Solomon's Compass

by Carol Kilgore

  Taylor went for the boots, but neither pair held the belt. She pulled over one of the boxes to stand on to see the shelf. Bare.

  “Crap!” Where was Randy’s belt?

  She sat on his bed and put her head in her hands. If she could get into his frame of mind, she could figure out where he put the one item he valued more than anything else. Besides, she needed a break before she searched the boxes.

  Randy loved the soft, black leather belt with Solomon’s Compass embossed across the back. He would never throw it away or sell it. Even if the belt fell apart, he’d keep the pieces. It represented a special time in his life. And special people. Ham Norberg was the oldest, followed by Randy. Married, Ham’s wife gave birth while they were in Vietnam. Ed Wharton and Kyle Easley were younger and single. The youngest was Jake Solomon, yet Randy said he was the glue that held their group together.

  Jake Solomon and Ham Norberg went to Bangkok on R&R. On Coast Guard Day a few weeks later, they gave out the Solomon’s Compass belts to the other three. Randy and the others had been surprised by the embossing. They’d always called themselves the Compass Points—their last names began with N, E, S, and W.

  That first time Randy told her the story about the belt, he taught her about compasses and directions. He drew a rough picture of a compass on the back of an envelope—two crossed lines with N, S, E, W at the ends. She kept it in her scrapbook. Randy called the directions the four winds, and she’d giggled.

  Taylor hadn’t seen her uncle’s name anyplace and asked him why. Randy had been so patient. He drew a circle around the lines and letters.

  “See this?” He pointed to the circle and everything inside it with his pencil.

  Taylor nodded.

  “A drawing of the four winds and where they meet at the center, like petals on a flower, is called a compass rose. This is simple, but on some maps and compasses they’re fancy and show all the points in between.”

  “And your name begins with R, for rose.”

  “That’s right. You’re a very smart young lady. I think that calls for ice cream.”

  After that summer, he filled in more details from time to time. Once he’d shown her photos of each of the Compass Points. She hadn’t found those either. It was time to search the boxes.

  Jake finally gave in and allowed himself a ten-minute nap. When the alarm went off, he took a cold shower and rejoined the living. Still no Taylor. He checked the time. “Jesus H. It’s only four-thirty.”

  He had to get out of the room or he’d be mush again in two minutes. After setting the camera alerts to his phone, Jake headed outside. The sea breeze here blew almost continually, and he took a few deep breaths of salt-laden air while reconning the area. No one lurked. He wasn’t surprised. Both the temperature and the humidity hovered in the nineties, and the combination made sweat break out along his hairline.

  Across the street, a grassy area separated the sidewalk from an inlet off the bay. He set out. If Kelly were here, they’d bounce ideas off one another. He bounced plenty around with himself, but it wasn’t the same without a team. Even if the team consisted of only two members. Unlike his dad, Jake was a team player, and his Navy SEAL training had only reinforced his natural tendencies. He rarely worked alone, even at CPI.

  Jake walked for an hour—at the water, behind the hotel, several blocks in all directions—feeling the heartbeat of the town. He went into a used bookshop. His mother loved to read and collected early twentieth-century editions by American novelists. He poked around for twenty minutes with no success.

  One more hour. If Taylor hadn’t returned, he’d go find her.

  The first three boxes contained old records from the salvage shop. The three boxes on the other side of the chest contained family relics. Taylor’s mother hadn’t wanted any of her parents’ belongings after their deaths. Surprise, surprise.

  The family wasn’t wealthy. Most items in the boxes possessed only sentimental value. One box held quilts sewn by Taylor’s grandmother. A dried stem of the lavender she’d loved lay across the top, its scent faint in the fabric. Another, some old Fiesta serving pieces and other kitchen items. The third held her grandfather’s barber tools and the sign from his shop. She would keep these boxes.

  She was definitely on the right track. Randy kept his personal possessions here. In one room. The belt and photos would be in one of the two remaining boxes.

