Mariner's Compass Page 4

  “Hey, neighbor!” a loud, bass voice bellowed out.

  Startled, I jerked up, scraping my forehead against the rough edge of the birdbath. “What the . . . ?” I touched my stinging forehead, then inspected my fingers stained with blood.

  An older Hispanic man peered at me over the ivy-covered fence. He muttered some Spanish words, then, “Oh, kid, I’m sorry. Just a minute.” His head disappeared, and I stood there dumbly, my hand reaching instinctively down to Scout’s head. In less than a minute I saw a piece of the fence move, and the man came through a hidden gate, a small first aid kit tucked under his arm. He had strong, heavy features with silver-streaked black hair that touched his shoulders in a shaggy, casual haircut. His skin glowed the same reddish-mahogany as my stepson Sam’s after a day of surfing. He wore faded jeans, an orange and white Hawaiian shirt, and a split leather cowboy hat—a sort of Pancho-Villa-meets-the-Beach-Boys look. His age appeared to be early sixties.

  “I didn’t know a gate was there!” I exclaimed.

  The slight pouches under the man’s black eyes smoothed out when he smiled. “Story goes that the original owners of these two houses were a married couple who couldn’t live together but still liked to visit a couple of evenings a week.”

  I laughed. “Sounds like the perfect setup to me.”

  “Now, you don’t mean that,” he said.

  “You might be surprised.”

  “Believe me, kid, at my age you very rarely are. Hey, amigo, ” he said, reaching down and scratching under Scout’s chin. “Had a craving for enchiladas today, not tri-tip steak. Guess you’re stuck with the canned stuff tonight.”

  Scout’s wagging tail beat furiously against my leg. “You two know each other, I see.”

  “Me and el perro loco here are old friends. Since I’ve only lived here three months I’m still enamored with the local custom of barbecuing tri-tip over oakwood, so he gets a lot of my scraps.”

  “You’re not from around here?” There went my burgeoning hope of picking his brain for information about Mr. Chandler.

  “Leased this house three months ago. I’m originally from Phoenix. I’m trying to decide where to spend my retirement years. I have one daughter in San Francisco, one in Hollywood, and one in Santa Monica.” He rubbed the back of his fingers on his brown cheek. “Not one city I consider habitable, so I thought somewhere in between might be good. Besides, this ocean air is good for the complexion.” He grinned at me.

  “Something I’m sure your wife especially appreciates,” I said.

  His dark eyes flickered. “Wish that were so. She died five years ago. That’s also why I moved. It was about time to let the old place go. Start a new life.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Thank you.” He held up the first aid kit in his hand. “Since that scrape on your head is my fault, how about letting me take a look at it?” He grinned at me again. “Don’t worry, you can trust me. I’m a fireman.”

  I laughed. “That would be great, except I’m not on fire.”

  He shook his head and pointed to a blue wooden bench under a pepper tree. “You sound like one of my daughters. You modern young women, always the smart remark for everything. Why, in my day—”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “I’ll let you bandage my wounds as long as I don’t have to endure an ‘In my day, women were seen and not heard’ lecture.”

  He raised his thick black eyebrows. “You do know my daughters, don’t you?”

  “No, but I have a father.”

  I sat down on the bench. Scout flopped down, resting his head on the tops of my feet.

  “Lift your bangs,” the fireman said, sitting down beside me. He inspected the scrape closely, then tore open an alcohol swab and started cleaning around it. “Trust me,” he said. “I was a paramedic about twenty years ago.” I jerked back when the alcohol hit my raw skin.

  “It’s going to sting a little,” he said.

  “You’re a day late and a dollar short there, buddy,” I commented.

  “Cut an old fart some slack. I’m not as quick on the draw as I once was.” He winked at me. “So, what was all the ruckus about this morning?” he asked as he tore pieces of tape with his teeth to fit the gauze pad covered with antibiotic cream.

  “Mr. Chandler passed away last night.”

  He carefully taped the bandage to my forehead. “The guy who lived here? I’m sorry to hear that.” Only inches away, he looked sympathetically into my eyes. “Was he a relative?”

