Mariner's Compass Read online

  “You women,” he said, heaving an exaggerated sigh. “You’ll be the death of me.”

  “Pipe down. You’re beginning to sound like Aunt Garnet. Gabe and I are going out to the ranch this evening. Anything you need to tell Dove?”

  “No, I’ll be calling her myself tonight about that column she wants written on the city’s plans to sell the historical museum. It’s going to run in tomorrow’s paper.”

  “I think what the city’s doing is crappy.”

  The historical museum, located in the old brick and stone Carnegie library, was the pride and joy of my gramma Dove and her cronies in the San Celina County Historical Society. Acquiring the lease five years ago had been the result of constant haranguing and calling in of every marker these influential seniors had from their countless years of community service. But recently the city council, led by our new mayor, had been making rumblings about how the museum wasn’t a moneymaker and how much they needed the space for something that could generate tax revenue for our growing city. It was rumored that the old library might be sold to a hotel chain that planned on turning it into a theme restaurant.

  I blew a soft raspberry at the county buildings. “Your article better wake up people into seeing what’s happening to our town.”

  “That’s the whole plan. It’s going to be a tough fight against ‘Boxstore Billy,’ though. He’s determined to, as he says, ‘usher San Celina into a bright and prosperous new millennium.’ ”

  Our newly elected mayor, William Davenport, was a dark horse candidate who no one had expected to win at the special election held in December because our old mayor resigned due to health reasons. Mayor Davenport proved to be slightly less “Committed to Retaining San Celina’s Old-fashioned Values” than he professed in his enthusiastic campaigning.

  “What he’s doing is taking everything unique about this town and making us look just like every other town in the United States,” I said.

  “You know I’ll muckrake as best my little Southern heart can.” He slapped the side of the truck. “Now, canter off to claim your inheritance, my calamitous little cowgirl, and remember, I get the scoop.”

  “There is no story,” I repeated to his disbelieving face.

  After he left, I opened the envelope containing the will and glanced down at the address: 993 Pelican Street. I had no idea where that was in Morro Bay, so I felt under the seat and found a street map for San Celina County. Pelican was one of the small streets overlooking the Embarcadero. The Embarcadero, with its incredible view of Morro Rock, paralleled the bay and was the first place tourists headed when they hit town. The shell boutiques, fish-and-chips restaurants, art galleries, saltwater taffy parlors, and nautical knickknack shops drew visitors like kids to cotton candy.

  Morro Bay wasn’t a big town—tiny, in fact, compared to San Celina. The population was just over 9,500—one quarter the size of San Celina. It was known mostly for its great fish restaurants, perfect summer weather, and mysterious Morro Rock jutting out of the cool green ocean, the last of a chain of volcanic peaks that marched through San Celina County down to the sea. The greatest number of tourists arrived sometime around June, and Morro Bay’s surfing, sportfishing, bird-watching, and camping businesses thrived until the visitors disappeared as quickly as they came after Labor Day. It was a town that held special memories for me and Gabe. Since it was only twelve miles from San Celina, we did much of our dating there, wandering through the funky antique stores and art galleries, gradually getting to know each other away from curious eyes in San Celina. We’d usually end up at one of the seafood restaurants perched over the bay or at the house of Aaron Davidson, Gabe’s first partner and best friend. Rachel, Aaron’s wife, would serve us sun tea and homemade oatmeal cookies while Aaron and Gabe would reminisce about their old LAPD days. Rachel and Aaron lived there for eleven years, but after Aaron’s death last September from liver cancer, Rachel sold their house and moved back east to live with her daughter. Gabe and I hadn’t been back to Morro Bay since.

  The twenty-minute drive to Morro Bay on State Highway 1 gave me time to contemplate this new twist in my life. Who was Jacob Chandler? Why would he leave me all his possessions? Had I met him somewhere and not remembered? Perhaps helped him with his packages, opened a door for him, said hello, performed some small kindness that compelled him to name me as his heir? You heard about things like this in tabloid newspapers or in movies, but never in real life. Nobody left an entire estate to a perfect stranger just because she picked up some spilled apples.

