Mariner's Compass (8 page)

“Why wouldn’t he leave everything to his sister?”

“Good question, except he wouldn’t be the first person estranged from family. I have her address and phone number here, so that could be a place for you to start. I have no idea if it’s any good.” He laid the piece of paper on the trunk top, his face troubled. “You know, I get nervous when I have so little information on someone. He looks too clean.”

“Too clean? How can a person be too clean?”

“There’s just not enough history. He was sixty-four years old. Most people leave a paper trail seven or eight miles long by that age. It’s like he deliberately kept his trail skimpy, and that makes me suspicious.”

“Everything makes you suspicious. To me it sounds like he’s a loner who saved his money and retired to a small coastal town after years of being a traveling salesman. Doesn’t sound suspicious to me, just kinda sad.”

“A loner who was very obsessed with you. That’s not normal, Benni, no matter how you look at it.”

I sighed and nodded, laying my hand on Gabe’s forearm. “I’m going to do my best to find out who he was if for no other reason than to try to understand why he chose me. I have an eerie feeling there’s something more to all this. Something deeper.”

“That,” Gabe said, “is exactly what worries me.”

5

“WE’D BETTER DRIVE out to the ranch so I can explain all of this to Dove,” I said. “She’s probably already heard about it through the grapevine, and frankly I’m surprised she hasn’t called.”

Sure enough, while helping her peel apples for pies, I received a lecture from Dove for humiliating her by making her hear the news thirdhand from Edna Dunsworth down at the Farm Supply. When Gabe went out to the barn to visit with Daddy, I tried to encourage Scout to follow him, but the dog refused to leave my side.

“Looks like you’ve made yourself a friend,” Dove commented, scooping up my pile of apple skins and dumping them in the white plastic compost bucket.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was trained by the big pooch himself,” I said wryly. Scout wagged his tail slowly, almost apologetically, as if he understood what I was saying.

“Some dogs are like that. Takes to one person right off, and there’s never anyone else in their eyes and they aim to protect them.” She flipped her long white braid back, her pale blue eyes mischievous. “Some men, too.”

“Yes, he’s annoyed as all get out about this whole thing,” I answered her nonverbal question. “He’d just as soon let the money go to the government, but there’s almost twenty thousand dollars in the bank, and that house has to be worth at least two hundred thousand. How can I throw away money like that?”

“Gabe’s got a point. It is right strange.”

“Yes, but then again, maybe this guy was just a lonely man who randomly picked me as the object of his—”

“Perverted obsession?” Gabe finished as he walked into the room, followed by my father.

“No,” I answered, though I had to admit I couldn’t think of a better description. “Are you sure you’ve never seen this man before?” I asked Dove. His driver’s license and the picture of me from his wallet were the only pictures I’d come across so far.

Dove looked at the license and the candid photograph of me again. “No, don’t look a bit familiar. What about you, Ben?” Daddy peered over her shoulder, polishing a red apple on his cotton shirt.

“Nope, but I sure don’t take to the idea of this old boy carrying a picture of my little girl in his billfold.” The webbed wrinkles around his eyes deepened as he took a large bite out of his apple. “Son, you better watch out for her.”

“Doing my best, sir,” Gabe answered, raising his eyebrows at me, “but she doesn’t make it easy.”

“Never did for me, don’t reckon you should have it any better,” Daddy said, chuckling.

“You two chauvinists just dry up or go back out to the barn,” I said, then turned to Dove. “Let’s forget about Mr. Chandler for two minutes. Tell me what’s going on with the Historical Museum.”

Dove straightened her entire five feet and glared at the room. “If those mealymouthed, noodle-brain council members think they’re selling our Historical Museum to some hotel chain, they got another think coming.”

“What happened at the meeting with the mayor on Friday?”

“That man has more than his share of tongue oil, that’s all I have to say. To think that I voted for him. Is there any way I can take my vote back?” She looked over at Gabe, who, because of his police chief status, she considered her political advisor.

“I don’t believe so,
abuelita,”
he said. ”You might be able to start a recall, but that takes getting signatures on a petition, then another election. A lot of work. Especially since the mayor was voted in by a special election.”

