Mariner's Compass (37 page)

I fell asleep and woke hours later to a dark, cold house. After turning on the lights and furnace, I changed into sweats and fixed myself some hot chocolate. Back in the living room, I curled up on the sofa and picked up the carved picture of my mother. Holding it, I stared at the plaque hanging on the wall, mentally rereading the saying once more, trying to discern whether the feeling I had about it being a message was true or just the fanciful thinking all humans resort to when they don’t have control over something. If I get through the next three traffic lights and they turn green, he’ll call. If two more birds land on that wire before any more fly away, she won’t die. If I pretend like none of this happened, it hasn’t.

“Raise the stone,” I said out loud. Scout’s head came up at the sound of my voice. “Cleave the wood,” I said to him.

He dropped his head back down when he realized I was just making noise.

“Raise the stone, raise the stone,” I said.

Then it hit me.

“Raise the
stone
.”

What if he meant literally? What if there was something hidden under a stone somewhere? That’s silly, I told myself. The plaque also said cleave the wood, and that didn’t mean anything.

What stones were there around the place? I walked through the house, looking for something that could be considered a stone. Nothing seemed to fit. The next step was naturally the yard. I looked out the kitchen window at the fog that had rolled in thick and damp and spooky-looking. Even with a jacket and a flashlight, it wasn’t going to be pleasant poking around outside at two in the morning. I could wait until the sun came up, but my curiosity wouldn’t let me sleep, and besides, then it would also be easier to observe me. Taking the pocket-size flashlight from my purse, I went outside.

In the backyard there were plenty of rocks and stones placed around. Many of his flower beds were trimmed with stones ranging from the size of baseballs to bowling balls. I lifted each one and poked around with a small hand trowel I found in the wreckage of the burnt garage, coming up empty-handed. Scout faithfully followed me, sticking close to my side, his pungent dog smell becoming stronger as his brown coat grew wet and dark from the fog. The heavy, salty air settled on my skin like a coat of oil.

After checking under all the real stones, I looked down at the stepping stones that led to the lava-stone birdbath where I’d scraped my head the first day I was here. In the cold, the tulips wilted slightly, bending toward me on their long, slender stems. Using my trowel, I pried up each of the flat stepping stones only to reveal damp, undisturbed earth and an abundance of worms and pill bugs.

After dropping the last stepping stone in its place, I looked at the lava-stone birdbath. It was made of stone. I shook my head. He couldn’t have buried something under it.

On the other hand, the tulips were freshly planted, unlike most of the other flowers in the garden.

Leaning against it, putting all my weight behind it, I pushed the birdbath over, regretting my actions the moment I did. It was heavier than I’d anticipated, and there was no way I’d be able to put it back in place alone. I’d have to explain my crazy theory to Rich or Gabe after all.

Since I’d already done it, I decided to stick my trowel into the soft, black dirt and feel around. I hated disturbing the tulips, but I’d already come this far so, with the weak light of my pocket-size flashlight, I started digging. Scout enthusiastically joined me, throwing dirt behind him with abandon.

“Thanks, Scooby-doo,” I said, laughing softly. “But I think you’re more of a hindrance than a help.”

Five minutes later my trowel hit something hard.

I froze for a moment, then stuck it in again.

It definitely hit something hard. Something hard and metal. I dug frantically to reveal the top of a one-foot-square hinged metal box. It took me another five minutes to remove enough dirt to pull it out. By now my knees were wet and dirty, and my heart was beating in my throat.

I lifted the box out of the hole and set it on flat ground. It was about six inches deep and weighed at least five pounds. I stared at it for a moment, afraid to open it. This was the end of the quest, this was what he wanted me to find, and whatever was inside would change my life forever.

I opened the box and looked inside.

It was filled with money.

Wrapped in plastic were stacks and stacks of bills. One-hundred-dollar bills. And there was a small wooden box with my name carved on top.
Albenia Louise
. No last name. Why? Was it because he felt it shouldn’t be Ramsey? That it should be ... what? I never found out Garrett’s last name.

