Mariner's Compass

by Earlene Fowler

  I gazed closer at the photo. There was a card propped next to the Tree of Heaven that canopied the monument. Printed on it was the number 226. What in the heck was that supposed to mean?

  “Very funny, Mr. Chandler,” I said, stuffing the photos back in the envelope. What next? Go out to the monument? What if it was a wild goose chase? The thought of driving out there for nothing irritated me.

  “Let’s go see Emory,” I said to Scout. “No one has a more devious mind than him, so maybe he can make heads or tails out of this. Besides, we’d better drop by and see the chief and let him know we made it through one more night.”

  “SWEETCAKES, THIS IS gettin’ more peculiar by the minute,” Emory said, settling comfortably in his leather office chair. You’d think by the look of his office he’d been there five years instead of five months. Anyone else who had breezed into town and snatched a prime reporting job the way he had would be hated by everyone from the janitor to the city desk editor. But I’d learned never to underestimate the power of a genteel, Tupelo-honey-tongued, upper-class Southern gentleman. The women mooned about his office like lovesick poodles, and even the men found Emory amusing with his self-effacing humor and his never empty mini-refrigerator filled with imported beers, soda, and handmade, chocolate-covered bourbon candies Fed-Exed from Louisville.

  “You’re telling me,” I agreed, helping myself to his crystal candy dish of Godiva chocolates. “What’s this?” I held up a dark chocolate candy heart. He knew all of Godiva’s selections by sight. Behind him hung an expensively framed calligraphy of his favorite saying—“American by birth, Southern by the Grace of God.”

  “Hazelnut praline center in a dark chocolate shell. Have you told the chief about this scrapbook yet?”

  “No, and I wasn’t going to because I knew he’d just worry, but now I feel obligated.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Settling down in one of his visitor chairs, I told him about spilling my guts to Rich and feeling somewhat guilty about it.

  “As well you should,” Emory said. ”You don’t know this man from Adam’s house cat. His noble profession notwithstanding, you’d best keep any further confessions and discoveries to those you know and love.”

  “You mean you.” I popped the candy into my mouth, letting the rich sweetness dissolve in my mouth. Hazelnut praline, just like he said.

  “When are you going to let me start writing the article?” he asked.

  “When my two weeks are up.”

  “What?” He grabbed the candy dish as I was reaching for another.

  “Hey!”

  “You shall not enjoy a smidgen more of my bounty until I get something in return.”

  I sat back in my chair and propped my boots on his desk. “Emory, I’m here to invite you to the funeral service tomorrow, and I’m going to tell you what’s happening every step of the way. I just don’t want you writing the article until it’s all done. No one’s going to scoop you because no one else knows about it. Besides, do you really think I’d talk to another reporter?”

  “There are other people involved,” he said, his voice petulant. “They could tell someone.”

  “Quit pouting, Emory. It’s so wussy. If we wait until it’s over and I find out why Mr. Chandler left all his worldly goods to me, you’ll be able to write it with more authority. It’s always easier to write a story when you know the ending, don’t you think?” I leaned over and took a piece of paper from his desk and started making a paper airplane.

  “Sometimes,” he conceded. He leaned back in his chair and pointed an aristocratic finger at me. “Keep me informed every step of the way. Promise me.”

  I laughed and pointed my airplane at him. “You are beginning to sound a mite like a certain police chief I know, dear cousin.” I stood up and sailed the airplane across the desk, hitting him in the chest. “Gotta go, Joe, it’s three o’clock. I want to stop by and French-kiss my husband so he won’t forget me, then get back to Morro Bay before the quilt shop closes.” I picked up a nut-covered Godiva chocolate and held it up.

  “Pecan caramel truffle. Going to do some quilting during your lonely nights?”

  I bit into the candy and inspected the contents. Right again. Dang, he was good. “No, I know the lady who owns the store, and she’s lived in Morro Bay quite a while. I’m going to see if she knows anything about Jacob Chandler. And by the way, the reason I actually stopped by was to ask you to do some checking for me.”

