen. She came out here to live when she retired, since my father was her only living relative.”

“And this name Garrett doesn’t sound familiar to you?”

“Not a bit.”

“What about Jacob Chandler?”

She shook her head no. “Sorry.”

“Do you know much about your aunt’s life back in Arkansas?”

“Not really. She was in her early fifties when she came to California and didn’t talk much about her life back there. She lived in a house down the street until she started getting sick a few years ago. We were lucky to get her into Hillside. But my father knew one of the hospital’s owners from some work he’d done on his house—my father was a cabinetmaker—and so Aunt Gwen’s name got moved to the top of the list.” The elevator came to a stop. “Two months after she went in, my father passed away. My mom died when I was seventeen.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“That’s why I allowed you to come talk to Aunt Gwen,” she said as we walked out into the late-morning sunshine. “I know what it’s like not to know who your mother is.” She paused for a moment. “I wish my father was still alive. He probably could have told you more about Aunt Gwen’s life, since he grew up back there. All I know is she worked for years as a clerk for some judge back in Pine Bluff and she came out here when her arthritis became so bad she couldn’t type anymore. As far as I know, she or my father have no living relatives back in Arkansas. At least none close enough to claim.”

We walked across the street to her house. “When she moved to the convalescent home, did she have any correspondence? I was thinking ...”

Gloria shook her head. “I’m sorry, but there’s not much left. That’s how we knew she was starting to get sick. I was looking for a photo album I’d made a few years back of all her old photographs, and she told me she’d thrown it out ages ago, that she didn’t know who those people were and couldn’t imagine why she had pictures of them. When she started accusing the neighbors of sneaking into her house and leaving carrots and tomatoes in the sink, we took her to a doctor. By then, I guess she’d thrown almost all her old letters and stuff out. The doctor said that was pretty common with early Alzheimer’s patients. I went through what she had left after you called and didn’t find any mention of the names you asked her about.”

Not knowing what else to ask, I held out my hand. “Thank you, Gloria. I appreciate you taking the time to help me.”

“Good luck, Benni Harper,” she said, shaking my hand with her large, calloused one. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

The drive back at noon was faster since most people were already at work. Once out of the extensive Los Angeles county limits, I stopped at a McDonald’s near Calabasas and with incredible speed downed a Big Mac, an order of fries, and a Coke. With sugar and grease to fuel my brain, I could seriously contemplate the scanty information Gwen Swanson Felix had given me.

There was obviously some kind of relationship between her, my mother, and this Jacob/Garrett man. But what? From the little bit I gleaned, it appeared that as I guessed, my mother was dating two men at the same time. Was she sleeping with both of them? Or was she sleeping with Jacob/Garrett and when she found herself to be pregnant, married my dad? Did she trick Daddy into marrying her, or did he know she was pregnant with another man’s baby and married her anyway? Was that why he was so angry when I asked him about my birth? Or was he just embarrassed that he and my mother had slept together before being married and I was evidence of it? Back then, being pregnant out of wedlock was definitely more shocking than in today’s society. The hamburger and fries churned in my stomach, making me consider pulling over to throw up. The pure image I’d maintained of my mother all these years was being trampled by the reality of the person. Would I have liked this person? What if she had tricked my dad into marrying her? Who was this woman who so haunted my thoughts, this woman whose eyes stared at me out of my mirror every morning? If she hadn’t died when I was so young, would I have loved her as an adult? Would I have been like her? Could I still be?

My brain was beginning to feel bruised from all the possibilities, so I purposely turned my thoughts to another piece of information that Gloria Carrell had given me. Potassium chloride. PC with a twist. Doctor’s choice for suicide. Undetectable. Mimics a heart attack.

Jacob Chandler had supposedly died of a heart attack. No one thought a thing about it because of his heart condition. Maybe he committed suicide. But why? And where was the empty needle? What if . . .?

No, it was too impossible to believe. Too hard to pull off. Why would he let anyone give him an injection?

A tremble went through my body as the possibility formed in my mind. Maybe the whole reason that Tess and her sons were upset was not just because they’d expected to inherit Jacob Chandler’s estate, but also because they’d killed him to get it sooner rather than later. With me living there, maybe they were afraid I’d stumble across something that incriminated them. As frightening as it was, I thought about that instead of my mother. Even death threats seemed less terrifying than my mother’s past.

When I hit Santa Barbara, I dialed Gabe. His secretary, Maggie, answered.

“He’s down at the Historical Museum, Benni,” she said. “Apparently there’s something big going down tonight.”

“Oh, geeze, that’s all he needs. Can you call him and tell him I’m outside of Santa Barbara and I’ll be there soon? If I try dialing one more number while I’m driving I’ll run off the road, and I don’t want to stop.” Actually I didn’t want to launch into a huge discussion about where I’d been and why until I could see him face-to-face. He was trying hard to be understanding, but this abrupt trip to Los Angeles would be impossible for him not to comment on.

“You got it,” she said. “See you in a couple.”

It was past six o’clock when I reached San Celina. The closest parking space was six blocks away and once I reached the historical museum, the reason became clear.