  The road to Morro Bay bisected mile after mile of brilliant green hills. I felt a rancher’s joy at seeing the feed look so lush and healthy this year. We’d had consistent rains this winter, and it was about as perfect a spring as I’d seen in ten years. Heifers and their calves stood knee deep in emerald grass that rippled and danced like thick green waves. Ahead of me, out of the perpetual fog that often lingered in Morro Bay until past noon, the smokestacks of the PG & E power plant appeared, pointing its three aggressive fingers to the sky. Morro Rock, named by the Portuguese explorer Juan Cabrillo, loomed next to it, still shrouded in white, misty clouds.

  I drove down Morro Bay Boulevard, the town’s main north/south street, going past shops and cafes that commingled in my memories with both Jack, my late husband and childhood sweetheart, and Gabe, my intense and very present second husband. I passed the old Bayside Theater still holding on in its faded glory with two evening showings and a Saturday matinee. Small-town America, rapidly being lost in San Celina, still survived in Morro Bay. Across from the theater was a quilt shop I’d visited often—The Fabric Patch. It was run by a bubbly, enthusiastic woman named Tina Davis who loved quilts, kids, quilters, Morro Bay, and her husband Tom, not necessarily in that order. Since San Celina didn’t have a quilt store, during the last two years as curator of the folk art museum, I’d called upon her regularly for quilting information and supplies. She was one of the few people I knew in Morro Bay, so I’d definitely have to talk to her about Mr. Chandler.

  I glanced back down at the map. Pelican paralleled Morro Bay Boulevard, so I turned right on Maddox Street until I came to Pelican Street. I turned south, cruising slowly, looking for 993. The houses in this part of Morro Bay seemed like dollhouses. Though most were of a similar, California bungalow design, each uniquely reflected the owner’s personality. The houses were painted in myriad blues, grays, whites, pinks, and faded yellows. The yards were embellished with salmon-shaped wind socks, elaborate rock gardens filled with ceramic ducks and gnomes, hanging baskets filled with lush asparagus ferns, and sprinkled everywhere the wild yellow monkey flowers that sprouted out of every nook and cranny each spring.

  Pelican Street ended at an ice-plant-covered bluff overlooking the Embarcadero. I parked in front of 993 Pelican Street and studied the house from the safety of the truck’s cab.

  The house, my house, sat on the corner of Pelican and Grove streets. The front of the house faced Pelican, and the detached garage faced Grove, a street-alley consisting only of garages. It was a one-story house painted pale yellow with white trim. A fence of neatly trimmed thick green bushes surrounded the yard. At the entrance to the front sidewalk someone had patiently trained the bushes into a seven-foot arch and attached a white picket gate to two wooden posts. Red and pink impatiens surrounded a tugboat-shaped mailbox. I climbed out of the truck and opened the mailbox. Inside there was an electric bill and a bunch of advertisement papers.

  Still not ready to go inside, I looked out at the Embarcadero and Morro Rock, which would be the view from the house’s back deck. Hidden in the ice plant was a small staircase leading to the parking lot of a surf shop named Pinkie’s Boards and Bikinis. In the distance, the sailboat masts rocked in the brisk May winds. Catty-corner from the house was a small motel decorated with blue and gray gingerbread edging and balconies off each room. The sign in front—in shiny black calligraphy—stated, “The Pelican Inn—Your Second Home by the Sea.”

  I took a deep b
reath and walked up to the gate feeling apprehensive, intrigued, and, I’ll admit, a little excited.

  That’s when I found out what else I’d inherited besides the house.

  3

  THE DOG AND I studied each other for a long thirty seconds. He was a handsome Lab mix, the color of creamy milk chocolate. I guessed by the shape of his head and long snout, not to mention one upright, tent-shaped ear, that some German shepherd flowed through his blood. His eyes, the color of dark sage honey, made me wonder if there wasn’t also a sly old coyote grandparent. He broke the face-off and walked slowly toward me. The muscles in my arms and legs tensed. Growing up around animals, I knew how unpredictable they could be, but before I could hold out my hand for him to sniff, he sat down next to me and with great familiarity leaned his seventy some-odd pounds against my left leg, heaving a deep sigh as if to say, “What took you so long?”

  I scratched behind his floppy Labrador ear and said, “So, did you come with the house or are you just visiting?”