  Inside the next box, she found a shoe box with his tax returns from the last several years. And several more shoe boxes filled with what appeared to be every letter and postcard she’d ever mailed him. Her eyes burned and she blinked hard. She kept Randy’s letters in the old wicker picnic basket he’d given her for her seashells when she was ten.

  Taylor huffed out a breath. Only one box left. She licked her lips. The belt and photos and other information about Randy’s time in the Coast Guard lay in the box at her feet. She both wanted to open the box and keep it closed. In one way she felt like an intruder. No. Randy would want her to see how the Coast Guard had changed and how Always Ready remained the same.

  She knelt. “Okay, Taylor. Dig in.” The lid popped when she opened it.

  The box was empty.

  “What the. . . .” The answer dawned on her as she spoke. The Coast Guard items were Randy’s treasure. He meant them only for her.

  After a quick shower, Taylor opened her laptop and pressed the on button. Before she left to try again for Randy’s buried box, she wanted to search for information on the people she’d met and check her email for an update on the status of the Susquehanna’s turbine repair.

  She pushed the button again. Nothing. She hadn’t used it for long last night; the battery should be fine. All she got for her trouble was grinding and a click. “Son of a bitching piece of useless shit!” She yanked the plug from the wall.

  The prime specimen of electronic crap was less than a year old and had been in for repair twice. Never again. The day she got back to Charleston, she was trading her old phone for a smartphone with every bell and whistle available—computer, camera, and phone all in one. The perfect solution.

  Tomorrow she would make progress. She would. Her grand plans for the day had died belly up, but she had made new ones. Better ones. Maybe during the night someone with a truck would take the junk she left on Randy’s porch and think she was the fool. She smiled.

  It never paid to dwell on events over which she had no control. Except for one—it was enough. Her brief encounter with Mr. Brooklyn today at the barbeque restaurant had brought the memories back full force.

  She’d been dwelling on Mark Vitulli for seventeen years. His fatal accident had opened the door for her career, her current life. She wondered how their lives would have been if he hadn’t died. If they would have lasted as a couple, had children.

  She ran her fingers through her hair, adding some extra lift as it dried. Mark and Mr. Brooklyn would have to wait. She grabbed her keys and her tote. Time for dinner and some exploring until it got dark enough to go after Randy’s treasure.

  After a taqueria dinner, she drove back past her hotel intending to return to Randy’s. Maybe climb a tree and take in the end of the day looking over the bay in the same way she’d done as a child. A few blocks down from the light, a brightly colored strip of shops shimmered in the golden glow from the setting sun. She pulled to the curb and parked. The bay would wait.

  The developed area spanned three blocks. In the first two, shops and galleries inhabited an old gas station and a variety of other buildings. People walked and laughed, enjoying the end of the day. In the next block on the other side of the street, the buildings resembled Hollywood’s version of a Caribbean shopping district with masses of flowers in planters near the street and more in galvanized tubs flanking each door.

  Zia’s real estate office anchored the first corner Taylor came to. Next to ZGM Properties was Bravo, a gallery. Followed by Juliet’s Tango, a tearoom with white plantation shutters covering the windows. She passed Echoes, an anti
que shop with a small sign at the bottom of the window that read Dan’s Designs.

  Taylor stopped short. Her brain filled with the phonetic alphabet she had learned as a first-year cadet. Alpha through Zulu, one word and one flag for each letter. She forced herself to walk.

  Mike’s Golf Shop. What was going on? The next shop, Elements, was filled with contemporary accent pieces—the kind of shop she loved. She continued to the corner and into the Rock Salt Ice Cream Company.

  Bravo, Echo, Golf, Juliet, Mike, Tango. No need to write them down. She would never forget them. She used those words every day. The military used them for clarity, to avoid mistaking a spoken B for a V, and so on. If she needed Form CG-1650, she asked for Charlie Golf 1650.

  The words stood out in the shop names, clear and obvious to Taylor, but the letters they corresponded with didn’t spell anything. Was it a code or a signal? How could she find out? Had she missed others? She left the ice cream shop without ordering.

