Authors: Earlene Fowler
“Not unless he’s got some kind of proof,” Amanda said. “A notarized note or something. Don’t let him bamboozle you, cowgirl. Without proof, he can’t get a dime from Jacob Chandler’s estate.”
Back outside, I informed Mr. Franklin of my attorney’s demand for proof.
“My word is my proof,” he snapped. “I gave him ten thousand dollars in cash to invest for me, and I want that money back.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Sorry. Until I have proof I’m not paying anything. You could just be trying to scam me.”
He jumped up from the bench. “Young woman, you’re going to regret this.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Until you have proof . . .”
His cheeks flushed a splotchy red. Scout sensed his anger and immediately came to my side and sat down, his German shepherd ear alert. I slipped my hand under his collar and felt him tremble with anticipation. “I think you’d better leave,” I said.
He jabbed a finger at the air in front of me. “I’ll get my money one way or another.” He turned and walked away.
When he’d turned the corner, I sank to my knees and buried my face in Scout’s neck. A hand touching my hair startled me, and I jerked my head up.
“Are you all right,
mija
?” Rich asked. He held a tire iron in his other hand.
I stood up and gave a shaky laugh. “I’m fine. He’s just not happy with what my attorney said to tell him about the money he says he’s owed.”
I glanced at the tire iron and gave him an accusing look. “You were listening the whole time.”
He grinned sheepishly. “So sue me.”
“For heaven’s sake, what were you going to do, start a rumble?”
“Hey, don’t think I can’t. I grew up in Quatro Milpas.”
“Where?”
“A barrio in south Phoenix. It’s a mountain preserve now, but back then you didn’t mess with us
vatos.”
I held up my hands and laughed. “Okay, okay, sorry to doubt your warrior capabilities. Amanda, my attorney, says he doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on. With no proof that Mr. Chandler owed him money, I have nothing to worry about.”
His dark face grew troubled. “Legally, maybe not. But I’m afraid he’s not concerned with legalities at the moment.”
“Mr. Franklin is just full of hot air. When he calms down, I’ll talk with him again and see if he’ll give me any information about what it was he and Mr. Chandler were involved with. If it sounds believable, then maybe I’ll consider paying it.”
“Believable it might be,” he said. “It’s legal I’m worried about.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this Chandler guy doesn’t sound on the up-and-up, and that makes me think that anything he’d be involved with wouldn’t be either.”
“Like what?”
“Like anything illegal. Drugs are the first thing that come to mind.”
“Mr. Chandler a drug pusher? You’re beginning to sound like Gabe.”
“Your husband isn’t a stupid man, Benni. I’d tell him about this incident as soon as possible.”
“I will.”
“And watch your back, young lady.”
“Believe me, I’ve gotten real good at that.” I patted his shoulder. “Now, where are those tamales you promised me?”
After another wonderful dinner where Rich entertained me with stories from his many years of fire fighting, I went home a little before eight o’clock, exhausted from the emotional highs and lows of the day. I called home and caught Gabe, who assured me that Dove and her fellow conspirators were well guarded and that negotiations were still in progress.
“I’ll be up there first thing tomorrow morning to see if a night on Army cots has weakened their resolve,” he said.
“She’s pretty stubborn when she wants something.”
“A family trait.”
I didn’t comment.
He cleared his throat and said, “Meet me at the Historical Museum at eight a.m. in case I need you to talk to them.”
“You got it, Friday.” Then I told him about the incident with Beau Franklin.
“Just what I was afraid of. Did he threaten you?”
“Not me personally. He just said he’d get his money one way or another.”
Gabe was silent a moment. “I’ll do some checking into his background. Be careful.”
“I will,” I said, glad he didn’t make an effort to talk me out of pursuing this. There was no way I could stop now, though I wasn’t ready yet to tell him why.