  “No,” I answered, feeling funny about accepting sympathy for a sorrow I didn’t feel.

  When I didn’t elaborate, he didn’t press. He ran a finger lightly over the taped edges, flattening them into place. “All done.” He snapped the first aid kit closed and held out his hand. “Richard Manuel Jose Trujillo. Formerly of Phoenix, Arizona. Call me Rich.”

  I took his hand and said, “Benni Harper. San Celina, California.”

  “So, Benni Harper of San Celina, what brings you to Morro Bay?”

  I hesitated, then blurted out, “How well did you know Jacob Chandler?”

  His face grew curious. “Jake? Not well. We talked over the fence a few times. You know, weather and whatnot. He recommended a few restaurants and the fishing boat I go out on sometimes.” He shrugged. “We were just neighbors. We didn’t run in the same circles here in town. Actually, I haven’t really gotten to know many people yet. Me and the fire chief are old buddies from way back, but other than that I’m still a relative newcomer here myself.”

  I hesitated again. Did I want to tell this person, this stranger, about the weird circumstances of my inheritance? A silent voice warned me to keep that information to myself. On the other hand, how would I convince people to talk to me if they didn’t even know who I was or why I was here? I felt irrationally guilty, as if I’d done something wrong, when in reality I was an innocent bystander drawn into the life of a man I’d never met. Another feeling of uneasiness seized me when I realized that a good chance that relatives or friends of Jacob Chandler might expect his will to read quite differently.

  “Hey, kid, are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, fine.” I stood up abruptly. Scout jumped up and crowded next to my leg.

  Rich stood up, and I looked at him for a long moment. His dark eyes seemed kind, and I had to start somewhere.

  “To be honest,” I said, reaching down and stroking Scout’s head for comfort, “I didn’t even know Mr. Chandler. I just found out today that he died and left me everything he owns, which apparently includes Scout here.”

  “That’s the strangest thing I ever heard.”

  Should I tell him the stipulation of the will? No, the silent voice cautioned again. Gabe’s instinctive cop suspiciousness had obviously rubbed off on me. Mr. Trujillo would find out soon enough, since I was destined to be his neighbor for the next two weeks. One thing was for sure, I wanted Gabe to check the place out before I uncurled my bedroll and settled in.

  “Did you . . .” I didn’t know quite how to say it. “What kind of impression did you get of him?”

  He pulled at one of his short sideburns, considering my question. “I’d say he was about my age—early sixties. Liked to garden and fish, like a lot of us who retire here. Showed me some of his wood carving. The guy was really talented. Oh, and he was a diabetic.”

  “He was?” I hadn’t seen any indication of it, but then I hadn’t looked through the kitchen cupboards yet.

  “Yeah, he told me when he found out I was once a paramedic. I’m borderline myself, but I can still control it by diet. Oh, one other thing. He and the lady across the street were in and out of each other’s places a lot.” He pointed to a blue and white clapboard house next door to the Pelican Inn.

  That must be the woman who found him. There was one of those potential disappointed persons who worried me. How close were she and Mr. Chandler? “Well, thanks. I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

&nb
sp; “I’ll look forward to it. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

  “That’s okay. Well, Scooby-doo,” I said to my new dog, “we’ve got exactly one hour to figure out how to break it to my husband that we have a new family member.”

  Rich bent down and scratched Scout’s throat. “Hope he likes dogs.”

  “He does.” At least, I hoped he did, because I’d already decided one thing. There was no way I was giving up this one.

  Rich said, “Well, show him this. It’s a sure bet.” He straightened up and said, “Scout, friend.”

  Scout immediately sat down and lifted a paw.

  “That’s great!” I said. “Does he know any other commands?”

  “I think all the regular ones—sit, stay, come, down. Jake told me he trained him right from a puppy. Said he didn’t like unruly dogs—especially big ones.”

  “That has to work in Scout’s favor, right?”

  “I’d say it probably does.” He grinned at me. “If not, you have a bit of sweet-talking to do tonight. Somehow, I get the feeling that between you and Scout there, that husband of yours doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Rich waved good-bye and disappeared back through the gate into his yard. I locked up the house and opened the passenger side of the truck. Scout jumped in as if we’d done this a million times.