  His tail thumped against the concrete walkway. I stooped down and felt along his collar. A large wet tongue kissed my cheek. “Well, you certainly have a friendly streak,” I said, finding his ID tag. “Scout,” I read out loud. His thick tail whump, whumped again.

  “Good solid name,” I said, stroking his velvet head, reveling in the touch and smell of canine. Though we had three ranch dogs who followed Daddy or whoever was driving a ranch truck everywhere, I hadn’t had a personal pet since five months before Jack died. We’d had Poacher, our Border collie, put to sleep because of a brain tumor. It broke our hearts not only because we loved him, but because, along with our brass bed, he’d been with us since the first year of our marriage. I missed the companionship of a dog—their honest emotions and joyful acceptance of you no matter what your mood.

  “Look at me, Scout, acting like you’ve come with the house. You’re probably one of the neighbors’ dog. Did Mr. Chandler sneak you treats? Is that why you’re hanging around?” I ran my hand down his healthy, padded rib cage. His shiny coat and bright eyes indicated he wasn’t a stray; he obviously belonged to somebody. I glanced around. The neighborhood was quiet in the thinning fog; no one to ask without knocking on doors. Finding out who owned Scout would be my second task after inspecting Mr. Chandler’s house.

  I stood up and dug in the bottom of my purse for the boot-shaped key ring. “So, want to join me while I check out my inheritance?”

  A small sound grumbled from the back of his throat.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  The expensive oak front door had a two-foot oval stained glass window. The pattern was an old sailing ship, the full sails made of a milky white glass, the sun behind it an improbable red-pink.

  The key slid smoothly into the lock, and I turned the knob, my stomach lurching slightly. I touched Scout’s head, thankful for his comforting presence. The door opened directly into a small living room. The house smelled of smoky vanilla, like that from a pipe. To my left a doorway led to the kitchen. Directly in front of me, a short hall ended at three closed doors which, after a quick inspection, turned out to be two bedrooms and a bathroom. Back in the living room, I walked over to the sliding glass window running the length of the west wall. The curtains opened to reveal the freshly painted wooden deck I had seen from my truck and a million-dollar view of the Embarcadero and Morro Rock. Two redwood lawn chairs with bright kelly green cushions and a matching table sat waiting for occupants. I gazed for a moment out at the busy harbor scene below and the ocean beyond. The sunsets from this perch were probably magnificent.

  I turned back and really looked at the living room—clearer now in the light. There was no doubt that Mr. Chandler was a man who loved both wood and the sea. Everything in the living room celebrated the beauty of wood from the built-in teak bookcases to the oak mantle carved with small anchors and dolphins setting off the stone fireplace to the dozens of hand-carved duck decoys.

  I walked around the room, studying the furniture and wood carvings, trying to get a handle on this man’s identity. The detailed workmanship of his carvings was unbelievable. A walnut dolphin, looking as if it sprang from a burl of wood, danced on its tail; a mare with a colt lying at her feet made from some kind of light, very grainy wood; walking sticks carved with the heads of dogs, cats, horses, and gargoyles; a tiny wren perched on a hunk of rough wood, looking as if it would take flight any minute; a cormorant in smooth wood whose wings lifted as a hinged lid to reveal five small wooden fish inside. I counted fifteen duck decoys—some so realistic I expected them to shake their feathers and quack when I touched them. On the walls were framed prints of old sailing ships and one hand-carved bas-relief plaque in pale, almost grainless wood—“Raise the stone and thou shalt find me; cleave the wood and there I am.”

  I read it out loud, saying each word slowly. It seemed religious, but didn’t sound like anything I’d ever read or heard.

  The sofa was a plain navy cotton with an Irish Chain lap quilt hung over one arm; the chair opposite it a wine-colored recliner. A refinished trunk, the wood trim perfectly restored and flawless, served as a coffee table. On the table was a pipe stand cradling two very used pipes and a carved horse’s head on a pedestal. I picked it up and ran my thumb over the horse’s muscled neck. There was something vaguely familiar about it. Mr. Chandler had been true to the wood, a light hard wood I couldn’t name, following the grain, letting the wood tell him where to carve. I turned it over and read the named carved on the base—Harley.

