Authors: Earlene Fowler
“I know.” There was nothing more to be said. I wouldn’t, and he knew it. But at least we’d come far enough that we wouldn’t argue about it. Now would be the perfect time to tell him about Mr. Chandler’s connection to my mother, but something in me couldn’t yet, not just to save him more stress, but because it was still so confusing and troubling that I had to keep it to myself until I grew used to the idea.
“I’ll talk to Hank and see if he can keep an extra close eye on those two lowlifes across the street from you.” Hank was Morro Bay’s police chief.
“I don’t actually know if it was them, though they’re my first guess.”
“It won’t hurt to have someone talk to them.”
I nodded without answering, leaving it up to him. Just like me, he had to do the things he felt were right.
“What are you doing today?” he asked.
“I’m going to Harmony to see if anyone there recognizes the maker of the pot I told you about last night.”
“And then?”
I shrugged. “Depends on where the pot leads me. I’ll be back here by four o’clock, no matter what. I promise.”
He put his hand underneath my hair, his fingers lightly massaging my neck. I closed my eyes briefly in pleasure. “You know,” he said, “I love Dove as much as if she were my blood grandmother. . . .”
I leaned into him, touching my head to his shoulder, and sighed. “I’m trying to talk her out of this, really I am.”
He kissed the top of my head. “I know.”
I looked up at him. “Let’s look at the bright side. How long can Dove really last?”
We stared at each other a moment, then burst into laughter.
“I don’t even want to think about it,” Gabe said. “I swear, I’d buy the friggin’ museum myself and give it to them if it were possible.”
“You and me both,” I replied.
The coastal drive to the town of Harmony had always been one of the prettiest drives in the county, especially in the spring when the deep green hills contrasted with the ocean’s cobalt blue, white-tipped waves. Thousands of tourists each year drove this stretch of State Highway 1 heading to Hearst Castle, Big Sur, and Monterey, some of them stopping at Harmony, intrigued by its improbable but hopeful name.
It was said the town’s peaceful name dated from the 1890s when a feud between locals over the location of a road started with shouting and proceeded to shooting. After a death occurred, some wise dairy farmers organized a truce, and in the spirit of peace, the town was named Harmony after the Harmony Valley Creamery of the same name. Now a town of thirty or so people, it was privately owned and operated as an arts and crafts Mecca. It consisted of one street with five or six buildings, the largest one the old white Harmony Valley Creamery Association, which now held a pasta restaurant and various shops that displayed local artists’ sculptures, blown glass, and pottery. I parked the truck in front of the paint-peeled dairy building and walked into the courtyard carrying the box containing the pot. Benches made from old wagon wheels and varnished boards crowded the red brick courtyard, stained wine barrels overflowed with wildflowers and asparagus fern, and ancient wood-burning cookstoves sprouted yellow marigolds from their burners. It was quiet and peaceful, so perfectly in tune with the town’s name that I wanted to sit on one of the rustic benches and watch the blackbirds flit among the olive trees, smelling the sweet, dusty scents coming from the herb gardens that meandered around the rusty metal sculptures. A Thursday morning in early May was obviously not one of their busier times. But I had no time to linger. My destination was a weathered white barn in the back. “Pottery Works” was painted in black calligraphy letters over the heavy sliding wood door. Inside the airy room, haunting music, the kind that might make you dream of swimming whales, radiated from hidden speakers. No one greeted me when I entered, so I wandered around the room, admiring the pottery and sculptures, recognizing some of the work from members of our co-op, but finding none that resembled the pot in my arms.
“Can I help you find something?” The voice, as soft and full as the music, seemed to float from nowhere.
The sixtyish woman came out from behind a doorframe covered by an Indian-style curtain. Her long gray hair hung in two braids tied with leather strips. She wore an electric-blue fringed suede jacket and black leggings. The fringe slapped against her body as she walked toward me.
“Actually, you can,” I said, holding up my box. “I was given this pot as a gift, and I was wondering if you could identify the potter.”
“I can certainly try.” She gestured over to the counter.
I set the box on the counter and carefully pulled the pot out of the shaved paper packing. Her powdered face lit up in a smile.
