Mariner's Compass (7 page)

I opened the maroon autograph book. There were entries sprinkled throughout its coarse, brownish paper pages.

Some were dated June 1957. Were they someone’s high school memories? There was nothing to indicate even the part of the country they were from.

Mary McKinney
Shirlee Barsky
Gwen Swanson
Doris Kent
Phil Blue
Margaret Sicker
Avis
Goldie Hassel
Dorsey
Caroline Canthon

The friendship verses were those typical of the era: “In your chain of friendship count me as a link”; ”When the golden sun is setting and your heart from care is free/ While of absent friends you’re thinking, will you kindly think of me?”; “True friends are like diamonds, precious and rare/False friends are like autumn leaves, found everywhere”; ”When you are dirty and in the tub/Remember me with every scrub.”

On the back cover was the only clue to the owner of the book.

“Weezie,” it read, “I know you will have many a friend and many a lover/So to give them all room, I’ll write on the cover. Best friends till powder puffs. Love, Gwen.”

Weezie? Obviously a nickname and the owner of the autograph book. Again the questions were how were they connected to Jacob Chandler, and why was this important enough for him to keep in this trunk? Was Gwen one of the G’s in the
Treasure Island book
?

I set the book aside and peered inside the trunk. A rolled canvas cloth revealed his wood carving tools. There were twenty-eight of them in two staggered rows so the tools cleared each other. Under the tools was a green leather scrapbook. As I flipped through the pages, my first thought was that there was no way I was going to show Gabe this, at least until he got used to me staying here. Each page featured an article about me—the time the
Tribune
took a picture of me demonstrating a cutting horse for schoolkids during the Agriculture Day sponsored by the Cattlewomen’s Association; the article about Jack’s fatal car accident on Highway 1; the times I made the newspaper because of the murders I stumbled across at the museum, at Oakview Retirement Home’s Senior Prom, and at Laguna Lake; the picture of me and Gabe announcing our marriage. The articles went all the way back to February 1, 1978, and included the newspaper’s wedding picture of me and Jack. My eyes burning with fatigue and my blood churning with anxiety, I put the scrapbook back in the trunk. How long had this man lived here, and how long had he been watching me?

I looked down at Scout and said, “Looks like we have some work cut out for us. It’s a good thing I finished that Mother’s Day showing.” During the month of May we were having a special exhibit of arts and crafts made by or for San Celina mothers. “But that’s for tomorrow, or rather, later today. Right now, I’d better get some sleep.” His eyebrows seesawed, listening to my words.

I contemplated taking a shower, but held off, not just because of my strange surroundings, but because I didn’t want to wash away the musky scent of my husband, the mingled smell of us. I grabbed a pillow and the quilt from the foot of the bed and settled down on the sofa, hugging Gabe’s leather jacket to my chest. Scout hopped on the sofa and curled up at the other end. I tucked my feet into his warm body and watched darkness for at least an hour before drifting off to sleep.

I woke to the stereo racket of Scout’s bark and a loud pounding on the front door. The unfamiliar sounds startled and disoriented me for a moment. The mantle clock showed seven-thirty. I stumbled to the door and tried to discern through the stained-glass design who was out there. Though the door was a beautiful piece of artistry, it made for lousy security. Next to me, Scout’s spirited barking didn’t let up.

“Hey, Benni!” Sam, my eighteen-year-old stepson, yelled. “Are you being eaten by wolves in there?”

I grabbed Scout’s collar and told him “friend” while opening the door. “How’d you know where I was?” I asked, gesturing for him to come inside. He was dressed in baggy shorts and a torn, gray Cal Poly Cougars sweatshirt. He clutched a bulging white paper sack.

He let Scout sniff his hand then gave him a vigorous ear scratch, receiving a welcoming tail wag. I fixed my eyes on the paper bag, which was emanating a toasty, nutty scent.

“Bless you and the Chevelle you rode in on,” I said, grabbing it from him. Inside were two cups of hot coffee and two warm maple bars—a wicked addiction Sam and I shared as often as possible out of sight of his health-conscious father. “What are you doing here so early? Were you out surfing?”

“Elvia told me the whole story yesterday.” He flopped down on the sofa and took the coffee I handed him. “No offense,
madrastra,”
he said, using the affectionate Spanish word for stepmother, ”but you look like crap.”