  “Okay, my furry friend, you’re going to meet the real alpha dog in this outfit. Best be on your most adorable behavior, ’cause el Perro Patron’s got mucho grande power in this county.”

  With the nonchalant confidence so reminiscent of his unmet competition, he licked his lips and yawned.

  I WAS SITTING cross-legged on the sofa mentally rehearsing my explanation when Gabe burst through the front door at a little past four-thirty.

  “Sorry, I’m late. I got hung up on ...” He was stopped dead in his tracks by Scout’s raised hackles and low growl.

  “Scout, no,” I said quickly, surprised at his instant protectiveness.

  The dog continued to growl.

  Gabe scowled and took a step forward.

  Scout’s rumble deepened.

  I jumped up and grabbed Scout’s collar. “Scout, stop.”

  The look on my husband’s face became darker. Then I remembered what Rich had told me.

  “Scout, friend.”

  The dog immediately sat down and lifted a paw.

  Gabe frowned at the dog. Scout continued to offer his paw.

  “Better shake it, or who knows what he’ll do,” I said.

  Gabe cautiously walked over and shook it. Scout immediately licked his hand, and Gabe’s face softened. “You posturing pendejo.”

  Scout was home free.

  Gabe sat down next to me on the sofa, scratching behind Scout’s ears, and asked, “Okay, I’ll bite. Who’s he and what’s he doing in our house?”

  “His name is Scout. He’s . . . well he’s mine now.”

  “He’s what you inherited from this guy?”

  “Not only Scout, but a house in Morro Bay. Not to mention all its contents. It was so weird, Gabe. The minute I walked up, Scout greeted me like he’d known I was coming, and he hasn’t left my side since. And you should see what’s inside the house. It’s—”

  His face hardened, and he snapped, “You went inside this house without letting me check it out first? Are you out of your mind?”

  “It’s in a perfectly nice neighborhood overlooking the Embarcadero. I even met one of my neighbors. He—”

  “Benni, I swear, someday I’m going to lock you in our house and wear the key around my neck. I had no idea a house was involved. There could be a bomb there, or it could be a meth lab, or—”

  I interrupted him with a laugh. “For cryin’ out loud, Gabe, a bomb?”

  He jumped up and started pacing, his face turning burnt sienna as he moved right into lecturing without taking a breath. “Not to mention it could have been a setup. Someone could have been just waiting for you to walk through that door. You really don’t have any idea how stupid it was to go to that house alone, do you?”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Don’t call me stupid.”

  He stopped in front of me, his face pained. “Sweetheart, I wasn’t calling you stupid. What you did was ...”

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  He inhaled deeply. “Injudicious.”

  “Now there’s a five-dollar way of saying stupid.”

  “Okay, imprudent.”

  “That hole you’re digging is getting deeper by the minute, Chief Ortiz.” This was not going like I’d planned. In fact, it was much worse than I’d expected. He was going to have a stroke when he heard the will’s stipulation.

  I gnawed the inside of my cheek, contemplating how to phrase it.

  His fingers tugged irritably at one side of his thick mustache. “Okay, tell me the rest. Don’t make me guess what that guilty look on your face means.”

  “I resent that! I don’t have a guilty look.”

  He sat down on the sofa and started tickling me. “Spill it, Señora Ortiz.”

  “Stop it, stop it!” I tried to wiggle away. Scout started barking when Gabe pushed me down and lay on top of me, his hands still tickling my sides.

  “Scout, save me!” I cried, laughing so hard tears flowed from my eyes. My new watchdog just stood there and continued barking, his tail wagging triple time. “He’s going to bite you,” I said, gasping.

  “He knows we’re just playing,” Gabe said, stopping long enough to kiss me long and hard. “Are you going to confess now, or am I going to have to continue torturing you?”

  I scrubbed my lips across his mustache. “Forget the tickling, but this isn’t so bad.”

  “The torture is I won’t kiss you again until you confess.”

  I pushed him off me. “Chief Ortiz, you’d better watch that uppity attitude of yours. You aren’t that irresistible.”

