Mariner's Compass (15 page)

“I do not!” She giggled and hit his arm with the rolled fat quarter of fabric.

“Careful now with the merchandise, honey,” he said with mock seriousness. “That’s our future you’re beating me with. But you know men aren’t as interested in all the nitty-gritty personal details as you women.”

“Isn’t there anything that sticks out in your mind?” I asked.

“You really should talk to Beau Franklin,” he said. “He probably knew him about as good as anyone here in town except for Tess Briggstone.”

“I’ve spoken with her, but to be truthful, it was a little awkward.”

Tom looked confused.

“They were together,” Tina explained to him. “It was probably a shock that he died . . .”

Tom’s face showed his comprehension. “And that he left all he owned to a perfect stranger and not his lover.”

Her face noncommittal, Tina looked down at the quilt spread across the table and picked at a loose thread. “She’s had some tough times this last year and she cared about him. This can’t be easy for her.”

Remembering the quilts on Mr. Chandler’s bed, I was willing to bet that Tess was a customer of hers. I didn’t want to make Tina betray her loyalties, even if she might be a rich fountain of helpful information.

He looked back at me and said philosophically, “The drama of small-town relationships, huh? Well, like I said, Beau Franklin knew him best. They played regularly at that giant chessboard down on the Embarcadero.”

“Where can I find this Beau Franklin?”

Tina said, “I heard the funeral’s today.”

I nodded. “One o’clock.”

“They were friends, so I’m sure he’ll be there. If not, he’s in the phone book. His wife, Anita, comes in here a lot. She’s a cross-stitch fanatic, but she likes to get ideas from the quilt books.”

“I’ll look for him there. Is there anything else you can think of?”

They shook their heads. “He seemed like just another senior citizen who had retired in Morro Bay,” Tina said.

“Thanks, anyway. And, Tom, I’ll pass on your invitation to Gabe.”

I started out when Tom’s voice stopped me. “Benni, there is something that did strike me—well, all the guys—as odd.”

I turned around. “What?”

“He wouldn’t enter his wood carvings in any competition or even sell them. And, believe me, he was the most talented carver I’ve ever seen.”

I considered his statement. “Maybe he just wanted to keep them for himself.”

He shrugged. “Could be. The rest of us talked about it a lot, though not around him, of course. I mean, he was downright paranoid. He wouldn’t even let any of them be displayed at the museum. After a while he stopped going to the meetings, and we assumed he’d stopped carving. I don’t know if it means anything, but it was strange.”

“Thanks, I’ll file it away in the computer.” I pointed at my head.

Back at the house, there was a message on the answering machine from Emory.

“Might want to change that voice on the answering machine,” he said. “It’s rather weird leaving messages to a dead man. Now, don’t get riled, sweetcakes, but I’m gonna be a tad late to the buryin’. But don’t you fear, I’ll be there in time to interrogate the guests.”

I glared at the machine. Great, now I’d have to brave the lion’s den alone.

I quickly ironed my navy dress, slipped on leather pumps, then grabbed a Hershey bar for lunch. “Stay,” I told Scout when I walked out the door. He flopped down on the front porch with a sigh. “I know you hate not coming, but someone has to hold down the fort.”

I climbed into the truck and started the ignition.

“Hey, neighbor!” Rich called out. I turned off the truck and rolled down my window.

He was dressed in neat blue chinos, a blue-and-green-plaid-shirt, and a blue knit tie. “Are you heading out for the funeral?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“Want some company? I’m going that way, too.”

I gave him a grateful look. “Rich, that would be wonderful. My cousin was supposed to meet me there, but he’s going to be late. I really dreaded walking in there alone.”

As we pulled out on Pelican, we passed the Pelican Inn, where the photographer’s wife was sitting at the patio table in front painting her nails. She waved at us as we drove by.

On the drive to Paso Robles, I unwrapped the Hershey bar and offered Rich half.

He shook his head, his broad face disapproving. “That better not be your lunch, young lady.”

In spite of my churning stomach, his comment managed to get a smile out of me. “Did Gabe pay you to say that?”

“I have three daughters. Nagging comes natural.”

