Mariner's Compass Page 7

  “The recliner in the living room,” Gabe informed me. “He was sitting there when his neighbor, a Mrs. Tess Briggstone, found him. She has a key to his place.” I-told-you-so was written all over his face.

  I made a face at him. “And?”

  “She lives across the street. The story is she grew worried when he didn’t show up at his usual time at her store on the Embarcadero. She apparently owns one of those knickknack shell shops, and they had coffee and doughnuts together every morning.”

  “That fits with what Rich told me about them.”

  Gabe frowned at the mention of my neighbor’s name.

  I pushed him in the chest. “Quit being such a suspicious old bear. Thanks for finding that out for me. Now I can sleep in the bedroom.”

  He didn’t answer. At the door he kissed me, then started in. “Be careful. Keep the doors and windows locked. Call me tomorrow.”

  “I will, I will, I will. Now go before all my willpower flies out the window and I lose my inheritance because I can’t bear to have you leave.”

  “Going without me for one night is cruel and unusual punishment, isn’t it?” he said solemnly.

  “Get outta here before I smack that macho arrogance clean out of you.”

  I listened to his laughter as he went to his car, lonely for him even before the sound of his Corvette faded away.

  I looked down at Scout, patiently waiting at my side. “Scout, my loyal sidekick, we’ve got work to do. We’d better get cracking.”

  The first thing I did was look for a notebook. I found an almost new steno pad in the small desk in the spare room and started listing the things I needed to do. The first was to set a date for his funeral service—the sooner the better. Then I needed to go see this Tess Briggstone, who was obviously a close enough friend to have a key to his place, and ask her for a list of Mr. Chandler’s friends. Then I had to . . .

  I sat drawing stars and triangles on the steno pad, stumped. Then what? All I had so far were the items in the trunk—the initialed knife, the Robert Louis Stevenson book, the scrapbook, and the little bit of information that Gabe’s private investigator had found. Not many clues at all.

  I methodically searched the rest of his desk, reading his bills and anything else that might give me a lead. In the back of the last drawer, underneath boxes of old checks, bank statements, and utility statements, I found a five-by-seven manila envelope. Inside was a roll of exposed film and a folded piece of paper. I opened it and read the neat, handwritten message.

  Carving is a very special art form and needs a cool-headed approach. Don’t hurry the process. Study each cut before you make it so you don’t cut what you might later regret. Remember, there are no shortcuts. Take your time. Do your research. Think.

  A lesson in wood carving? The twelve-exposure roll of Kodak film felt cold in my hand. It certainly didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out he wanted me to develop this film. I added to my list—one—hour photo developer.

  After searching the living room, including fanning through every book on the bookshelves, I checked out the kitchen. The refrigerator contained only a quart of milk, some orange juice in a pitcher, and some leftover Chinese takeout in white unmarked containers. Looking through the cupboards, where I found the normal staples as well as a few cans of soup and vegetables, it occurred to me that eating anything left in this house might not be smart.

  I glanced at the plain yellow clock over the kitchen table—nine p.m. Maybe the grocery store out by the highway would still be open. In the last cupboard I checked, another small alarm went off inside me. Sitting on the shelf next to a round blue box of Morton salt and some paper plates was an unopened green can of Van Houten German Cocoa. The kind I’d come to use exclusively since I was eighteen after discovering I liked its dark richness better than the American brands. Our local gourmet food store ordered it special for me.

  I carefully placed the can back on the shelf. Fear tumbled like rough little stones in my stomach, but, I told myself firmly, it was just another coincidence.

  I discovered the grocery store was open until midnight and stocked up on my comfort foods—Coke, barbecue potato chips, Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream, as well as fruit, oatmeal, milk, bread, cheddar cheese, and coffee. I also bought all new staples—not even trusting this man’s flour, sugar ... or cocoa. On the spur of the moment, thankful that so many grocery stores had become one-stop shopping meccas, I bought a new set of queen sheets. Sleeping in a stranger’s bed was bad enough, but I would at least have new sheets touching my body.

