Mariner's Compass

by Earlene Fowler

  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.”

  “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.