I looked down at my rumpled clothes and ran a hand through my wild, curly hair. “Don’t tell anyone, but I was too creeped out last night to sleep in the bedroom so I slept with Scout on the sofa.” Between the coffee and the maple bar, within five minutes I was on the way to feeling human again.

“This is so cool,” Sam said, twisting his head to inspect the whole room. “You have all the luck. Getting a house left to you. And a dog, too. Did this guy have any money? Hey, do you need someone to house-sit for you until you sell it? I’m cheap. Or maybe you should just keep it and let me live here. It’d be a good investment, and I’d be a great tenant. Only one wild party a month, I swear.” He grinned at me with the smile that had already captured way more than its share of hearts at Cal Poly, where he’d been attending classes since January.

He was living with Dove and Daddy out at the ranch and had been since last September. As I knew would eventually happen, he was chomping at the bit to escape Dove’s watchful eye. I was sympathetic, but not enough to turn my house over to a bunch of college students.

I couldn’t bear to wipe away the hopeful look on his face. “I don’t even know what I’m going to be doing five minutes from now, Sam, but when the time comes, I’ll keep your proposal in mind.” I finished up my maple bar and took another few gulps of coffee. “Look, your dad’s going to be coming by soon, and we’re going to breakfast. You’re more than welcome to join us, but right now I need to take a shower.”

“Sounds cool,” he said, nodding. “You know me, I never turn down a free meal. Actually I already talked to Dad, and he said to tell you he’s probably going to be late, maybe noon or so. I’ll hang around until then.”

I instantly grew suspicious. “Why’s he going to be late?”

He shrugged and tried to look innocent. Unfortunately for him, he was about as proficient at hiding his feelings as me.

“How was the surfing this morning?” I asked, testing him.

“It was okay.”

I grabbed his arm and brought it up to my nose.

“Hey, what are you doing?” He jerked his arm back.

“You didn’t go surfing this morning.”

“Did too.”

“Your hair’s not wet, and you don’t smell salty. Your father told you to come over and baby-sit me, didn’t he?”

He looked as guilty as a two-year-old with a lapful of unrolled toilet paper. “Man, I’ll never make it as a spy, will I? Don’t tell Dad, okay? He really trusted me to pull this off.”

“Where is your dad?” I asked.

The intense struggle of conflicting loyalties on his face was both painful and amusing to watch.

“Stepson, who are you most afraid of here?”

His dark brown eyes widened. “No contest. Dad by a mile.”

I scowled at him. That wasn’t the answer I wanted. “Okay, let me rephrase the question. Who slips you money when you’re broke and hungry? Who ran interference when you decided to get your
other
ear pierced? Who talked your father into buying that Chevelle for you? And who—”

He held up his hands. “I give up. He’s home sleeping.”

“Sleeping? Why . . . ?” Then it dawned on me. “I’m going to smack him silly. He staked out this house last night, didn’t he?”

He sipped at his Styrofoam cup of coffee and didn’t answer, but his eyes revealed the truth.

“Never mind, I’ll take care of your father. So, since your assignment is morning watch, we might as well catch up. How’s school?”

He spent the next hour complaining about his classes, teachers, and the finals he had coming up. “I’m meeting my mom in Santa Barbara for Mother’s Day. I even made reservations at a fancy restaurant.”

“She’ll be very impressed,” I said. “And thanks for reminding me. I have to get something for Dove and order some flowers for my mom’s grave.”

His young face grew curious. “You go there much?”

I shrugged. “Usually just on Mother’s Day. Sometimes I take flowers on her birthday.”

“Your husband’s buried there, too, isn’t he?”

I laughed and tossed a throw pillow at him. “No, but he might be after I get through with him for pulling that ridiculous stakeout stunt.”

Sam caught the pillow and held it in front of him, his face serious. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do,” I said softly. “And, yes, Jack’s there, too.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “Dad said your mom died when you were six. That’s really little.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Was it hard having your mom die when you were so little?”

I studied the tops of my hands, hands that were already ten years older than my mother’s when she died. “When you’re that young, you mostly just tuck it inside you and don’t think about it except in little pieces.”

“That’s so sad,” Sam said.