Since it was too late to head out to Harmony, I spent the rest of the evening studying every aspect of my mother’s quilt and rereading the autograph book, looking for a clue to Mr. Chandler’s identity. I thought about trying to track down these women and seeing if any of them knew of someone named Garrett in my mother’s life. That would take more extensive investigating abilities than I had at my disposal, but there was always Gabe’s private detective friend. He probably had all sorts of CD-ROMS that could locate the current status and addresses of these women. I redialed my home phone, then hung up before it rang, realizing in a split second that Gabe would want to know why I wanted these women traced, which would naturally lead into the fact that Mr. Chandler was somehow connected to my mother. I would have to figure out a way to find these women myself. Maybe Amanda knew of a private investigator.
By ten o’clock my eyelids were already drooping, so I went to bed. Scout’s presence in his bed next to me was all the security I needed to fall asleep in a few minutes.
The clock radio next to my bed said 1:32 a.m. when Scout’s barking jerked me out of a sound sleep.
I bolted straight up, my heart pounding. Scout dashed out of the bedroom, barking, then ran back in. I grabbed the pair of sweats lying across the foot of my bed and jammed my legs into them, awkwardly hopping toward the door.
As I reached the front door, a figure appeared in the filmy glass. I hesitated a moment before turning on the porch light.
“Benni!” Rich’s voice yelled from behind the door. “Wake up!” I fumbled with the lock and flung the door open. “Your garage is on fire!”
I followed him out to the front yard where a fire truck had just pulled up, followed by two Morro Bay police cars and the paramedics. The garage was already half engulfed in thick smoke. I grabbed Scout’s collar and pulled him close. In the next few minutes, the small alley turned into a teeming mass of firefighters and hoses. In twos and threes, neighbors came to their doors and watched the spectacle. I looked over at the Briggstone house. Tess, Cole, and Duane all stood on their front porch, their faces so shadowed no expressions were visible. Next door to them, the photographer and his wife and a couple I assumed to be the Pelican Inn’s managers also watched the fire. Adrenaline careened through my veins as I watched the firefighters spray the garage. When I started to shake in the damp misty air, I felt Rich’s arm go around my shoulder.
“It’ll be okay,” he said, squeezing my shoulder.
“What happened?” I asked. “Did you call the fire department?”
“Your guardian angel was working overtime,
mija.
I had insomnia and got up to get something to read when I smelled smoke. Looked out my side window and saw your garage on fire. I dialed 911 before I came over.”
For the next fifteen minutes, we silently watched the firefighters bring the fire under control. When they were finished, the roof and one wall was completely gone, and the car inside badly scorched. The arson investigator arrived shortly after the fire truck and police cars.
“I’ll be back,” Rich said and walked over to the tall, gray-haired man wearing a dark blue windbreaker. They talked for a few minutes, then came over to where I was standing.
“Ms. Harper, I’m John Sterling. I’ll be investigating this fire. Do you mind answering a few questions?”
I shook my head no and answered all his questions as thoroughly as possible—what time I came home, when was the last time I was in the garage, was there a gas mower or gas can in the garage, were garage doors and windows locked, was the window on the alley side broken the last time I looked, was anyone mad at me?
That last question caused me to glance at Rich. He nodded at me, and I told Sterling briefly about the situation with the house and about the Briggstones. Before he could answer, Gabe’s Corvette pulled up. His red emergency light was hooked on his dashboard, so I knew he must have been really worried. He hated using it. He hopped out of the car and came over to where we were standing.
“Are you all right?” he asked, placing both his hands on my shoulders, kneading them gently. Though his face was dark and intense, his familiar touch caused my tight muscles to relax. Scout whined and pushed his body against my leg.
“Yes, Rich saw the fire and called 911. Then he came and woke me.”
He turned to the two men and asked, “What’s the story?”
“John Sterling, Arson Investigation,” the man said, holding out his hand. “You are?”
Gabe shook it quickly. “Sorry, I’m a little tense. Gabe Ortiz, San Celina Police. Ms. Harper is my wife.”
Mr. Sterling gave a sympathetic smile. “Well. I don’t know much yet because I haven’t gotten in there to poke around, but the captain over there said it appears by the burn pattern on the floor that it started in a small trash can on the west wall. Most likely an accelerant of some kind—lighter fluid or gasoline. I’ll know more once I can check it out. It’ll probably take an hour or two for me to make an assessment.”
