Mariner's Compass

by Earlene Fowler

  None of this was written on her biography under the sampler. Instead, I told about how she much liked to sing and that she loved green beans, pink roses, Judy Garland movies, pecan pie, and the singer, Kitty Wells.

  At least, that’s what Dove told me.

  I straightened the sampler and stared for a moment at the black-and-white crinkle-edged picture I’d hung next to it. It must have been taken someplace in Arkansas, since I appeared to be about two years old. She perched me on her hip, standing in front of an old country store with a Standard Oil gasoline pump. Her hair was very light and teased into a bouffant that fit the year written on the back—1960. She was smiling, squinting into the bright sunlight. I was staring at whoever was taking the picture, my round baby face on the edge of tears.

  She was so young. I’d long passed the age at which she died—twenty—five—and it often struck me how strange it was to think of myself as experiencing ages, physical changes, and even feelings that my mother never did. I still remembered myself at twenty-five, strong and healthy and, in my youthful mind, invincible.

  But not really. Because somewhere deep inside I knew, I’d known since I was six, that life hung on a fragile thread. How scared she must have been. How full of despair knowing that her child would grow up unprotected by her. A few times I’d asked both Dove and Daddy if there was something, anything she told them to tell me. Daddy’s blue eyes would turn cloud-gray, and he’d turn back to whatever he was working on, saying, “She loved you, Benni. You were her life.”

  Dove told me all she knew, which wasn’t much. “Alice was not one for chitchat,” she’d say. “Kept to herself. She always seemed kind of . . . I don’t know . . . sad. Even when she was smiling. But she lost her own folks so early. She had lots to be sad about, I reckon.”

  With a finger I touched her face in the picture. “Mama,” I whispered, testing the feel of the word on my lips. After all these years, it felt strange, like a foreign word for which there was no translation into a language I knew.

  “Benni?” D-Daddy’s voice from the entrance hall jerked me out of my thoughts.

  “Coming,” I called back.

  He handed me a stack of envelopes. “Mail’s here.”

  I flipped through it quickly, then said, “There’s nothing of any importance. Can you just put it on my desk? I’m going over to the Historical Museum and see what’s cooking with their latest project.”

  “That new mayor man,” D-Daddy said, shaking his head. “He’ll be the ruin of this town, yes, sir.”

  “You’re not the only one who thinks so,” I agreed.

  The Historical Museum was usually closed on Monday, but I followed my instincts and was rewarded for doing so. Through the windows of the front door I could see Dove and three of her fellow historical society members sitting around a small foldout table. I tapped on the glass and was let in by June Rae Gates, my former seventh grade math teacher.

  “Benni, it’s so good to see you,” she said. “We were just talking about you not five minutes ago.”

  “All positive, I hope,” I said.

  “Maybe,” she answered gaily. “Maybe not.”

  “So, what’s going on, ladies?” I asked, sitting down on a folding chair.

  “We’re planning our assault on Mr. Boxstore Billy,” said June Rae. “We’re bringing out the big guns and going to—”

  “Be careful what you say around her, June Rae,” Dove said. “Don’t forget, she’s with the establishment now. She’s married to the fuzz.” Dove smiled at me innocently. “How’s things in Morro Bay?”

  I laughed out loud. “The fuzz? The establishment? Too much Mod Squad being watched, girls. What’s going on here? Has the Gray Panthers been recruiting you all?”

  Dove’s eyes lit up. “We called the AARP, but I clean forgot all about them! Make a note, June Rae. So, how’s the search going?”

  “I’ll tell you, but you all have to promise to keep it quiet. Emory wants to do a story on it, and he’s afraid someone’s going to scoop him.”

  “Loose lips sink ships,” June Rae said. “You can trust us.”

  I told them about Gabe having the house searched by bomb and drug dogs, my new neighbor, the scrapbook, the wood carving instruction clue, the James Dean memorial picture, and the funeral services the next day.

  “Look for the murderer in the funeral guests,” Goldie Kleinfelder said. She once owned a stationery store and still did calligraphy on the side.