  Back at the house, after putting the sheets on to wash, I started checking out the bedroom, the last room left. The search went quicker simply because the room was smaller, it only contained a bed, a nightstand, a bookcase, and a chest of drawers.

  I opened the closet and discovered in five seconds how Scout knew me the first time we met. It wasn’t something Gabe would have noticed because he had searched the house like a cop, for signs of illegal activity or things that would jeopardize my safety. I searched it looking for signs of things connected to me and found the biggest one hanging in plain view. To anyone else, including Gabe, it would look like just another Levi’s jacket. But I knew this jacket intimately since I’d owned it for five years before it mysteriously disappeared right after I’d moved to town two years ago. I’d assumed at the time that I accidently left it somewhere, which was not an unreasonable deduction considering how scatterbrained I was those first few months after Jack died.

  I touched the frayed hole on the elbow. It had happened while mending a fence only weeks before Jack’s accident. The hole was surrounded by a blue ink heart that Jack had drawn one night while we ate dinner at Liddie’s.

  Somehow this man had found—or taken—my jacket and used it to familiarize Scout with my scent. Of all the things he’d done, this upset me the most. I tossed the jacket on the bed and continued searching the closet.

  Mr. Chandler seemed fond of khaki pants and flannel shirts from Mervyn’s and owned three pairs of Vans slip-on deck shoes. The boxes on top of the closet revealed only old issues of Wood-carvers magazine and more old bills. I stood back and surveyed the room, feeling like I’d missed something. On the nightstand stood a simple wood-based lamp and a cordless phone. The phone.

  I went back into the living room and checked the message light on the combination phone/answering machine. It read two. Like ours at home, it had a replay button.

  “You have two old messages,” the machine said.

  “Jake,” a grainy-sounding, older woman’s voice said, “how about Chinese tonight? Call me at the store.”

  Friday. April 30th. 11:08 a.m.

  That explained the Chinese take-out boxes.

  “Hey, buddy,” the second message said. It was a male voice—age indistinguishable. “A chess game on Sunday? Whatta ya say? Got a whole smoked salmon says I got a move that’ll beat you in a half hour.”

  Friday. April 30th. 2:27 p.m.

  That was it. No great information there except that he liked Chinese food and played chess with someone. Gabe had probably already listened to the two messages and discounted them.

  I stared at the phone a minute then recalled something I’d seen on television. It was hokey but heck, it worked sometimes. I hit the redial and waited. The phone rang four times, and then an answering machine came on.

  “Cafe Palais,” a smooth, male Southern voice said. “We’re at home now makin’ our beaten biscuits and burgoo for y’all, but we’ll be open bright and early at six a.m. as always. Leave a message if you’ve a mind to. Thanks for calling.”

  Beaten biscuits and burgoo. Someone was from Kentucky, if I remembered my regional Southern cooking correctly. A French-sounding restaurant that served Southern food? I’d have to check that out even if it didn’t have a thing to do with Mr. Chandler. I added another item to tomorrow’s growing list.

  The phone rang, and I didn’t need to be any sort of detective at all to know who was on th
e other line. After scolding him for still being up, I told him about the roll of film and the note and my long-lost jacket.

  “Manipulative pervert,” Gabe said in a disgusted voice.

  “A little nuts, maybe, but I don’t think he’s a pervert.”

  He grumbled unintelligibly over the phone.

  “Go to bed. Things will look better in the morning.”

  Scout settled in his bed next to mine. My pure fatigue and his comforting presence helped me fall asleep almost immediately.

  The next morning, fog shrouded everything in a deep, pillowy silence. A distant foghorn sent a muffled heartbeat through the dense air. I flipped on the heater and every light in the cold, smoke-scented house, trying to give the place a cozier feel, but it still felt like exactly what it was, a stranger’s house. I made some coffee, fed Scout from the supply of canned dog food I found under the sink, then at nine o’clock called Amanda’s office.

  “So, how’s it going?” she asked.

  “Things are getting weirder by the minute.” I told her about the scrapbook, the unexposed film, and the note Mr. Chandler left me.

