Mariner's Compass

by Earlene Fowler

“I will.”

  “And watch your back, young lady.”

  “Believe me, I’ve gotten real good at that.” I patted his shoulder. “Now, where are those tamales you promised me?”

  After another wonderful dinner where Rich entertained me with stories from his many years of fire fighting, I went home a little before eight o’clock, exhausted from the emotional highs and lows of the day. I called home and caught Gabe, who assured me that Dove and her fellow conspirators were well guarded and that negotiations were still in progress.

  “I’ll be up there first thing tomorrow morning to see if a night on Army cots has weakened their resolve,” he said.

  “She’s pretty stubborn when she wants something.”

  “A family trait.”

  I didn’t comment.

  He cleared his throat and said, “Meet me at the Historical Museum at eight a.m. in case I need you to talk to them.”

  “You got it, Friday.” Then I told him about the incident with Beau Franklin.

  “Just what I was afraid of. Did he threaten you?”

  “Not me personally. He just said he’d get his money one way or another.”

  Gabe was silent a moment. “I’ll do some checking into his background. Be careful.”

  “I will,” I said, glad he didn’t make an effort to talk me out of pursuing this. There was no way I could stop now, though I wasn’t ready yet to tell him why.

  Since it was too late to head out to Harmony, I spent the rest of the evening studying every aspect of my mother’s quilt and rereading the autograph book, looking for a clue to Mr. Chandler’s identity. I thought about trying to track down these women and seeing if any of them knew of someone named Garrett in my mother’s life. That would take more extensive investigating abilities than I had at my disposal, but there was always Gabe’s private detective friend. He probably had all sorts of CD-ROMS that could locate the current status and addresses of these women. I redialed my home phone, then hung up before it rang, realizing in a split second that Gabe would want to know why I wanted these women traced, which would naturally lead into the fact that Mr. Chandler was somehow connected to my mother. I would have to figure out a way to find these women myself. Maybe Amanda knew of a private investigator.

  By ten o’clock my eyelids were already drooping, so I went to bed. Scout’s presence in his bed next to me was all the security I needed to fall asleep in a few minutes.

  The clock radio next to my bed said 1:32 a.m. when Scout’s barking jerked me out of a sound sleep.

  I bolted straight up, my heart pounding. Scout dashed out of the bedroom, barking, then ran back in. I grabbed the pair of sweats lying across the foot of my bed and jammed my legs into them, awkwardly hopping toward the door.

  As I reached the front door, a figure appeared in the filmy glass. I hesitated a moment before turning on the porch light.

  “Benni!” Rich’s voice yelled from behind the door. “Wake up!” I fumbled with the lock and flung the door open. “Your garage is on fire!”

  I followed him out to the front yard where a fire truck had just pulled up, followed by two Morro Bay police cars and the paramedics. The garage was already half engulfed in thick smoke. I grabbed Scout’s collar and pulled him close. In the next few minutes, the small alley turned into a teeming mass of firefighters and hoses. In twos and threes, neighbors came to their doors and watched the spectacle. I looked over at the Briggstone house. Tess, Cole, and Duane all stood on their front porch, their faces so shadowed no expressions were visible. Next door to them, the photographer and his wife and a couple I assumed to be the Pelican Inn’s managers also watched the fire. Adrenaline careened through my veins as I watched the firefighters spray the garage. When I started to shake in the damp misty air, I felt Rich’s arm go around my shoulder.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said, squeezing my shoulder.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Did you call the fire department?”

  “Your guardian angel was working overtime, mija. I had insomnia and got up to get something to read when I smelled smoke. Looked out my side window and saw your garage on fire. I dialed 911 before I came over.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, we silently watched the firefighters bring the fire under control. When they were finished, the roof and one wall was completely gone, and the car inside badly scorched. The arson investigator arrived shortly after the fire truck and police cars.

  “I’ll be back,” Rich said and walked over to the tall, gray-haired man wearing a dark blue windbreaker. They talked for a few minutes, then came over to where I was standing.