When my shivering became too much to hide, Gabe, after thanking Rich for his help, convinced me to go inside the house. Once we were alone, he hit the roof, as I expected. “It could have spread in minutes to the house. You could have been killed. I want you home
now.
”
“You know that’s not possible,” I said, my teeth chattering slightly in spite of myself.
“No, I don’t know that.”
“I’m sorry, Gabe, I just can’t quit.”
“
Carajo!
Does the money mean that much to you?”
“It’s not the money.”
He was silent for a long moment, watching me. “All right,” he finally said, his voice tired.
It was past three a.m. when the fire department finished mopping up and the arson investigator finished his second set of questions, promising to send me a copy of the report for my insurance claim. While Mr. Sterling questioned me again, Gabe had gone outside to speak to a Morro Bay police officer who had come back to check things out.
“I don’t want any special treatment,” I told Gabe when he came back into the house. He didn’t answer. A few minutes later he reluctantly left, but not before he hugged me and said, “I’ll call you
mañana
.
Te amo.”
I clung to him for a moment. “I love you, too, Friday.”
Standing in the doorway, I watched him hesitate at his car as he looked over at the Briggstone house, which was dark now.
“Gabe, not tonight,” I called softly from the doorway. “No one’s going to try anything more tonight.”
He gave a curt nod and repeated that he’d call me in the morning.
I finally settled back into bed, but sleep eluded me. I lay in bed listening to Scout give wild little moans while stalking dream rabbits, and watched the room change from black to soft gray to pale orange. Finally at six-thirty I gave up and went to fix myself a pot of coffee. Pure caffeine and a lot of it was definitely going to be on my day’s menu. Standing at the kitchen window waiting for the coffee to finish, I stared at the garage’s blackened walls. Who set the fire? My first thought was the Briggstones, then Beau Franklin. But why? Did they think it would drive me away so that the will was broken? Maybe I should just make it clear to them that even if I failed, they wouldn’t get a penny. Maybe then they’d leave me alone. If, of course, it
was
them pulling these pranks.
I’d definitely have to look further into it, but my first stop would be town to see how the San Celina Seven had managed through their first night, then off to Harmony, a play on words that amused me even with only a few hours sleep. Harmony was something in short supply in my life these days.
The photographer and his wife from the motel across the street were walking by when I got into the truck at around seven-thirty. The huge aquamarine ring on her right hand caught the sunlight and flashed.
“Nice day,” he commented.
“Guess you’re going to take advantage of it,” I said.
“As they say, make hay.”
His wife rolled her eyes at his remark. She nodded in the direction of my garage. “You all right?”
“Yeah, fine.” I didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t either.
At a quarter to eight I pulled up in front of the Historical Museum. No reporters were around this early, but Gabe was already there at the command post talking to a patrol officer.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” I said, walking up to them. “Saves me a phone call to check in and tell you I’m fine. What’s going on?”
“We called them about a half hour ago,” Gabe said. Pale lavender circles tinged the skin under his eyes. He glanced down at his watch. “They’ll see you and Emory at four and give another statement then.”
“I’ll be here.” He looked so tired I didn’t want to burden him with more problems, but I wanted to tell him what I’d found out from Rowena Ludlam before any more time passed. “Can we talk in private for a moment?”
“Let’s walk,” he said.
As we walked, I told him about my phone call from Rowena Ludlam and the undeniable fact that because of the missing finger, my Jacob Chandler was not the original Jacob Chandler.
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “That’s probably the reason he has so little credit history. Trying to keep a low profile. After that fire last night, I’m really worried now.”
We stopped in front of the steel bear and Chumash Indian girl fountain next to the mission. The trickling water, normally a soothing sound, didn’t ease the turmoil inside me as I watched his troubled face.
“Do you think he was hiding because of something illegal?” I asked.
He stuck his hands deep into his pockets. “I’d say you could count on it. Not many people disappear into deep cover just on a lark.” His eyes turned gray and serious. “The question remains what happened to the real Jacob Chandler, and did your Mr. Chandler have anything to do with it?” He looked away. “I want you to drop this whole crazy thing even more now.”