  “I thought Gabe had an investigator working on the case.”

  “He gave me the lowdown on Mr. Chandler, what there is of it, and I’m going to try to call Jacob Chandler’s sister today, but I want to see if your sources can dig up anything else. And I want you to check on the other people on this list—see what you can come up with.” I handed him a piece of paper listing Tess, Cole, and Duane Briggstone of Morro Bay and Richard Trujillo of Phoenix. “There may be more after the funeral because I’m going to try to get names. Do you think having a guest book at the graveside services is too obvious?”

  “A bit, sweetcakes. But I’ll come, nose around a bit, and get names.”

  I went around the desk and gave him a quick hug. “I was hoping you’d say that. Besides, I need you there for moral support. I don’t know who else besides this Tess woman feels like they have a claim to his estate, and I need someone to help me absorb all the bad vibes.”

  “I’ll be happy to be your bodyguard, provided I’m allowed to ask questions.”

  “Emory, that’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

  GABE’S CORVETTE, THE same pale blue as the afternoon sky, was in its parking space at the police station, so I pulled into the visitor’s parking lot. In the reception area, Rod, the desk clerk and an avid animal lover, buzzed me in and, as I expected, commenced to making a big fuss over Scout.

  “The chief said you’d inherited a dog. He’s adorable!” Rod exclaimed, crouching down to stroke Scout’s head.

  “Yeah, he’s a charmer, all right. Gabe’s in, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rod said.

  “C’mon, Scout,” I said and walked through the maze of desks and hallways, greeting people and stopping every so often so someone could pet Scout. Walking down the hallway toward Gabe’s office, I said, “You know, Scooby-doo, I’m getting jealous here. Try and reel in that charm a little.”

  He looked up at me with patient eyes, as if to say, this is my burden, live with it. I left him with the dispatchers, telling them I’d be back in a few minutes.

  Gabe’s secretary, Maggie, wasn’t at her desk, but his door was open, so I breezed right in. He was sitting at his desk looking very authoritarian in his gray Brooks Brothers suit and khaki-and-gray-print tie.

  “Hey,” I said. “I waited all night for my dancing pool boy, and he never showed up. What gives?”

  He looked up and smiled. “Hmmm, I’m sure I gave him the right address. That was 663 Seagull, right?”

  “It’s 993 Pelican, and you know it. Oh, well, guess I’m stuck with the old fart again.” I went around the desk and gave him a quick kiss. “I kinda like them already trained anyway. How’s your day going?”

  “Same old stuff. How was your second night? I tried to call this morning, but you weren’t there.”

  Leaning against the edge of his desk, I gave him a quick rundown on what Eve had told me and showed him the photograph taken at the James Dean memorial. He sat back in his chair and studied the photo.

  “I suppose you feel compelled to go out there,” he said.

  “It’s the next logical step, wouldn’t you agree?”

  An unintelligible but definitely deprecating sound rumbled from his throat.

  Then I told him about meeting Tess and her sons, about setting up the funeral for tomorrow.

  “I’m glad Emory’s going to be there,” he said. “Otherwise, I’d come with you.”

  “Bad idea. A lot of people know who you are, and you know how people clam right up when the police are around.
That’s exactly what I don’t want them to do. The secret of who he is and why he singled me out might be located in the memories of his friends.”

  He kicked the toe of my boot with one of his black dress shoes. “You are a real pain in the posterior, Ms. Harper. Anybody ever tell you that?”

  “Only a certain unnamed law enforcement official who has no confidence in my ability to take care of myself, but whom I’ll keep anyway ’cause he’s pretty good in the sack for an old guy.”

  “I trust you. It’s just the rest of the world I don’t trust.”

  Finally I reluctantly and with not a little guilt told him about the scrapbook. The longer I explained, the more his jaw tightened.

  “I know, I know,” I said, heading off his words. “It is creepy beyond imagination. But don’t forget, Gabe, he’s dead. He can’t hurt me now.”

