Mariner's Compass (23 page)

“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 being 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.

I spent the rest of the evening watching television and playing with Scout. About nine o’clock, Rich brought over a piece of fresh-baked pineapple upside-down cake, and we talked for an hour or so.

“Sure you don’t need any company on the drive?” he asked.

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. This man might tell me more if I’m alone, you know?”

His disappointed face made me feel bad, but my first priority was not to fill a lonely widower’s days, but to get this mysterious situation resolved.

“He’s going to be mad at me, but I’m leaving Scout here,” I said. “To watch the house.”

He nodded. “That’s probably a good idea. I’ll keep an eye out also.”

Later when Gabe called, I told him I was driving to Bakersfield tomorrow. For a change, he didn’t argue and just asked me to call him when I returned. I almost missed his zealous protectiveness. Almost.

The next morning at eight o’clock, as I was getting in my car, I saw the photographer and his wife loading camera equipment into their blue Taurus. I walked across the street and asked, “So, where are you going today?” It was nice to just shoot the breeze with people who weren’t involved with this crazy quest business, people who were just vacationing, taking touristy pictures, and were normal. The woman pushed up her tooled silver bracelet and said, “Hearst Castle and maybe that lighthouse up there.”

“Piedras Blancas,” I said.

“That’s the one. Also, we heard that there’s a bunch of sea lions somewhere around that area.”

“There are, and the poor things are constantly harassed by tourists. I’d use a telephoto lens if you have one. Sea lions can be aggressive when they feel threatened.”

“We’ll be careful,” the man said. “We believe in the credo—‘Take only pictures, leave only footprints.’ ” He paused for a moment to reattach the red tape covering one of their taillights.

“What happened there?” I asked sympathetically.

“A tree jumped in back of him yesterday,” the woman said with a chuckle. He gave her an irritated sideways look.

They were in front of me when I drove through the center of town. A lively conversation was taking place, no doubt about her smart remark about the tree.

The three-hour drive on Highway 46 to Bakersfield was not a fun one, especially since I’d traveled it so many times in my life. I took a portable tape player and stuck on a long-playing tape of George Strait—my favorite singer for long, tedious trips. His silky caramel voice would make the miles fly.

The curvy, narrow highway passed thick-leafed avocado orchards, mobile home ranches, and U-pick raspberry farms. During one thirty-mile stretch, Cal Trans workers in their brilliant orange vests caused me to slow down to thirty-five mph every ten minutes or so while they repaired yet another section of this dangerous road. Wind blasts from passing Peterbilts and Kenworths shook Gabe’s old truck, and though I loved this vehicle emotionally, I longed for a good, solid Chevy one-ton with a stereo tape deck, air-conditioning, and convenient drink holder.

About ten miles out of the rural suburbs of Atascadero the road started to climb, and the engine was forced to work harder. The land grew more desolate and treeless as I approached Shandon and Cholame. Just past the James Dean Memorial, deserted this early on a Friday morning, a doe froze at the side of the road, and I instinctively touched my foot to the brakes. But I passed her before she moved, and in my rearview mirror I watched her bound across the road and up into the cattle-dotted hills behind the monument. I counted off the familiar travel markings to Bakersfield—the fork in the road outside of Cholame where 41 and 46 split, the sign stating 90 miles to both Bakersfield and Fresno, the Pacific Almond groves where a few white almond blossoms still dotted the green groves, and Blackwell’s Corner, a store and cafe whose single claim to fame was being the last place where James Dean stopped before his rendezvous with fate.