Paso Robles Cemetery overlooked the town with treeless mountains rising up in the distance, mountains bisected by a treacherous two-lane highway that eventually led to the vast Central Valley. We drove slowly through the wrought iron gates and up the narrow road, braking once when a flock of partridges darted in front of us. At the top of the cemetery, near the mission-style grounds buildings where both American and black and white MIA flags lay quiet against the metal pole, it was obvious where Mr. Chandler’s service was being held. People were gathered under a crooked Valley oak tree a small distance away. We parked next to the Memorial Rose Garden.

There were about twenty people at the funeral, most around Mr. Chandler’s age—early to late sixties. The slamming of the truck doors caused people to glance toward us. Curious and judging looks froze their faces as Rich and I walked across the dry, papery grass—not that I was surprised. I certainly didn’t expect to be the most popular girl at the funeral. Blue jays and blackbirds fluttered in the trees above us. Purple and white lupine bloomed in wild patches, and traffic from the highway sizzled through the tall sound break bushes, sounding like the ocean.

About thirty feet from the gathering, I stopped, not certain what to do. The only folding chairs open were in the front row next to Tess and her sons. When the minister saw me and Rich, he pointed at the empty chairs.

Rich cupped my elbow with his hand and whispered in my ear, “Walk in like you own the place. Don’t look left or right. Remember, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I feel like throwing up,” I whispered back.

“Sorry, not allowed. Chin up, kid, and just put one foot in front of the other.”

I could feel the eyes of Jake Chandler’s friends studying me as we claimed the seats in the front row, my face warm with embarrassment at this charade. On one side of Tess sat Neely, the waitress from Cafe Palais. Tess’s older son Cole sat on the other. Tess’s face was a hard, emotionless mask. She dipped it in a single nod of acknowledgment when we passed in front of her. Neely scowled slightly and, knuckles taut, clutched the white vinyl purse in her lap. I still hadn’t figured out the relationship between those two, but with the look on Neely’s face, it was obvious she thought I didn’t belong here. Certainly something I wouldn’t dispute. I sat down next to Duane, whose smirk was entirely inappropriate. Rich took the chair on the other side of me, giving me an encouraging wink.

The coffin was covered with a large spray of peach roses. There were a few other multicolored standing sprays. The funeral was short and bland with the predictable reading of the Lord’s Prayer and the Twenty-third Psalm. While the minister said his words, I stared straight ahead at the coffin, feeling guilty that my emotions were not moved except for the vague sympathy any normal human feels at the death of another. A stifled sob from Tess made me feel even worse. I truly had no business being here. At the moment, the only emotion I felt begin to roil inside me was anger at this man who would play such cavalier games with people’s emotions.

After the last prayer, I waited a few seconds, then stood up to leave. What I wanted to do was bolt across the smooth lawn like a nervous mare, but I’d been raised to have manners, and awkward or not, I felt the need to say something to Tess, who without a doubt loved this man.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said to her.

“Thank you,” she answered, her eyes boring into mine with an intense emotion that could have been either sorrow or anger. Neely took her arm and, without a word to me, led her away. Cole looked at me a long silent moment, then followed his mother.

Duane waited until his mother and brother were some distance away before he said in a mimicking tone, “I’m so
sorry.
” Before I could answer, he swung around and caught up with them.

“Smart-ass punk,” Rich said. “What’s his problem?”

I shrugged, weary of the whole thing. “Who knows? I’m sure they’ve all had a field day speculating about my relationship with Mr. Chandler.”

“So, ready to let me buy you lunch? That Hershey bar is probably about ready to wear off, I’ll bet.”

I didn’t answer, gazing out over the crowd until I found who I was looking for. Sure enough, Emory had finally showed up and had his notebook out talking to a group of mourners. I looked away, not wanting people to guess we knew each other until he could pry some information out of them.

A dark-suited man came up and informed me he was with the funeral parlor. “Ms. Harper, my sympathies for your loss. These are for you.” He handed me two envelopes. “One contains the cards from the flower arrangements. The other is your request on the phone yesterday.”

The photograph. “Thank you,” I said, sticking them in my purse. ”If there’s any outstanding expenses, please send them to the Morro Bay address.”

“It’s all been taken care of,” the man said. “Mr. Chandler saw to that himself. If anything, there may be a refund.”

“Okay, thanks. Can I ask you something?” I kept my voice low so the people lingering close by couldn’t overhear.