  “A wood carving lesson?” Amanda said. “This guy sounds like a real kookabird. How’s Chief Macho Man taking it?”

  “About like you’d expect.” I told her about the bomb and drug dogs, the changing of the locks, his staking out the place, what his detective friend had uncovered via his computer databases. “That’s why I’m not going to tell him about the scrapbook just yet. He swore he’d back off and let me handle this.”

  “Bless his heart, he is thorough. So, did you just call to chitchat, or is there something I can do for you?”

  “I need the mortuary’s number so I can arrange his funeral. A simple graveside service tomorrow is what I’m thinking. My goal today is to find out who his friends were and break the news to them as gracefully as possible.”

  “In a town that size, it shouldn’t be too hard to locate them. Then what?”

  “Take the film to be developed and check out Cafe Palais.”

  “Looks like you’re cookin’, babydoll. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “Count on it.”

  I dressed in black Wranglers, boots, a red-and-black-plaid flannel shirt, and Gabe’s black leather jacket. After sticking the film in my purse, I checked the address of Cafe Palais in Morro Bay’s thin telephone directory. It was down on the Embarcadero, so I wouldn’t even have to drive. Then, unable to put it off any longer, I called the mortuary and discovered that all the arrangements had been made by Mr. Chandler, down to the coffin’s flower spray. All I had to do was give them the date. Tomorrow was fine.

  With Scout at my heels, I picked my way down the staircase in the verbena-speckled ice plant, ending up at the back of Pinkie’s parking lot, my pant legs and boot tips wet from the dew. Though I wasn’t sure where on the Embarcadero the restaurant was located, I took a chance and turned right.

  The damp, chilly air caused me to shove my hands deep into the pockets of Gabe’s leather jacket as I passed stores that hawked every beach souvenir you’ve ever bought and thrown away three months later—seashell wind chimes, china music boxes shaped like whales and mermaids, fool’s gold paperweights, framed prints of sad-eyed baby seals, hand-painted refrigerator magnets saying “Fish and Play in Morro Bay!” On this early Monday morning, minus the tourists, the Embarcadero looked more like its original self—a working place for fishermen and the businesses that support them. All of the fish restaurants were closed, so I guessed the only people eating down here would be locals. I passed Bay City Donuts and noted the gray formica tables were crowded with people, most in their sixties or seventies. Definitely a place I would have to visit. The owners probably knew more about what was really going on in this town than the police chief.

  The direction I chose was correct. Cafe Palais was located in an unattached building directly in line with Morro Rock, separated only by the calm, gray waters of the bay. At this time of morning, Morro Rock looked almost mythical as pewter-colored fog weaved around its crown. The cafe was painted a clean, Navajo white with royal blue trim and matching scalloped awnings. The crowded parking lot out front told me that this was also a popular spot for locals.

  “Stay,” I told Scout. He dropped down in front of the window planters filled with yellow marigolds.

  Inside the cafe, I gazed over the full tables and booths, looking for an empty spot. The decor was French country with an emphasis on coffeepots and geese. Pots of every shape and size decorated the walls covered with a blue, white, and yellow-flowered wallpaper. Geese were equally represented in framed prints, brightly painted china knickknacks, and copper molds. Interspersed between the prints and copper molds were beautiful little handmade quilts—sizes ranging from the breadth of my palm to the size of a rectangular cake pan.

  “Honey, there’s a spot opening up over by the window,” one of the waitresses said, sailing by with three plates balanced on one arm and a coffeepot in her other hand. “I just gave ’em their check.” Sure enough, two wind-dried old men wearing identical navy and gold Greek fishermen’s caps stood up, tossing crumpled bills next to their empty plates.

  I weaved through the noisy crowd and sat down on one of the padded ladder-back chairs. In a few seconds, a busboy cleared the table, and another waitress handed me a blue plastic menu. She held up the coffeepot in question, pouring when I nodded yes. She looked to be in her late twenties with walnut shell brown hair cut in a shaggy style that made the most of its thick texture though it slightly overwhelmed her pinched, oval face. She wore a denim skirt and a blue-and-white-gingham blouse. A goose-shaped name tag on her left shoulder said “Neely.” Dark brown eyes flicked over me quickly before she started her litany of featured dishes.