  I sat it back down on the trunk, my hand shaking. Harley had been my first horse. A chestnut-colored, part quarter horse, part standard breed with a single white star on his forehead, he’d died of old age when I was twenty-two. I picked up the pale oak carving. He’d even gotten the scar on Harley’s neck right—a scar from a protruding nail in the old corral behind the barn.

  How did he know what my first horse looked like? A tiny ripple of apprehension scuttled crablike down my spine.

  Scout nudged my hand, and I absently scratched behind his Lab ear, which I’d discerned was a favorite spot. “Who is this guy, Scout? You want to give me a clue?”

  All I got was another Morse-code tail thump.

  Since I’d been curator of the folk art museum I’d become a lay expert on a variety of different arts and crafts. Whenever a new artist was accepted into the artists’ coop or whenever we installed a new exhibit, I read everything I could find at the library and Elvia’s bookstore about that particular subject. We’d had a wood carving exhibit cosponsored by the San Celina County Woodcarvers Guild last winter. Their museum and headquarters was north of here near the town of San Simeon. It was one place I could begin my inquires about Jacob Chandler.

  A perfunctory inspection of the remainder of the house took only a few minutes. It was tidy in the way that lifelong bachelor quarters are, though the conclusion that Jacob Chandler had never been married was purely speculative on my part. Here I was already making judgments before possessing all the facts, something I was trying to avoid. His queen-size bed, a simple, walnut four-poster, was covered appropriately with a Mariner’s Compass quilt made with navy, slate blue, and gold fabric. The pattern, looking just like its namesake, had sixteen points radiating from a gold center. The workmanship was expert. An Ocean Waves lap quilt in blues, teals, and greens was folded neatly over the bed’s footboard. The room held only one nightstand and a chest of drawers, both in the same dark wood as the bed. The three handmade quilts I’d found told me that someone in Mr. Chandler’s life was a quilter.

  “Or he is,” I said to Scout. “There I go again, making assumptions.” Next to his bed was a fancy L.L. Bean dog bed in a hunter green plaid. “So, is this your bed? If it is, it looks like you’re used to the best, my friend.” Scout’s tail wagged politely.

  Predictably the bookcase in his bedroom held many wood carving manuals and books on old sailing ships and an Audubon book on North American birds. But there were also some well-thumbed poetr
y collections—Frost, St. Vincent Millay, Yeats, and Kipling. He also seemed fond of puzzle and game books—chess strategy, Mensa quiz books, cryptograms, logic puzzles, a Scrabble dictionary.

  A game player. Something told me that wasn’t a good sign.

  “One thing for sure, Scout, I have plenty of time to go through everything if I’m going to be staying here the next two weeks, so right now I think I’ll take a quick tour of the yard and then see where you really belong, though I’m half tempted to offer ten bucks for you.” I encircled his muzzle in my hand and gave it a little shake.

  He wiggled away, barked joyfully at the game, then licked my hand.

  “Okay, fifty bucks. But that’s as high as I’m going. Then I have to go home and let Gabe know what’s going on.”

  Scout followed me back through the simple white and yellow kitchen where there was a door leading to the backyard. Next to the door was a ceramic dog dish with Scout painted on the side, confirming, along with the bed, where he belonged.

  I checked out the garage first. Inside the clean and neat structure was a light blue Honda Accord that looked a couple of years old. The glove compartment held only his registration, a blue packet of AAA maps, and a couple of flares. I popped the trunk open from a lever inside the car and found only the spare tire, a jack, and an old blanket. The unlocked garage cabinets were stocked with plant food, insecticides, and some used gardening tools. Mr. Chandler obviously did his own gardening.

  And, I thought, standing in the backyard and observing his work, he really loved it. The yard was crazy with flowers and plants, only half of which I could name. Impatiens mixed with rosebushes and rows of freshly planted tulips. A row of purple iris ran along a side fence so covered with ivy that only small windows of splintery gray wood showed. Blue and green tiles etched with boats, pelicans, and starfish led to a gray, lava-stone birdbath in the corner of the yard, its base surrounded by new red tulips. In the brightening sunlight something silver glinted in the loose black dirt surrounding the birdbath. I bent down to pick up what turned out to be a half-buried quarter.