I opened the wooden box and found a folded piece of paper and two envelopes. One envelope had no address but had my name written across the front. The other was from my mother to Jacob Chandler. The postmark was dated one week before she died.

I sat on the ground for a moment, barely feeling the dampness rise up through the seat of my sweatpants. Avoiding the envelopes, I opened the folded piece of paper, knowing what I’d find—the final lesson.

There are many ways to finishing wood carvings. Most take plenty of elbow grease. Finishing brings out the grains of the wood and grants the piece life. There are two common finishes—tooled and sanded. One is rough, the other smooth. Sanding shows off the wood and makes the piece more abstract. Tooling shows off the subject and makes the piece more lifelike. Finishing is an individual decision. There is no right or wrong way to finish a piece. Only the carver can decide. Some carvers like to leave tool marks to show the work is handmade rather than machine produced. Listen to your carving. It will tell you which finish is the right one and, even more importantly, when the piece is really done.

I set the lesson aside and looked at the envelope written in my mother’s handwriting. I couldn’t face that yet so I opened the other envelope, the one with my name written across the front in the same printing that Chandler had written every one of the wood carving lessons.

Dear Benni
, it said.

Jacob Chandler was finally going to speak directly to me.

In the damp backyard, with piles of dirt and a metal box of plastic-wrapped money next to me, I read Jacob Chandler’s words to me. It was dated six months ago.

Good job. I knew you’d finally figure it out. I realize it was quite a silly little clue, but sometimes it’s the “small details” that make the piece. So, have you had fun? I hope you’re not angry at me for forcing you to play this elaborate game, but it was the only way I felt we could spend some time together. Just you and me. For two weeks I wanted your undivided attention, and this was the only way I could figure out to do it.

I stopped reading. A sudden chill caused me to start shivering. This man was perverted, just like Gabe said. I looked back down at the letter.

I know there are a lot of unanswered questions, like why didn’t I just call you, or walk up to you on the street, but there’s a good reason why. I didn’t want to bring any unnecessary danger into your life. I promised your mother I wouldn’t, though if she could see what you get tangled up in on a regular basis, I imagine she would definitely say you and I share the same blood. The only difference is the side we play on.

Tears came to my eyes when he verified the fact we were related.

So, do you like your uncle Garrett? Or do you just think I’m a big pain in the ass?

My uncle? But that wasn’t possible. My mother was an only child.
That
was something I was absolutely positive about. I’d asked Dove and Daddy many times growing up and always I’d been told she had no brothers and sisters.