  She crossed to the other side of the street for her return trip. Names of the shops she’d passed would be easier to spot from this side. She paid attention to each shop she passed, but found no more alpha-code words.

  As she stepped off the curb, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Someone was watching her. She spun around, but no one raised her suspicion. Get a grip, Taylor, or you’ll grow as paranoid as Randy.

  Jake, with a ball cap pulled over his forehead, tracked Taylor from shop to shop, taking care to keep well back and on the opposite side of the street. Groups of laughing, squealing kids made hiding easy.

  She made the alphabet connection as fast as he did. When the words clicked, Taylor stopped on the spot in the middle of a busy sidewalk. Her pause gave her away. A second or two later, she continued. After a quick trip into the ice cream shop, she came back and checked again. Persistent and determined. Only a fool wouldn’t see that.

  He took in the surroundings while he kept an eye on her. Evenly spaced concrete planters shaped like huge seashells stood along the street edge of the clean sidewalk, one in front of each shop. They provided a decorative touch, but he knew their true purpose—to prevent vehicles from ramming the large bay windows.

  While he watched he sat on a bench in front of the ZGM office. Only top shelf properties were advertised in the window, both sale and vacation rentals. The bread and butter would be in a drawer and on the MLS.

  He counted shops. Seven, including ZGM Properties on one corner and Rock Salt Ice Cream Company on the other. He’d return another time to try a cone. In between, an art gallery, a tearoom, golf shop, an antique shop, and a shop with accent pieces called Elements.

  Taylor marched back in his direction, and he followed the sidewalk around the corner until she passed.

  She might be the tiniest wisp of a woman, but her mind raced faster than a computer. In front of the tearoom, she even stopped to admire the flowers before squaring her shoulders and continuing to the corner. He smiled. “Go, Taylor.”

  In the glow of streetlights, Taylor slid behind the wheel. A mosquito had dined on her ankle, and she scratched the bite with her toe. She drove past her hotel and followed the same route she’d taken the night before to find Randy’s treasure.

  WILL U was in the driveway of the white bungalow. She continued to the corner without slowing. The dashboard clock read 8:29. She punched on the radio—Rihanna sang her heart out about finding love. Instead of heading toward the hotel, Taylor turned right and drove north, crossing a long bridge over the bay. On the opposite side, she turned around at the first opportunity and made the return trip. She’d been keeping an eye on the mirrors. No one followed.

  Back in Rock Harbor, she drove up and down several side streets on the other side of the highway from Will’s. At nine-thirty, she turned off the radio and crossed the highway.

  Will’s truck hadn’t moved. One light shone from the back of the house near the corner. She drove on.

  Accomplishments for the day: Naught, nada, and nothing.

  Jake popped a peanut butter cracker in his mouth with one hand and thumbed the channel button on the remote with the other.

  After the shops, Taylor had gone to Knox’s house, passing without even slowing. Most likely because his truck stood in the driveway. She’d driven north, crossed the bay, turned around. And never spotted him. The side streets had made staying unnoticed difficult, but not impossible. Thanks to many hours of surveillance training.

  He passed her on the highway and parked down the street from Knox’s house. Sure enough, she followed several minutes later, her frustration evident in the set of her jaw and hunched shoulders. She wanted something from Knox’s house. Was she planning to break in? He could help, but only as lookout or clean-up to keep her out of trouble. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d assumed the role of troubleshooter.

  He piled some peanut butter on another cracker and took a bite. No one had called him yet about his dad. He turned off the ten o’clock news and picked up his phone.

  “Good morning!” Will Knox walked up Randy’s driveway.

  “I was prepared for a mess, not a nightmare. All this”—Taylor spread her arms—”porch and grass, is from the kitchen. I haven’t touched the cabinets or any other room. The rest of the house is packed as tight or tighter.” Except for Randy’s bedroom.

  “I came to help, so what can I do? My time is yours until this afternoon.”