  “Ms. Harper, I’m John Sterling. I’ll be investigating this fire. Do you mind answering a few questions?”

  I shook my head no and answered all his questions as thoroughly as possible—what time I came home, when was the last time I was in the garage, was there a gas mower or gas can in the garage, were garage doors and windows locked, was the window on the alley side broken the last time I looked, was anyone mad at me?

  That last question caused me to glance at Rich. He nodded at me, and I told Sterling briefly about the situation with the house and about the Briggstones. Before he could answer, Gabe’s Corvette pulled up. His red emergency light was hooked on his dashboard, so I knew he must have been really worried. He hated using it. He hopped out of the car and came over to where we were standing.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, placing both his hands on my shoulders, kneading them gently. Though his face was dark and intense, his familiar touch caused my tight muscles to relax. Scout whined and pushed his body against my leg.

  “Yes, Rich saw the fire and called 911. Then he came and woke me.”

  He turned to the two men and asked, “What’s the story?”

  “John Sterling, Arson Investigation,” the man said, holding out his hand. “You are?”

  Gabe shook it quickly. “Sorry, I’m a little tense. Gabe Ortiz, San Celina Police. Ms. Harper is my wife.”

  Mr. Sterling gave a sympathetic smile. “Well. I don’t know much yet because I haven’t gotten in there to poke around, but the captain over there said it appears by the burn pattern on the floor that it started in a small trash can on the west wall. Most likely an accelerant of some kind—lighter fluid or gasoline. I’ll know more once I can check it out. It’ll probably take an hour or two for me to make an assessment.”

  When my shivering became too much to hide, Gabe, after thanking Rich for his help, convinced me to go inside the house. Once we were alone, he hit the roof, as I expected. “It could have spread in minutes to the house. You could have been killed. I want you home now. ”

  “You know that’s not possible,” I said, my teeth chattering slightly in spite of myself.

  “No, I don’t know that.”

  “I’m sorry, Gabe, I just can’t quit.”

  “Carajo! Does the money mean that much to you?”

  “It’s not the money.”

  He was silent for a long moment, watching me. “All right,” he finally said, his voice tired.

  It was past three a.m. when the fire department finished mopping up and the arson investigator finished his second set of questions, promising to send me a copy of the report for my insurance claim. While Mr. Sterling questioned me again, Gabe had gone outside to speak to a Morro Bay police officer who had come back to check things out.

  “I don’t want any special treatment,” I told Gabe when he came back into the house. He didn’t answer. A few minutes later he reluctantly left, but not before he hugged me and said, “I’ll call you mañana. Te amo.”

  I clung to him for a moment. “I love you, too, Friday.”

  Standing in the doorway, I watched him hesitate at his car as he looked over at the Briggstone house, which was dark now.

  “Gabe, not tonight,” I called softly from the doorway. “No one’s going to try anything more tonight.”

  He gave a curt nod and repeated that he’d call me in the morning.

  I fin
ally settled back into bed, but sleep eluded me. I lay in bed listening to Scout give wild little moans while stalking dream rabbits, and watched the room change from black to soft gray to pale orange. Finally at six-thirty I gave up and went to fix myself a pot of coffee. Pure caffeine and a lot of it was definitely going to be on my day’s menu. Standing at the kitchen window waiting for the coffee to finish, I stared at the garage’s blackened walls. Who set the fire? My first thought was the Briggstones, then Beau Franklin. But why? Did they think it would drive me away so that the will was broken? Maybe I should just make it clear to them that even if I failed, they wouldn’t get a penny. Maybe then they’d leave me alone. If, of course, it was them pulling these pranks.

  I’d definitely have to look further into it, but my first stop would be town to see how the San Celina Seven had managed through their first night, then off to Harmony, a play on words that amused me even with only a few hours sleep. Harmony was something in short supply in my life these days.

  The photographer and his wife from the motel across the street were walking by when I got into the truck at around seven-thirty. The huge aquamarine ring on her right hand caught the sunlight and flashed.

  “Nice day,” he commented.

  “Guess you’re going to take advantage of it,” I said.