  “Morning specials are a mushroom and smoked bacon frittata with fresh avocados on the side or stuffed French toast with an orange/cream cheese filling. Both come with Martin’s home-style red potatoes with onion, coffee or tea, and fresh fruit of the day. Also, Eve’s power drink this morning is banana/apple zest with wheat germ,” she said in a low-pitched, malty voice that didn’t seem to fit her sharp features.

  “I’ll take the French toast special,” I said, handing the menu back. After she walked away, I sat there for a moment trying to figure out the best way to bring up Jacob Chandler. If she knew him she might not even know he’d died, and I sure didn’t want to be the one to break it to her in such a public place.

  I worried the problem for the fifteen minutes it took for me to get my breakfast. Since I hadn’t thought to bring something to read, I spent the time studying the other customers, wondering if any of them knew Jacob Chandler. Unless the grapevine had done its usual small-town trick, the weekly newspaper, I’d noticed outside, came out on Thursdays so there was no way his death would be public knowledge until then.

  When Neely came back with my breakfast, I casually asked, “Have you lived here long?”

  She refilled my coffee cup, her face neutral. “About six years.”

  “Here in Morro Bay?”

  She nodded, her face wary. “I’m originally from Modesto and came here to attend Cal Poly, but couldn’t afford to finish. I liked it here so I stayed.”

  “Have you worked here a long time?”

  “Four years last September. Why?”

  Oh, geeze, there was no offhand way to ask, so I just said it. “Do you know a man named Jacob Chandler?”

  Her left eyebrow jerked slightly, but her ivory skin didn’t color. “I’ll get Eve or Martin.”

  She maneuvered deftly as a cat through the chattering ocean of people. Between bites of my French toast, I watched her through the food-service opening, talking to a dark-haired man. Her hands made feathery gestures in the air between them. He glanced over at me, and, catching his eye, I turned with embarrassment back to my food. In a few minutes, a tall, slender blond woman with friendly brown eyes and neat, pixie-cut hair came to my table.

  “Neely
said you were asking about Jacob Chandler.”

  I nodded and set down my fork. “Can you sit down for a minute?”

  “Certainly,” she said. “Please, continue eating your breakfast. Martin takes great pride in having his food eaten when it’s at its best.” She glanced over at the dark-haired man in the kitchen and gave him a small wave. “By the way, I’m Eve Palais, and that man under the chef’s hat is my husband, Martin. We own this place.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, reaching out a hand. “Benni Harper.”

  She shook it and said, “Same here. Now, Neely said you were asking about Jake.”

  “Yes, Jacob Chandler. The man who owns the house on 993 Pelican Street. Were you friends?” I stumbled slightly on the word “owns,” not knowing exactly how I was going to tell her he’d died. I picked up a slice of potato and stuck it in my mouth. Martin was a marvelous cook, no doubt about it. He put just the right amount of onions and garlic in the potatoes.

  “I guess we were as close to friends as Jake allowed. He ate here three, maybe four times a week. He and Martin sometimes went fishing. And they both belonged to the Wood-carvers’ Guild, though Jake stopped attending the meetings these last few months. He was having some heart problems, he told us.” Her face drew tight, her peach-tinted mouth turned slightly downward. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Jake died on Friday. Was there any special reason you were looking for him?”

  At that moment I would have given anything to flee this uncomfortable situation and not come back. “I ... I know. I’m his heir.” I looked down at my half-eaten French toast, twirling my fork in the cream cheese filling.

  “Oh, you’re the one,” Eve said in a low voice.

  The way she said it told me I’d already become a subject of speculation among some people in town.

  I looked back up, directly into her eyes. “Yes, I suppose I am. I’ve set up a graveside service for him tomorrow in Paso Robles, but I have no idea how to contact any of his friends. He didn’t have an address book, and I found your name by punching the redial on his telephone.”