In front of the museum, in all their purple- and yellow-gowned glory, stood the adult, youth, and children’s choirs from St. Stephen’s Baptist Church. All two hundred of them. They stood on portable risers and had already started their first song. Two huge speakers blasted music on both sides of them as they swayed and clapped, encouraging the crowd to join in.

“We Shall Overcome” never sounded so . . . loud.

From the second floor of the museum, the San Celina Seven hung out of the windows, waving at their adoring public. There were so many flashbulbs you’d have thought it was the Academy Awards. St. Stephen’s choirs swayed and sang. People applauded. Vendors hawked candy apples and T-shirts printed with “Save the San Celina Seven.”

I walked over to the police command post where Gabe was nowhere to be seen. Jim Cleary, his captain and next-in-command, as well as head deacon at St. Stephen’s, grinned when he saw me.

“Did you know about this?” I asked, laughing.

“Now, Benni, I’m a police officer.”

“This I know, Jim. But it doesn’t answer my question.”

He just grinned again and didn’t answer. Gabe came up when the choir launched into “Onward Christian Soldiers,” a rousing but somewhat confusing choice, I thought.

“Did Maggie get a hold of you?” I asked immediately.

He struggled not to look irritated, and I loved him like crazy at that moment. “Yes, how was your trip?”

“Kind of confusing. I’m not really sure yet. I think I need to contemplate what I learned for a day or so.”

He started to say something, then reconsidered and just put his arm around me, kissing the top of my head. “I’m glad you’re back safe.”

“When did all this commence?” I asked, changing the subject.

He looked over at Jim, his face resigned. “Maybe we should ask Brother Cleary here.”

Jim held up his hands. “I swear, boss, I didn’t know a thing about it.”

Gabe looked at me and gave a tired smile. “But he’s enjoying it immensely.”

Jim laughed. “The choirs are getting more television exposure than they ever got with their Christmas and Easter cantatas.”

“This could start a whole new direction for them,” I said. “Protest cantatas. You could hire them out by the hour. Bet it would make a lot more money than car washes.”

“We do need a new parking lot,” he said, stroking his chin.

“Okay, you two, you can plan the filling of the church coffers and destruction of society later,” Gabe said. “Right now Benni needs to talk to Dove and see if we can get a general date as to when this is all going to end.”

I looked up into his exhausted face and felt a pang of guilt, remembering what Rich had told me about how much harder it was for Gabe to be in his position because he was Hispanic. He was holding up with remarkable forbearance and good humor.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” I said, glancing over at the museum and hesitating just a split second. Looking into Dove’s face right now, with the realization that she might not be my biological grandmother, would take all the acting skills I had.

Gabe caught my hesitation. “Benni, is something wrong?”

I looked up at him. “No, no, I’m okay.”

We stared into each other’s eyes. He knew I was lying. He reached over and ran a finger along the edge of my jaw, tapping my chin gently. “Hang tough,
niña.
”

“Always do, Friday.”

A few reporters shouted questions, which I studiously ignored, as I walked up the museum steps. Inside, the only person downstairs was Elmo Ritter. The dark, heavy bags under his dramatically mournful face looked almost painful.

“Hi, Elmo, how are you doing?” I asked.

“Not good, Benni, not good at all. When is this going to end?”

I patted his arm sympathetically. He’d lost his beret somewhere, and his hair was standing up in stiff little peaks. “Are the women still driving you crazy?”

“I’m ready to throw in the towel, young lady. You’d better inform your gramma of that right quick.”

“I’m on my way up to talk to her now. It can’t be much longer.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Elmo said. “If the sound can make it past all their cackling.”

Upstairs, the women were much less despairing than Elmo. In fact, the mood in the air was one of triumph and jubilation.

“Honeybun!” Dove said, turning away from the window, holding her fist up in a power-to-the-people gesture. “Think we got ’em on the run?”

I laughed, feeling warmed by her familiar face and voice. She
was
my gramma. Nothing, not DNA or letters from a strange man or anything else on this earth, could change that. “I’d say you got them beat, Dove. Boxstore Billy doesn’t stand a flying fig of a chance.”

All the women turned back to the windows, but Dove walked over to me. “Gabe sent you, didn’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m supposed to ask you if you have any idea when this is going to end. He needs to make plans.”

“Poor boy, I feel so bad doing this to him, but it couldn’t be helped. I’ll make a nice blackberry cobbler for him when this is over. But as to when this will end, he’d best be asking Mr. Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt-in-His-Mouth Mayor.”

I drew her farther away from the rest of the ladies, including the mayor’s mother. “Seriously, Gabe’s getting a little worried. What if the mayor doesn’t give in? Elmo’s looking a little peaked down there. Do you have a contingency plan?”

“Honeybun, are you asking me to quit? Why, you know better than that. Ramseys aren’t quitters. It’s not in our blood.”

Her words froze my heart for a moment at the word blood. “I know.”

Her sharp, knowing eyes caught something in my expression. “What’s wrong, child? Is this affecting Gabe’s health? I’ll quit in a moment to protect my kin.”

“No, he’s fine.”

“Then what is it?”

I turned my head, unable to look in her eyes. “Everything’s fine, Dove. Really.”

I could feel her eyes scrutinizing me, but she didn’t say any more.