  I laughed. “Goldie, no one’s been murdered. Mr. Chandler died of a heart attack. I’m only looking for clues as to why he chose me as his heir.”

  “Are you sure it was a heart attack?” Edna McClun asked. She’d been an extra on two Diagnosis Murder episodes when she visited her sister in Los Angeles recently and now considered herself an expert on murder.

  “I’m positive, ladies,” I said. “He had a heart condition. He had diabetes. The coroner would have done an autopsy if there had been any doubt. It was just his time to go.”

  “Or maybe someone decided it was his time to go,” Edna insisted, not willing to give up so quickly.

  “You all watch too much television,” Dove carped, slamming the flat of her hand down on the table. “We’ve got more important things to think about. Any particular reason why you’re here, honeybun?”

  “Nope, just checking to see how things are going. Looks like you’ve got everything under control. Anybody bake this morning?” I looked hopefully at the empty paper plates in front of them. That was actually my underlying motive for dropping by. All these women were Mid-State Fair blue ribbon winners, and they never had a meeting without someone bringing goodies.

  “In the back room,” Dove said. “Then get out of here. I have a hard enough time keeping these old ladies on the subject without you coming by and stirring things up.”

  They were all protesting and laughing as I walked behind the counter at the front of the museum and into the back room where they kept their coats, purses, and various office and personal supplies. Sure enough, it was Edna’s turn, and she’d made lemon bars and chocolate-cinnamon muffins. I grabbed two of each and stuck them in a plastic sandwich bag I found in a drawer.

  “So,” I said, walking back into the main room, “what do you have planned for Mayor Billy anyway?”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Dove said, pushing me between the shoulder blades out the door. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  She closed it with a determined click of the lock.

  Only half joking, I prayed as I walked down the steps. Please, Lord, soften the judge’s heart and let her sentence be suspended.

  6

  I SPENT THE rest of the day looking through the house one more time, hoping I’d missed something. The mail came, bringing only a catalog for wood carving supplies. Back in the kitchen, I laid out all my evidence or clues, or whatever they were, on the round table.

  The Treasure Island book with the inscription to G. from G.

  The knife with the initials G.M.

  The autograph book.

  The flat white stone.

  The picture of the James Dean monument with the mysterious number.

  I stuck the picture in my purse. Tomorrow, after the funeral, I would drive out on Highway 46 to the monument.

  I picked up the book and flipped through the pages again, hoping for something I’d missed before—an underlined word or sentence, or perhaps a piece of paper stuck between the pages.

  Nothing.

  I read through the autograph book again and decided to write down the names of the people in my notebook. Maybe somewhere in my search I’d run across them, and there were too many to remember offhand.

  That left one last thing to do. Something I’d been putting off because I had no idea what to say. Gabe had neatly listed all the information his private investigator buddy had found on a piece of San Celina PD stationery. Just the sight of his neat, dark handwriting made me miss him.

  I picked up the phone and d
ialed the phone number listed for Jacob Chandler’s sister in Lubbock. It was five-thirty p.m. here, so that meant it was seven-thirty there. The phone rang six times, and I almost hung up when an elderly lady answered.

  “Hello, hello? Can I help you?” her crackly voice asked.

  “Mrs. Ludlam? Mrs. Rowena Ludlam?”

  “Yes, who’s calling? I don’t want any time-shares, young woman.”

  “I’m not selling anything, Mrs. Ludlam. I . . .” My mouth turned dry. How do you tell a perfect stranger that her brother has died?

  Just tell ’em, honeybun, Dove would say. We old folks are tougher than you youngsters give us credit for.

  “Mrs. Ludlam, my name is Benni Harper, and you don’t know me.”

  “Young woman, what are you selling?”

  “Ma’am, I’m not selling anything. I’ve . . . I’m afraid I’ve got some sad news for you. About your brother, Jacob.”

  “Jake!” she exclaimed. “You’ve seen my brother Jake? Where is he? Is he all right? Where’s he been? Oh, my stars, Mother’s last words were about wanting to see her Jakie one more time. I’ll never forgive him for that. Where’s he at? Why’s he wanting to contact us now?”