  Gabe sat back on the sofa and ran his fingers through his messy hair, no longer laughing. “Seriously, what’s the rest of the story?”

  I told him the requirements of the will in one long run-on sentence. His face turned from cynical to incredulous to immovable stone.

  “Absolutely not. I won’t allow it,” he said in his police chief voice.

  “You won’t allow it? Excuse me, but the last time I checked Roget’s Thesaurus, wife and slave were not synonyms.”

  “It’s crazy. Let the government have the whole thing.”

  “No way!” I protested, standing up and heading toward the bedroom to pack, Gabe and Scout fighting for position to follow me. I opened the closet door and pulled down a canvas duffel bag. ”I’m going to follow the will’s instructions right down to the last comma so I can inherit that house. It has to be worth at least two hundred thousand dollars. Maybe more.”

  “If it’s paid off.”

  “I’m sure it is, or Amanda would have told me.” I started throwing jeans, underwear, and T-shirts into my bag. Remembering the funeral I was going to have to plan and attend, -I added a plain cotton navy dress and a pair of pumps. Then I tossed in a couple of flannel shirts, since it was always ten to fifteen degrees colder in Morro Bay than San Celina. “Come with me to the house and look through it. Like I said, it’s in a perfectly nice neighborhood. Good locks on the doors. I even met one of my neighbors. He’s a fireman.”

  Gabe leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed. “Oh, wonderful. I feel so much better about your safety now.”

  I laughed at his superior expression and grabbed my flannel-lined Levi’s jacket. “C’mon, I thought there was some kind of brotherhood between cops and firemen.”

  “I have the utmost respect for firemen. They manage to get full-time pay and benefits for a part-time job. You have to admire anyone who can pull off a scam like that. Not to mention they’re usually darn good contractors. But then, they have all that spare time to work on it.”

  I laughed and zipped up my bag. “I’m going to tell Barry you said that.” Barry Dolenz was San Cel
ina’s fire chief and an occasional racquetball partner of Gabe’s.

  “I’ve told him that a million times. He doesn’t argue because he knows I’m right.”

  Before I could answer we heard an Arkansas drawl call out, “Knock, knock” from the front screen door.

  “In the bedroom,” I called back.

  Scout stood up when Emory entered the room, but no threatening sound came from his throat.

  My cousin stopped short when he saw the dog. “How do you do?” he said politely, crouching and holding out his hand. Scout walked over and sniffed it cautiously, then allowed his head to be stroked.

  “Why didn’t he growl at him?” Gabe asked.

  “Maybe it has to do with how fast you were moving toward me,” I said.

  “Off to claim your inheritance?” my cousin asked me, glancing down at my bulging bag, then smiling at Gabe. “Guess you’ll be singing the empty bed blues for a few weeks, Chief. Join the club.”

  I gave Emory a warning look that only made him grin wider.

  Gabe, arms still crossed, grunted irritably.

  “He wants me to let the government have it all,” I said.

  “Cousin Gabe, I declare, is what she says true?”

  Gabe faced my cousin, his hands outstretched. “There’s something not right about this whole thing, Emory.” He jerked a thumb at me. “Would you talk some sense into her?”

  Gabe knew that if he won Emory over, that would be a big boost to his side. Emory and I had been close since childhood, our friendship deepening when he stayed with my family the summer his mother died. I was twelve, on the verge of adolescence and hating it with all my stubborn tomboy heart. He was eleven, a skinny, bespectacled egghead terrified of all animals except fictional ones. I taught him to ride, gather cattle, look for kittens in the barn, wrestle with dogs, and fend off the bullies who liked to steal his glasses. He read me The Red Pony and Huckleberry Finn, explaining what they really meant, taught me all twelve verses of a salty sea chantey he learned at Sugartree Baptist church camp the summer before, didn’t laugh at my blossoming figure, and showed me how to be quiet and listen to my own thoughts. Hiking in the woods all summer, we’d talked of our mothers—mine had died when I was six—what we remembered about them, how much we missed them. Things we didn’t tell the grown-ups. He knew me like no other person in the world, and Gabe respected that.