  “As they say, make hay.”

  His wife rolled her eyes at his remark. She nodded in the direction of my garage. “You all right?”

  “Yeah, fine.” I didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t either.

  At a quarter to eight I pulled up in front of the Historical Museum. No reporters were around this early, but Gabe was already there at the command post talking to a patrol officer.

  “Oh, good, you’re here,” I said, walking up to them. “Saves me a phone call to check in and tell you I’m fine. What’s going on?”

  “We called them about a half hour ago,” Gabe said. Pale lavender circles tinged the skin under his eyes. He glanced down at his watch. “They’ll see you and Emory at four and give another statement then.”

  “I’ll be here.” He looked so tired I didn’t want to burden him with more problems, but I wanted to tell him what I’d found out from Rowena Ludlam before any more time passed. “Can we talk in private for a moment?”

  “Let’s walk,” he said.

  As we walked, I told him about my phone call from Rowena Ludlam and the undeniable fact that because of the missing finger, my Jacob Chandler was not the original Jacob Chandler.

  “I’m not surprised,” he said. “That’s probably the reason he has so little credit history. Trying to keep a low profile. After that fire last night, I’m really worried now.”

  We stopped in front of the steel bear and Chumash Indian girl fountain next to the mission. The trickling water, normally a soothing sound, didn’t ease the turmoil inside me as I watched his troubled face.

  “Do you think he was hiding because of something illegal?” I asked.

  He stuck his hands deep into his pockets. “I’d say you could count on it. Not many people disappear into deep cover just on a lark.” His eyes turned gray and serious. “The question remains what happened to the real Jacob Chandler, and did your Mr. Chandler have anything to do with it?” He looked away. “I want you to drop this whole crazy thing even more now.”

  “I know.” There was nothing more to be said. I wouldn’t, and he knew it. But at least we’d come far enough that we wouldn’t argue about it. Now would be the perfect time to tell him about Mr. Chandler’s connection to my mother, but something in me couldn’t yet, not just to save him more stress, but because it was still so confusing and troubling that I had to keep it to myself until I grew used to the idea.

  “I’ll talk to Hank and see if he can keep an extra close eye on those two lowlifes across the street from you.” Hank was Morro Bay’s police chief.

  “I don’t actually know if it was them, though they’re my first guess.”

  “It won’t hurt to have someone talk to them.”

  I nodded without answering, leaving it up to him. Just like me, he had to do the things he felt were right.

  “What are you doing today?” he asked.

  “I’m going to Harmony to see if anyone there recognizes the maker of the pot I told you about last night.”

  “And then?”

  I shrugged. “Depends on where the pot leads me. I’ll be back here by four o’clock, no matter what. I promise.”

  He put his hand underneath my hair, his fingers lightly massaging my neck. I closed my eyes briefly in pleasure. “You know,” he said, “I love Dove as much as if she were my blood grandmother. . . .”

  I leaned into him, touching my head to his shoulder, and sighed. “I’m trying to talk her out of this, really I am.”

  He kissed the top of my head. “I know.”

  I looked up at him. “Let’s look at the bright side. How long can Dove really last?”

  We stared at each other a moment, then burst into laughter.

  “I don’t even want to think about it,” Gabe said. “I swear, I’d buy the friggin’ museum myself and give it to them if it were possible.”

  “You and me both,” I replied.

  The coastal drive to the town of Harmony had always been one of the prettiest drives in the county, especially in the spring when the deep green hills contrasted with the ocean’s cobalt blue, white-tipped waves. Thousands of tourists each year drove this stretch of State Highway 1 heading to Hearst Castle, Big Sur, and Monterey, some of them stopping at Harmony, intrigued by its improbable but hopeful name.