I know your mother never told you about me. She never even told Ben or Dove. The reason why was she and I didn’t discover each other until I was twenty-seven and she was sixteen. We had the same mother but different fathers. My father was a very rich businessman from Chicago who made his money in not very legal ways. The story goes that he met my mother, your grandmother, while traveling through Arkansas. Apparently I was the product of that single weekend they spent together, but coldhearted man that I always knew him to be, he had no intentions of bringing a naive small-town girl to be his wife in Chicago. The family wouldn’t have stood for it. She was foolish enough to think that telling him about me would soften his heart when all it did was get me taken from her. I heard all of this from my father’s deathbed when I was twenty-seven. He was trying to confess all his sins in preparation for meeting his Maker, I suppose. Until then, I’d been told my mother had died giving birth to me. After his death, I drove down to Sugartree to find my mother. It was the best three weeks of my life. I even fell in love. Her name was Gwen, and she was a friend of your mother’s. But my family in Chicago, my father’s brothers, had other plans for me, and I wasn’t strong enough at that point to walk away. Your mother and I continued to write to each other, and when our mother was killed, I wanted her to come live with me. But she knew what kind of family I was from, and by that time I was so embroiled in the family business that I understood when she said she could never live that way. This is when things get a little murky. I won’t go into detail since at this point it is irrelevant, but I’ll just say I was involved in a situation that forced me to make a choice between my father’s family and the law. After meeting your mother, falling in love with Gwen, and seeing how real, honest people lived, I wanted to do the right thing. I didn’t want to end up like my father and his brothers. When I agreed to testify for the prosecution of my two uncles, it was obvious I needed to disappear. Back in the fifties, they didn’t have the elaborate witness protection program they have now. I went on the run with five thousand dollars I’d acquired by hocking my father’s jewelry. My encounter with Jacob Chandler was pure chance, though I’ve always regretted not being able to tell his family what happened to him. I hated sending that postcard from Arizona to his sister, but I didn’t feel I had a choice. He picked me up one late afternoon outside Baton Rouge and offered to let me share a motel room with him. He was a good man who took pity on my bedraggled appearance, and before I knew it, I’d poured out my whole story to him. He died that night, a heart attack or something. I promise you, it was entirely natural. The next morning I panicked, until I realized this was the opportunity I’d been waiting for. I stole his identification, dressed him in my clothes, and waited until night when I dumped his body along the side of a bayou. I feel a horrible shame about it to this day. Using his license and Social Security number, I started a new life. It was easier than you would think. Then I started thinking about your mother, how she was the only family I truly wanted to see, but how I didn’t want to put her in any danger. I had to see her one more time, explain why she’d never hear from me again. I went to the cafe she worked at in Little Rock and told her and Gwen, and then I disappeared again,
this time for a long time. But I couldn’t stay away. I missed your mother and wanted to hear about Gwen even though I knew she’d probably find someone else. The simple, good life they led was something I dreamed about all those nights on the road. When I made some discreet inquiries, I found out that your mother had married the man she told me about that day in the cafe and was living in San Celina. I sent her a letter with instructions to burn it for her own safety and mine. I did save hers, though, which you now have. In this box I carved for you I’ve enclosed the last letter she wrote me. When she told me she was dying, she asked me to watch over you. But that’s all in the letter. It’ll sound better coming from her.

Now, here’s the deal. The reason I set up the will the way I did was entirely selfish. I wanted you to
think about me and only me for two whole weeks, I knew if I just left you what I owned in a conventional manner, after a day or two of speculation, your life would go on, and I’d just be a small, peculiar incident. But for two weeks, I wanted to be special. And I wanted you never to forget me. Thank you for indulging my last request. The money is yours to do whatever you want with. Some of it I saved from my salesman job, but when your mother asked me to watch over you from a distance, I had to find another way to make money so I could live near you. Unfortunately some of the lessons I learned growing up kicked back in, and I used them to make a living for myself. I did what I had to do to survive and to carry out your mother’s wishes. That’s really all I can say. I guess, in the long run, we are more like our parents than we realize. I wish we could have met, Benni. So many times I was tempted to strike up a conversation with you. We stood next to each other in lines as often as I could manage it. You are a wonderful woman. I fell in love with your smile. It was just like your mother’s. I don’t know exactly when you’ll be reading this, but I sense it will be soon. My heart has not felt right lately, and I’m very tired. Remember me with some kindness, if you can. If this game I set up for you has caused you any pain, please forgive me. Use the money as you see fit. I trust your judgment. With love, your uncle Garrett

The last few sentences I read through a sheen of tears. I didn’t know what to think. My uncle. My mother’s only brother. Well, half brother. A person even my father hadn’t known about. The feelings were too complex and confusing for me to sort out right now. I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. What I needed to do was go see Gabe. Show him this money. Show him Jacob’s . . . my uncle Garrett’s letter. I wanted his arms around me as I cried for the man who was so desperate and so lonely. I needed to talk until I had no energy to talk anymore.

I picked up my mother’s letter and stared at it a moment—the last words of hers I’d ever read. I stuck it back in the box with my uncle’s letter and the money and stood up. Inside the house where it was warm and quiet would be a better place to read it. Next to me, Scout growled low in his throat, then before I could stop him, he barked.