  “By the way,” he said, ignoring my comment, “I checked out your fireman this morning.”

  I made a face at him but was glad he hadn’t made too big an issue over the scrapbook. “He’s not my fireman. What did you find out?”

  “He’s what he says he is and, according to my sources, a nice guy. He retired an assistant chief, was very respected by his colleagues, and was even quite active in community affairs before his wife died.”

  “I told you he was okay. My instincts about people are impeccable,” I said in a teasing voice.

  He ignored my joking. “At any rate, he is still a stranger. All I’m asking is that you don’t go off half-cocked the way you normally do.”

  I stood up, irritated now. “I think I’ll leave before I say something I’ll regret. And for the record, that last remark was a ten on the jerk scale.”

  His phone picked that inopportune time to ring. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said, reaching for it.

  “No, we won’t, because there isn’t anything to talk about.”

  The phone rang again. “I’m not happy about this situation.”

  “You’ve made that perfectly clear.”

  The phone shrilled a third time. He inhaled a deep breath, held up a hand at me to wait, and answered it. “Gabe Ortiz,” he said into the phone. I started to walk out.

  “Let me call you right back,” he quickly told his caller. “Benni, I’m just trying to—”

  I interrupted what was certain to be another lecture. “What choice do I have? To fulfill the conditions of the will, I have to stay there. There’s nothing I can do about that. I don’t understand why we’re going through all this again. You’ve checked out the house. You’ve checked out Mr. Trujillo. Everything’s fine, right?”

  “On the surface.”

  “Apart from tearing the house down and injecting my poor, innocent neighbor with truth serum, I’d say you’ve done all you can do to protect me, so any responsibility you have is covered, okay? Just let it go.”

  His face was troubled. “I wish it were that easy.”

  “Gabe, for once just let me do something without fighting you the whole distance.”

  “I’ll try. That’s the best I can offer you.”

  “Good enough. Are you free for dinner tonight?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I have a dinner date with Sam and some tickets to go see a jazz guitarist in Ojai. We planned it weeks ago, but I can cancel ...”

  “Not on your life. You and Sam need to spend as much time together as you can. Call me when you get in.”

  “Might be after one a.m.”

  “Forget that then. Call me tomorrow. Or I’ll call you.”

  He came around the desk and pulled me into a hug. “I’ll miss you. Now get out of here before I’m tempted to lock you up.”

  “I’m gone,” I said, relieved that he seemed to be taking the situation with a bit more resignation and almost a little humor.

  I finally located Scout in the detectives’ department, where he was being thoroughly spoiled, and headed outside. I sat in my truck planning my next move. Since I obviously had tonight free, I could nose around Morro Bay more, but first I had to make an obligatory stop at the folk art museum.

  It was quiet at the museum today. Even our neighbors, the Coastal Valley Farm Supply and San Celina Feed and Grain Co-op, seemed unusually subdued. Usually the sound of noisy ranch trucks and customers picking up supplies filtered over to us here at the museum. Only a few cars were in our newly graveled parking lot, and the hacienda looked almost like what it must have a hundred and fifty years ago when the Sinclair ancestors lived there. I could almost picture a corseted lady standing on the second floor balcony under its red-tiled roof staring out to the green velvet hills, waiting for her husband to return from town or checking on the cattle.

  D-Daddy Boudreaux, my very capable and loyal assistant, was bent over, whitewashing a section of the front wall where some vandals had knocked a chunk out of the adobe. He whistled a cheerful Cajun tune that had probably been passed down in his family for 200 years. At seventy-two years old, he’d been the most hardworking and reliable assistant I’d had so far.

  “Looks great, D-Daddy,” I said, inspecting his work. “But everything always has since you’ve been here.”

  He straightened up and beamed at me. His thick white hair caught the afternoon sunlight and glistened. He was still a handsome man, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by the senior ladies in our museum docent program. He looked at Scout standing calmly at my side. “Who’s the hound dog?”