  I let her words peter out before continuing. “Mrs. Ludlam, I’m sorry to tell you that your brother passed away of a heart attack.”

  “Jake’s dead?” Her voice corkscrewed into a squeak. “We always thought he was dead, but we never really knew and always wondered, but I always thought of him as dead, but Mother always hoped and hoped, and now he is dead. Isn’t that the oddest thing?”

  I didn’t know quite how to answer that. “Yes, ma’am,” I finally said.

  “What did you say your name was? Where are you calling from?”

  “I’m Benni Harper and I’m calling from San Celina, California. Well, actually I’m calling from Morro Bay, which is twelve miles from San Celina, but I live in San Celina and—”

  She interrupted my rambling. “How do you know my brother? Are you with Social Services? Was he homeless? How did you know to call me? Did he ask you to call me before he . . .” A second of silence, then, “Oh, Lord, we haven’t heard from him for over thirty-five years. Young woman, are you sure it’s my brother?”

  “Well, his papers say he’s Jacob Chandler and—”

  “What papers?”

  “His driver’s license and his house and—”

  “He had a house? You mean he wasn’t homeless?”

  “No, ma’am. Can I ask you something? When was the last time you saw your brother?”

  A short silence, then, “My stars, I’m trying to think now. Must’ve been about 1956, no, 1957. That’s it. It was 1957 because that was the year Mother won the blue ribbon for her knitted afghan at the state fair. Took her eight months and then she upped and gave it to Janeen Rylie down at the church for a prayer pal gift. She probably let her cat sleep on it. He went down selling to New Orleans and never came back.”

  “Selling?” That fit what Gabe’s private investigator friend had found out.

  “My brother was a traveling salesman. Sold cleaning products to restaurants. Found his car sitting outside a town called Lake Charles. Never did find him, though. We figured he just ran off. Left a fiancée and a whole apartment full of new furniture. We heard she married someone else. A man named Bowman. They moved to Des Moines.”

  “You never heard from your brother again?”

  “No, we didn’t, and I’m still mad about it. I don’t know why he up and took off, but he didn’t need to go and do that to Mother. They had their moments, but there’s not a thing worse in the world than dying not knowing what happened to one of your children.”

  Thinking about how easy it was for Gabe’s friend to find her, I asked, “Mrs. Ludlam, why didn’t you hire someone to find him?”

  “With what money, young woman?” she snapped. “We was poorer than church mice all our lives. And why, pray tell? Besides, he made it clear he didn’t want us to find him.”

  “How? I thought you hadn’t heard from him.”

  A disgusted humph came over the line. “Land sakes, I’m so used to telling that story to save Mother’s feelings it’s almost the truth to me now. But since he and Mother are dead now, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. He did contact me once. Sent a postcard about a month after they found his car. Said, ‘Weenie, don’t look for me. Going to Alaska. Jake.’ Came from Phoenix, Arizona. Had some cactus on it.”

  “You sure it was from your brother? You recognized his handwriting?”

  “And, pray tell, who else would call me Weenie? He’d tortured me with that nickname from the time I can remember.”

  “You called his job?”

  “He upped and quit, they said. They said they sent his last paycheck to general delivery in Phoenix and never heard from him again.”

  “You never told your mother about his postcard?”

  “I thought it’d be kinder to let Mother think he’d gotten in some accident than for her to know he’d just run off. To be honest, she’d always spoiled him, so I’m not surprised.” Her voice turned sly. “Why are you calling anyway? Is there some kind of inheritance or something?”

  “I’m still looking into it,” I hedged. “Can you answer another question?”

  “Depends.” Her voice was suspicious now.

  “I just wondered if you could give me a quick description of your brother.” I picked up his driver’s license.

  “’Bout five feet eight or nine, brown hair, brown eyes. Just your average Joe.”

  It all matched though his hair was gray on his license.

  “Young woman, is there some kind of inheritance?”

