“Thanks.” I picked up the box and headed for my truck.
I was already speeding down Pacific Coast Highway toward Crazy Creek Road when I realized she’d called me by name—and that I’d never given it to her. As I drove I couldn’t help but wonder now that I knew of the tenuous yet certain connection of Mr. Chandler to my mother if this Azanna Nybak knew my mother.
Within twenty minutes the reservoir appeared to my left. Eagle Rock Reservoir was a place I used to sneak off to with high school friends at night when we’d told our parents we’d be in town at the movies. We’d park our trucks along the side of the rarely used road and scoot down the small dirt embankment on the heels of our boots to throw rocks into the dark water and spook each other with fake bear sounds. At the old almond grove I turned onto a dirt road and followed it past well-maintained corrals and ancient wooden calf chutes.
I turned a corner, and the house appeared. It was a white, three-story farmhouse with a picket fence covered with blue morning glories and flowering honeysuckle. A small widow’s walk jutted out from a third-story window. The yard was as neat as a store-bought pie and at this moment empty, except for a six-foot bronze sculpture of a nude man and woman, limbs intertwined, faces not on each other but heavenward. I parked next to it, scattering the black-speckled chickens and three spectacular peacocks pecking at its base. I climbed out of the truck and read the small plaque on the sculpture—“Love Looking.”
The barn, as clean and white as the house, lay to my left; a gazebo with one high-back wicker chair lay to the right of the yard. A finely groomed black cocker spaniel trotted out from behind the house to greet me. He ran his nose up and down my legs, smelling Scout’s scent.
“You don’t look like a ranch dog,” I said, stooping to pet him.
He barked, and at that moment the sound of a shotgun blast tore through the air. I flinched and instinctively ducked. Unperturbed, the spaniel kept wagging his stubby tail.
The sound came from behind the house. I pocketed my keys and cautiously followed the second shot. When I came around the corner I encountered the shooter standing at the edge of the used brick patio. I watched this six-foot-tall woman, wearing a green and gold paisley caftan and spiky hair the color of red wine, as she calmly called “pull” to the young cowboy in leather chaps. He pulled the lever on a homemade skeet shooter, and a clay pigeon shot into the deep blue sky. I watched her fire at five in a row, and though she wore a black rhinestone-studded patch on one eye, she didn’t miss one. Without speaking, she nodded at the cowboy. He stood up and walked away from us, his ringing spurs the only sound in the quiet. The woman turned and looked at me with one kohl-ringed aquamarine eye.
“Have a seat, Benni Harper,” she said, pointing toward a couple of redwood lawn chairs with cushions made of red crushed velveteen.
I sat down. The cocker spaniel flopped down at my feet with a giant sigh, laying his head on my feet. I reached down and stroked his head.
“Typical man,” she said, sitting next to me and nodding at the dog. “Fickle as a ...” She paused for a moment and laughed, a laugh as deep and velvety as our chairs’ cushions. “As a man, by golly. There’s nothing else to compare them to.”
“Ms. Nybak, I came to see you ...” I started.
She held up a hand that seemed to belong to a different woman than this brilliant peacock sitting in front of me. Hers were ranchwoman hands—brown and calloused and square-nailed. “I know why you’re here. When did he die?”
I told her what I knew of Jacob Chandler’s death and about his funeral. “I’m sorry. I would have contacted you, but he didn’t leave an address book.”
She waved her hand in absolution. “That was Jake. He loved his secrets. And his games.”
“So I’ve discovered.”
Her smile was sad. “He was a lonely man. We understood each other.”
Impatient, I asked, “Do you have something for me?”
Her arched eyebrows rose at my tone. “You have two weeks, my dear. Relax and enjoy the journey. Would you like some sun tea?” She rang a silver bell on the table next to her. In a minute or so, a different young cowboy in Wranglers, a blue chambray shirt, and a silver and gold platter-shaped buckle came out of the back door carrying a tray with a very old-looking blue and white teapot, two delicate matching teacups, and a plate of poppy seed tea cakes. He set it on a round redwood table in front of us.
“Thank you, dear,” Azanna said to him. “Did the salt mix we order arrive at Farm Supply?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m driving into Paso this afternoon to fetch it.”
“Very good. Have a couple of beers at the Rawhide and put them on my tab. You’ve worked hard this week.”
“Thank you, Miss Nybak. Would you like me to pour?”
“No, dear, I can do it. Carry on.”
He nodded, then, without a glance at me, he turned and went back inside the house.
A bronze sculpture fine enough for a museum sitting in the yard with the chickens and peacocks, cowboys with the manners of English butlers, a sharpshooting woman with rancher’s hands and a queen’s demeanor. Alice’s Looking Glass had nothing on me.
I waited, realizing it was probably futile to try to rush this whole scenario. I crossed my legs, trying to keep my jittery foot still.
She poured us both tea, offered me a linen napkin and a tea cake, and when we’d both eaten one, she spoke again.
“Don’t be too impatient with Jake. I told him this might make you angry, but he insisted that he wanted to do it.” She stopped for a moment, her eyes misting. “I didn’t know it would happen quite this soon, though. It was a heart attack, you say?”