“Certainly, Ms. Harper. I’m here to assist in any way I can.”

“Do you know how long ago Mr. Chandler arranged all this?”

“I certainly do. I took care of him myself. Almost a year now. June, I think it was. He was a very pleasant fellow. Knew exactly what he wanted. Even picked the Bible verses he wanted the minister to read. Said he didn’t want his loved ones having to worry about a thing.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“ ‘Scuse me,” a gruff voice said behind me.

I turned and faced a short, square-shouldered man with plastic eyeglasses and thick, wavy gray hair. He appeared the same age as most of the mourners, early sixties, and wore a dark brown leisure suit that looked uncomfortably snug on his bulky frame.

“Beau Franklin,” he said, holding out a hand as square and blunt as a block of wood. He gestured to the lady standing next to him. She was so thin it looked painful for her to even move. She cradled her large black purse as if it were a baby. “My wife, Anita.”

Beau Franklin—where did that name ring a bell? Tom Davis’s voice echoed through my head. The man he suggested knew Jacob Chandler better than anyone. Just the man I wanted to talk to.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. His wife nodded silently.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling again like a fake. “But, as I’m sure you’ve heard, I really didn’t know Mr. Chandler. I should be offering condolences to you.”

He nodded thanks briskly, clasping his hands in front of him in the way ministers do when they are trying to appear calm and collected. “We’d been friends since he moved to Morro Bay.”

An awkward silence passed. “Mr. Franklin,” I said, “I’d like to talk to you, but I don’t think this is an appropriate time. May I call you?”

“I’ll come by the house tomorrow,” he said. “You up by ten?”

I nodded.

“Ten it is, then. I’d be glad to talk to you about Jake now that you brought it up. He and I have some unfinished business.” The folds in his deeply tanned face sagged. Solid brown eyes, the color of ditch water, darted from me, to Rich, and back to me. “Tomorrow, then.”

Rich and I watched him pick his way down the hill, his wife holding on to his arm like it was a life raft.

“Wonder what his agenda is,” Rich said.

“Who knows?” I answered, staring after the couple. “But how much do you want to bet his unfinished business involves money?”

“Ms. Harper, Ms. Harper, can I talk with you a minute? Please, just a minute.” I felt a finger tap my shoulder. “Emory Littleton,
San Celina Tribune.”

Rich looked at me with the nonverbal question—
should I get rid of this guy
? Even without Scout here, it appeared that I had a watchdog.

Catching Rich’s look, Emory’s smile never faltered. “I just need to ask Ms. Harper a few questions.”

Rich ignored him and asked, “Benni, do you want to talk to the press?”

“Not really,” I said, trying not to laugh so Mr. Chandler’s friends wouldn’t have that much more to gossip about. “But I think this one is okay.”

“You think?” Emory said in a low voice. “You’re breaking my heart, sweetcakes.”

Trying to keep a straight face while Emory led me away from the crowd, I gestured at Rich to follow. When we were out of earshot, Emory said, “Do you realize the dander you’ve aroused in this happy little group? I truly fear I’ll have to throw myself in front of you when they start the stoning.”

“And mess up your new Armani jacket? We should all live to see the day.”

He fingered the lapels of his tweedy sport coat. “It is rather dashing, isn’t it? A lot of chickens gave up their lives for this jacket. But I’m sure you’ll agree it’s worth every penny of my daddy’s hard-earned money.”

I turned to Rich and said, “Hard as this is to believe, this crazy man is my cousin, though there are times when I’ve contemplated whether I actually want to claim him. Emory, this is my neighbor, Richard Trujillo.”

“How do you do,” Emory said, sticking out his hand.

Rich’s jaw relaxed slightly. His fatherly protectiveness was sweet, but if it continued, I was going to have to diplomatically lead him back to his own corral. One overly protective Latino man in my life was more than enough.

Emory’s expression turned serious. “Now, I’m going to pretend I’m taking notes here and I’ll fill you in on what dirt I’ve tilled in this garden of dastardly deceitfulness.”

“You actually got some information? You’ve only been here ten minutes!”

He brushed a lock of curly hair out of my eyes. “I’m a journalist. Gossip and innuendo is my bread and butter, my little sweet tart.” He flashed a wicked smile. “You
do
realize that’s exactly what all these fine folks are thinking you are?”