“Oh,” she said with a sigh. “Haven’t seen one of those in a long while.” She stroked it with her fingertips. Her nails were painted the same bright blue as her jacket. “It’s an original Azanna Nybak. One of her early works, if I don’t miss my guess.”
“Azanna Nybak?”
“Wonderful artist. A fifth-generation San Celinan,” she said, her eyes never leaving the pot. “She lives by herself on her family’s ranch outside of Cayucos past Eagle Rock Reservoir and doesn’t come to town but once a year for the lighting of the Christmas tree. Sends one of her ranch hands in for supplies a couple of times a month.” She looked up from the pot and raised her gray eyebrows. “How did you say you got this again? She hasn’t made a pot in years—not since her two sons were killed in a boating accident in Mexico. This is worth quite a bit of money. Offhand, I know of half a dozen people who’d pay you top dollar for it.”
“It’s not for sale. It was a gift. Do you think she’d talk to me?”
She shook her head, doubtful. “She likes to be left alone. Last person who showed up uninvited at her ranch was chased off with a shotgun.”
“Oh,” I said, biting my lip in disappointment. I was certain that this pot, and this Azanna person, held the clue to the next step. Did it even occur to Jacob Chandler that maybe this woman wouldn’t want to be a part of his little game?
The woman ran her fingers through the suede fringe on the front of her jacket, untangling it. “Why do you want to see her?”
I thought for a moment. I was growing tired of repeating this strange story, but unless I told her, I’d end up at a dead end.
“How positively intriguing!” she exclaimed after hearing a condensed version of my quest.
“So, do you think there’s any way you or someone you know could arrange for me to speak with her? I won’t take much of her time.”
She held up a finger. “Wait here.” She walked through the curtains and was gone for about ten minutes. While waiting, I carefully packed the pot back into the box. A huge smile covered her lined face when she returned. “Good news, Benni Harper. I called, and she said she’d see you. Get back on Highway One and turn off on Crazy Creek Road. Go past Eagle Rock Reservoir and keep going. It’s about ten miles. When you come to an old almond grove, that’s the turnoff for her ranch. Follow the dirt road another three miles and you’re there.”
“Thanks.” I picked up the box and headed for my truck.
I was already speeding down Pacific Coast Highway toward Crazy Creek Road when I realized she’d called me by name—and that I’d never given it to her. As I drove I couldn’t help but wonder now that I knew of the tenuous yet certain connection of Mr. Chandler to my mother if this Azanna Nybak knew my mother.
Within twenty minutes the reservoir appeared to my left. Eagle Rock Reservoir was a place I used to sneak off to with high school friends at night when we’d told our parents we’d be in town at the movies. We’d park our trucks along the side of the rarely used road and scoot down the small dirt embankment on the heels of our boots to throw rocks into the dark water and spook each other with fake bear sounds. At the old almond grove I turned onto a dirt road and followed it past well-maintained corrals and ancient wooden calf chutes.
I turned a corner, and the house appeared. It was a white, three-story farmhouse with a picket fence covered with blue morning glories and flowering honeysuckle. A small widow’s walk jutted out from a third-story window. The yard was as neat as a store-bought pie and at this moment empty, except for a six-foot bronze sculpture of a nude man and woman, limbs intertwined, faces not on each other but heavenward. I parked next to it, scattering the black-speckled chickens and three spectacular peacocks pecking at its base. I climbed out of the truck and read the small plaque on the sculpture—“Love Looking.”
The barn, as clean and white as the house, lay to my left; a gazebo with one high-back wicker chair lay to the right of the yard. A finely groomed black cocker spaniel trotted out from behind the house to greet me. He ran his nose up and down my legs, smelling Scout’s scent.
“You don’t look like a ranch dog,” I said, stooping to pet him.
He barked, and at that moment the sound of a shotgun blast tore through the air. I flinched and instinctively ducked. Unperturbed, the spaniel kept wagging his stubby tail.
The sound came from behind the house. I pocketed my keys and cautiously followed the second shot. When I came around the corner I encountered the shooter standing at the edge of the used brick patio. I watched this six-foot-tall woman, wearing a green and gold paisley caftan and spiky hair the color of red wine, as she calmly called “pull” to the young cowboy in leather chaps. He pulled the lever on a homemade skeet shooter, and a clay pigeon shot into the deep blue sky. I watched her fire at five in a row, and though she wore a black rhinestone-studded patch on one eye, she didn’t miss one. Without speaking, she nodded at the cowboy. He stood up and walked away from us, his ringing spurs the only sound in the quiet. The woman turned and looked at me with one kohl-ringed aquamarine eye.