“That’s what the coroner thinks. They found him at home. Well, actually a neighbor did.”
“Tess Briggstone, I’ll venture to say.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “He cared about her, but those sons of hers are bad news, and she won’t ever see it. How’re they handling you inheriting Jake’s estate?”
“Not too well.” She and Jake had obviously been good enough friends that he told her all about this ridiculous scavenger hunt he’d concocted.
“How’s that handsome police chief husband of yours dealing with this?”
“How do you know so much about me?”
“Jake, of course. He’d been following your life for a long while. But then, I guess you probably have found that out.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Can’t tell you that, my dear. Old Jake might rise up from the grave and smite me. We were good friends, Jake and I. Very good friends. Without him, I would have never made it through the death of my sons. That’s where I met him, you know. In Mexico, when I went down to try to get their bodies.” Her one turquoise-colored eye misted over. “I would do anything for him.”
“What was he doing in Mexico?” I asked.
“I have no idea. He was very conversant in the language. Spent quite a bit of time there, I assumed. I don’t know how he did it, who he paid off or how much, because he wouldn’t tell me, but I got my sons’ bodies in one day. He wouldn’t let me pay him, so I sold him the house you’re living in for a good price. He wanted to settle down in this area without any fuss, and I helped him do that.”
“You did?”
“The house was built by my maternal grandfather. He was a sea captain and a woodworker, built those teak bookshelves himself. I knew it would suit Jacob, and being fiercely single, I have no one to leave it to. Are you comfortable there?”
“Yes,” I said, still shocked.
She smiled at me and sipped her tea. “This ranch came from my father’s side, in case you were wondering.”
“So, what now?” I asked, setting my half-finished tea on the table.
She pulled an envelope out of a hidden pocket in her paisley caftan and handed it to me. “This is my part of the relay.”
I opened the plain white envelope and found another hand-printed note and a black and white matchbook.
“Zalba’s French Basque Restaurant, Bakersfield, California.” I opened it up to find . . . matches.
“This is it?” I asked.
“That’s it. And I’ll be honest with you, I have no idea what it means. I’m assuming someone at this restaurant has something to give you.”
“When did he give you this?”
“About six or seven months ago.” She looked down in sadness. “He never told me he was having heart problems.”
I fingered the smooth book of matches. “Did you ever know anyone named Alice Ramsey?”
“The name doesn’t sound familiar.”
“How about Alice Louise Banks?” I asked, trying my mother’s maiden name.
She shook her head no.
I looked at her for a long moment, at a loss for something else to ask. The thing that was so frustrating about this situation was my lack of control. I was being forced to float along the current this man had set in motion, like a raft on a treacherous, unpredictable river. I stood up and held out my hand. “Thank you for the tea and cake, Ms. Nybak.”
She rose and stood looking down at me, adjusting the black rhinestone eyepatch with her rancher’s hand. “I’m sorry I can’t make this easier for you, Benni. He was my good friend. Once, something more. This was his last request.”
“I understand,” I said. Only I didn’t. I didn’t understand the point of this man’s ridiculous, tyrannical game.
When I reached the highway, I pulled over at the first scenic vista, found a comfortable seat on the rocks overlooking the ocean, and read his folded note. It was, as I expected, another lesson in wood carving.
You cannot beat wood into compliance. Wood responds to a gentle touch. You must cajole, not demand. If you honor wood, it will tell you the secrets hidden in its depths. Wood has personality. It can be hard or soft, easy to work with or difficult as an old uncle. There are many paths to good work. Beautiful carvings have resulted from flawed wood, and bad carvings have come from apparently unflawed materials. A wood-carver often must use the woods that are attainable, whether or not they are perfect for his purpose. Utilize flaws like knots, dry rot, fungus infections, holes, lines, unusual roots, and other deformities to create your own unique finished piece.
What did he mean by this? What did he mean by any of it? Why couldn’t he just spell things out? I jammed the page and matchbook into my leather backpack and headed toward San Celina. I made it to the historical museum with five minutes to spare.
There were even more TV cameras than there were the day before. One van had Hard Copy written on the side. It was pulling away from the curb as I walked up. Thank goodness no one had informed them about my four o’clock meeting with the San Celina Seven.
A group of senior citizens wearing matching gray sweatshirts leaned on picket signs. Printed across each of their backs in bright red lettering was—“Heck, No, We Ain’t Old.” I wasn’t quite clear on how that slogan had anything to do with saving the museum. Next to the protesting seniors were tables covered with cakes, brownies, and cookies. The sign said—“San Celina High School Mustang Pep Squad—Half of proceeds to go to saving the Historicule Museum.” The other half, I surmised, should go to spelling lessons.
After a quick check on Dove and her cohorts, taking their orders for crossword puzzle books, a couple of spools of white quilting thread for the quilt they were working on, and two avocados for Elmo Ritter who had a craving, I went back outside and was assaulted by a half dozen reporters. I gave a quick statement. No, they weren’t weakening; yes, they were absolutely serious; I had no idea whether the mayor’s mother had breast-fed him or not. The last question was from our local advocates of breast-feeding. I guess they figured a man as sour and contrary as Mayor “Boxstore Billy” Davenport must have been raised on chemical formulas.
