Mariner's Compass by Earlene Fowler

friends and that you’d know who would probably want to come to his service tomorrow.”
    She nodded. “Yes, I would. Where and when?”
    “Paso Robles Cemetery at one o’clock. It’ll be a graveside service. Is there ... would you or anyone like to...” I paused, willing myself to talk calmly. “What I’d like to know is if you’d like to say anything, or perhaps his other friends ...”
    “That’s all right,” she said, her face unemotional. “I’m sure whatever you plan will be fine. We’ll be there.”
    “Okay... thanks.” I turned to leave, then stopped and faced her again, deciding it was probably better just to state my intentions. “I’ll be staying in his house for the next two weeks, and one of the things I’ll be doing is trying to figure out why he made me his heir. If you have any idea, if he ever said anything that might shed some light on it, could you tell me?”
    Her weathered face remained neutral. “I’ll think about it, but offhand I have to tell you he never mentioned you once in all the years I knew him.”
    I left the store quickly and stood on the street, my heart beating fast as a bird’s. Obviously Jacob Chandler and Tess Briggstone had meant something to each other, so why didn’t he leave his estate to her? Why had he dragged me into his life like this? This guy was really starting to piss me off. A few blocks from Tess’s store, I sat down on a bench and watched white egrets float across the bay, their impossibly long legs stretched out like tree limbs, as I tried to figure out what I should do. After an hour or so, the sun started peeking out from behind the gray clouds and Gabe’s heavy leather jacket started getting warm, so I decided to drop it by the house before tackling the other things on my list.
    On the way back to the house, I passed by a one-hour photo shop so I dropped off the roll of film. Their technician was out at lunch, but I was told the film would be ready by two.
    “No problem,” I said, glancing at my watch. After dropping off Gabe’s jacket, maybe I’d head back down to the Embarcadero and talk to some of the other shop owners about Mr. Chandler.
    I walked down Grove Street toward Pelican. Grove was actually an alleylike street consisting only of garages. The fronts of the accompanying houses on the west side faced the ocean, those on the east side Gull Street. Rich was in front of his garage in cutoff jeans and a green and blue Hawaiian shirt, washing his white, crewcab pickup. True to Gabe’s assertion, it was equipped with a contractor’s toolbox. A faded bumper sticker read, “I Got Hot at the Phoenix Fire Department Chili Cook-off.”
    “Buenos dias, kid,” he said.
    “Hi,” I replied, slowing down.
    He turned off the hose and wiped his hands on his tattered shorts. “You can tell me to take a flying leap if I’m out of line here, but can I ask you why your husband staked out your house last night?”
    I didn’t answer, certain my face revealed what I thought of his question.
    “I know, I know.” He held up his damp hands in apology. “I have to confess to you that firemen are the nosiest people in the world. I’ll tell you a trade secret. Half of us are hooked on soap operas. It just seemed mysterious to me, you inheriting this stranger’s house and your husband not staying with you. Especially curious since he’s a cop, and cops aren’t known for being the most trusting people on earth.”
    “How did you know he was a cop?” I asked, surprised.
    He laughed. “I bet he flipped when he heard your neighbor was a fireman, didn’t he? Made the comment about it being the best part-time job in the world. Said we’re all pretty good contractors to boot.”
    I couldn’t help laughing with him. “Are you psychic, too?”
    He picked up the garden hose and started rolling it. “No, but I’ve been a fireman for thirty-nine years and I’ve known lots of cops. Most of ’em I’ve liked, but I’ve never met one that wasn’t