  “This is Scout. Scout, friend.” He sat down and lifted a paw, his red tongue hanging sideways from his mouth.

  D-Daddy gave a delighted laugh and shook it. “What a fine dog. Where’d he come from?”

  “My inheritance. I suppose you heard about it.”

  He nodded. “Gossip flows round here like Mississippi floodwater.”

  “I thought so. I’ll leave my current address and phone number in your mailbox. I’ll only be there two weeks, and I’ll be checking my messages at home, too. Since we’re basically all set for the exhibit, I’ll be in and out.”

  He leaned against one of the long porch’s rough wood posts. “This man, he sound crazy to me.”

  I laughed. “You’re not alone in those thoughts, but he’s dead so he can’t really hurt me, can he?”

  D-Daddy shook his head doubtfully. “Even the dead have their ways of hurtin’ folks.”

  “On that cheerful note, I’ll let you get back to your work. I’m going to make one last run-through on the exhibit.”

  “Let me know if anything needs fixing, you.”

  “Sure will.”

  I walked through the double Spanish doors into the museum. A volunteer was rearranging handmade handkerchief dolls on one of the shelves of the gift shop. I waved at her and continued into the main hall.

  The name we’d voted on for the exhibit was “From a Mother’s Heart.” We’d opened the entries to the public with the only criteria being that the item had to be handmade by or for the entrant’s mother or mother-in-heart. The response from the one article we’d run in the local free paper had been overwhelming, and eventually we were forced to turn people away. Recording and cataloging the entries had been a nightmare, and I’d spent a lot of days working until midnight getting the exhibit ready in time for Mother’s Day weekend. It had been hard, tiring work, but definitely worth it. This was by far the most heart-wrenching and provocative exhibit we’d presented. The stories that accompanied many of the pieces caused more than one set of eyes to tear up. And that was just among the co-op members and volunteers. No matter what type of relationship you had with your mother, it was a powerful one, maybe the most powerful of your life.

  As I wandered through the exhibit, I marveled at the talents of these women, these mothers, and the love that emanated from their handwork. There were many baby quilts, of course. I’d hung those in a group in one corner of the hall. And a great many baby sweaters and booties, also a special grouping. But the scope of what women create while raising their families amazed me. There were handmade rivercane, pine-ne
edle and corn-shuck baskets; birdhouses made from “found” items; rag rugs, which I’d discovered in my research were often referred to as salvage craft because of how scraps of fabric were ingeniously transformed into something useful; a couple of handmade brooms made of sedge grass and buckeye saplings. One braided handle broom made of palmetto fronds had been passed down through four generations of Houma Indian daughters and mothers. Upstairs I’d organized the displays of dolls and textile crafts other than quilts—samplers, tatting, embroidery, needlepoint, and lace-making.

  This was where my contribution to the exhibit hung—an embroidered sampler made by my mother when she was eighteen and pregnant with me. To anyone else it looked just like another printed cross-stitch sampler, the kind that was popular back in the fifties and sixties. In the center was the requisite baby in a cradle. In each corner was a different picture—a stork, a baby rattle, a bottle, and a pair of tiny shoes. My date and time of birth were stitched across the bottom. A fancy multicolored alphabet made up the border. Nothing special in terms of artistry, but very special to me because it was the only thing I owned made by my mother.

  My first memory of the piece was when I was twelve years old and my father, without a word, hung it in my bedroom. I never asked him where it had been for six years, why he hadn’t shown it to me before. Daddy never talked much about my mother. What little I knew of her came from Dove, her mother-in-law. Dove said my mother had been an only child, like me, and pretty much kept to herself. Her parents had died in an automobile accident when she was sixteen, and she was taken in by her distant cousin, Ervalean, Emory’s mother, in Little Rock. Ervalean was only three years older, but mature enough to encourage my mother to finish high school. Mama was seventeen when she graduated and went to work as a waitress. She met my dad when he came to the city to pick up tractor parts and ate breakfast in the cafe where she worked. They married three months later, when she was still a month shy of her eighteenth birthday.