Her wrinkled face looked sly. “Don’t y’all worry. Me and the ladies have a plan, and it’s a lot quicker than any recall. They aren’t getting away with it, that’s a natural fact.” She went over to a lump of bread dough lying under a damp tea towel, slapped it down on a wooden breadboard dusted with flour, and started to knead it with her strong fingers. “He’s got me so mad I’ve made more bread than Ben and I could eat in a month of Sundays. Y’all better take some with you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “We both will.”

Her blue eyes darkened in a searching look. “Ain’t good for married folk to sleep apart, honeybun. You see it don’t last any longer than need be.”

“I won’t,” I said, not looking at Gabe who was no doubt smirking.

“By the way,” Dove said, “Elvia called. She said she was tired of hearing about things secondhand from Sam. Said you’d better call her pronto. I told her to join the club.”

“I’ll call her right now,” I said, ignoring her carping. It took me four tries to find her—her house, the store, her mother’s house. I finally tracked her down at Emory’s house downtown.

“I’ve called all over creation looking for you. Maybe I should start checking here first,” I teased her when she came to the phone.

“Shut up,” she said, “and tell me what’s going one.”

“I can’t do both.”

“Benni!”

“Okay, okay.” I quickly told her everything I knew so far.

“Well, just be careful,” she said. “This sounds very, very weird.”

“I’m fine. My number’s in the Morro Bay phone book under Jacob Chandler. I’ll be easy to track.”

“All right. Let me know if I can help,
amiga.”

“You bet, girlfriend.”

On the drive back, four loaves of plastic-wrapped molasses-wheat bread sitting in my lap, I stared out the truck’s window, thinking about Jacob Chandler and the second night I’d spend in his house. Pelican Street appeared almost before I realized it.

Gabe put the truck in park. “I’ll walk you in,” he said. “Check things out.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, hopping out and heading down the front walk, Scout trailing after me. “Don’t kid me with your noble pretensions. You’re just hoping for a repeat of last night’s episode on the sofa. Well, you can just—”

I stopped when Rich walked up.

“Oh, hi,” I said.

“Hi back.” He looked curiously at Gabe.

“This is my husband, Gabe Ortiz. Gabe, this is Rich Trujillo, my next door neighbor. I told you about him.”

They shook hands and nodded. Gabe’s face was stiff and wary.

“So,” Rich said, smiling at me, “how’s your head?”

I touched my forehead where a scab had already started forming. “Fine.”

“Good.”

He cleared his throat, the smile never leaving his face. “Well, you two have a nice evening. Nice meeting you.”

Gabe stared at him, not answering.

“Geez Louise, Friday,” I said after Rich was out of earshot. “I thought you were going to start growling like Scout.”

“Why would he ask about the scrape on your head?”

“I told you I did it on the birdbath. He bandaged it for me.”

“You didn’t tell me
that.”

I gave an irritated exhalation of breath. “Gabe, for cryin’ out loud, you are really getting paranoid.”

“How long did he say he’s lived here?”

“Three months. He’s a retired fireman from Phoenix. I’m sure that’ll be a cinch for you to check out.”

“No doubt.”

Inside the house, I turned and shook a finger in his face. “I think you were rude to Mr. Trujillo.”

He grabbed my finger and kissed it. “Does he know why you’re here?”

I was silent for a moment, not wanting to tell Gabe how much I’d opened up to my new neighbor. “He’s a perfectly nice person.”

One black eyebrow lifted in skepticism.

“I didn’t tell him everything,” I said defensively.

“See, that’s exactly what worries me about you. You’re too trusting with strangers.”

“And you think everyone and his grandmother has a hidden criminal agenda. Can you imagine what he thought?”

He shrugged, unconcerned, and gave a wide yawn.

“You are too old to be trying to get along with only three hours sleep,
papacito,”
I lightly scolded.

“Am not,” he said, yawning again. “Besides, it’s only six o’clock.”

“Don’t argue with me. You need to go home and go to bed.”

“I hate leaving you here.”

“I know, but you don’t have a choice.”

Just as he was walking out the door, I remembered something. “Gabe, I know this sounds silly, but is there some way you can find out exactly
where
Mr. Chandler died in this house?”