  It was said the town’s peaceful name dated from the 1890s when a feud between locals over the location of a road started with shouting and proceeded to shooting. After a death occurred, some wise dairy farmers organized a truce, and in the spirit of peace, the town was named Harmony after the Harmony Valley Creamery of the same name. Now a town of thirty or so people, it was privately owned and operated as an arts and crafts Mecca. It consisted of one street with five or six buildings, the largest one the old white Harmony Valley Creamery Association, which now held a pasta restaurant and various shops that displayed local artists’ sculptures, blown glass, and pottery. I parked the truck in front of the paint-peeled dairy building and walked into the courtyard carrying the box containing the pot. Benches made from old wagon wheels and varnished boards crowded the red brick courtyard, stained wine barrels overflowed with wildflowers and asparagus fern, and ancient wood-burning cookstoves sprouted yellow marigolds from their burners. It was quiet and peaceful, so perfectly in tune with the town’s name that I wanted to sit on one of the rustic benches and watch the blackbirds flit among the olive trees, smelling the sweet, dusty scents coming from the herb gardens that meandered around the rusty metal sculptures. A Thursday morning in early May was obviously not one of their busier times. But I had no time to linger. My destination was a weathered white barn in the back. “Pottery Works” was painted in black calligraphy letters over the heavy sliding wood door. Inside the airy room, haunting music, the kind that might make you dream of swimming whales, radiated from hidden speakers. No one greeted me when I entered, so I wandered around the room, admiring the pottery and sculptures, recognizing some of the work from members of our co-op, but finding none that resembled the pot in my arms.

  “Can I help you find something?” The voice, as soft and full as the music, seemed to float from nowhere.

  The sixtyish woman came out from behind a doorframe covered by an Indian-style curtain. Her long gray hair hung in two braids tied with leather strips. She wore an electric-blue fringed suede jacket and black leggings. The fringe slapped against her body as she walked toward me.

  “Actually, you can,” I said, holding up my box. “I was given this pot as a gift, and I was wondering if you could identify the potter.”

  “I can certainly try.” She gestured over to the counter.

  I set the box on the counter and carefully pulled the pot out of the shaved paper packing
. Her powdered face lit up in a smile.

  “Oh,” she said with a sigh. “Haven’t seen one of those in a long while.” She stroked it with her fingertips. Her nails were painted the same bright blue as her jacket. “It’s an original Azanna Nybak. One of her early works, if I don’t miss my guess.”

  “Azanna Nybak?”

  “Wonderful artist. A fifth-generation San Celinan,” she said, her eyes never leaving the pot. “She lives by herself on her family’s ranch outside of Cayucos past Eagle Rock Reservoir and doesn’t come to town but once a year for the lighting of the Christmas tree. Sends one of her ranch hands in for supplies a couple of times a month.” She looked up from the pot and raised her gray eyebrows. “How did you say you got this again? She hasn’t made a pot in years—not since her two sons were killed in a boating accident in Mexico. This is worth quite a bit of money. Offhand, I know of half a dozen people who’d pay you top dollar for it.”

  “It’s not for sale. It was a gift. Do you think she’d talk to me?”

  She shook her head, doubtful. “She likes to be left alone. Last person who showed up uninvited at her ranch was chased off with a shotgun.”

  “Oh,” I said, biting my lip in disappointment. I was certain that this pot, and this Azanna person, held the clue to the next step. Did it even occur to Jacob Chandler that maybe this woman wouldn’t want to be a part of his little game?

  The woman ran her fingers through the suede fringe on the front of her jacket, untangling it. “Why do you want to see her?”

  I thought for a moment. I was growing tired of repeating this strange story, but unless I told her, I’d end up at a dead end.

  “How positively intriguing!” she exclaimed after hearing a condensed version of my quest.

  “So, do you think there’s any way you or someone you know could arrange for me to speak with her? I won’t take much of her time.”

  She held up a finger. “Wait here.” She walked through the curtains and was gone for about ten minutes. While waiting, I carefully packed the pot back into the box. A huge smile covered her lined face when she returned. “Good news, Benni Harper. I called, and she said she’d see you. Get back on Highway One and turn off on Crazy Creek Road. Go past Eagle Rock Reservoir and keep going. It’s about ten miles. When you come to an old almond grove, that’s the turnoff for her ranch. Follow the dirt road another three miles and you’re there.”