“Have a seat, Benni Harper,” she said, pointing toward a couple of redwood lawn chairs with cushions made of red crushed velveteen.
I sat down. The cocker spaniel flopped down at my feet with a giant sigh, laying his head on my feet. I reached down and stroked his head.
“Typical man,” she said, sitting next to me and nodding at the dog. “Fickle as a ...” She paused for a moment and laughed, a laugh as deep and velvety as our chairs’ cushions. “As a man, by golly. There’s nothing else to compare them to.”
“Ms. Nybak, I came to see you ...” I started.
She held up a hand that seemed to belong to a different woman than this brilliant peacock sitting in front of me. Hers were ranchwoman hands—brown and calloused and square-nailed. “I know why you’re here. When did he die?”
I told her what I knew of Jacob Chandler’s death and about his funeral. “I’m sorry. I would have contacted you, but he didn’t leave an address book.”
She waved her hand in absolution. “That was Jake. He loved his secrets. And his games.”
“So I’ve discovered.”
Her smile was sad. “He was a lonely man. We understood each other.”
Impatient, I asked, “Do you have something for me?”
Her arched eyebrows rose at my tone. “You have two weeks, my dear. Relax and enjoy the journey. Would you like some sun tea?” She rang a silver bell on the table next to her. In a minute or so, a different young cowboy in Wranglers, a blue chambray shirt, and a silver and gold platter-shaped buckle came out of the back door carrying a tray with a very old-looking blue and white teapot, two delicate matching teacups, and a plate of poppy seed tea cakes. He set it on a round redwood table in front of us.
“Thank you, dear,” Azanna said to him. “Did the salt mix we order arrive at Farm Supply?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m driving into Paso this afternoon to fetch it.”
“Very good. Have a couple of beers at the Rawhide and put them on my tab. You’ve worked hard this week.”
“Thank you, Miss Nybak. Would you like me to pour?”
“No, dear, I can do it. Carry on.”
He nodded, then, without a glance at me, he turned and went back inside the house.
A bronze sculpture fine enough for a museum sitting in the yard with the chickens and peacocks, cowboys with the manners of English butlers, a sharpshooting woman with rancher’s hands and a queen’s demeanor. Alice’s Looking Glass had nothing on me.
I waited, realizing it was probably futile to try to rush this whole scenario. I crossed my legs, trying to keep my jittery foot still.
She poured us both tea, offered me a linen napkin and a tea cake, and when we’d both eaten one, she spoke again.
“Don’t be too impatient with Jake. I told him this might make you angry, but he insisted that he wanted to do it.” She stopped for a moment, her eyes misting. “I didn’t know it would happen quite this soon, though. It was a heart attack, you say?”
“That’s what the coroner thinks. They found him at home. Well, actually a neighbor did.”
“Tess Briggstone, I’ll venture to say.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “He cared about her, but those sons of hers are bad news, and she won’t ever see it. How’re they handling you inheriting Jake’s estate?”
“Not too well.” She and Jake had obviously been good enough friends that he told her all about this ridiculous scavenger hunt he’d concocted.
“How’s that handsome police chief husband of yours dealing with this?”
“How do you know so much about me?”
“Jake, of course. He’d been following your life for a long while. But then, I guess you probably have found that out.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Can’t tell you that, my dear. Old Jake might rise up from the grave and smite me. We were good friends, Jake and I. Very good friends. Without him, I would have never made it through the death of my sons. That’s where I met him, you know. In Mexico, when I went down to try to get their bodies.” Her one turquoise-colored eye misted over. “I would do anything for him.”
“What was he doing in Mexico?” I asked.
“I have no idea. He was very conversant in the language. Spent quite a bit of time there, I assumed. I don’t know how he did it, who he paid off or how much, because he wouldn’t tell me, but I got my sons’ bodies in one day. He wouldn’t let me pay him, so I sold him the house you’re living in for a good price. He wanted to settle down in this area without any fuss, and I helped him do that.”