  That made me feel guiltier than I already did. Not only did Mr. Chandler abandon his friends here in Morro Bay, but he’d done even worse to his blood family. “I’ll get back to you about that as soon as I can. Things are very unsettled right now.” I hoped she wouldn’t ask me again if I was with Social Services. I wouldn’t outright lie, but if she just didn’t ask . . .

  Her breathing grew ragged over the phone. “Is there going to be a service?”

  “Yes, tomorrow:”

  Her voice softened, and for the first time sadness crept into its bitter edge. “Could you take a picture of him? I’d like to see him one more time.”

  “I could photocopy his driver’s license picture. It’s the only picture I’ve found of him so far.”

  “That would be nice, but I mean how he looks now. Laid to rest.”

  I swallowed hard. “I’ll see what I can do. I am sorry, Mrs. Ludlam.”

  “You know, I did love my brother at one time. I surely did.” She hung up the phone with a quiet click.

  I called the mortuary where they held Mr. Chandler’s body and, after a bit of verbal stumbling around, asked if anyone could take a picture of the body for me. I found the thought of it grotesque, but if this small thing made Mrs. Ludlam feel better, I would do my best to accommodate her.

  “Certainly,” the man over the phone said. “It’s requested more often than you realize. We have a Polaroid camera here. I’ll send the photograph with our representative tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” I said, relieved I wouldn’t have to take the picture myself.

  At seven o’clock, my stomach told me that Rich’s enchiladas had been consumed much too long ago. I fed Scout, then we walked down the steps to the Embarcadero, following a fiftyish man and his wife carrying a couple of camera cases and a tripod.

  “Hope we’re not holding you up,” the man called out four steps below me as he carefully picked his way down. He wore a gray sweatshirt that said across the back—“Dwight Yoakum World Tour—Bakersfield to Bangkok—Country All the Way.” The woman, a fluffy-haired, bleached blonde with thick eye makeup, turned her head and smiled at me.

  “He’d throw himself on the ground to save that camera,” she said. “If I fell, I’d just have to fend for myself.”

  “Your hair would break the fall,” he ca
lled up cheerfully. She blew him a loud raspberry.

  “No problem,” I said. “I’m in no hurry.”

  “We’re going to try to sell some pictures to travel magazines,” she said when we all reached the surf shop parking lot. “Maybe recoup some of the money he’s spent on photography equipment.”

  He grinned at me, his face pink with embarrassment. “Now, Susan, this young lady doesn’t want to hear about my hobby.”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Hobby? Try obsession.”

  “Beats chasing women, love,” the man said.

  I smiled at her. “He’s got a point there.”

  “Know any good restaurants?” the woman asked. “We just got here.”

  “Cafe Palais.” I pointed across the street. “I had a great breakfast there this morning. I’m going to try their dinner now.”

  “Cafe Palais. I like the name,” the woman said. “We’ll try that.”

  The cafe was crowded again, suggesting that we’d chosen wisely since on a Monday night off-season they were probably locals. Eve was so busy that she only stopped by my table for a moment and said a quick hello and reminded me to try Martin’s famous sandwich.

  The Kentucky Brown sandwich turned out to be as wonderful as Eve had promised. It was an open-faced sandwich consisting of crustless toast with a layer of turkey breast covered with a rich homemade Mornay sauce topped with sliced tomatoes, crispy bacon strips, grated cheese, and bread crumbs.

  “This is wonderful!” I said to Eve when she refilled my coffee cup.

  She smiled. “Martin’s specialty. He worked during his college years in the kitchen at the Brown Hotel in Louisville where the hot brown was invented. I tell him it was only his sandwich that convinced me to give up Manhattan.”

  I laughed. “Doesn’t do well to let them get too big a head.”

  “That’s what I say.”

  She turned to walk away, and I blurted out, “Eve, can I ask you something?”

  She looked at me curiously. “Sure, what?”

  “It’s about Mr. Chandler.” I set my fork down and looked straight into her intelligent eyes. There was something about this woman that I sensed was honest and street-smart. If there was anything about this man that was off-kilter, surely she’d have sensed it in the years she’d served him meals.