Free Mariner's Compass by Earlene Fowler Page B

his face.
    I made a face at him. “And?”
    “She lives across the street. The story is she grew worried when he didn’t show up at his usual time at her store on the Embarcadero. She apparently owns one of those knickknack shell shops, and they had coffee and doughnuts together every morning.”
    “That fits with what Rich told me about them.”
    Gabe frowned at the mention of my neighbor’s name.
    I pushed him in the chest. “Quit being such a suspicious old bear. Thanks for finding that out for me. Now I can sleep in the bedroom.”
    He didn’t answer. At the door he kissed me, then started in. “Be careful. Keep the doors and windows locked. Call me tomorrow.”
    “I will, I will, I will. Now go before all my willpower flies out the window and I lose my inheritance because I can’t bear to have you leave.”
    “Going without me for one night is cruel and unusual punishment, isn’t it?” he said solemnly.
    “Get outta here before I smack that macho arrogance clean out of you.”
    I listened to his laughter as he went to his car, lonely for him even before the sound of his Corvette faded away.
    I looked down at Scout, patiently waiting at my side. “Scout, my loyal sidekick, we’ve got work to do. We’d better get cracking.”
    The first thing I did was look for a notebook. I found an almost new steno pad in the small desk in the spare room and started listing the things I needed to do. The first was to set a date for his funeral service—the sooner the better. Then I needed to go see this Tess Briggstone, who was obviously a close enough friend to have a key to his place, and ask her for a list of Mr. Chandler’s friends. Then I had to . . .
    I sat drawing stars and triangles on the steno pad, stumped. Then what? All I had so far were the items in the trunk—the initialed knife, the Robert Louis Stevenson book, the scrapbook, and the little bit of information that Gabe’s private investigator had found. Not many clues at all.
    I methodically searched the rest of his desk, reading his bills and anything else that might give me a lead. In the back of the last drawer, underneath boxes of old checks, bank statements, and utility statements, I found a five-by-seven manila envelope. Inside was a roll of exposed film and a folded piece of paper. I opened it and read the neat, handwritten message.
Carving is a very special art form and needs a cool-headed approach. Don’t hurry the process. Study each cut before you make it so you don’t cut what you might later regret. Remember, there are no shortcuts. Take your time. Do your research. Think .
    A lesson in wood carving? The twelve-exposure roll of Kodak film felt cold in my hand. It certainly didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out he wanted me to develop this film. I added to my list—one—hour photo developer.
    After searching the living room, including fanning through every book on the bookshelves, I checked out the kitchen. The refrigerator contained only a quart of milk, some orange juice in a pitcher, and some leftover Chinese takeout in white unmarked containers. Looking through the cupboards, where I found the normal staples as well as a few cans of soup and vegetables, it occurred to me that eating anything left in this house might not be smart.
    I glanced at the plain yellow clock over the kitchen table—nine p.m. Maybe the grocery store out by the highway would still be open. In the last cupboard I checked, another small alarm went off inside me. Sitting on the shelf next to a round blue box of Morton salt and some paper plates was an unopened green can of Van Houten German Cocoa. The kind I’d come to use exclusively since I was eighteen after discovering I liked its dark richness better than the American brands. Our local gourmet food store ordered it special for me.
    I carefully placed the can back on the shelf. Fear tumbled like rough little stones in my stomach, but, I told myself firmly, it was just another coincidence.
    I