I felt my chest tighten, remembering Dove telling me in the ranch house kitchen that while I was at school that day, Mama had gone to heaven and that I would see her again, but not for a very long time. I was eating an oatmeal cookie with raisins, and I recall picking out the raisins and laying them on my plate, carefully arranging them in a circle as Dove talked. I looked at Sam’s solemn face. “Actually I don’t remember that much.”

I stood up and stretched. “Think I’d better shower before your dad gets here. I haven’t checked the television, but I’m sure it works fine.” I tossed him the remote.

In the sparkling clean bathroom I threw away Chandler’s used soap and half-empty tube of Pepsodent toothpaste. In the cupboard I found two new bars of Zest soap and a new tube of Colgate baking soda gel toothpaste—both my favorite brands. Was it a coincidence? Or had this man actually followed me around in the store and watched what brands of soap and toothpaste I bought? That was beyond creepy. By the time I’d finished showering, dried my hair, dressed in jeans and a red long-sleeve shirt, I heard Gabe’s voice in the living room. It was only a little past ten o’clock, so he must have had trouble sleeping.

He and Sam were laughing at something—music to my ears since it didn’t happen often. Sam was at the age where he annoyed his father more than pleased him—and vice versa.

Much to Sam’s relief, I didn’t confront Gabe until after we’d all eaten breakfast, gone back to the house, and Sam left to help my dad clear cattle roads. Then I lit into my husband, pacing in front of him on the sofa.

“I will not have you sitting outside this house for two weeks. Not only are you too old to do that, you are way over the line. I swear I’ll call the cops if you’re out there tonight, and, buddy-boy, I’ll be watching.”

He listened calmly to my ranting, then said, “I could sit out there until the moon turns to blue cheese, and the Morro Bay police wouldn’t do a thing.”

I stopped pacing and glared at him. Oh, yes, how could I forget? The
brotherhood.
There were times I really, really hated being married to a cop.

He grabbed my hand and pulled me down next to him on the sofa. “Sweetheart, I’m just concerned for your safety.”

I sat there stiffly. “Why can’t you understand that this makes me feel like a child? No more discussion. You’re going to stop it.”

He looked at me silently for a moment, then said, “Okay. I won’t stake out this house again.”

I was instantly suspicious. He was giving in much too easily. “What about your officers?”

“You know I’d never use the city’s money for my private problems. I’ll continue to worry, but I’ll back off and let you handle this.”

My face must have screamed my disbelief.

“Benni, who’s not trusting who now?”

“All right,” I said reluctantly.

“But I do have one confession to make.”

“What’s that?”

“Last night I called a friend of mine who’s a private investigator down in Santa Barbara and told him to run a check on Jacob Chandler. I hope that doesn’t crowd your boundaries too much.”

“A private investigator? Can’t you just run some kind of record on him at the station? As a matter of fact, I was going to ask you to do that.”

“No, contrary to popular belief, cops can’t just run criminal records on anyone they please without a reason.”

“Not even you? Who would know?”

“Maybe no one. Maybe the Department of Justice when they audit our records. At any rate, there are privacy laws, and it’s a felony. I could lose my job over it.”

“So you hired a private eye?” I laughed, the idea striking me as funny. “On television, it’s always the other way around, a private eye trying to get information from a cop by slipping him fifty bucks.”

“I don’t know many cops who are willing to risk their jobs for fifty bucks. Anyway, I’ve known this guy since my L.A. days. He was a good cop and a whiz on the computer, which is mostly what private investigation is these days.”

“So, what did he find out?” I asked eagerly.

He pulled a slip of paper from his back pocket, glancing at it as he gave me the facts. “Not much. Chandler seems like a normal, if somewhat bland character. He was born in Houston, Texas, in 1930. That would make him sixty-four as of February. He served in Korea in the Army in 1950 and was given an honorable discharge in 1954. Shortly thereafter, he went to work for a trucking company that same year. Then in 1957 he got a job as a salesman for a restaurant supply company. His area was the Southeast. Never married and had no record of any children. He has one sister, a Rowena Ludlam, last know address Lubbock, Texas. He retired from his sales job when he was 54—that was 1984—came to Morro Bay, bought this house cash from a private trust, and opened up a checking and savings account at San Celina Savings and Loan—Paso Robles branch. He has no credit cards and no credit history except for owning this house.”