Gabe was waiting for me at the command post across the street.
“Where’s Emory?” I asked.
“They let him in earlier. He told Dove he had to get ready for a date with Elvia. She granted him special dispensation in the name of romance.” He gave a half smile. “What did our abuelita have to say?”
“That unless Bill concedes to renewing the lease for another twenty years, they aren’t budging. Was that really a Hard Copy news van I saw driving away?”
“Yes,” he said curtly.
“Did they interview you?”
“Yes, but they probably won’t use it. I told them we were in negotiations with the seniors, and other than that, no comment. Last I heard, they were hunting down Bill. He’s made it a point to stay away from here since he found out his mother was involved.”
I couldn’t help but giggle. Gabe shot me an irritated look.
“I’m sorry,” I said, still laughing behind my hand. “It’s just so ironic and so ... right.”
He didn’t answer, and I didn’t blame him. All he wanted to do was keep peace in the city, and it seemed right now that everyone was fighting him on that. “Are you hungry?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Starved. Let’s go to Liddie’s. I feel like comfort food.”
Over my chicken potpie and his steamed vegetables, I brought him up-to-date on my quest for Jacob Chandler’s identity—about my trip to Harmony and meeting Azanna, but still leaving out the connection to my mother.
“My next step,” I said, “will be to call the restaurant and see if they have something for me. I might have to drive out there to get it.”
“I don’t like the thought of you driving 46 alone with all this going on.” He tore off a piece of dinner roll and took a bite. “Not to mention it’s a death trap of a road at any time.”
“I’ve driven it a hundred times. I’ll be fine.”
He sipped his iced tea and didn’t answer. That meant he didn’t approve but wasn’t going to argue with me.
I smiled at him. “I have the cellular phone you bought me. I really will be okay.”
“When are you going?”
“If I go, it’ll have to be tomorrow. Saturday’s going to be a busy day at the folk art museum with the Mother’s Day exhibit, and I should at least make an appearance.”
In the parking lot, I gave him a quick kiss good-bye.
“You’re always leaving me,” he complained, pulling me back against him. I rested my face in his neck, rough with early evening stubble. His arms held me strong and close, and for a brief moment I let myself relax, eventually pulling away with regret.
“I need to get back and feed Scout. I’ve been leaving him alone too much lately, but I feel better if he’s there watching the house. I don’t trust those Briggstone guys.”
“And you shouldn’t. Have they approached you at all?”
“No, I think they’re too cowardly for that. Practical jokes like paint on my doorknob are more their style, I think.”
“Setting your garage on fire is a little more than a practical joke.”
“We don’t actually know they’re the culprits. Mr. Chandler sure didn’t realize what a bed of snakes he’d left behind for me to deal with.”
Gabe’s face grew sober. “Or he didn’t care. Seems to me his game takes precedence over the people he had relationships with or his concern for your safety. I find that very calculating.”
“I agree with you mostly, except that on this wild-goose chase he’s led me, I’ve also discovered another man. All the people he’s left these wood carving instructions and clues with have been people he’s helped out in some very rough times. They have nothing but good feelings about him. I think what he’s trying to do is tell me about himself. The person I’m discovering is an enigma—sometimes he pisses me off, and then I hear some incredibly nice story about him from one of these people, and my bad opinion of him wavers. To be honest, I don’t know which is the real man.”
Gabe brought a warm hand up to my cheek. “In my experience, querida, anyone who is that manipulative and wants to be in that much control is not a good person.”
“This from a man who secretly dreams of b
eing king of the world,” I said, laughing as I laced my fingers through his. “I don’t have a choice. I have to see this to the end.”
“You’re wrong. You do have a choice. He’s only in control because you’re allowing him to be, and I don’t understand why.”
I released his hands. “Let’s not get into that, okay?” If we talked too much longer, I’d be tempted to tell him about Mr. Chandler’s tenuous connection to my mother.
“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll call you tonight.”
On the drive back to Morro Bay I thought about what Gabe had said regarding control. Was wanting to be in control always bad? There were all sorts of situations where control was important. A total lack of control meant chaos. That was crazy. A good leader is in control . . . both of the situation and themselves. Like this thing with Dove. If Gabe wasn’t in control, wasn’t keeping everyone within their legal boundaries, a lot of people could get hurt. A crowd without control is a mob. Of course, ultimately we don’t have control of anything important. Where we come from, who we love, when we die. Well, these days maybe that last one was up for debate. But the fact remained we couldn’t control that we die. There was no doubt that for the moment, like it or not, Mr. Chandler’s morbid game of emotional “catch me if you can” put him in control.
The question still remained, though, even more so now that I knew he was connected somehow to my mother. Why?
11
WHEN I GOT back to Morro Bay, I immediately called the Basque restaurant in Bakersfield. After speaking to three different people who couldn’t make sense of what I was asking with the scant information I offered, they finally told me that I should probably talk to the owner, Gabriel Zalba. He was gone for the day but would be in tomorrow at eleven a.m. As much as I dreaded the long, boring trip, it seemed best if I drove to Bakersfield and talked to him in person.
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