“Sure, I’ll see what I can do.” Using his cell phone, he called Morro Bay’s police chief, who gave him the number of the officer who took the call. Luckily the officer was home.

“The recliner in the living room,” Gabe informed me. “He was sitting there when his neighbor, a Mrs. Tess Briggstone, found him. She has a key to his place.” I-told-you-so was written all over his face.

I made a face at him. “And?”

“She lives across the street. The story is she grew worried when he didn’t show up at his usual time at her store on the Embarcadero. She apparently owns one of those knickknack shell shops, and they had coffee and doughnuts together every morning.”

“That fits with what Rich told me about them.”

Gabe frowned at the mention of my neighbor’s name.

I pushed him in the chest. “Quit being such a suspicious old bear. Thanks for finding that out for me. Now I can sleep in the bedroom.”

He didn’t answer. At the door he kissed me, then started in. “Be careful. Keep the doors and windows locked. Call me tomorrow.”

“I will, I will, I will. Now go before all my willpower flies out the window and I lose my inheritance because I can’t bear to have you leave.”

“Going without me for one night is cruel and unusual punishment, isn’t it?” he said solemnly.

“Get outta here before I smack that macho arrogance clean out of you.”

I listened to his laughter as he went to his car, lonely for him even before the sound of his Corvette faded away.

I looked down at Scout, patiently waiting at my side. “Scout, my loyal sidekick, we’ve got work to do. We’d better get cracking.”

The first thing I did was look for a notebook. I found an almost new steno pad in the small desk in the spare room and started listing the things I needed to do. The first was to set a date for his funeral service—the sooner the better. Then I needed to go see this Tess Briggstone, who was obviously a close enough friend to have a key to his place, and ask her for a list of Mr. Chandler’s friends. Then I had to . . .

I sat drawing stars and triangles on the steno pad, stumped. Then what? All I had so far were the items in the trunk—the initialed knife, the Robert Louis Stevenson book, the scrapbook, and the little bit of information that Gabe’s private investigator had found. Not many clues at all.

I methodically searched the rest of his desk, reading his bills and anything else that might give me a lead. In the back of the last drawer, underneath boxes of old checks, bank statements, and utility statements, I found a five-by-seven manila envelope. Inside was a roll of exposed film and a folded piece of paper. I opened it and read the neat, handwritten message.

Carving is a very special art form and needs a cool-headed approach. Don’t hurry the process. Study each cut before you make it so you don’t cut what you might later regret. Remember, there are no shortcuts. Take your time. Do your research. Think
.

A lesson in wood carving? The twelve-exposure roll of Kodak film felt cold in my hand. It certainly didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out he wanted me to develop this film. I added to my list—one—hour photo developer.

After searching the living room, including fanning through every book on the bookshelves, I checked out the kitchen. The refrigerator contained only a quart of milk, some orange juice in a pitcher, and some leftover Chinese takeout in white unmarked containers. Looking through the cupboards, where I found the normal staples as well as a few cans of soup and vegetables, it occurred to me that eating anything left in this house might not be smart.

I glanced at the plain yellow clock over the kitchen table—nine p.m. Maybe the grocery store out by the highway would still be open. In the last cupboard I checked, another small alarm went off inside me. Sitting on the shelf next to a round blue box of Morton salt and some paper plates was an unopened green can of Van Houten German Cocoa. The kind I’d come to use exclusively since I was eighteen after discovering I liked its dark richness better than the American brands. Our local gourmet food store ordered it special for me.

I carefully placed the can back on the shelf. Fear tumbled like rough little stones in my stomach, but, I told myself firmly, it was just another coincidence.

I discovered the grocery store was open until midnight and stocked up on my comfort foods—Coke, barbecue potato chips, Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream, as well as fruit, oatmeal, milk, bread, cheddar cheese, and coffee. I also bought all new staples—not even trusting this man’s flour, sugar ... or cocoa. On the spur of the moment, thankful that so many grocery stores had become one-stop shopping meccas, I bought a new set of queen sheets. Sleeping in a stranger’s bed was bad enough, but I would at least have new sheets touching my body.