  She shook her head at the junk. No need to piss and moan. Time was ticking by, and she needed all the help she could get. It was barely ten, and her clothes were drenched with sweat. “I brought trash bags and rigged up this stand to keep them open and upright. Help me search for broken items, obvious trash, things like that.”

  Will rubbed his hands together. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She snickered. “No lollygagging either, mister. I’ve rented a commercial trash bin, and it’s supposed to arrive today. If you’re here, you can help me start loading that up, too.”

  “Got it.” He pulled a pair of work gloves from his back pocket and moved toward the far corner of the lawn and a stack of oars.

  She started to work on the porch. Gulls swooped above her in the hot, unmoving air, their calls urging her to look, look, look. Until she dug up Randy’s treasure, she would look through every single container before tossing it. If Randy hadn’t said his treasure was a secret, she would ask Will if she could dig a big gaping hole in his pristine backyard. And promise to fix it. But until her options ran out, she would keep Randy’s treasure their secret.

  After pulling a frayed length of yellow nylon rope from a small anchor, she wound it into a coil out of habit to keep it under control until she reached the trash bag. Shells crunched in the driveway, and she turned, looping the rope over her shoulder.

  A forest-green SUV rolled to a stop. Will worked a good thirty feet away, bellowing “Margaritaville” at the top of his lungs.

  The car door slammed and Will’s singing stopped. He raised his hand. “Hey, Dan. What are you doing out here?” Both men walked toward her.

  “A.J., Zia, and every busybody in town told me about Randy’s niece. I came to meet her and introduce myself.”

  Taylor’s head swiveled toward the man from the SUV, Dan, climbing the steps in khaki shorts, tucked-in plaid shirt, and boat shoes with no socks. A huge Rolex adorned his left wrist.

  She smiled. “Here I am.”

  Will stood on the bottom step. “Taylor, this guy is Dan Blair. He owns a couple of shops in town.”

  Taylor held out her hand before seeing how dirty it was. “I’d shake, but you don’t want to come within ten feet of this.” She flashed her palm at him.

  Dan touched her arm in greeting. “No problem. I may look neat and tidy now, but getting dirty is my business.”

  Her next door neighbor in Charleston was a toucher. He was gay. Was Dan?

  “I own an antique shop and an art gallery. To Will they’re the same since they have nothing to do with boats.”

  Dan’
s Designs—the card in the antique shop—Echoes. The gallery—Bravo. If she got to know him, she’d ask about the shop names.

  “Hey! I like stuff besides boats.” Will gave him a mock frown.

  Dan turned back to her. “I’m so happy to finally meet you, Taylor. Your uncle and I bid against each other for a lot of the pieces he has here.”

  “You must have outbid him on the best items. Why would you be at the same auction?”

  “Auctions around here are pretty much a mixed bag—one-stop shopping.”

  The picture came into clearer focus. “Randy went to regular auctions? Estate sales?”

  “Right. Until the last couple of years, he stuck to boat and nautical items and the marine-only auctions in Corpus. Of course sometimes he’d purchase kitchen—excuse me—galley gear and other odd items even at those.”

  Will shook his head. “You wouldn’t know a scupper from a rub rail, Danny Boy.”

  “Rub rails sound intriguing.”

  They continued to banter. She paid more attention to their actions than their words. Maybe Randy had suffered a minor stroke. That might explain the short circuit that caused him to hoard all the junk in the house.

  “So anyway, Taylor, I want to invite you to my gallery. We’re opening a new exhibit this weekend. Everyone’s invited, even Will and tourists. I hope you’ll come.”

  “Thank you, but I need to keep working here. And I didn’t bring appropriate clothing for an event.” She held out the tail of her Sneezy tee.

  “It’s not fancy. I hope you’ll reconsider. I also want to make you an offer.”

  “What kind of offer?” Did he want to buy the property, too? Like Will? And Zia?

  “I’ve got work to do.” Will left them alone.

  “I’d like the opportunity to be the first to view everything. To make that prospect more appealing, I’m prepared to help you go through all of it.”